Chapter 63 – Summertime and the value of family
My previous week of working must have been acceptable for as the summer holidays got nearer my mother asked if I wanted to repeat it, she couldn’t promise but felt sure that the opportunity would present itself. Having had my first taste of having money in my pocket I was hoping that I would have a second chance. July continued on its natural progression with no indication that work was likely to be offered and I was worried that someone else had been given the work, no amount of questioning of mother could elicit a positive response, just that she had not heard that it been given to someone else which led me to, in my head, paraphrase the oft repeated quote “Hope sprang eternally in my breast”. It was in the week before we broke up at GYGS that I received the news I so desperately wanted to hear, that the summer job was mine. It was later during August that I found out I could have been put out of my misery much earlier but my mother had not been sure that my Aunt Lily would be able to help look after my brother and sister during that busy summer month. Perhaps it is time for a family roll call.
The family members on my mother’s side were far more involved with us than those of my father, to such an extent that apart from my paternal grandparents and his younger brothers Richard and Fred, sister Eva and her husband Jimmy who I met slightly more than occasionally. Jim was a gardener with The Great Yarmouth Corporation with particular responsibility for the floral clock in the gardens opposite the Wellington Pier, another Great Yarmouth military reference and Fred worked on the railway and received free travel which irked my father. However, if I had walked by any other members’ in that side of the family anywhere in the town streets or shops’ I suspect I would not have known them. It was much later, in my twenties, that I met a female cousin who introduced herself “I think you are my cousin” and she was Fred’s daughter, don’t ask me to recall her name. As a result of this disparity my father’s family were hardly if ever included in any social gatherings which meant that as far as I was concerned my family were all on my mother’s side, and if any of them needed help it came from that grouping. Luckily Aunt Lily who had the previous year recovered from Tuberculosis and was still recuperating, in that she was not back at fulltime work and as a result was able to look after my younger brother and sister. Looking back with the benefit of time I was a lucky boy, luck that has walked hand in hand with me all my life.
So as soon as term came to an end I was back at work, but this time with added responsibility and longer hours, I still did the breakfast shift but added on was lunch preparations and rather than sending me home between those shifts I was given further responsibility. When breakfast was out of the way and I had eaten in order to replenish my strength I had an hour break. Then prior to commencing lunchtime duties I was given another task, this time in the long bar, now I know I was only thirteen but hotel licence hours were different then, the bars did not open until midday so my job was to follow the barman as he restocked the shelves making sure all the bottle labels faced the front at all times, it was not like the work in the kitchen and in my eyes working alongside a grown man I felt grown up. As a result of working the extra hours my weekly wage packet was more substantial and each week having received my wages I celebrated by buying a book from one of the stalls on the sea front. I had found a new hero in literature, Simon Templar “The Saint”, written by Leslie Charteris, but as usual mother made sure that some if not always most of my new found wealth was put to good use, something I benefited from in later life.
Chapter 62- A period of change – Part 3
With the experience of my first week’s proper work under my belt and first weeks’ payment disposed of it was back to GYGS until July and the long summer holiday and the daily routine that accompanied it although on this occasion things were different. Very different. Like our family Peter Cutting and his mother and father lived in the ground floor flat of a Victorian house on Wellesley Road at the very far end of the road. Once again, like my father, Peter’s father was a working man but unlike my father he was of substantial build and in this case his work was on building sites and due to the replacement of all the houses bombed in the war being replaced and the new estates of prefabs and council houses springing up he was very busy, especially in the summer when overtime was plentiful with the long evenings, so although I got to know his mother, who was very small, I rarely came into contact with his father.
I have stated before that we were rarely if ever invited into our friends houses so it came as quite a shock when on our way home from school I was asked to go in as he had something to show me. I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t what I found. Before that let me give you some background, I had been in into their house before, in fact his mother was perhaps one of the more friendly parents in our group and ranked highly with us due to managing to get the autographs of Tommy Lawton and Jackie Sewell which I chronicled earlier. Because we lived on the same road his mother was more familiar to me than any of the others and although my visits were hardly of a regular nature she was relaxed enough to give me a nickname, “Lord Cork”, a soubriquet that meant nothing to me and I just hoped that it was in some form complementary, but couldn’t pluck up the nerve to ask the question, why ? Thanks to Wikipedia I think that it probably was, in addition to his Irish title he was an Admiral of the Fleet, involved in two world wars, but I still don’t know why I received it, and of course now I never will.
If the invitation came as a shock it was nothing compared to the reason behind it, if I had been offered one hundred guesses not one of them would have elicited the correct answer, a piano. My first reaction although I was able to conceal it was why, and the second was how, this was a full size piano although not a grand and I wondered how they managed to get it up the outside steps for although it was a ground floor flat there were three steps from the pavement to overcome, together with a narrow hallway and the start of a staircase, I must have been so surprised that I didn’t even realise that from wherever the piano was purchased they would have been able to deal with that problem. The second and perhaps more obvious to me was why? A question that I posed, for in those first moments of shock I could think of no reason for such a decision and more than that the purchase. The answer was prompt and must have rendered me speechless, it was for Peter to learn to play, and arrangements for lessons had been made and the final stab was they would be straight after school on two days every week.
It was such a shock that it brought out the “Just William” in me. Why would anyone want to play the piano when you could be outside playing football or cricket, his answer would have been straightforward, you wouldn’t, it was something forced onto you by adults, and luckily my parents had so far not gone down that road. I did casually mention it to my mother, her equally casual response was “Oh that’s nice” and carried on with whatever she had been doing. I breathed an invisible sigh of relief, I was safe.
Chapter 61 -A period of change – Part 2
The previous chapter highlighted my coming of age in so far as my desire to be able to put my hand into my pocket and find money. Money that I had earned and money I need not keep looking at or worrying that once gone there was no more. Up to then virtually nearly everything I had to spend came from money I had been given as a birthday present or largesse from one or other of my parents, the former being once a year and the latter although more often than that was not a regular event and usually coincided with some particular task I had undertaken or been given, more than likely the latter, and even then the amount was small, a regular stipend or as it was known pocket money, was simply not available to me from the combined income of my parents, but this is not a sob story, I was able to go, in season, to the speedway and football, and without having to ask, in either case one of my parents would be always be forthcoming. As a result, I learned not to take their generosity for granted, and it wasn’t going to be long before I wasn’t going to have to rely on them, at least while the summer season was in full swing
Goodes Hotel, where my Aunt and mother both worked as waitresses, was looking for someone to work in the kitchen and my name was put forward, I don’t recall having to attend an interview obviously the recommendation from my Aunt, who was the head waitress was sufficient and sometime in May or June, it must have been half term, I entered the world of proper work for the first time, and it was work, hard work, but I was going to be paid and that was the most important part, ok the pay, 10 shillings per week wasn’t going to feed a family but to me it was like manna from heaven. I was required to be ready to work at 7am, my first task was to get the big plates for the breakfast shift which commenced at 8am onto the still, a metal counter in the kitchen, to be warmed and from where the waiting staff, my Aunt, mother and one other lady Lina, would deliver them full of food into the dining room for breakfast, and this was a large dining room in a large hotel, in those days one of the best hotels in Great Yarmouth in a prime position on the Sea Front. I can’t recall how long it took to get into the rhythm of the kitchen but that was essential, an hour may seem long under other circumstances but not in a busy kitchen under the watchful eyes of my aunt, mother and the chefs, especially the Head Chef, one of a team of three, who if he spotted a minor infraction had no hesitation in administering a clip around the ear, or more accurately the back of the head, sometimes just because he felt like it. One breakfast plate doesn’t weigh very much but a dozen certainly does when you are thirteen, having to be carried from warm storage to the still, even now it seems not unlike one of the labours of Hercules, but once I got into the swing of it, it ran like clockwork, just time for a cup of tea before the used plates started to reappear to be taken to the washing up point where luckily there was a man who was responsible for that operation. It was hard work but I loved it, I was of course lucky I knew my Aunt, mother and Lina before getting the job but family or not it was expected that I would pull my weight, not that at thirteen there was much weight to be taken into consideration and it wasn’t, I quickly understood the value of team work and was both proud and pleased to be part of the team.
When the last plate, cup and saucer was safely back in the kitchen, washed up and back in place it was time for me to get my breakfast and was I ready for it? You bet I was, and together with my aunt, mother and Lina sat down to the full English breakfast at the large kitchen table, sometimes the Chef’s sat with us but more often than not they ate standing up and the dish washer was on his own at the far side of the kitchen, I did not understand the word apartheid when I was thirteen but I realise now it existed in that kitchen. At the end of the week I received my first wage packet for eight days work, I have to say the exact amount has slipped my memory but you have my assurance it didn’t go to my head , no chance of that, before it even had a chance to reach my pocket my mother took charge and gave me back five shillings, the remainder being put to one side for a rainy day, but even allowing for my mothers’ foresight that five shillings was more money than I was used to and with my fathers words ringing in my ears “There is another day tomorrow”, which I promptly ignored, I managed to make a significantly large hole in it in short order.
PS: In todays currency five shillings would be the equivalent of twenty five pence.
Chapter 60 – A period of change- Part One
My time at GYGS was slipping by with little or no incident, the walk to school, working to the everyday timetable, and walking home again, the breaks from the routine being school holidays, Easter, Summer and Christmas, there may have been half term breaks but I can’t recall them with any special memories. The Easter break was like Christmas, three weeks but it was the summer break of six weeks that stands out in my memory, it was during one of those periods of school inactivity that I was eventually introduced to the prospect of joining the world of work. I was aware that some of my contemporary’s had already made that leap within a gamut of differing employment, weekend paper round, after school grocery delivery service and the afore mentioned luggage trolley service for holiday makers from the railway stations. The scholarship that got you to the Grammar School was an education leveller but didn’t put money in your or your parent’s pockets.
Great Yarmouth being a town that, prior to the days before “foreign holidays” became one of the first choices of working people, relied predominantly on the yearly surge of holiday makers from the more industrialised areas of the Midlands, North and incredibly Scotland, I say incredibly, due to the distance travelled in order to enjoy the delights the town had to offer for one or mostly two weeks break from the workplace, especially as the road system in those far off days did not offer Motorways or in the main not even dual carriageway roads, a situation that as I write still prevails in my home county of Norfolk, but if you didn’t have a car or were not travelling by a motor coach there was always the railway and three stations waiting to receive you.. Vauxhall and Beach serving the Midlands and the North and South Town for London and the South. Oh, the good old days.
From the end of May or perhaps the end of the second week of June all the activity that presaged the new “Summer Season” was in full swing, guest houses had their final lick of paint and the “Vacancies” sign hung in the windows ready for the onset of those visitors who were prepared to take a chance and turn up without making a booking, and there were plenty, which always surprised me, and still does, although early in the season it was not too much of a risk, mid- July and all of August would have been almost suicidal but it was this activity that heralded opportunity with casual work for the summer season, which of course meant money in your pocket, a rare event for me, and how I envied those that did enjoy that privilege.
From the town centre the main thoroughfare to the Sea Front was Regent Road with so many delights that to list them all would take far more time than this reminiscence has available, but let me stick to those who might be looking for a hardworking boy of thirteen. Ice cream parlours and cafes the most likely, among the former the largest was Vetese’s, I know there is only one S but it was pronounced as if there were two, Vetessie’s, with two cafés almost opposite each other but they mostly employed girls. In truth my eye was on “The Bloater King” at the top of Regent Road, the first shop to catch the eye of the multitude of visitors heading down to the seafront. For the uninitiated a bloater is a smoked and cured herring unlike a kipper it is not split down the back nor as salty and is specific to the town of origin, “Yarmouth Bloater”. It was the nickname of the Speedway team and Great Yarmouth Town Football Club, as well as being part of the staple diet in our home, but what was the attraction for me.
The shop had a double front open to the elements and two or three long tables behind which were boys boxing up customers bloaters which they could take away or have sent by post as gifts, and oh, how I envied them, as far as I was concerned this was the life I wished to share, my mother however had different ideas. I don’t recall ever receiving an explanation for her reasons but it was made very clear that she would not give her approval, and if you lived in the same house, which of course we did, then my mother’s word was law, and although I was disappointed there was a ray of sunshine about to appear over my horizon.
Chapter 59 – All play and no work, means, what?
I am sure that no one in the future who may be reading this memoir will lose any sleep over my decision to skate over the details of my inglorious career at GYGS, none of which can be laid at the feet of that institution, they did their best. If I had perhaps responded with 20% of the effort they put into the task, perhaps my immediate future when I said my farewell would have taken a different route and I would be recalling a different story. But I didn’t and even now at a quite advanced age and with a happy life and successful career behind me, I still have, from time to time, the question in my head “what if.”
OK, so I said that I would not bore you with the GYGS minutiae, and I will try and keep that promise, however I must bring to your attention the things that made a lasting mark on me, literature and history initially as separate disciplines, then as a combination of art and historical literature, and within the latter the other great interests, the art of stage and cinema. As I write this epistle in my office, behind me is a bookcase which pays tribute to both genres with numerous volumes that I have read and used as reference on many occasions, latterly assisting in an amateur recording of “The Pickwick Papers”. But back to the past.
It was sometime within my first two years at GYGS that the school was taken on trips to the cinema, even Grammar schools did not have the equipment to be able to show films to their best advantage. As a result on a given date we would walk from Salisbury Road along the North Parade to the cinema, The Royal Aquarium, so named because from the front door and through to the theatre both sides of the majestic entrance hall sported tanks which must at some time have contained exotic fish, but in the aftermath of the war lay empty. We did not lose any sleep over it we were out of school for the afternoon.
It was a requirement however that the films had to contain education value and so they did, Oliver Twist, Great Expectations and Hamlet, all made in British Studios in 1948, I am not sure of the order but that is not important, the value is how it affected me for the rest of my life. Reading a book is one thing but seeing a book brought to life on the stage or in a film adds a whole new dimension, in my case it encouraged me after seeing the films to try and tackle the books, a practice I still follow if possible. I have found over a lifetime of reading to try and see the film or play before tackling the book, I find I can pick up nuances that the adaptation may have missed. This of course only applies to books that are deemed worthy of such treatment. One major example is the John Le Carre’ classic spy novel “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier Spy” with the original BBC TV adaptation ensuring the book became a major best seller. The alternative nearly always leads to disappointment, have you tried just reading Shakespeare? Not nearly as enjoyable as seeing it brought to life on the stage as I realised when the school put on a performance of “The Scottish Play” with Hamish Swanson in the role of Lady Macbeth, truly a tour de force.
These school trips also brought me back to Charles Dickens, who had until then been just a name on the wall alongside the main door of the Royal Hotel on South Parade on the seafront in Great Yarmouth, where during a stay he started to write David Copperfield. This connection has stayed with me all my life so far, it being my favourite book by my favourite author.
Chapter 58 – What did we do before technology was invented?
When I posed that question I was aware that technology had been around much longer than the period of my life that I am describing but perhaps in not such an all pervading and recognisable manner. One of my two favourite subjects was history the other literature, it was the combination of the two disciplines that gave birth to the title of this chapter.
The use of technology could be found in virtually everything we were learning at school, take the common or garden book that we opened every day, thanks to the invention of the printing press, technology, the bus we caught every day to get us there, replacing the horse drawn omnibus, technology. I could fill the page with examples of how technology in its various forms affected or enhanced our every day lives, but one in particular was behind this chapter, radio or as we knew it the wireless, the effect it had on our everyday lives and its prescient nature. “Last night did you hear?” a regular question on the walk into school.
As far as we as boys were concerned the programmes we preferred, Dick Barton Special Agent, Riders of the Range and Journey into Space tended to be formulaic, hero and two sidekicks. In the latter, hero Jet Morgan had two other members of the spaceship crew, Doc and Lemmy. The latter played by the then unknown later famous character actor David Kossoff, was almost a comic turn, but that was not a problem for we young listeners especially as Journey into Space, which at it’s highest point was getting more listeners on the wireless than people viewing BBC TV, even as it was, at that time, the only TV service on offer, and without us realising it pointing in the direction that was achieved in a mere twenty years in 1968, putting a man on the moon. Technology at its’s best.
But with the benefits of radio technology, and there were benefits if you knew where to find them on the dial and if you had control of the tuning knob there were other broadcasters, especially in the evening, but in the evening my father was in control and the delights of the main commercial station Radio Luxembourg were more often than not denied us. There was also the concern that there could be a less than beneficial effect in other areas of leisure activity one of which was the theatre. Without question that was a very present concern especially in the field known as variety, an area we knew a lot about in Great Yarmouth, the argument being that if you could hear them on the wireless for free you wouldn’t pay to go and see them. This worry however proved to be unfounded, in fact quite the opposite, hearing them on the wireless whetted the appetite when they appeared in one of the summer shows. An appearance in the successful radio programme “Educating Archie” certainly was the case for Max Bygraves, Dick Emery, Beryl Reid and a young lady singer who went on to greater fame than any of the others, Julie Andrews. Success on the wireless ensuring that seats were sold throughout the summer season. On the down side Arnold got a mechanised milk float and I lost my job.
Chapter 57 – Learning Lessons
Anyone other than myself reading the title of this epistle might have assumed that with the bulk of the current recollections taken from my years at GYGS that the epistle would singularly be concerned with their attempt, with as it turned out not great success, to educate me to a standard well ahead of that I could have received at my previous school, and that would have been a reasonable conclusion to draw, as it contains a large measure of truth, it also contains evidence of the fact that however hard they tried I failed to take advantage of the opportunity.
The title therefore is as much about my learning lessons outside school as inside. I have indicated in previous recollections, how I quickly recognised where my strengths and weaknesses lay and I am sorry to say predominantly in the latter, what I still have to work out after many years is why that was the case, it certainly was the not the fault of the teaching staff who certainly did their best to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. The inevitable conclusion is that the fault lay at my own feet and my inability then to either recognise or accept or perhaps even care that I was not making the best of this opportunity, a tendency that followed me into early manhood.
Learning lessons was not strictly confined to the classroom, an example of this was out on the sports field, at the Priory when the school football team sheet went up my name was on there, except for the occasion when illness caused the removal but I worked hard and fought my way back in, now the competition was of a much higher level and any expectations I had of being automatically chosen for form or house easily were soon exploded, remember then there were no substitutes standing on the touchline hoping and praying for an injury to the player in your position, we went to the house matches in school uniform not playing kit. House masters sometimes watched form football in order to select the team but I suspect they also relied on reports from the sports masters, as it turned out I was lucky, I was in both form and house teams until I suffered from a broken bone in my instep as a result of receiving an over enthusiastic tackle, which kept me out of football for the remainder of the season. I can still recall the look on my mother’s face when she came home to find me with my right foot in plaster and two crutches in the corner of the living room, it was the first she knew of it, no telephone at home or mobile back then. It took me over a year to get to back into the house team.
Outside of school I learned another lesson which has remained with me since then. Two friends and myself returned home each day from school via the Beaconsfield Recreation Ground, a stroll of ten minutes which took us past the Groundsman’s Hut and Store Shed. There were two groundsmen, the senior being Mr Barber a man in late middle age of substantial build and his assistant Mr Jackson, an elderly man with what we knew as a medicine boot on his right foot, it was built up to reduce his limp but nevertheless it was very obvious, add to that a prosthetic metal hook on his right wrist, he was not the most mobile of men. As a result, and I am ashamed of it even now we were unkind to Mr Jackson, taunting him calling him “Hookie” and affecting a similar limp knowing he was in no position to deal with us and his colleague did nothing about it. There is a saying” be sure your sins will find you out” it is based in truth. Mr Barber moved on and a younger, much younger groundsman took his place, he was not only young he was vigorous as I found out to my cost. He was aware of our behaviour as on one occasion when after a warning from him not to taunt his colleague and we not aware of his presence and we taunted Mr Jackson, the new groundsman came out of his hut where he been hiding, like a train out of a tunnel, and he was young and he could run like us, I set off at a pace he following carrying a broom which he threw, it got tangled in my legs and I went down, he caught me and gave me what was known in those days as a good hiding and the admonishment not to do it again. I had to confess to my mother the reason for being so upset, I was 12 and in tears and of course not the full story. My mother was horrified and said my father, when home from work, it was summertime and the Rec was open until 9pm, would go and deal with it, which I insisted was not necessary, my mother wouldn’t listen and when my father came in from work, his question “What did you do” and my reply “nothing” cut no ice. I was taken back to scene of the crime. The full truth came out and as a result my father made me apologise to Mr Jackson, to the vigorous groundsman who was the cause of my visit, together with his permission to mete out the same punishment if I transgressed in future, he need not have worried. On the walk back he told me why Mr Jackson was as he was,of injuries sustained in World War One and that I should be proud of him rather than taunting him. I learned a lesson that has been with me since that day.
Chapter 56 - Broadening Horizons, There is a world outside Great Yarmouth
Since returning to the town of my birth at the end of the war in 1946, I had not as far as I can recall strayed outside the boundaries of the town other than a bus ride to Gorleston with my father for a football match, or to Caister for speedway and they were really part of the Borough of Great Yarmouth, even Norwich, 22 miles away, where my Uncle Alf lived was out of my reach, so you can perhaps imagine the excitement generated at GYGS when we received the news that the school was planning a trip to Paris, yes I will repeat it, Paris, in France. Three years on from the end of the war, the physical scars, were still evident in many parts of Great Yarmouth as well as the psychological scars that may have been endured by the some of the citizens including my parents. The excitement the news generated within the school may not have been repeated among the parents, certainly not if it was anything like the reception it received in my home when I presented the notice, first to my mother and then to my father when he came home from work.
The stumbling block was the most obvious one, the cost. When trying to recall it, the first amount I had in my mind was £101 but on much wracking of my memory It may have been £75, either way it was out of the question, even the latter would have been the equivalent of 30 weeks of my father’s wages, but irrespective of which amount it was out of our reach, my mother toyed with the idea of asking one of my aunts for a loan, quickly squashed by my father, “if you can’t afford it you can’t have it”, a principle he applied all his life. As a result of his obduracy my visiting Paris would have to wait another twentytwo years. If I was disappointed so were the bulk of my classmates in 1A, I can’t recall who did go but it wasn’t any of the coterie of friends I had made.
But Paris was not the only opportunity on offer during my stay at GYGS. In 1951 to celebrate how Great Britain in general and London in particular had bounced back from the dark days of the war Mr Attlee’s Government announced a Festival of Britain to highlight the countries recovery in Industry and Arts since 1945. Built on the South Bank of the Thames the intention was to take peoples mind off the grinding economic conditions left over from the war, and there is now on reflection an acceptance that it did just that with people coming to the capital from all over the United Kingdom, many for the first time, if only for a day. One of them was yours truly.
That day would have been a long one, a very early by train from Yarmouth South Town Station (now long gone) to London Liverpool Street and then onto the Festival Site, my memory fails me as to how we traversed the metropolis, probably by bus as I have no recollection of going on the underground and that would have stood out in my memory, but whatever the method we travelled by to the South Bank we all made it without mishap, in school uniform with a packed lunch, in time for what would be one of the most memorable days of my life up to then . I know that it was the enormity of everything in London that impressed me most of all, the buildings were not only tall but packed close together and it wasn’t until we got to the Exhibition that the sky opened up and the first thing that I saw was the OXO building on the South Bank, we all knew what OXO was and we hadn’t reached the Exhibition Grounds by then, which covered several acres. With less than a day, the choice of where to go and what to see was important. The Festival Hall we bypassed, if there was a concert on that day it wasn’t for us to enjoy. The prime attractions were the Skylon, the nearest description I can offer is a gigantic cigar with pointed ends and the Dome of Discovery, where we spent most of our time, the eccentric Miniature Railway, the Guiness Clock and at the far end the Battersea Park Funfair, that particular venue not on our list of treats that day.
The Dome of Discovery was undoubtedly the star attraction as we were all, singly or in groups able to see ourselves on an invention that had not arrived in Great Yarmouth in 1951 – Television
The other major trip that sticks in my memory was again a rail journey, this time to Windsor and a visit to the Castle and the Park now familiar to everyone thanks to Television and Royal Weddings. Once again it was the size of the castle that I remember more than anything, especially as the town of Windsor had been built around it and those buildings looked no bigger than doll’s houses in comparison, the castle also had soldiers in uniform on guard something that the other castle we visited from school did not have, and in travel terms was on our doorstep, and yes, another train journey, Norwich Castle.
Norwich Castle we were informed, was a classic example of a Norman Castle and although it could not offer the grandeur and soldiers in Bearskins it was our castle, on our doorstep and informed us about the history of Norwich and the county of Norfolk of which Norwich was not only the capital but in the days of Henry V111 the second city of his kingdom. One of the things I remember most was the gallery exhibiting the work of local Artists especially the work of John Sell Cotman, whose paintings of Norwich in the past certainly caught my imagination.
OK, these trips were not to Paris but I still remember them with great affection and although I didn’t realise it at the time, as the start of the broadening of my mind.
PS: My visit with a school party to Windsor Castle was not the only time I was inside those walls. No longer living in Great Yarmouth, my change of job in the 1960’s gave me an opportunity to visit the castle every two weeks, I had a pass to go in without paying, enabling me to restock the tea and coffee in the staff kitchen.
Chapter 55 - 1948 - A Year of Change in Different Ways
If someone who had lived through the post war era had been asked to describe what is was like to live in Great Britain in general and Great Yarmouth in particular in 1948 the response would probably have been in one of two areas, for those for whom adulthood was post war it might have been downbeat for those who recalled the pre- war era it was probably much more optimistic, let me try and put some flesh on those bones, an apt simile in many ways.
The war had been over for nearly three years but the cost of that war was still evident in three areas, physically, financially and mentally. I think to fully understand the late 1940’s it is necessary to go back to the 1930’s and compare the attempt by the newly and surprisingly, to some, elected Labour Government to ensure that the pre-war hardship for the majority of the working people would not be repeated, but how would that be carried through in a country trying to recover from a war that although it had been won had been made virtually bankrupt by that victory.
The then daily necessities of life were the same pre or post war, a job, something to eat and somewhere to live, a problem that had be-devilled the country in the 1930’s as well as across the world, by 1948 however there had been a serious attempt made to counter those three problems and to some degree had been successful. A significant number of towns and cities including Great Yarmouth had been subject to air attacks during the war and as a result the subsequent bombing had inflicted serious damage to industrial premises and housing stock much of which was to say the least not of the highest standard so those air attacks could if one looked for a kind way of describing it, call it a necessary slum clearance exercise, which ever the way you chose to look at it the necessity for large amounts of housing stock was apparent.
Let us deal with that trio of necessities in the order already given. Getting a job, if nothing else can be said about the Government they had certainly learned a lesson from World War 1 when at the end of hostilities the army released millions of service men onto a none existent job market, this time the demobilisation was done in stages with married men first, at the same time instead of leaving Germany to their own devices as in 1919, the Allied Forces occupied West Germany and in 1946 National Service was introduced which meant that young men at the age of eighteen unless in University or an apprenticeship would serve a minimum of two years in one of the Armed Forces, as a supplement to the regular full time service men, at the same time some major industries were brought under public ownership thus trying to ameliorate the vagaries of the 1920’s and Government and Local Authorities were expanded and given the task of rebuilding the local lives and economy with an emphasis on the Housing Stock. This was a two pronged attack the first being a major scheme of building houses by local councils for renting alongside the requisition of larger empty properties which were sub-divided into flats and rented out alongside the housebuilding already identified, and to speed this up the innovation of factory made prefabricated dwellings, know affectionately by those who lived in them as prefabs. These dwelling were finally phased out in the 1970’s having served their purpose and to the chagrin of the families still occupying them.
Housing was underway and together with increased work opportunities to catch up with the demand being created in the economy in both the private and state sector, the country had far more than six war years to catch up with. All that activity had to be fed and by 1948 although rationing was still in place for necessities, more and more items which were in those days treated as luxuries, oranges, grapefruit, bananas, coconuts were coming into the shops.
There were of course anomalies clothing, meat, bread, butter and tea were rationed but not milk, families had ration books that indicated how many were in the family and thus your entitlement, it wasn’t perfect but obesity was a not a problem probably because sweets and chocolate were on ration. The other major item on ration was petrol, but as very few working people had or even aspired to have a car this rationing had little effect on every day living.
Away from everyday economics the main forms of entertainment were the wireless, mainly BBC although Radio Luxembourg could be obtained although not in our house, going to the pictures (cinema) and in Great Yarmouth the summer shows which were just getting into their stride again. Football and Cricket were in full flow the Australians were here for Don Bradman’s final tour and in football Portsmouth were First Division Champions and Manchester Utd won the FA Cup and I passed the Scholarship to go to Great Yarmouth Grammar School.
Chapter 54 – Time flies whether you are having fun or not
With the first day and then the first week safely under our belts Form 1A settled into the regular routine that would be the background to the Autumn term, with each day of each week being exactly the same on paper but differing in the content that was put in front of us as we progressed or not in the varying subjects, and becoming aware of which subjects we enjoyed more than others and which of them we were able to tackle with confidence, in my case Maths and Science subjects did not come to the top of my list whereas History, Geography, Art, English and surprisingly French, I began to both enjoy and look forward to. I have of course left out my favourite, weekly sport, in this term gymnastics and football and becoming aware that not everybody in 1A enjoyed it as much as I did to the extent that some actually disliked it, to someone like me to whom sport in general and football and cricket in particular had been a major part of my life this was difficult to come to terms with.
In the classroom which house you were in was totally insignificant but on the sports field that was different, whatever you did was for the house, in my case South. As I recall it two houses dominated the sporting arena, South and North, in football, cricket and athletics they were predominant and each house had one student who everyone in their respective houses looked up to. North had Johnny Blyth but we had Ted Buswell, both of whom were heroes to the supporters in their respective houses and I am sure a certain grudging accord from the other two houses whose athletes suffered at their hands or more correctly feet. As far as we in South were concerned Ted Buswell was accorded almost god like status and to be recognised by him for some sporting achievement, a pat on the head or shoulder and “well done” even if you came second or third was the equivalent of an Olympic medal, Ted as head of house always came to watch Junior inter house competitions if he could.
Two weeks in and we learned more and more every day, not necessarily in the classroom, although that was the case, but about the workings of the school, especially the pecking order and how to distinguish who was who and what was what. Unlike my previous school where it was difficult or perhaps impossible to distinguish length of time remaining before being sent out into the world of work at GYGS the clothes you wore indicated the year you belonged to. First and second year, simple and straight forward, cap, Blazer, grey shirt and school tie, short grey trousers, knee socks and black shoes, and as you progressed through the years the upper body covering remained the same with long grey trousers replacing the short version until sixth year when the uniform could be replaced with sports jacket and flannels, the lifetime of cap wearing was never identified and once away from school environs they were very quickly put into a pocket. For the rest of us on all official school functions the requirement was for uniform to be worn with the exception of Sports Day when mufti was acceptable. Five days a week, certainly in term time, we had to wear the school uniform but on the weekends we reverted to our pre GYGS clothes, although one of the stand out portions of the Head’s welcoming speech on our first day made it clear that when at weekends if wearing the GYGS uniform our behaviour must be such as not to let the school down, did he really think we would be wearing school uniform at the weekend, although I suspect my mother would not have taken umbrage if I had.
The Autumn term in 1948 flew by and we broke up for Christmas, three weeks with no homework, no uniform and at eleven years of age still a large measure of excitement at the prospect although we were reminded of the real story behind Christmas with a carol concert at school in the last week of term, the highlight of which was “ Good king Wenceslas” with Mr Balfour and a student, whose name I cannot recall but certainly not one of my friends and three of the teaching staff giving an unforgettable “We Three Kings” although for most of us the Orient meant Leyton rather than Palestine. Our Christmas in 1948, followed the pattern described in a previous chapter and on Christmas day we went through the ritual of opening presents which were in a pillowcase at the foot of our bed, how my father did that without one or all of us waking I don’t know. In addition there were a few more important presents under the Christmas tree, one of which was for me from my beloved Uncle Alf and Aunt Elsie. Looking at it I was in seventh heaven although the writing on the attached tag should have given me a clue, “a special present to celebrate my scholarship” the parcel was about six inches in length and two inches across, I knew immediately what it was, I had been canvassing my parents for one for months since seeing Morton Frasers Harmonica Rascals at the Regal, a mouth organ. With that certainty in my mind I left it till last, and when the time came and it was the last present still with wrapping, my younger siblings had no sense of theatre, I opened the package.
If until then I thought I knew what being disappointed meant then I was wrong, I think the weight should have given me a clue, but the excitement overcame every other thought. There in a smart box was another note indicating how much they hoped I would appreciate it in the new term, a ball point pen, a Biro. My Uncle and Aunt never knew about my chagrin, I must have been a good actor even then, although my father, who I later realised was far more perceptive than I thought at the time, understood just how disappointed I was. I was however the only boy in Form 1A with a ball point pen in January 1949.
Chapter 53 – My Immersion in the cold bath
My first term at GYGS was exactly like being plunged into the proverbial bath of icy cold water, you knew that it would be as described, a shock, but I was not prepared in any way for the severity of the experience or the length of time before I was able to start to swim and get some warmth back. It was no consolation that a substantial minority of my new class mates, sorry form, were having the same or similar difficulties.
Reading the curriculum we were given made me realise how different my life was going to be. Mathematics, History, English, I was familiar with, but French, Physics, Chemistry, Art, Woodwork, Music, there could have been more but if so I have forgotten them, my untrained brain had difficulty in coping with the task and as a result of that inability the first few weeks of my new school life were anything but happy and I feel sure now with the benefit of hindsight those unhappy weeks set the pattern for the next five years, certainly of my life where education was concerned. Although I didn’t think so at the time possibly because I wasn’t aware of it, my mind was blinkered as far as anything inside the classroom was concerned. This was going to be of great benefit in later life, but at eleven years of age and especially from a background that had not up to then asked much of me, I was finding the new pressures difficult to deal with, although it would not have been evident at home, I was without realising it starting to cover up any anxieties from school, a skill that I was able to carry through most of my life, whatever the situation I always managed to put a smile on my face. The modern use of parents evenings, giving them an update on the students progress was not common practice, in fact I don’t recall my parents coming in to the school for any reason in all the five years I was in attendance, so they had to rely on me and end of term/year reports for information as to any or no progression. If, they were less than encouraging, which they nearly always were, these reports did not appear to upset my parents, the assumption seemed to be that I was doing my best, and in fact I was, and that was all that could be asked of me. I for my part did not worry about it, my parents were happy enough and in all other areas I was keeping out of trouble and that was the pattern for the rest of my time at GYGS, in my mind it was only confirmation that my passing the entrance exam was a one day wonder, but nevertheless an event that made my parents and close family proud a fact that I should have taken more notice of.
Chapter 52 - What is it like?
I suppose it was natural that my parents, well my mother, would be interested in my new school although for my part I couldn’t imagine why and without wishing to appear rude fended off her questions as best I could, but having lived with my mother for the whole of my then short life I should have realised that there was no chance that I would get away with a cursory answer, my mother liked detail and nothing less would do and would not accept the fact that I had only been at GYGS one day and knew only what I had experienced up to the end of the first day, so I was obliged to recite the experience of that day, but recalling that questioning after all these years has brought back to me the differences between my new school and my previous school life both educational and physical.
The first major difference was the overall size of the two schools, GYGS was vast in comparison, well at least in my eyes aged eleven. I have as a grown man been back to look at my alma mater and although the overall area including the school field was as I remember it, the original building looked very small but in 1948 when I walked through the gates for the first time in comparison with the Priory school it appeared massive, externally and internally, from the Gymnasium at the western end and at the eastern end the woodwork room, both separate from the main block. Entrance at each end was gained passing cloakrooms and toilets into the main hall, where we had gathered that first morning sitting cross legged in front of the stage for our first assembly, an assembly which was repeated every morning of the school year. Off the hall was a class room to the left of the stage as we looked at it. To the right of the stage by the entrance was the office of the school secretary, who was, apart from the dinner ladies and Mr Pillar, the only non- teaching member of staff.
Leaving the stage on the south side of the hall, first was the Headmasters office and next to that the double door exit to the school field, followed by the staff room and then the exit from the hall and facing the stage, music room and library. The hall was essentially the fulcrum of the school and a quiet fulcrum except at break or lunch time, if it was deemed necessary for you to have to go through the hall during work periods singly or in a group silence was required, as even the slightest noise ran the risk of the headmaster appearing like an avenging angel in black, an angel with built in radar who could sense a wrong doer with unerring accuracy, for although this was a grammar school, with pupils who were by dint of passing an exam deemed to be the pick of the crop, there was rarely a shortage of pupils waiting outside the Heads office where the most unlikely result would be congratulations and a pat on the back.
The majority of the teaching rooms including the science labs were on the first floor and 1A for that was the form I had been allocated under the guidance of Mr Hillyer looked out over the school field although the windows were so placed at a height that it was necessary to stand up in order to look out and the necessity to stand up was rare unless it was to deal with a call of nature, although one teacher in particular required you stood up to answer a question aimed at a specific student. I had previously indicated the determination of which form you had been allocated, unlike the Priory where you were in a class, just one of the little differences. The form you were given depended on the date of your birthday January to June 1A, July to December 1B. With the exception of the Science subjects, woodwork, Art and Sport all lessons were taken in your form room which meant unless one of those subjects was on your daily curriculum you remained at your desk all day allowing for breaks and dinner and of course the afore mentioned call of nature, which meant teachers for the varying subjects moved around, again one of the differences from my previous school, where Mr Thompson under the banner of “Jack of all Trades” taught everything. The working day was divided into periods, some lessons being a single period, some double, at the end of a lesson the teacher would collect whatever was necessary and leave for his next session, at which point we all had to stand quietly as he left the room. Unless the next teacher was waiting outside the door we sat at our desks and from our desk produced whatever we might need for the next lesson, on his arrival, note his, for in 1948 with one exception and she dealt with senior pupils, all the teachers were men, we would then stand up and wait to be told to sit, at which point we would get out whatever was needed for that lesson, accompanied with much banging of desk lids until order was promptly restored and the lesson commenced. There were times when the Headmaster paid a visit, everyone stood up until it was indicated you could sit, his gaze would sweep around the classroom, I don’t know if it was only me but I always tried not to catch his eye, I don’t recall him ever saying anything he just stood with his back to the board and gazed around the room as the teacher proceeded with his teaching and every boy kept their eyes onto the page or teacher, then after a short period of time he would turn and make for the door at which point the teacher would indicate we should stand until the door closed behind him and normal service was resumed.
Question: How do I explain all of that to my mother when she asks what was it like. My response would have been of far less detail but hopefully sufficient to satisfy her interest. She must have been content with whatever response I offered and presumably later in the day conveyed it to my father, for I have no recollection of his posing the same question on that day or any other. One thing is certain, my mother would have indeed appraised him of my first day at GYGS.
Chapter 51 – Learning about being responsible
If there was one major difference between The Priory and GYGS it was responsibility and finding out how to handle this new part of our lives. This commenced as soon as we walked through the gate. Earlier in this narrative I wrote about the cloakrooms where your outer garments i.e raincoat plus sports kit would reside until if and when they were required. Your satchel containing all you needed for the day went with you and sat at your feet under your allotted desk, or on your seat back. I stress allotted desk as we sat in the same seat every day, and we were seated in alphabetical order, so if your family name was Brown you would be on the left side of the teachers vision and if your best friend’s family name was Young he would be on the far right, with my family name beginning with N I was more or less in the middle of the class. Before the first lesson of the day started you put on the desk top all you would require for that particular lesson, thus there was both singular and collective responsibility to ensure the lesson started on time and without one or more of your classmates leaving in order to get some forgotten item, of course it didn’t always run so smoothly and oddly enough it seemed to get worse the further up the school you went. The major seating difference from J4 at the Priory School was that at GYGS it was much more democratic, at the Priory you were seated in accordance with your results in class, thus you knew your place in the pecking order. For the first few weeks of our first term we were all equal but even when it became obvious that some were more capable than others you were not made aware of it every day because of the seating arrangement.
The first item on the daily agenda was taking the register, the form teacher , for us on this first day Mr Hillyer would read the names out in alphabetical order and receive the required response either here, yes or sir, this would be the procedure for the next five years as we moved on through the school in different form rooms with different form masters and so our first week was under way. The thread of this particular narrative is responsibility and it was in the first week that I was given my first taste of what it meant. I was given the job of being the Ink monitor. Why that honour was bestowed on your truly I didn’t know and it took me a while to understand what a privilege it was, and how to make it work to my advantage.
For anyone reading this in the days of ball point and marker pens and lap tops, ink is like something from a history book, but alongside ink went pens and knibs, and although ink was considered utilitarian and not of any real value, pens and knibs however, were to a schoolboy charged with this responsibility, the realisation that they were the equivalent of currency. At the time of writing many years later, ink can still be purchased in a bottle and used to fill fountain pens and enable the owner of this archaic instrument to sign cheques and documents in the time honoured fashion. As ink monitor I did not enjoy that facility, before I could do anything I had to mix the ink, this on its own was an interesting procedure. The ink powder was in a large jar and a portion of that powder was then required to be transferred to a large jug and water added and then the individual ink wells on each desk topped up ready for the days school work, well that was the theory. There were no instructions as to quantities of each part required so it was very much trial and error and in the beginning error was uppermost, of course there was no shortage of willing assistants or ink stained fingers and inks of varied shades but as they say practice makes perfect. Then I had to take the jug and fill or refill all the ink wells, all before the bell was rung for the commencement of the first lesson, luckily it was not a daily exercise.
Earlier in this chapter I drew attention to the pen and the knib, let me put some flesh on those bones. The pen was made of wood between five and six inches (15cm) in length, who remembers inches, at the end of which is attached the knib holder into which was inserted the knib, which the student would then dip into the afore mentioned filled ink well and put down on paper all his knowledge as required on the day according to the subject. Well that is theory and in the main it was a workable theory however it did not make allowance for the ability of boys of eleven years of age to think of alternative avenues of usage. One of which was the conversion of the pen into a dart, simple but effective but which required the knib to be altered but the alteration also rendered it useless as a writing instrument as a result of which the demand for knibs was much greater than whole pens and I am sure that I wasn’t the first ink monitor to see how it could be turned to advantage and for the period that I was in that situation knibs were currency and commanded a quid pro quo. I had that responsibility for my first term at GYGS and perhaps without my realisation it was the start of a life in commerce.
Chapter 50 - Settling Into My New Surroundings - Part Two
One the great blessings of Great Yarmouth was the climate, especially as it was a seaside holiday resort. Situated as it is on the east coast with the North Sea lapping the shore, it was never going to offer the prolonged spells of the soft balmy weather that bless the coasts of the southern counties of Dorset, South Devon and Cornwall, but it was mostly dry and sunny, or least that is how I remember it, windy and cold in the winter, breezy and sunny but cooler than the more southern resorts in the summer. Holiday makers however were easily recognised as the sun and wind left their mark on foreheads, noses and exposed torsos and limbs, but if you were born and raised on the east coast you and the climate went through life hand in hand with a smile on your face summer and winter, although winter tested your smile to the full.
Anyone reading this chapter could with good reason ask why I have given so much space to the climate insofar as my first days at GYGS are concerned? The previous chapter described how we dealt with times of inclement weather, this chapter charts the days and weeks which were predominant, when it may have been sunny or not, warm or chilly but essentially dry and we could take breaks and dinner break in particular outside on the school field. The field was bigger than two football pitches and on the far side from the school buildings was one pitch with posts and nets in season but out of football season it constituted one large field, with a cricket pitch laid out, oh what difference from the senior playground I had been used to at the Priory School.
For that ninety-minute period between midday and 13.30 each day the school field was filled with the majority of the school population, there were always some of the students who never appeared outside, but they were not part of any grouping that I was in. In that first week or any other while I was at GYGS, the activities were varied but mostly sporting with rarely less that six games of football or cricket taking place at the same time Depending on the time of year, the energy at that age is amazing. There was of course supervision at all times mostly by prefects and when they had enjoyed lunch, the duty master. There was however one constant every day of every week the headmaster and his lunch. He lived in a house at the far side of the school field which entailed his walking diagonally across from the main building to a gate into his garden.
The only way I can describe it is to use a biblical reference, it was like the parting of the Red Sea. Mr Palmer as ever all in black, suit and gown, like a gigantic crow, head and eyes swinging from left to right and back again, gown swinging in the ever present breeze, marched home for his lunch, with all the boys on the fringes of that corridor averting their eyes until he had passed, the fear being if he caught your eye he could misconstrue it into guilt for an as yet unknown crime. It was not until he passed through the gate that everyone could relax, that is until ten minutes from the end of the dinner break and his return journey, if you were foolish enough to obviously try and distance yourself from the trajectory of his path you ran the risk of his assuming you had committed an offence and been overcome with guilt before the trial had commenced. it took a few months before I overcame the feeling of fear that I felt on my first few days.
Historical Postscript - VE Day 2020. The celebrations and reminiscing of the end of the war with Germany in 1945 made me look at what I wrote in the appropriate chapter and it was to say the least sketchy, unlike my memories of the Japanese surrender later in the same year. However, listening to one of the many radio programmes mention was made about the ringing of church bells when the war was over, and it all came back to me. Tuesday 8th May 1945 Wetley Rocks school just after 3pm the bells of the adjacent church started to ring, we were summoned to the playground and a smiling Mr Machin told us that the war with Germany was over, they had surrendered, and we had won. Then after a moment for three cheers we went back to our classroom until we went home. But I do not think we did much work for the remainder of that day.
Chapter 50 - Settling Into my new surroundings - Part One
By day three we were becoming more knowledgeable about the school and its ways of working and I say we because all of us had been thrown into the deep end and expected to sink of swim. OK one or two had older brothers but I suspect from conversations with some of those newly arrived, that their asking of their older brothers did not render such assistance that would or could help them, and in a way it was a successful method for all of us, we had to find our way around, learn where and where not to go and at which times, who to be wary of and why. Sink or swim.
The first unwritten rule was rain or shine, classrooms were off limits at break times and dinnertime, although I certainly, and I suspect I was not alone, couldn’t wait to get away from those locations when the bells rang their welcoming chimes. If it was inclement and from my memory that wasn’t often, rather like my memories of living at the seaside where the sun always shone, in the majority of recollections it didn’t rain or at least not enough to ensure we stayed indoors.
if you were on first dinner, that was simple, you walked or ran or scuffled. One thing I have learned is that at that age no matter the school and its notional place in the educational hierarchy, you can take the boy away from his scholastic background but you can’t take the human background away from the boy. Put boys in a queue especially for food and some of them will start a scuffle, a scuffle that can be contagious, a contagion that if not nipped in the bud can spread throughout the queue. To combat this possibility at least one teacher and more than one prefect would be on duty to ensure scuffling did not spread through the queue, as far as I can recall the scuffling very rarely developed into fighting. Well at least not in the dinner queue, in fact I can truthfully say that in all the years at GYGS I can’t recall seeing or being involved in a genuine fight with fists. No Tom Browns schooldays there.
Dinner is over and it is raining where do we go and what do we do if classrooms were off limits? First of all let me make it clear there was no written rule that prevented you from returning to your form room, getting your books out and catching up on studies and there were some of my colleagues in 1A who probably did, others may have joined the Chess club, the Music Group or the Drama Group none of which held any thrall for yours truly. As it had been at The Priory School and all through my life up to then rain had been an enemy, an enemy that I took up arms against throughout all of my boyhood and rarely manage to defeat it.
I think by now you will have come to the conclusion that as tempting the opportunities listed above were they did not tempt me, therefore if it was raining, we would congregate in the Main Hall or Cloak rooms, where in the latter there were benches to sit on and revert to the age old schoolboy pastime of cigarette card collections and “swopsies” or just talk, form liaisons and make new friends. I am sure that is how my lifelong friendship with Brian Benge- “Beanie”- commenced, we came from a similar working class back grounds, my father worked in a factory, Mr Benge was the chauffeur for the Mayor of Great Yarmouth. We had very similar interests, we both liked football, cricket and speedway and neither had a bathroom in our homes, but whereas I had the Sunday night ritual described in an earlier chapter, Beanie took his towel to the Slipper Baths on Hall Quay once a week, as such we were comrades in domestic adversity. I have since thought long and hard as to why such friendships are formed and why they are sustained into adulthood, but have no answer to offer.
Chapter 49 - Learning the Ropes
If day one had been in some ways a maelstrom introduction it was an accurate forerunner to the remainder of the first week. This was so different to my previous school in several ways, ways that were not in a print version that you could find in the school library and read up, differences that came at you from the front, the back and when you were least expecting it, let me give some examples.
As we had found on the first day there were two entrances to the school, East gate for seniors and West gate for juniors, this had to be observed to the letter with prefects on duty at each to ensure we followed instructions. If you had plenty of time fine, but if your bus was running late the extra fifty, sixty yards could seem like a marathon. In Autumn without any extra baggage, ok you could just about make it if you were of an athletic build and luckily aged eleven and used to running nearly everywhere outside of school we were, nine times out of ten you could be successful, occasional failure meant your name being taken by a prefect and no punishment, but consistent tardiness and the demerits that went with it brought your name to the attention of your form teacher and punishment, usually a mild detention, initially at dinner time, which although you had your food with everyone else you then went to the library to serve your sentence under the watchful eye of whichever teacher was on duty and missing out all that took place on the school field until classes commenced at 13.30.
One major difference from my previous school was who could issue the demerits, certainly any member of the teaching staff no question but in addition two other areas. The first group was the prefects and the second and totally unlike any other schools I had been to or worked in since, the School Caretaker. Mr Pillar, that was his name, lived on the premises and habitually wore a grey dustcoat and occasionally a boiler suit when necessary. Although he wasn’t at any assemblies and not on any school photographs, he was a very important member of staff. Mr Pillar knew the environs of the school both inside and out, every nook and cranny, and by some sixth sense was aware of them being used when they should not have been and dealing with the situation. He might not have given out detentions but if he caught you in any such situation then you were made aware of his displeasure, he was a big man and to an eleven year old, new to the school you made sure you did nothing that would incur his wrath or at least made sure, if possible, you didn’t get caught.
Being aware of which offence was worthy of a demerit is something you learned by experience, there were no obvious written rules, especially for those handed out by prefects or Mr Pillar, but working on the basis that you learn from your mistakes gradually I found myself able to go into school every day without worrying about a possible demerit, which in itself was a major achievement, for what could earn you a demerit one day was ignored on another day by prefects, not however Mr Pillar, if nothing else he was consistent. I think it was towards the end of my second week that Mr Pillar came into a conversation I was having with my mother “Oh, Albert, how is he” and she then went into a long monologue about knowing his family and background finishing with “make sure you don’t upset him, I don’t want him to think badly about us” and following it with “tell him who you are, he knows me”. One thing I had no reason to doubt was that Mr Pillar knew my mother, nearly every person I met in Great Yarmouth knew my mother, but I had no intention of revealing that fact to Mr Pillar or to any of my new friends and risk the taunting that would come with that knowledge. It was well into my first term at GYGS before I came under the radar that Mr Pillar seemingly employed when working out who were the miscreants involved in something outside the school rules. I was obliged to give my name and even if he recognised the family connection he made so show of doing so, much to my relief. I was learning the ropes.
Chapter 49 - Learning the Ropes
If day one had been in some ways a maelstrom introduction it was an accurate forerunner to the remainder of the first week. This was so different to my previous school in several ways, ways that were not in a print version that you could find in the school library and read up, differences that came at you from the front, the back and when you were least expecting it, let me give some examples.
As we had found on the first day there were two entrances to the school, East gate for seniors and West gate for juniors, this had to be observed to the letter with prefects on duty at each to ensure we followed instructions. If you had plenty of time fine, but if your bus was running late the extra fifty, sixty yards could seem like a marathon. In Autumn without any extra baggage, ok you could just about make it if you were of an athletic build and luckily aged eleven and used to running nearly everywhere outside of school we were, nine times out of ten you could be successful, occasional failure meant your name being taken by a prefect and no punishment, but consistent tardiness and the demerits that went with it brought your name to the attention of your form teacher and punishment, usually a mild detention, initially at dinner time, which although you had your food with everyone else you then went to the library to serve your sentence under the watchful eye of whichever teacher was on duty and missing out all that took place on the school field until classes commenced at 13.30.
One major difference from my previous school was who could issue the demerits, certainly any member of the teaching staff no question but in addition two other areas. The first group was the prefects and the second and totally unlike any other schools I had been to or worked in since, the School Caretaker. Mr Pillar, that was his name, lived on the premises and habitually wore a grey dustcoat and occasionally a boiler suit when necessary. Although he wasn’t at any assemblies and not on any school photographs, he was a very important member of staff. Mr Pillar knew the environs of the school both inside and out, every nook and cranny, and by some sixth sense was aware of them being used when they should not have been and dealing with the situation. He might not have given out detentions but if he caught you in any such situation then you were made aware of his displeasure, he was a big man and to an eleven year old, new to the school you made sure you did nothing that would incur his wrath or at least made sure, if possible, you didn’t get caught.
Being aware of which offence was worthy of a demerit is something you learned by experience, there were no obvious written rules, especially for those handed out by prefects or Mr Pillar, but working on the basis that you learn from your mistakes gradually I found myself able to go into school every day without worrying about a possible demerit, which in itself was a major achievement, for what could earn you a demerit one day was ignored on another day by prefects, not however Mr Pillar, if nothing else he was consistent. I think it was towards the end of my second week that Mr Pillar came into a conversation I was having with my mother “Oh, Albert, how is he” and she then went into a long monologue about knowing his family and background finishing with “make sure you don’t upset him, I don’t want him to think badly about us” and following it with “tell him who you are, he knows me”. One thing I had no reason to doubt was that Mr Pillar knew my mother, nearly every person I met in Great Yarmouth knew my mother, but I had no intention of revealing that fact to Mr Pillar or to any of my new friends and risk the taunting that would come with that knowledge. It was well into my first term at GYGS before I came under the radar that Mr Pillar seemingly employed when working out who were the miscreants involved in something outside the school rules. I was obliged to give my name and even if he recognised the family connection he made so show of doing so, much to my relief. I was learning the ropes.
Chapter 48 - Settling in to my new school life
The first day was out of the way but there was still so much to learn, but walking home I think we all agreed that it had not been as difficult as we had anticipated. What was interesting was without admitting it all of us had concealed very similar concerns and had similar worries about one or another aspect of our new scholastic lives. My mother of course was full of questions about day one and would not allow me to get away with a grunt or two as a response particularly with regard to the uniform and whether it had been right in every way, which of course it had, but the question had to be asked and my mother was very satisfied that we had done it properly allowing her to hold her head up when asked about it by interested family members or friends, it seems in hindsight to be trivial but in 1948 I was the very first in our extended family to go to the Grammar School and they were very proud of my achievement, perhaps more so than I was.
Looking back I think one of the things that I was aware of on that first day was the differences in the schools, not just the assembly with gowned masters, the prefects and not forgetting the black clad headmaster who made a bigger effect on me in that assembly than Mr Sillis in all my time at the Priory School, I can’t say it was fear more like apprehension, a determination not to cross swords with him, if only that had remained the case.
The next major difference was the location, GYGS was at the north end of the town, adjacent to the North Parade and the beach, with wide open skies overhead. In contrast the Priory was in the centre of the town overlooked by the largest Parish Church in England and flanked by the old town wall, eight hundred years of age, in comparison the sky was like a postage stamp and view non-existent. As far as sport was concerned on site at the Priory -nil apart some PE in the hall in the winter and in the seniors playground in the summer, winter commenced in October until April whereas at GYGS the school building was surrounded on three sides by a playing field with a full size football pitch, thank God it wasn’t a rugby school, and a gymnasium for PE. At the Priory to play football we had a walk of twenty minutes to the Beaconsfield and then another twenty minutes on the return journey and back into school clothes, now the Beaconsfield was two minutes away and when the final whistle blew a hot shower welcomed us. A different world, but those differences were not confined to the sports field. Classrooms were not very different I don’t think they are anywhere but the Science laboratories Chemistry and Physics and Biology certainly were plus the Music Room and my favourite the Library. Two boys from J4 class at the Priory were in my form I should have been happy but why wasn’t I? I think I have to look back to try and give that question an answer and I have come to the conclusion that I lacked confidence in myself, at the Priory I was familiar with everything about the school, a group of firm friends among whom there was friendly competition and confidence in each other, how long would it take to rebuild in my new surroundings?
As it turned out not very long. At dinner break on the second day we were on again on first sitting and thus had an opportunity to mix on the school field until the bell rang for afternoon lessons and it was during these breaks from organisation that we got to know the boys who had not gone to the Priory and start to form groups of likeminded boys, these of course were fluid but some remained together throughout their time at school and in my case after. Being first year entries of course meant that you were still learning the ropes and there were a considerable number to learn and meeting the odd boy who remembered you from the Priory who had made the leap the year before was a great help, but mostly it was trial and error. A quick way to learn. But learn we did, sink or swim and slowly I learned how to swim.
Chapter 47 - My first day at GYGS
Our first Assembly was over the Headmaster had departed followed at a respectful pace by the rest of the teaching staff who had sat silently behind the Head, during his address, briefly leaving the stage empty. In their places came the prefects, again something I had not experienced at the Priory School, although we would soon learn all about them. The most senior of the prefects first of all introduced those who stood behind him, one from each house, and most important they were the senior prefects and we were told how we could recognise them from the badge they wore, we were instructed to get to know them as they were our link between pupils and staff. Although it was new to me there was a familiarity that I couldn’t place just then. Later I understood why I had that feeling, it came from reading the stories about the boarding schools in the comics, Wizard, Hotspur, Rover etc and of course Tom Brown’s Schooldays.
The senior prefects each had a list and they commenced reading them out, calling the register, this was a familiar process from all previous schools. Having established that everyone was there we were then divided up to into Forms 1A and 1B. This process did not take very long as there were no more than seventy boys to be dealt with. From there we taken to the cloakroom where you were assigned a peg where your gym bag and if the weather was inclement your raincoat could be left, and it could be left with confidence that it would be there until you next needed it. Following that we were taken to our form room to take up our allotted desks and meet our Form Master, Mr AP Hillier who also took us for French. Mr Hillier seemed to be a mild mannered man but as some found on another day not a man to be trifled with, but today he did his best to make us feel relaxed and comfortable, not an easy task. We were invited to lift the lid on our desk, it was our desk for the year, every day the same desk, if you made a particular friend who didn’t sit next to you, that friendship could only flower outside the classroom.
Let us take a look at the desk, on the exterior a hinged lid, a channel for pens and pencils and an inkwell, plus evidence either carved or written by previous occupants. Inside was empty except for our weekly timetable, this is where you kept your books and mathematics equipment, and of course the evidence of previous occupants, which you in your turn would add to. With the exception of the science subjects, music, gymnastics and sport all other subjects were taken at your desk in this room, the masters moving around from room to room. It is hard to believe when I think back to this day that having settled us down and giving a brief explanation of what we would be doing for the rest of the day Mr Hilllyer bade us farewell leaving us under the charge of the prefect while we waited the arrival of the master who would be taking our first lesson at our new school, Mr M.S Colbeck. Double Maths, talk about a cold bath.
Mr Colbeck was not far behind the departing Mr Hillier and on his entering we were told by the prefect “Stand Up” and we did, we had learned that much already. Mr Colbeck, first name Malcolm but no one would have the temerity to address him by his name, his nick name was Charlie but not within his hearing, for as mild as Mr Hillier appeared to be, Charlie Colbeck did not have that appearance and he lived up to his appearance, he was from Yorkshire and had a low opinion of all those not from his sacred county. I can’t say that other than that already charted I can recall much about that first experience of a totally different class life but we survived, we had to, and at 12.00 hrs the bell rang and it was lunchtime and were we ready for it.
The dining hall was at the eastern end of the school field and our class was scheduled for first sitting. Each table which was round seated six or seven students and a master or prefect. You queued for and received one main course, meat and vegetables and one dessert, stodgy pudding and custard, if there was an allowance made for allergies or religious requirements I can’t remember them but I can remember being very ready for that first “school dinner” and I did it justice. We had forty minutes to queue for and to eat our lunch, then back onto the school field allowing the second sitting to take place. Lunch break or as we knew it dinner was 90 minutes, which meant we were not back in class until 13.30 with lessons. To be honest I cannot recall the afternoon subjects, but at 16.00 the bell rang to celebrate the end of lessons and thus my first day at Great Yarmouth Grammar School was over.
Chapter 46 - A New School and New Friends
September 1948 - the exact date escapes me but I do remember that it was a Monday and my first day at the Great Yarmouth Grammar School for Boys. The excitement however, if it was indeed such had commenced the evening prior to that momentous day as against my wishes my mother had insisted on a dress rehearsal, therefore I had to model the complete kit including raincoat and satchel against the list to ensure that our family head could be held high on this forthcoming momentous day. As a result there I was standing in our kitchen ready to commence, if only several hours early, the next phase of my educational and social life, for although I could not have known it then the second of those would be a much more important long lasting part of my life than the first. Having satisfied my mother that she had no need to concern herself about the following day an early night was called for, whether I slept soundly or not I cannot recall, so I must have done.
First day at Great Yarmouth Grammar School and what a day. Having all met up at 8.15 we set off through the Beaconsfield Recreation Ground, emerging at the far end opposite our new school, the obstacle in our way a wire fence at least eight feet high and at either end a locked gate, hardly making us feel welcome, it meant we had to turn right on to the sea front, walk about two hundred yards to the next left turn and there it was the gates of our new school or so we wrongly thought. We had arrived at the Senior’s entrance and were very swiftly and curtly sent on further down the road to the Juniors gates and the start of our new educational lives.
The GYGS was so different from what we had been used to and we very soon found out what those differences were, we were at the bottom of the pile and it was made very clear to us by teachers, prefects and the caretaker on that first and subsequent days until we were used to what would become the way of school life for us.
I suspect that like the majority of the new pupils, I say majority for I later found some of the new intake had older brothers at the school already and perhaps had some idea of what to expect, I was intimidated by the first day or certainly the first half of the first day. First of all, the noise mostly from those who were already residents and then the prefects who shouted out orders above the general hub-bub, these orders were supposed to herd you into House Groups before being directed into the main hall for morning assembly, where we were told to sit down with crossed legs until the rest of the school made their way in, and took their places, with the teaching staff also making their entrance one by one on to the stage. The hum of conversation mostly from those already at the school came to a sudden halt at the appearance on the stage of a gaunt figure all in black, like a large crow, A.G.H Palmer, the headmaster. All the teachers stood up as did the whole assembly including the new boys who had been signalled to stand by one of the teaching staff, who was stationed at the end of the stage nearest the Headmasters Office. The Headmaster looked around the gathering, almost like a searchlight seeking out enemy aircraft, before obviously satisfied, he signalled to everyone to sit. If it was meant to indicate to all in front of him who was in charge it worked. This pantomime was carried out every morning for the next five years I was at the school. Add to this with the singing of the school song every day, this was a whole new world.
On that first morning his speech was to welcome everyone to the new school term and explain what would be taking place that day following the assembly. With that out of the way he was then able to concentrate on the new cohort. I think it is time to give some background to those not old enough to be aware of it. In 1947 the Education Act put through Parliament by the Labour Government made Grammar Schools available to all who passed the necessary tests to attend without fees being involved, in effect we were the second year of pupils to get their education at that higher level free of charge and I think it rankled with him. His address to the 1948 cohort was such that it was made clear that if it had been left to him, we probably would not be receiving these words. It was made clear that we would to have to work harder both in and out of the school to be worthy of our places and to uphold the honour of the school than those with parents who could afford to pay and who knew how to conduct themselves both in and out of school although financial background was not mentioned at all.
After his speech of “welcome” came to an end, and the school song sung the teachers and all the gathered assembly stood again as he left the stage. The new intake were told to sit down again to wait to be told your form and your form teacher, all male. The boy I was sitting next to was Brian Benge, who lived in a different part of the town and had been to a different school, but here we were thrown together in a “foreign land” with one thing in common we both played football for our old school teams and must have played against each other at some time. The new intake was placed in 1A or 1B based on date of birthday, January for me meant 1A, for Beenie July meant 1B, but we played in the same house team, the same school team, he was my best man and I was his and we remained friends until his untimely early death.
Chapter 45 - Ready or Not School Life is going to Change
The Summer break of 1948 that presaged the change in my life, school and all else, was initially no different than any of the previous years of summer life back in Great Yarmouth, it was as if I had blocked out the changes which would take place and it must have been the same with my friends for try as hard as I can I cannot recollect any of that group either discussing, let alone showing any worry of the impending Autumn term. Perhaps it was a case of what you don’t know you don’t worry about. I think therefore it is time to highlight the differences between 1948 and 2020 for young people moving on from Junior to Senior Education. In the first instance I had no idea until I received the by now notorious letter back in March where the Grammar School was, being a junior we didn’t play them at football, it was then I was told it was nearer to where I lived than the Priory. If you think that I immediately went to reconnoitre with my friends you would be wrong, it was not until one week or so prior to the commencement of the September term we deigned to walk via the Beaconsfield Recreation Ground to go and look through the fence to see our future school, perhaps it was a case of what you don’t know wont worry you, perhaps it was fear rather than curiosity, I am still not sure. If the move from Junior to Senior had been as it is in 2020 there would have been visits with parents to be shown around, meeting teachers and current pupils and other new students. Advice about the curriculum, timetables, modes of travel, on foot, bicycle, bus or train, would have been dispensed in order that come September you would commence with knowledge and confidence in your new school life. Not so, as it was, that first day in September 1948 was very like my first meeting with Mr Blake and learning to swim, you jumped into very cold and unwelcoming water and you quickly learned to sink or swim, but more of that later. The summer of 1948 also saw some changes within our family life. Since coming back from Cheddleton my mother had not returned to work other than some very occasional “jobs” with my Aunt Obe and her team for Matthes, a local caterer, most of which were evenings or weekends. In 1948 the war had been over for three years and Great Yarmouth had almost totally recovered and the holiday makers were more and more in evidence with the bulk of them arriving in August when factories closed for two weeks, including Grouts where my father worked, this meant for two of those summer weeks my father would be at home and my mother would be out at work which was a totally different dynamic within the family and not an unpleasant one. This break from his labours meant my father had the time to relax and not be so tired and be more accessible to his children, the younger two were nearly always ready for bed when he came in from work. Together with my brother and sister we had the opportunity to be with our father and enjoy things together, something that rarely happened. Because of the age differences, I had different friends and to be honest did not welcome my siblings into my group, but for two weeks my father would be determining what we would be doing each day and he wanted us to do more together than I was used to. The result was I would be more involved with the two younger family members than was usual, this change meant we were able to enjoy what were referred to as treats and one of the treats we enjoyed was an afternoon visit to the Marina Open Air Theatre to see the Neville Bishop Showband. Up to then the nearest I had been to this treat was trying to find a gap in the surrounding wall to peep through, it was really frustrating to look at the publicity photos outside, hear the music, laughter and applause, and not be able to join in, but on that day, we could and did, and it was well worth the wait. It was all that I imagined it would be, music, singing, comedy routines and talent competitions that were suitable to all ages. Adults and children joined in on an equal level, to be able to do that is a rare talent and Neville Bishop certainly had that gift. One other memory sticks out, the man in the seat next to mine had what I can only describe as a virulent rash over the lower part of his face, which fascinated me to such an extent that I was almost hypnotised, at some point probably the interval and he had temporarily vacated his seat I took the opportunity to ask father about it, his response was “Barbers Rash” and urged me not to worry about it, I didn’t worry but I have never forgotten it. Of course we didn’t go out as a slightly diminished family every day but when we did another of the occasional treats came our way, one in particular stands out in my memory, ice cream, not in a block wrapped in newspaper which I used to run up to the Britannia Pier for on a Sunday, no this was in a cornet and poured from an ice cream machine in an Ice Cream van, we not only lived in a seaside resort we were on holiday there, well at least for those two weeks. The sun seemed to shine every day when I was eleven years old.
Chapter 44 - Preparing for a different life?
July 1948, I walked out of the gates at the Priory School for the last time, it didn’t matter that it was not a farewell of my own choosing, fate had decreed it, fate and my most unlikely passing of the Eleven Plus exam which earned me a scholarship at the Great Yarmouth Grammar School for Boys, an opportunity that I hadn’t sought and that I wasn’t looking forward to taking up. Scholarship, I don’t think I really understood the meaning of the word and how that lack of understanding would haunt me throughout my time at the Grammar School. The enormity of the difference in the two schools, the past and future, was brought home to me when I was “fitted out” with a new uniform and sports kit from Palmers, description of that event was highlighted in a previous chapter but which in reality came in the first week following my leaving The Priory School. It was so much more than I was used to, the list went on and on. Blazer and cap, complete with badge, short grey trousers x 2, grey socks with black and red banding x2, black shoes, grey shirt x2 and school tie again black and red striped and a raincoat, belted. If that was not enough then came sportswear. PT vest and shorts white and gym shoes, football shorts and socks, black and boots, the latter being the only item on the list that I already had and finally House football shirt, navy blue, I was designated to be in South House. This was the only aspect of my new school that had any familiarity with the Priory where I had been in Paget, house colour Red the others being Paston, Palgrave and Nelson all prominent Victorians with Norfolk connections, which in all truth I have only found out due to writing this memoire. The only one I knew anything about was Admiral Lord Nelson, about whom we had been taught in a history lesson. He is immortalised in Great Yarmouth with a Column on the South Denes, not looking out to sea but inland in the direction of the small town in North Norfolk where he was born, together of course with several Public Houses. The house system at the Grammar School was much simpler, North, South, West and Centre, why not East ? I have no idea, perhaps the fact of the location of the school one hundred yards from the beach and the North Sea had something to do with the choice, but no amount of questioning ever revealed the true answer. My mother had been asked if she would prefer all the above to be delivered which she had answered in the affirmative, primarily for the fact that Palmers would be coming to our door but which in the end proved to be one of necessity with the amount of items we would have had to carry home. Whether I liked it or not my life was about to change. The change however was still sometime away, and six weeks free from the strictures of school awaited our group of friends, six weeks in which to metaphorically spread our wings and not just in that manner, physically as well. In an earlier chapter I referred to a cottage on Church Plain which had been the home of the author Anna Sewell and that another author perhaps even more distinguished than Miss Sewell had connections to my home town, but at the time of this discovery on my part I could not have known how much that persons work would become an influence in my later love of literature. There were and still are several hotels on the Sea Front in Great Yarmouth but one in particular has a very special claim to literary fame, The Royal Hotel. It was here that Charles Dickens stayed while writing “David Copperfield”, his “autobiographical” novel, set partly in Great Yarmouth and in a nearby village Blundeston, with the village pub “The Plough” being especially featured. One of the main characters in the book was his nurse Peggoty. Her family lived in an upturned boat on the beach near the Jetty in Yarmouth, for some reason the Great is not in the book, and this caught my imagination and I walked on that section of the beach on and off all that summer trying to work out in my head the exact location of Peggoty’s boat/home. Since that day in 1948 I have seen many of the film and TV versions of this wonderful book but my favourite remains the 1937 Hollywood production starring Freddie Bartholomew in the title role and the great WC Fields as Mr Micawber, all thanks to my reading one summers day in 1948 the plaque on the front of the Royal Hotel which told all who read it that Charles Dickens had indeed stayed there while writing what I consider at this late stage of my life to be his magnum opus.
Chapter 43 - A Fond Farewell and a Cautious Look Ahead
With my initiation into Speedway now firmly under my belt and being the only one among our little group, who had so far achieved that goal, I could have been accused of one-upmanship, or showing off and although I probably wouldn’t have agreed, there is no doubt that I made the most of that visit in the following days. In the playground at school I was however more circumspect as my one visit cut little ice in comparison to the more seasoned supporters of our newly found topic of sporting conversation or those who made claims that could not be disputed and who were more senior in age and larger in size and strength. It was then that I fully understood the word discretion. I could however at least join in the conversations where the relative merits of our newly found hero’s were discussed and my preference for Bill Carruthers was roundly mocked by those who chose Billy Bales or Reg Morgan, who without argument took top spot. There is no doubt that during those discussions or arguments we were seeing them as they were on a Tuesday evening at the stadium, wearing leathers, with a neckerchief, which was pulled up over the lower part of the face during the race, helmet either red, blue, white or yellow and green and boots with a shield over the left foot, and riding a speedway motor cycle. They were of course every other day of the week like other men and that was brought home to me when I was out with my mother one day that summer. We had just come out of Woolworths at the top of Regent Road and waiting to cross, and standing beside us in rather untidy jacket and trousers with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and one arm around the shoulder of a quite ordinary young woman was Reg Morgan, the hero of so many in the senior playground. I recall whispering to my mother “Reg Morgan, that’s Reg Morgan” it cut no ice with my mother, I whispered an explanation of who he was, she in turn looked him up and down “It’s time he cleaned his shoes” and we crossed the road, hero worship can be cruel, but nevertheless I still wish I had my autograph album with me that day. My final term at the Priory School was coming to an end and odd as it may seem, and it was the first time I had experienced such a feeling, I began to get quite unhappy that I would not be coming back in the Autumn, something I didn’t experience when saying farewell to Wetley Rocks school although I left as top of the class, albeit a class of eleven, with a glowing report, something I was not destined to repeat in the rest of my life in the education system. I think however that the lack of regret on that occasion may have been due to knowing I was going back to my home town, whereas I knew that in September I was going on to a school that was not my choice but that of luck in passing an exam. There were however other things happening in my small world, events that were away from school and speedway and cricket, don’t forget that amid all the excitement of speedway the Ashes were still being contested at Lords and Headingly etc as well as the wall of the Wellesley Recreation Ground, into all this excitement came the ABC minors. Up to then my cinema going on a Saturday morning had been confined to the Royal Aquarium, it was the only cinema that offered programmes for children, simple and straightforward, a cartoon or comedic short, a film, mostly a western and a serial, you paid your sixpence and went or not as you were able. The ABC Minors was much more sophisticated, it was a club you could join, competitions with prizes,a song which was sung with gusto and of course the staple diet of Saturday morning cinemas a film and a serial but with a more varied offering including being introduced to Tarzan the Ape Man. If Robin Hood had captured our attention and made us copy our hero on the way home and during the following week so did Tarzan, picture it now a group of small boys looking for trees to swing from while practicing his yell, how we didn’t end up in A&E I will never know. It was at the Regent Theatre ABC Minors that I won a competition for naming all the actors who had played Tarzan in films up until then but Johnny Weismuller was the Tarzan we all tried to emulate, the others were mere copies. July 1948, end of summer term and I finally cut my ties with the Priory School, there were no fanfares, no assemblies, I can’t recall if Mr Thompson offered any words of wisdom or if any of those not moving on as we were to a different educational life bade fond farewells. I walked out of the gate for the last time knowing I would miss it and not sure of what I had in my future.
Chapter 42 – Part 2 – Still running down the clock
As I wrote in the previous chapter the last term at the Priory School was relatively easy and could have been boring but it wasn’t the case. April ran into May and speedway had finally arrived in Great Yarmouth but not for me. My father had made it clear that he had no intention of attending this new attraction and he certainly remained true to his word as far as the first season was concerned. This of course meant that as my mother showed an equal lack of interest the first meetings of the season were out of my reach, but t once again fortune smiled upon me. One of the brothers who lived in the flat above us had loaned me back copies of the Speedway Star, which I had read and re-read while waiting for the season to commence and now that it was here I was able to supplement this knowledge by reading reports of the new sporting attraction in the Yarmouth Mercury, the local weekly paper. He approached my mother with the offer of letting me accompany him to the next home meeting the following week. Those few days were vital in allowing my mother and father to discuss the offer and come to the decision that it was safe for me to go with him and so on the following Tuesday evening with enough money to pay my entrance fee plus bus fare and a programme and not forgetting to take a freshly sharpened pencil I was ready for the new adventure called speedway. My first surprise was after walking up to the Market place to catch the bus, was the bus queue, it seemed it was over a hundred yards long, something I had not seen before but this was just the first in an evening of surprises. I think we waited for two or three more buses before we were able to board and set off, luckily in those day’s buses were plentiful, regular and inexpensive. As I said an evening of surprises and it began with the bus journey. Until that May evening, one to remember, I had not been any further than the railway bridge at the very end of Northgate street and the start of Caister Road, about a mile at most and once past that bridge it was a different world. We were upstairs on the bus and the first thing that caught my attention was on the right hand side, the Corporation Bus Station where the buses were serviced and stored overnight, bringing back memories of the same in Cheddleton for the PMT company only much larger. Next was that the houses were much larger, mostly detached and with large front gardens and gates, this was a different world. As we got nearer to the stadium on the left side of the bus was The Bure Hotel which I would recognise now as being built in the Art Deco style of the 1930’s and as we progressed the air was permeated with the lovely smell of cooking coming from Smiths’ Crisp Factory, three more minutes and we were there, Great Yarmouth Stadium. If I was disappointed at all that evening it was with the description “stadium”. In my minds eye I think I had pictures of Wembley but this stadium was not on that scale. It’s primary function was greyhound racing and it had a small seated grandstand on the eastern side opposite “the pits” on the western side. The rest of the stadium had spectators standing and open to the elements, and Great Yarmouth received a fair share of the elements especially the East wind off the North Sea, but on that occasion it was sunny and mild, perfect for motorcycle racing, and I fell in love with Speedway on that early summer evening. I don’t remember the details of the result but I think we won and I had a new hero, Bill Carruthers. Even now I can’t remember why I made that choice, most people went for Reg Morgan, Billy Bales or Tip Mills but Bill went on to be one of the most successful riders especially when Bales was unable to ride due to being called up for National Service in the RAF, but speedway is a team sport and captain Sid Hipperson, Johnny White and brothers Ted and Bert Rawlinson made up the Yarmouth Bloaters first speedway team in spring and summer of 1948. If you are wondering, a Bloater is a smoked herring unique to my home town, you can get kippers from most fishing towns but bloaters only from Great Yarmouth and even now every time I hear the pulsating melody “Entry of the Gladiators” my mind goes back to speedway racing and my boyhood. What I hadn’t reckoned with was that all the people who came on the bus would be going back on the bus and if the queue in the Market place was long the one outside the stadium you could multiply by ten or more, so Arthur, I have just remembered his name, suggested we walk, and we did, being early summer it was still light so we set off back along Caister Road, onto Freemantle Road, over the bridge past the Racecourse, via Beattie Road and Nelson Road and eventually home, roads that until that evening I did not know existed, most of the journey discussing the evenings events. I can only think it was not much longer than waiting for a bus as when I arrived back my mother had a sandwich for me to eat with a cup of tea and one for Roy who then allowed me to regale my parents with thea evening’s events before I went to bed with my precious programme under my pillow.
Chapter 42 - Running down the Clock – Part One
Together with the rest of Junior 4 at the Priory School following the “excitement” of the Eleven Plus Exams, the Annual Fair and of course the promised arrival of Speedway we settled down to the summer term, which would be my last at the Priory School. If I had thought it would be in anyway significant, I would have been disappointed. It was just another term to be negotiated, both in and out of school. As far as Mr Thompson was concerned, it appeared he had done what was required for those of us who would be moving on and away from the school and he concentrated on the remainder who would be going up to Senior 1. Therefore, if not left to our own devices we were certainly given an easy ride.
Life of course was not confined to school and by now the evenings were much longer although double summertime no longer applied and even in Great Yarmouth the weather was warmer and Cricket was back on the menu. The promise of Speedway had for a while taken our eye off the ball as far as cricket was concerned, but the realisation that Speedway was to be watched and going to cost money and that cricket on Wellesley Road certainly did not, unless the ball was lost, which was very rare. These facts concentrated our minds and with the Ashes being contested between England and Australia play resumed for another season. I am not sure any of us really understood the history of the Ashes when we drew lots to see who would be England and who would be Australia, but the matches played on those early summer evenings on Wellesley Road were as hard fought as any at The Oval or Lords.
In previous chapters I recalled how my father and I were much closer due to football in general and our support for Yarmouth Town in particular. By the end of April the football season was over and my father did not have an interest in cricket as he did football, plus the fact that he worked long hours every day meant that I saw much less of him. The working week for my father was from 8am to 6pm Monday to Friday and on Saturday 8am to 1pm anything after that was paid overtime and they must have been busy because my father worked until at least 7pm Monday to Friday but Saturday must have been sacrosanct as he always finished on time. It was on one of these Saturday mornings that I decided to walk down to the factory to meet him. This was not unusual in itself as I would often meet him out of work on winter evenings but on summer evening’s I had other fish to fry, mostly cricket, and on Saturday mornings the cinema, so if it wasn’t a rare event it was not regular. On this day I stood in my usual spot at the factory gate when a friend of my father Mr Fish, who knew me from football walked by and stopped to talk, that in itself was unusual, recognition was normally a cursory nod but today he must have been feeling kind. It was after all Saturday, which was the background to what happened next. It was nearly 1pm and he said he would take me to my where my father worked in the dye house. To get there we had to go through one of the workrooms filled with looms and the ladies who worked on them.
The thing I remember most is the noise of the looms, ear splitting, something I had not experienced before in my short lifetime, I can still remember it but more than that I remember the ladies who worked the looms. Singing while they worked to music I could barely hear. They all smiled and waved to me as I followed Mr Fish, it was as if I was one of their family. It was a new and different world and one that I would read about later in my life, to learn that less than fifty years prior to that morning, boys and girls my age would have been working in such conditions and some that were even worse. However, on that Saturday my introduction to the world of work had not finished, following Mr Fish we left the weaving room and the noise back into the open air and quiet. We walked away from the noise of the Weaving Shed into the gloom of the dye house which in comparison was like a church, very quiet, high windows which looked as if they had not been cleaned for some time and several large vats which I could hear bubbling like the stew my mother would make on the cooker and the smell, the smell of dye and acid that I would always associate with my father, and there was my father. At first glance I wasn’t sure it was him, boiler suited, goggles, rubber gloves up to his elbows but it was his cap that gave him away, I would know that cap anywhere. Mr Fish told me to wait just inside the door and I did, I wasn’t going to do anything to spoil the occasion. I remember thinking how small my father looked against the size of the vats, he wasn’t a big man but in the dye house his lack of height was intensified, but as I stood just inside the door, for whatever reason and I cannot say why, I was very proud of him and remained so for the rest of his and my life. Thank you, Mr Fish.
While I waited just inside the door my father started to disrobe, off came the gloves, goggles and boiler suit and something I had not noticed until then, heavy rubber boots and there once more was the man I knew so well, shirt without a collar, bib and brace dungarees, shoes and jacket and of course his cap. We waited just inside the door until a loud siren started to wail, it was 1pm, the end of the working day. He told me to wait and I soon understood why, the empty yard that I had crossed earlier became a surging mass of people on foot and bicycle, leaving off time and the end of the working week. As soon as the yard was clear we set off for home, walking side-by-side, little or nothing was said, we did not need conversation, I was going home with my father and that was sufficient.
Chapter 41 - Something Old, Something New
Amid all the excitement that came with the announcement of Speedway it must be stated that life outside our little group in Great Yarmouth carried on as usual and to be fair it was the case that having digested the news of that particular prospect there was then a hiatus between the announcement and the first meeting and there was only so much discussion to be had from reading the Speedway Star’s that were doing the rounds. Much of that discussion was about the “stars” whose names were prominent in the magazines, Jack Parker and his brother Norman, England internationals both, riding respectively for Manchester Belle Vue and Wimbledon Dons were prominent but it was the names of overseas riders that really caught our imaginations. Lionel Van Praag, Aub Lawson, Max Grosskreutz, we had no idea how to even pronounce his name and the exotically named Ken Le Breton, who as well as his name which caught the imagination, he was called “The White Ghost” due to the colour of his leathers, so much more exciting than the names of our football and cricket hero’s, Len Hutton or F.R Brown, see what I mean.
It wasn’t just within our group that the approaching Speedway season was creating interest, at first it was the major topic in the school playground although unlike football or cricket it could not become a major attraction at playtime and lunch time, due I am certain to the fact that running round an imaginary track on imaginary speedway motor bikes recreating the imaginary roar of the imaginary engines soon lost attraction especially as the bigger boys always seemed to win, as a result cricket resumed it’s primacy.
For some of us this was our last term at The Priory School and of course I am not able now nor was I then able to say how those who would be leaving to take up a place at the Grammar School or the Technical School felt about their departure in the Autumn to pastures new. I was aware of my own feelings, especially as the term proceeded and the big step into the unknown got nearer. Those feelings were a mixture of excitement, fear and regret although not necessarily always in that order, although I think fear was probably uppermost most of the time. I was eleven the same age as my literary hero William Brown, who also eleven feared nobody or anything, oh how I wished I could be like Just William. Mixed in with that fear was an excitement which at times caused me to take part in activities that were frowned upon by the School playground authorities, something which until then I had steadfastly kept clear of and which caused our form teacher Mr E.C Thompson to call a small group of us into our classroom, before the afternoon session commenced, with a view to stamping out this behaviour especially those of us who were moving on to pastures new. It was an effective intervention, well at least as far as I was concerned and I learned a lesson from “Ernie” as he was affectionally known. You don’t have to shout to be heard. Thank you, “Ernie”. Now onto regret. I was leaving to go to another school, I had passed an exam that earned me that privilege, thus it was described. The Priory School however was in some senses my Alma Mater, my first real school. My class contained more pupils than the whole of my only other school Wetley Rocks Junior and I had made it mine. All my friends were in that class at that school, we walked there together and home again most days of the school year and when necessary dealt with the denizens of the Hospital School together. We played football for the school team, we learned to swim together under the baleful eye of Mr Blake and together we started to live and learn about the town in which we had been born and luckily, the eleven plus, however hard it tried failed to split us up, we went to the Grammar School together. I would never find the feeling I had for The Priory School at GYGS.
Chapter 40 - Something New on the Horizon
The news about the prospect of speedway coming to Great Yarmouth caused great excitement, primarily because we knew little or nothing about speedway, with football and cricket we were experts but not speedway. We did however find out by word of mouth, probably culled from one of the local newspapers or the national newspaper we had on a daily basis, by a parent or older family member but certainly not one of mine. This information was that there was a team in Norwich, Norwich Stars based at The Firs Stadium and that they were in Division Two of the National Speedway League and that was all. Not much help, but this should have been enough to be going on with until the more information was available, but we were eleven year old boys and it would have been then our imaginations took over, for as we had no concrete facts to offer each other which would impress, we would have made it up, usually without a challenge being offered, it was a case of ignorance being bliss. It was then I had my stroke of luck.
The family whose meal I had so rudely interrupted when we paid our first visit to 38 Wellesley Road were I think in the main forgiving of my trespass on that day, I stress in the main for although we lived cheek by jowl we rarely had any contact with them, to such an extent that I would have great difficulty providing a description of them. I do know that there two parents and two sons. Compared to us the sons, Arthur and Roy were grown up, sixteen and eighteen, perhaps older, I do recall however they were tall and athletic, mostly wore khaki shorts and had bicycles with drop handlebars which were resident in the hall when not in use, as they were in use virtually every day and as we children rarely ventured into that area of our part of the house they were not a problem, and as my mother had a habit of making clear to anyone who may have asked about the bikes in the hall, we were lucky to have a roof over our heads. One of the brothers and I can’t recall which one, wore spectacles, but I do remember if they were removed for any reason, perhaps to clean off rain then the indentation of the frames were visible on the bridge of the nose and towards the ears, funny the details that stick in the memory.
Now back to my stroke of luck, one of the brothers, must have engaged my mother in conversation and within it the news of Great Yarmouth having a speedway team and she in her turn revealed the excitement it was causing me and my friends. According to my mother the prospect of speedway was all my conversation contained, I would of course deny that particular claim, but mother knew best. It turned out that he was also interested in Speedway and he went upstairs and came down with several copies of the Speedway Star for me to read. My mother handed them on to me alongside the admonition that I was to take good care of them, as if I wouldn’t, if I had been given a gold bar I could not have been more happy, I had what we band of warriors wanted, information, which would be a priceless commodity in the discussions about who knew what about speedway in our group, especially if I was the only one with facts on the page in black and white.Until then the arguments in our group could be fierce but usually without factual evidence to back them up, and for a brief period I had such evidence to draw on but as the bartering system took hold and as the treasured magazines went around the group it all evened up. Up to then not a wheel had been turned by the team which would be named Yarmouth Bloaters, but we were hooked.
Chapter 39 - A time for calm and reflection
Easter was past, the fair had been and gone, the exciting news about the Speedway was being digested, the summer term, my final one at The Priory School for Boys had commenced, but otherwise life carried on in same steady fashion, revolving around friends and family and daily gaining more knowledge about the town I lived in which would provide the background to my life for the next twenty years.
In the previous chapter of this memoire I stressed the importance of family in my life in 1948, a factor that in retrospect I only fully appreciated at a much later stage, but I was only eleven and probably did not really understand the value of a loving and caring group of people around me. But part of that loving and caring was that they understood how an eleven year old boy lived his life and made all the allowances needed as well as the guidance to keep my feet on that straight and narrow path, it is only at this much later stage of my life that I can look back and thank them in absentia for their love and kindness and try to follow their example in my now grown up world.
I was lucky, I had two grandmothers, one grandfather and one, I suppose I can only refer to Fred as a step grandfather, four aunts and four uncles plus two cousins from either side of my parent’s marriage, who we would meet on an intermittent basis but very rarely all together, plus another four uncles and aunts and five cousins again divided between mother and father who either lived in other parts of the country or in Great Yarmouth who I had not met or did not meet until much later in my life.
I loved my maternal grandmother as only the first grandson can love and be loved and I have since been made aware that there was no doubt I was her favourite and that I allegedly took advantage of that situation, if it was the case I hope it wasn’t something I was aware of and thus took advantage of. The walk from Wellesley Road to my grandmothers took about twenty minutes or more, my father would have done it in 12-15 minutes but he would not have been subject to the diversions of a various nature that an eleven year old boy is prone to on the same journey, diversions that only they are attracted to and which they find it necessary to deal with immediately, irrespective of any other task they may have been already given or intention already being followed. Since our move to Wellesley Road my grandmother had gone from Rainbow Corner to another dwelling less than a three minute walk away from the house where we had landed on our return in 1946 and very near to my two aunts and unless my memory misleads me and you don’t easily forget what I will describe next, one of their houses or one of those next door was rumoured to be occupied by a poltergeist which threw furniture around when the occupants were out. In the family the narrative regarding this was legend, but I never saw any evidence as nothing would have persuaded me to venture over the door step even when and if the opportunity had been available, so I must have believed it and it was enough to persuade both aunts to look for other dwellings although I think my grandmother stayed on, obviously made of sterner stuff than her daughters. The reasons for my visits to my grandmother were twofold, the first was to run errands for her, looking back I am fairly sure she was quite able to do this for herself but I didn’t mind as she would always push a three penny piece into my hand when I completed the task and I could also be sure that one of the cakes from the bakers just might be mine and the second I am sure was company for her and I was happy to fill that gap. Fred of course was out at work, I have no idea of what that work was, but although I always thought of my grandmother as being an old lady I have worked out as I write that she was in 1948 sixty years of age, and she was precious to me and at a bare five feet in height, a little gem.
Let us return to the rest of the family. Although our meetings as individuals were regular I cannot recall many family gatherings where uncles, aunts and cousins were all together until my cousin Jean got married and by then I was sixteen, so as a family we could hardly be described as gregarious, but we were friendly when we did meet, I can’t recall any of them “falling out”.
One of the really interesting aspects of the family was the diverse employment they were engaged in, my Aunt Obe and my mother were in the hospitality trade, waitresses, Aunt Lily I cannot remember her job but my father’s sister Eva, and sister in law Gladys worked at the same factory as my father but in different departments but of their husbands I have much better recall.
Uncle Harry was a painter and decorator for Carter’s a local firm of builders, Uncle Jimmy a gardener for the local town corporation and his handiwork could be seen throughout the summer in all the municipal flower beds in the park and along the sea front and Uncle Fred worked on the railway at Yarmouth Vauxhall Station, there were at that time three railway stations, not bad for a small town especially if you liked trains. The remainder of my father’s family I knew nothing about as far as work was concerned, but I do know that I liked the thought of Harry’s job the best and for a short period at a later date when leaving full time education was imminent I thought it might suit me, but in the event it wasn’t to be the case, Harry made me aware of the nebulous nature of the work and I listened. My Uncle Percy had an entirely different job to the others he was a delivery driver for a wholesale tobacco and confectionery company, delivering cigarettes and tobacco, sweets and chocolate when available, rationing was still in place, from a van to business premises all over the town and was well known for his cheery manner, I liked my Uncle Percy, his humour was that of a school boy grown up and he always had a new trick to reveal when you met him. The last of my uncles was Uncle Alf who lived in Norwich and was the only “white collar worker” he being employed by the Inland Revenue and he eventually had a more significant role in my life than I could have anticipated. Up to then it had been the infrequent Sunday afternoon visits and my early venture as an entrepreneur involving my friends and his car and cigarette cards. What I did not know was that he and my Aunt Elsie had a baby boy
that died and were not able to have another. When as a boy from Cardiff he first joined the family, my mother took him under her not insubstantial wing, protecting him against the other three and as a result I became, by proxy, the son they did not have and received the love they would have given to him. I was a small part of a very happy family but of course at eleven years of age not aware of how lucky I was.
Chapter 38 - After the Lord Mayor’s Show
The excitement of the Eleven Plus results began to fade and life slowly got back to the routine that we were all used to, school, football and our new pleasure the market place. It is fascinating to look back at the time of writing this memoire to recall and compare not what we had but what we didn’t have, television, telephone mobile or landline, computer, internet and all its attendant functions, a family car, dining out, holidays, but of course working on the basis of what you have not had you will not miss we were happy with what was available to us and that our horizons were also widening and becoming brighter.
As we came to the end of the post winter term and the days became longer and even in Great Yarmouth warmer, so our attention turned away from football as our singular sport back to cricket, not however at school, where the football season had still to come to an end. The Priory had enjoyed a good season which would culminate in a “Cup Final” against, who else, North Denes and the dreaded Huggins twins. As well as the school team doing well, in my new position I was being noticed and selected to take part in a trial for the Town Boys at my age group, if that was not enough excitement it was to take place on a Saturday morning at the ground played on by Yarmouth Town, Wellesley Road, opposite my front door, near enough for my mother to come over and watch, she didn’t, and as it turned out I am pleased she did not, my father of course was working. It would be fitting if I could report that my audition was a success, regrettably that was not to be, at some stage in the game I was hit in the face at short range from a clearance by one of my own team which knocked me out and meant I took no further part in the game. I of course was disappointed but that was very soon forgotten when a week or two later we returned to the Wellesley to face North Denes. As far as we were concerned it was our equivalent of a visit to Wembley Stadium, a place we had only read about or seen on a cinema newsreel and once again I wish I could offer a fairy tale end to our season but that also was not to be, my last game in the yellow and black but more excitement was on the horizon.
As I indicated earlier our forays as a group were taking a wider and more cosmopolitan aspect, if that word could ever be used to describe our lives outside of school in Great Yarmouth, but that was how we saw ourselves, eleven years of age, beginning to exercise more independence in an ever widening if still local world, 1948 was the year when we found out about the town we lived in outside of school and the boundaries exercised by family life, and we enjoyed it. To use a cinematic reference, it was as if our lives had gone from black and white to technicolour.
Great Yarmouth is an old town with an historic background, some of which I have already described and that history was with us nearly every day. My school was a part of that history but I don’t think we really understood or cared or valued it. The first clue was in the name, The Priory School, originally solely for boys but by 1948 and my attending, also girls, although in separate sectors joined by the hall which was used by both. Located in the shadow of St Nicholas Church which had been bombed to a shell in the war, the church was the size of a cathedral which enabled it to claim to be the largest parish church in England and because of the location the school had a resident priest, Canon Baggot, who lived in a house adjacent to the school on the aptly named Church Plain and next door to a house which had been the home of Anna Sewell who wrote the classic novel for children, Black Beauty, incidentally not the only famous author with links to the town. The canon was a familiar figure to us, as he conducted the daily assemblies for both schools. For all that I cannot recall he ever spoke if we crossed his path.
As I have indicated earlier in this memoire the town was surrounded by a wall on three sides and part of that wall was in the senior boys playground with the remains of a tower at the northern end and would have extended through the churchyard to the Northgate ergo Northgate Street which led to a later development Newtown. In total the wall had two gates and nine towers but as best as I can recall none of this history was part of our school curriculum.
The end of Easter term was coming along fast and with it entertainment of a singular nature, the travelling fair, I stress singular as it was an annual event that took place for two days the weekend following Easter and it took over the area that we had just made our own, the Market Place, together with Brewery and Church Plain and now for the first time our little gang would be able to check out the delights on offer without parental interference, not that we had the necessary money that would enable us to enjoy the rides or sideshows, that only happened if you met parents on either of the two evenings and they paid for you but the atmosphere of a travelling fair was an experience I will never forget, and how we envied the young men who worked on the various entertainments, tall, tanned, smiling and carefree, show me a boy of that age and era who would not have exchanged all they had to be able enjoy that life, instead of which all we had to look forward to was the summer term and after that in my case the Grammar School. I know there was a permanent fairground at the far end of the promenade in the summer season but as far as I was concerned it didn’t carry the romance of the travelling fair.
The fair however was a two day wonder and by Monday morning packed up and off to their next rendez-vous leaving behind memories but in the end no regrets, there would always be next year and the loyalties of boys aged eleven are transitory and cricket was back on our menu. The visitors were the Australians and the final visit of the great Don Bradman. Great as he certainly was, he still didn’t hold the record for the highest number of runs in an innings in a Test match, this honour belonged to Len Hutton of Yorkshire and England, 364, it would be many years before it was bettered. Other than the statistics gleaned from my News Chronicle Treasury of Cricket all we knew about Hutton and what he looked like we obtained from our cigarette cards and by now they were ten years out of date, 1938 being the year he made that record innings, but even so we thought we not only knew him but looked like him as we shaped up with home made bat and tennis ball for the new season. We had our favourites from the England players, Hutton was high on that list for most when batting although I was always loyal to Bill Edrich and when I bowled, Alec Bedser of Surrey whereas with most of the others Johnny Wardle of Yorkshire was popular, not easy trying to spin a tennis ball on tarmac but they tried. Many years later as a married man I had the pleasure of meeting Mr Bedser at a charity event and I took the opportunity to pass on my boyhood fantasies, his pleasure was as evident as my hero worship and when we shook hands his engulfed mine in a 3-1 ratio.
With Easter out of the way and the football season all but over and Test Cricket not due until June our lives resumed a familiar pattern, squeezing as much as we could out of the precious school holidays. We did not have access to the various pleasures of the present day so we made our own fun, and it was fun, and although we must have done so I cannot recall any arguments with regard to what pursuit was on the menu day after day, but one thing I am sure of we rarely went onto the beach, it wasn’t that we were forbidden by parents or adult authority such as reigned over us on the two recreation grounds that were within walking distance from our homes. It doesn’t make sense even now having two recreation grounds and for the most part unable to play on them, but the beach had no such restrictions and from my front door was less than one hundred yards but for whatever reason it did not entice us, but what did stir up excitement was the news that Great Yarmouth was going to have a speedway team. This meant two things, the first was to find out about the sport and the second to impress your friends with your knowledge, and with no coverage on the wireless and no TV or internet that knowledge was hard to obtain, certainly not from my father, who said he knew nothing at all of this sport, so I was struggling, but I was not the only one in the gang with the problem, as exciting as the prospect was knowledge was scarce, but I was lucky and quite out of the blue I had a stroke of good fortune.
Chapter 37 - Some Pride and some Prejudice
The Sunday after receiving the letter confirming my achievement was a bit like the day after the Lord Mayors show. The initial excitement had calmed down and I remember very clearly that I started to get apprehensive about my educational future, even to concocting stories in my head that might be reasons for not taking the opportunity, but on each occasion that I broached the subject my mothers excitement was such that I was unable to reveal my concerns and she in her turn was looking ahead on my behalf with such pride that in the end I resigned myself to my new status, a Grammar School boy.
If my head had been in any clouds and it certainly wasn’t, it would have been brought back down to earth when I went back to school on Monday, I was not the only recipient of that important letter. The Priory School for boys had not been let down by it’s pupils Gordon Mitchell, Frank George, of my particular group of friends were among the “lucky” ones including my own particular nemesis David Sell, but on this occasion I was happy enough so that it didn’t rankle, my pals would be making this particular journey with me, thus one of my fears had been assuaged, I would not be a lone stranger in a foreign land. This must have been quite an unusual day for hardly were we all seated in J4 classroom than we were honoured with a visit from the Headmaster Mr Sillis. Our form teacher Mr Thompson read out our names and one by one we had to stand up, and for the first time I became aware of just how many of the class would be making this new and in my case frightening journey, probably a third, it had been a good year. Now it was the turn of Mr Sillis. It was very rare to see Mr Sillis except in his office and then it would be in the event of a major misdemeanour but here he was in our classroom and smiling or as near to a smile that he ever allowed us to see. He was proud of us, he said we had upheld the academic reputation of the Priory School, he went on to urge us to not let it down when we arrived at our new destination, “we were the oldest and most highly regarded Junior school in the town and our history must not be blemished in any way”. This seemed to be a very heavy burden to have placed on our young shoulders after all it was just a school, it was some time before I began to find a lasting place in my heart for my first proper school. He then left the classroom as quickly as he arrived and as it was not deemed necessary that I visit his office for the remainder of my time at that school our paths did not cross again.
If my parents and I daresay those of the other successful students had nothing but pride and pleasure in the results it was less so with a section of our classmates who we would leave behind. For a brief spell we became the butt of unpleasant remarks and in some cases, although not in mine, physical bullying. These activities which took place in the playground as well as outside the school gates must have been noticed by teachers on duty at those locations but were generally ignored, some sort of rite of passage which we had to endure and of course we did, we were growing up and living where we did, were aware that worse things happened at sea.
I was eleven years of age and metaphorically spreading my wings as well as the boundaries of experience. For me and my friends it was a period of discovery and this meant outside of Wellesley Road and immediate environs, one such was the Market Place. Our daily walk to school was such that we skirted the Market Place every day but rarely if ever turned left instead of right at the end of St Nicholas Road unless it had been snowing and we made snowball raids on the Hospital School, our deadly rivals, situated on the east side of the Market Place, but on a Saturday or school holidays it was open to us without let or hindrance and was new and exciting.
The question could be asked, what would a group of boys eleven years of age find exciting in a market place? Although up to now we had not been constrained in any way as far as where we could go to play, beach, waterways, marshes, churchyard, the Market Place was different and the answer was simple, it was new to us, away from the roads we up to then lived and played on, and in an adult environment without the restraints that came with being with adults, but now with their approval. We were growing up and it was exciting especially at the southern end of the market place and the chip stalls that stood there together with tripe and hot pea stalls, bliss, well bliss as long as you had some money to spend, a luxury we rarely enjoyed.
The market place in Great Yarmouth may not be unique but it was distinctive in a way I have not found anywhere else since the days I am writing about and I have travelled the UK far and wide. Chip stalls, not fish and chips, just chips and there were three, Kelly’s, Brewers and Thompsons and families had their own favourites, ours was Thompson’s, I think my mother knew them well and so when my turn came to buy my chips without supervision I naturally bought them from that particular stall and did so into young adult life and then not only because of the quality of their chips but that the daughter of the family was working there and I for a brief period was smitten with her, she however, did not reciprocate, but I still bought my chips there. Alongside the chip stalls, were a tripe stall and a hot pea stall, the three together enabled you to have a satisfying meal, later in life a treat that most people I knew indulged in, although aged eleven beyond my means. If I did have some money to spend it would most likely be a threepenny bit, a coin thicker than the average with eight sides, and unlike any other coin could be stood on edge. I didn’t receive pocket money from either of my parents but nor was I asked to do chores and therefore didn’t expect it but for one last summer I did receive my sixpence for helping Arnold and the pony deliver milk, which my mother immediately took and put into an insurance policy to save for my future, which at the time I was not entirely happy about but which later in life I came to bless. If I did receive a gift of money, usually from my grandmother and usually 3d it meant I could afford three pennorth of chips, a rare treat indeed. As for the insurance policy when my employment with Arnold came to an end my mother continued to pay it from her limited housekeeping until I left school and went to work in my own right and I resumed the payment from my small wage and that 6d per week helped clear my mortgage in later life.
I would like to try and paint a picture of the market place for you. On Wednesday and Saturday as well as the permanent chip, tripe, hot peas and greengrocery stalls at the southern end the whole space and it would be a good one hundred yards long and twenty five yards wide was filled with other stalls with a huge diversity of offerings and all of this surrounded on all sides by Pubs, Banks, Bakers, Grocers, Butchers, Ironmongers, Gentleman’s tailors, Ladies costumiers, a Bicycle shop, a Café and two Departmental stores and of course Woolworths, no town of any substance was without a Woolworths. You could and did all your family shopping in that area, and I loved the romance of it when I was eleven and amongst it with my friends.
There was however no getting away from my success in the scholarship story. A few weeks after the now infamous letter bearing the news came another, this one however was not greeted with the same joy, in fact it came as a shock to my parents and took some of the gilt off the original ginger bread. The letter contained the list of clothes and equipment and the prices, required before I could set foot on the hallowed ground and where it could be obtained, Palmers.
Palmers was one of the two departmental stores on the Market Place, the other being the Co-op, in addition there was a third, Platten’s in Broad Row and our shopping would usually be carried out with the latter two, the Co-op for the dividend, known affectionately as the divi and Platten’s for their stamps, a local forerunner to Green Shield Stamps. Palmers offered neither of these inducements and we did not shop there, it was well beyond our family budget and a building that I had up to then not set foot in, but Palmers was the only shop where the regulation clothing could be obtained.
Looking back, I am not sure how tight were the rules regarding the clothing etc, but my mother and father took it very seriously, thus one Saturday afternoon later in the year and nearer to the fateful day, the three of us Father, wearing his suit, Mother, and I crossed the threshold for the first time on to the hallowed ground that was Palmers. From the distance of time I know it was only a shop but then it was for me like entering St Pauls Cathedral, high vaulted ceilings and hushed tones and on arrival at the Gentleman’s Outfitting Department hearing my mother and father addressed as sir and madam and in my turn as young sir, adding felicitations with regard to my success, it was a different world. I was duly measured for height, chest and shoe size all against the precious list and appropriate garments and footwear agreed upon and we came to the point where payment was required. I know now with the benefit of time that the man who attended to us was a true gentleman, he asked if we would like it put on our account and when it was determined that we would be paying in cash he offered the option of delivery rather than having to wait while the purchases were wrapped, my mother accepted without argument, the thought of Palmers delivering to our door was an opportunity not be missed. It was only when I was in my twenties shortly after the death of my father that my mother revealed that we would not have had enough money, £17, to pay for the clothes on that list and that my aunts and my uncle Alf had all chipped in so I could have all the right clothes and equipment when I started my new school life. That seventeen pounds would have been two months wages for my father. She also revealed that the gentleman who attended to our requirements, had been at school with her at the same time, but had kept that strictly to himself on that auspicious occasion. A family is more than just a group of brothers and sisters and a good friend more than gold.
Chapter 36 - Pride without Prejudice
It was early in March when we received the news that the time had come for us to take the exam that could make a big difference in our young lives. Unless I was different to all my classmates this information neither excited me or concerned me, and I don’t recall Mr Thompson making changes to our classroom routine by force feeding us anything that would be of assistance on the day, as far as I can recall we were told the day before it was to be on the following day and we went home and life continued as on every other day, no mocks or revision or in my case a sleepless night. As I had no expectation of success I had no fear of failure. I have no specific memory of the test other than it was in our normal classroom or if there were personnel from outside of the Priory staff to ensure fair play or if I had any nerves, we sat the test and having completed it school routine went back to normal and with it our usual lives, there must have been discussion between us but if so it doesn’t ring a bell with me.
What was my normal life? It was changing, but you would expect that, at eleven years of age our world was expanding in different directions, football and cricket and conkers in season, cigarette cards, autographs and in my case stamp collecting was my staple diet but my parents were beginning to allow me more license in other areas, one such being having your haircut. I must remind anyone reading this memoire that fashion in clothes and shoes did not exist in our world in 1948, if denim or trainers had been invented they had not reached Great Yarmouth, we played in the same clothes as we went to school in, your jacket was removed to become goalposts or the wicket at the bowlers end, if I had a “Sunday Best” it escapes my memory. Let us get back to having a haircut. Until I reached this magical age one of my parents would accompany myself and my brother to have our hair cut, more often or not my father. The barber’s shop was on St Nicholas Road, the one we walked every day to school and almost opposite the gates of the factory where my father worked, why is this detail required, simple, in the days before the average family had a telephone there had to be some form of communication between parents and the outside world regarding the behaviour of their offspring and it worked as follows, in such a small community wherever you went your were under surveillance from family friends or work mates, and they would report on your behaviour as and when necessary, and one such was Percy Maidstone, my fathers barber of choice, therefore the barber of choice for myself and my brother. There were other barbers in the town, one or two of them calling themselves Gentlemen’s Hairdresser but I didn’t get to find out the difference between a barber and a Gentlemen’s Hairdresser until much later when I could afford to pay for my own haircut, while my father paid I followed his direction and until now it was literally his direction, he sat and watched Mr Maidstone cut the hair of myself and my brother, having issued his instructions “short, back and sides, not too much off the top” and Mr Maidstone followed those instructions with a will and woe betide if you moved your head in any other direction than the one he pulled it in, failure to do so fetched a slap around the head from Mr Maidstone and an admonition from my father to sit still, there usually would be a number of adult males waiting their turn and as you looked in the mirror you could see them all nodding in approval, justice was not only done but seen to be done. Ok I am eleven and deemed to be old enough and responsible enough to go on my own, only to find that my father had issued a lasting instruction that no deviation from the cut would be allowed and Mr Maidstone had my fathers approval to mete out rough justice as needed, and he followed it to the letter, but at least it was a first step away from parental control and an even bigger bonus I could go on my own without my grizzling younger brother.
My world outside my immediate group of friends was slowly expanding, my “errand running” for my mother was one example of this new freedom. Up to now the Market Place had only been somewhere I had been to with one or other or both of my parents or Grandmother, but now I was deemed sufficiently responsible to make such visits on my own and it opened up a new world for me., but more of that later.
Toward the end of March an envelope arrived that was to change my young life in a major fashion. Whether it was accident or design I am not sure, but it arrived on a Saturday addressed to my father and looked official in that his name and address was typed rather than handwritten, therefore we had to wait until he came home from work, yes, factories worked on a Saturday until 1pm, to reveal the contents. Against all expectations on my part, and I have no doubt those of my teacher, I had passed the eleven plus exam to enable me to attend the Great Yarmouth Grammar School commencing in September 1948. I recall being really surprised at the differing reactions from my parents, my father showed no emotion other than “Well done” whereas my mother started to cry, one of the only two times in my childhood that I saw tears in mother’s eyes until my beloved Grandmother died some years later. As for me, I am not sure that it was what I really wanted but I do remember wondering out loud whether any of my friends had received the same news and my mother by now partially recovered from the shock saying “it doesn’t matter, you have” and I had, I don’t think I fully understood the effect of this success inside my immediate family, and for that brief period whatever my reaction I was not aware of the effect it would have within the wider family, but one thing was certain I would be going to the Grammar School in September and my parents were pleased.
Chapter 35 – Springtime, extended family and broadening horizons
Earlier in this memoire I drew attention to Great Yarmouth in the winter and how the town to all intents and purposes switched off the lights and hibernated, but with my birthday now behind me and the nights gradually getting shorter and the days longer the fascination with the stamp album waned slightly, not completely but enough to draw attention to it here. Our school activities continued, learning, well hopefully learning, football, cigarette cards although they were now losing some of their shine and autographs, but life away from school was taking on a different aspect, I was eleven years old and looking for more independence away from the area around where we lived and exploring a wider world.
My mother had started to work on a more regular basis, not every day but enough that one of my aunts or maternal grand mother could be called upon occasionally to take care of us. If not me then certainly my brother and sister. My mother together with her sister Obe were in what we would now refer to as the Hospitality Business, they were waitresses, although she was the younger sister Obe was the senior and she had a team of part timers who could be called upon on a regular, irregular basis, one of which and her second in command was my mother. It is interesting to look back and realise that my extended family, or more to the point those that I was aware of, was in 1948 quite small and we rarely got together.
The exception to this was my grandmothers sister always referred to as Aunt Annie, in reality my great aunt, although I was not aware of such niceties and if I referred to her at all in our meeting, other than hello with my head down it was a rare event, it wasn’t that she was fierce although I suspect I thought she could be but that outside my coterie of friends I was quite shy in the company of adults. In hindsight I am not surprised at that, we rarely had social contact with adults other than our parents or teachers. Among all the memories that I can recall, conversations with my friends’ parents do not feature among them, it is more than likely that they were not aware of our names, and as I have indicated before we were rarely welcomed into their houses.
But back to Aunt Annie, she was my grandmothers elder sister, her married name Allen and like my grandmother she produced a large family, how many I don’t know, I can only recall meeting one of them, Cecil, and he was the black sheep of the family, a family that according to my grandmother, had, to paraphrase its’ “fair share of sheep of a darker hue”. Cecil, I was told, had enjoyed the occasional holiday at His Majesties pleasure, nothing serious, the odd bit of larceny, no details were ever divulged, but to me, an eleven year old boy he was fascinating, the more so when my mother said I was to keep clear of him and not believe his stories, what eleven year old could resist that challenge.
My mother need not have worried that I would be influenced by the charismatic Cecil, for he certainly fitted that description, the only time we would be likely to meet was occasionally on a Saturday around midday in The Fish Stall House, a very large pub on the Market Place, when after the completion of the Saturday market shop my mother, grandmother and occasionally my Aunt Lily would get together with Aunt Annie for a family meeting and if yours truly was there, usually the bag carrier, I would be included and get a lemonade and if lucky meet Cecil and listen to his stories, they were not for my benefit, I was only on the fringe, being confined to waiting just outside but within sight of my mother, and although the ladies knew that the tales were more than likely fiction they listened without interruption and when we were on our way home my mother would remind me not to believe a word he had said. The interesting thing for me to think about as I write was on some Saturdays he was accompanied by a young woman, I am not sure if it was always the same one, he obviously had something about him but looking back I can’t think what it might have been, other than some form of charm, for he was not tall and handsome like the stars you saw on the silver screen, he was just ordinary, with a little moustache, but he always had a smile for me and sometimes a second lemonade and I liked him.
However, back to my non-extended family. You may recall my mother was one of six children three of whom Albert, Herbert and Alfred lived away from Great Yarmouth, Albert in Birmingham, Alfred in Norwich and Herbert, a soldier and always on the move. That left my grandmother, mother, Obe and Lily, the latter two with one child each, both girls in our home town. On my father’s side were his parents, brothers Richard, George and Fred and sister Eva. We did occasionally meet my grandparents and Eva and her husband but the others I didn’t meet until I was very much older, but even then never altogether in fact I don’t think I knew they existed as my father rarely if ever talked about them even though he and Richard met their father for a drink every Sunday lunchtime, and because they were unknown to me I didn’t miss having an extended family, I was happy with my group of friends little knowing how things would change in the next months.
Chapter 36 - Pride without Prejudice
It was early in March when we received the news that the time had come for us to take the exam that could make a big difference in our young lives. Unless I was different to all my classmates this information neither excited me or concerned me, and I don’t recall Mr Thompson making changes to our classroom routine by force feeding us anything that would be of assistance on the day, as far as I can recall we were told the day before it was to be on the following day and we went home and life continued as on every other day, no mocks or revision or in my case a sleepless night. As I had no expectation of success I had no fear of failure. I have no specific memory of the test other than it was in our normal classroom or if there were personnel from outside of the Priory staff to ensure fair play or if I had any nerves, we sat the test and having completed it school routine went back to normal and with it our usual lives, there must have been discussion between us but if so it doesn’t ring a bell with me.
What was my normal life? It was changing, but you would expect that, at eleven years of age our world was expanding in different directions, football and cricket and conkers in season, cigarette cards, autographs and in my case stamp collecting was my staple diet but my parents were beginning to allow me more license in other areas, one such being having your haircut. I must remind anyone reading this memoire that fashion in clothes and shoes did not exist in our world in 1948, if denim or trainers had been invented they had not reached Great Yarmouth, we played in the same clothes as we went to school in, your jacket was removed to become goalposts or the wicket at the bowlers end, if I had a “Sunday Best” it escapes my memory. Let us get back to having a haircut. Until I reached this magical age one of my parents would accompany myself and my brother to have our hair cut, more often or not my father. The barber’s shop was on St Nicholas Road, the one we walked every day to school and almost opposite the gates of the factory where my father worked, why is this detail required, simple, in the days before the average family had a telephone there had to be some form of communication between parents and the outside world regarding the behaviour of their offspring and it worked as follows, in such a small community wherever you went your were under surveillance from family friends or work mates, and they would report on your behaviour as and when necessary, and one such was Percy Maidstone, my fathers barber of choice, therefore the barber of choice for myself and my brother. There were other barbers in the town, one or two of them calling themselves Gentlemen’s Hairdresser but I didn’t get to find out the difference between a barber and a Gentlemen’s Hairdresser until much later when I could afford to pay for my own haircut, while my father paid I followed his direction and until now it was literally his direction, he sat and watched Mr Maidstone cut the hair of myself and my brother, having issued his instructions “short, back and sides, not too much off the top” and Mr Maidstone followed those instructions with a will and woe betide if you moved your head in any other direction than the one he pulled it in, failure to do so fetched a slap around the head from Mr Maidstone and an admonition from my father to sit still, there usually would be a number of adult males waiting their turn and as you looked in the mirror you could see them all nodding in approval, justice was not only done but seen to be done. Ok I am eleven and deemed to be old enough and responsible enough to go on my own, only to find that my father had issued a lasting instruction that no deviation from the cut would be allowed and Mr Maidstone had my fathers approval to mete out rough justice as needed, and he followed it to the letter, but at least it was a first step away from parental control and an even bigger bonus I could go on my own without my grizzling younger brother.
My world outside my immediate group of friends was slowly expanding, my “errand running” for my mother was one example of this new freedom. Up to now the Market Place had only been somewhere I had been to with one or other or both of my parents or Grandmother, but now I was deemed sufficiently responsible to make such visits on my own and it opened up a new world for me., but more of that later.
Toward the end of March an envelope arrived that was to change my young life in a major fashion. Whether it was accident or design I am not sure, but it arrived on a Saturday addressed to my father and looked official in that his name and address was typed rather than handwritten, therefore we had to wait until he came home from work, yes, factories worked on a Saturday until 1pm, to reveal the contents. Against all expectations on my part, and I have no doubt those of my teacher, I had passed the eleven plus exam to enable me to attend the Great Yarmouth Grammar School commencing in September 1948. I recall being really surprised at the differing reactions from my parents, my father showed no emotion other than “Well done” whereas my mother started to cry, one of the only two times in my childhood that I saw tears in mother’s eyes until my beloved Grandmother died some years later. As for me, I am not sure that it was what I really wanted but I do remember wondering out loud whether any of my friends had received the same news and my mother by now partially recovered from the shock saying “it doesn’t matter, you have” and I had, I don’t think I fully understood the effect of this success inside my immediate family, and for that brief period whatever my reaction I was not aware of the effect it would have within the wider family, but one thing was certain I would be going to the Grammar School in September and my parents were pleased.
Chapter 35 - Springtime. Extended family and broadening horizons
Earlier in this memoire I drew attention to Great Yarmouth in the winter and how the town to all intents and purposes switched off the lights and hibernated, but with my birthday now behind me and the nights gradually getting shorter and the days longer the fascination with the stamp album waned slightly, not completely but enough to draw attention to it here. Our school activities continued, learning, well hopefully learning, football, cigarette cards although they were now losing some of their shine and autographs, but life away from school was taking on a different aspect, I was eleven years old and looking for more independence away from the area around where we lived and exploring a wider world.
My mother had started to work on a more regular basis, not every day but enough that one of my aunts or maternal grand mother could be called upon occasionally to take care of us. If not me then certainly my brother and sister. My mother together with her sister Obe were in what we would now refer to as the Hospitality Business, they were waitresses, although she was the younger sister Obe was the senior and she had a team of part timers who could be called upon on a regular, irregular basis, one of which and her second in command was my mother. It is interesting to look back and realise that my extended family, or more to the point those that I was aware of, was in 1948 quite small and we rarely got together.
The exception to this was my grandmothers sister always referred to as Aunt Annie, in reality my great aunt, although I was not aware of such niceties and if I referred to her at all in our meeting, other than hello with my head down it was a rare event, it wasn’t that she was fierce although I suspect I thought she could be but that outside my coterie of friends I was quite shy in the company of adults. In hindsight I am not surprised at that, we rarely had social contact with adults other than our parents or teachers. Among all the memories that I can recall, conversations with my friends’ parents do not feature among them, it is more than likely that they were not aware of our names, and as I have indicated before we were rarely welcomed into their houses.
But back to Aunt Annie, she was my grandmothers elder sister, her married name Allen and like my grandmother she produced a large family, how many I don’t know, I can only recall meeting one of them, Cecil, and he was the black sheep of the family, a family that according to my grandmother, had, to paraphrase its’ “fair share of sheep of a darker hue”. Cecil, I was told, had enjoyed the occasional holiday at His Majesties pleasure, nothing serious, the odd bit of larceny, no details were ever divulged, but to me, an eleven year old boy he was fascinating, the more so when my mother said I was to keep clear of him and not believe his stories, what eleven year old could resist that challenge.
My mother need not have worried that I would be influenced by the charismatic Cecil, for he certainly fitted that description, the only time we would be likely to meet was occasionally on a Saturday around midday in The Fish Stall House, a very large pub on the Market Place, when after the completion of the Saturday market shop my mother, grandmother and occasionally my Aunt Lily would get together with Aunt Annie for a family meeting and if yours truly was there, usually the bag carrier, I would be included and get a lemonade and if lucky meet Cecil and listen to his stories, they were not for my benefit, I was only on the fringe, being confined to waiting just outside but within sight of my mother, and although the ladies knew that the tales were more than likely fiction they listened without interruption and when we were on our way home my mother would remind me not to believe a word he had said. The interesting thing for me to think about as I write was on some Saturdays he was accompanied by a young woman, I am not sure if it was always the same one, he obviously had something about him but looking back I can’t think what it might have been, other than some form of charm, for he was not tall and handsome like the stars you saw on the silver screen, he was just ordinary, with a little moustache, but he always had a smile for me and sometimes a second lemonade and I liked him.
However, back to my non-extended family. You may recall my mother was one of six children three of whom Albert, Herbert and Alfred lived away from Great Yarmouth, Albert in Birmingham, Alfred in Norwich and Herbert, a soldier and always on the move. That left my grandmother, mother, Obe and Lily, the latter two with one child each, both girls in our home town. On my father’s side were his parents, brothers Richard, George and Fred and sister Eva. We did occasionally meet my grandparents and Eva and her husband but the others I didn’t meet until I was very much older, but even then never altogether in fact I don’t think I knew they existed as my father rarely if ever talked about them even though he and Richard met their father for a drink every Sunday lunchtime, and because they were unknown to me I didn’t miss having an extended family, I was happy with my group of friends little knowing how things would change in the next months.
Chapter 34 - Statistics, surprises and a new found hero
2 shillings and 6 pence was a lot of money to try and spend in one go, especially if you were eleven years of age in post war Great Yarmouth. Austerity was still prevalent, the war years had taken a toll on the economy to such an extent that it would be another five years before it would start to pick up again, as a result shops had more in necessities rather than luxuries, especially if father’s wages just about covered everyday expenses and luxuries were out of the question, but we were not aware of such differences in opportunity, we had what we were given and made the most of what we had. One example of this were the British Restaurants started during the war to provide lunch at a reasonable price for the average member of the public and which myself and my siblings took advantage of until they stopped in 1947, not every day but probably on days when my mother was at work, on other days we would go to my Grandmothers on Rainbow Corner but mostly we ate at home, less of a drain on the housekeeping.
However back to the remains of my 2/6d, as you will be aware from previous writing, myself and my friends were in season very keen on playing cricket and reading about it, that was the only way we could keep up with the game outside of Wellesley Road. 1947 had been a year to remember warm and sunny and the County Championship dominated by Middlesex and two batsmen in particular, Bill Edrich and Denis Compton, newspapers called them the “Middlesex Twins” but they were the most unlikely twins, Compton, tall, elegant, on and off the field and handsome, he featured in adverts for Brylcreem. a hair dressing for men. Edrich on the other hand was short, pugnacious, from yeoman stock and from Norfolk our home county and one of three brothers and one cousin who all played County Cricket. In the pre-war period the Edrich family were able to field a team of eleven to play in Norfolk cricket. As well as playing for Middlesex and England, Bill Edrich was a pilot in the RAF during the war, Wing Commander in Bomber Command, he was the stuff from which hero’s were made and when I picked up the bat to play, I was always Bill Edrich.
I still hadn’t managed to spend all of the 2/6d but a national newspaper came to my aid, the News Chronicle,now long gone. Each year they published a book with all the previous seasons statistics and prepared the cricket loving public for the upcoming season and in 1948 we would be welcoming Australia and that meant Ray Lindwall, Keith Miller and of course the great Don Bradman, they were due to arrive in April and this was still only January, by the time they put bat to ball for the first time we knew all there was to know about them and the players who would probably be facing them on behalf of the home country, no TV or internet, all from a book, and we, of course, were confident about who would come out on top.
But the cricket season was in the summer, still some time away, and by the time my birthday came around we had been back in school for three weeks and without our knowing it working hard in preparation for something that one way or another could be decisive in your school life and possibly the rest of your life. When I say without being aware, it was due to the fact that I cannot recall it being thrust down our throats that this term was make or break, or if it had been it had gone over my head, that was quite likely, but at home I cannot recall it being the centre of attention. And what was this event, it was the eleven plus exams which took place toward the middle of the term. Success in this exam offered the opportunity to take your secondary education at the Great Yarmouth Grammar School for Boys, the alternative was failing and continuing your education at The Priory Senior School for Boys but if the thought of failure did worry me I cannot remember it, but as it turned out I would not need to worry.
Chapter 33 - New Interests and Locations
January 24th 1948 the eleventh anniversary of my arrival in the world, a world that had seen many changes in that time and in turn had seen changes in my own life and without me being aware of it would see more before the year came to a conclusion.
Anyone who has been reading this memoir will by now be aware that other than references in the early part of my recollections to Joan Colclough, Barbara Bunting and Mildred Capewell in Cheddleton girls had not played any part in my social life and 1948 was to prove to be the same, I have been wracking my brain to recall someone of the feminine gender I have missed but without success. There is my sister Christine, but she was at that point only just starting her school career and I probably ignored her unless my mother insisted on me being involved with her and my brother and that would have been under sufferance.
Did I have a birthday party? The answer is again a negative. As I write the facilities that exist for children’s parties are many and varied, bowling alley, paint balling, go-karting, swimming parties, there was a swimming pool but not for parties, and as it was open air certainly not in January in Great Yarmouth. They were not available even if they had been affordable, but I did get a present that would start me on a hobby that I pursued into adult life, a stamp album and I still have that original album on a shelf in my office, and this memoir has given me the opportunity to look at it all over again.
Together with the album was a packet of stamps to get me started, I can’t recall how many stamps there were in that first packet but there was a sufficient number and varied enough to keep me busy. Can you imagine receiving such a present today and that it gave an eleven old boy so much enjoyment and knowledge. Until I opened that album and the packet of stamps’ I was unaware of the length and breadth of the British Empire or that Sverige on a stamp meant it came from Sweden or that Magyar was Hungary, and where those countries were. As well as the I knowledge I gained I soon became aware of how dull UK stamps were compared to other countries, certainly France with stamps showing famous buildings whereas our stamps were almost all the Kings head or if you were lucky Queen Victoria, I didn’t have that sort of luck. It was some years before the Post Office started to produce special issue collections. Alongside the album I also received the ultimate present, a Postal Order to the value of 2/6d, I can’t give you the equivalent value as I write this but I do know that back in 1948 that amount of money as a gift could only be dreamt about and it was all mine and having changed it into hard currency I was escorted to Middleton’s stationers in Broad Row and with some of the precious money bought an atlas to enable me locate the countries from which my stamps originated. I wasn’t aware that the purchase would generate a lifelong interest in maps and how useful they can be. Although I can’t claim to still have that original atlas I do have two very detailed versions showing the world, together with road maps of the UK and France, I know GPS is the modern way but I still like to have a map handy. So here I was with a new interest, stamp collecting, all well and good but one packet of stamps was not really enough to satisfy me after they had been safely put into the album, what next, where were you able to buy more of these precious items? The answer? Woolworths. Woolworths was the answer to everything in 1948 including stamps and so with some of the remains of the 2/6d I purchased the second packet of stamps, 3d, I was hooked.
Chapter 32 - A New Era – Part 2
Our second Christmas came and went on Wellesley Road and the New Year 1948 arrived, like 1947 the weather was cold, when wasn’t it in Great Yarmouth in the winter, but not with the snowfall of twelve months earlier, but once in our home it was always warm. I had no idea as the old year went out and the new year came in how different the next twelve months would be.
At first life carried on as usual, school, football both playing and watching, listening to the wireless, going to the pictures and reading. When I say listening to the wireless it was really listening to Dick Barton, well certainly on weekdays, Sunday was entirely different, my father was present and he controlled the choice and nobody argued with it. The offering on Sunday was very different from that of the weekday. The equivalent to Radio 2 was the Light Programme but where the former is 24 hrs a day and virtually all music, in 1948 it commenced at 8am in the morning until 11pm in the evening with a mix of programming, the majority of which held no interest to me but equally nor did the entertainment on offer on the other six days of the week apart from 5pm on Saturday and Sports Report. The exception on Sunday was at midday, Two Way Family Favourites, a music request programme between London and Cologne in what was then known as West Germany, from families in the UK and members of our Armed Forces in Germany. This was the most popular show on Sunday and even at my age I could understand why, the more so as the presenters Jean Metcalfe in London and Cliff Michelmore in Germany eventually met and married, a real-life fairy story. Many years later I had the pleasure of meeting Michelmore, at that time hosting a popular early evening TV programme and was amazed at how tall he was, I was six feet and he towered above me.
Since beginning this walk down memory lane I was lucky enough to find two school reports from my time at The Priory School, one from 1946 and the other from 1947, neither indicating anything to be proud of, I was an average student but my strengths were in English, reading, spelling and composition. Outside of school I read voraciously and still do, it is just that the content has altered, then it was comics and books, my hero was William Brown, Richmal Crompton’s eleven year old anti-hero, how I envied his life and that of his friends Ginger, Henry and Douglas, close behind William came Biggles, written by Capt. W.E. Johns. No anti-hero, Wing Commander Bigglesworth also had loyal acolytes, Algy and Ginger, who together fought their way through World War’s 1 and 2 but soon there was going to be reading of a different content coming into my life.
Chapter 31 - A New Era
As the autumn and winter of 1947 worked their way to an end with our second Christmas at Wellesley Road and a New Year approaching, there was no reason why I should have been aware of the changes both social and political taking place in Great Yarmouth as well as the country at large and how if at all I could or would be affected by them.
Let us go back to 1945 and the end of World War 2, I have already chronicled my memory of hearing the news and the subsequent celebratory parties and where I was on both occasions, but one event had passed me by, but was now brought into focus within my family life although I didn’t understand it then, but I recognise now would affect me in the future. The 1945 General Election, which returned by a landslide a Labour Government together with similar results in local government, Great Yarmouth for the first time had a Labour MP and a Labour Council.
I of course had no recognition of the significance of these events but it was in 1948, with their feet firmly under the table and the Nationalisation Bills were being passed in Parliament that I became vaguely aware of the fact that my parents were not supporters of these actions, or the people enacting them, Coal Mines, Railways, Electricity and Gas did not as far as I can recall give my father in particular any pain but it was for some reason which even in later life I could not fathom, the formation of the National Health Service on July 5th 1948, that was the proverbial straw.
The fact that it would be free was the major cause, I can remember his promise never to visit a doctor again, and he was lucky for as far as I can remember until the day he died in hospital in 1964 following two heart attacks in quick succession, he didn’t need to go back on that promise, the family however did, yours truly especially with recurring bouts of tonsillitis throughout my childhood and life.
His concern about it being free was that everybody would use it and I can recall his naming people who he knew who would now be able to visit their doctor without worry and that they were not worthy of such a bonus, “ They will be queuing up at the door every day to get something for nothing” Of course being ten years of age it went over my head, as did my mothers antipathy to local Labour councillors, who were in her opinion “getting above their station”, a familiar litany she repeated to me when later in life I looked to buy my first marital home rather that put my name on the list for a council house. Education was never mentioned in our house other than the reading of school reports so whether or not my parents were against the 1947 Education Act which enabled all students to have the chance to go on to secondary education without having to pay, who knows, if that was the case I wasn’t aware of it.
Chapter 30 – It isn’t all bright lights and candy floss
What do you do in a seaside holiday resort in the winter, when the strings of lights on the promenade are turned off, the Ice Cream, Candy Floss and Shellfish Stalls are closed down, the Pleasure Beach Fun Fair is no longer welcoming any customers and it is much too cold to go on the beach? This not a question for those whose living depended on a good summer season alone. The seaside in the winter is not a cheerful place. Early November however a light shone in our darkness, Bonfire Night. Fireworks were not readily available throughout the year but leading up to November they appeared as if by magic in Mr Spurgeon’s newspaper shop and when we went in to buy our weekly comic, we could and did cast envious eyes in their direction, but as we had no money it was wishful thinking. My father, was able to withstand the temptation that Mr Spurgeon was offering in the firework department, but on fifth of November, he was home from work on time, to eat his tea, it was his dinner, but we knew it as tea, you had your dinner at midday, don’t ask me to explain lunch, that was something you had as a sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper.
Having eaten we would all put on the warmest clothes we possessed and set off to the seafront, to join the crowds of people there to look at the bonfires lighting up the beach from the Britannia Pier to the Wellington Pier, each with a mini firework display. In the course of the evening I would meet most of my friends, like me shackled to family, but it was just one night in the year and bearable.
As I have stressed before it was still only two years since the end of the war and the country now that the euphoria of being the victors had subsided needed something to cheer it up and on November 20thit received the boost required. The Wedding of Princess Elizabeth to Prince Phillip.
I must remind you this was before television ruled leave alone the internet and from my memory on that day we were of course, at school. In order that as many people as possible could enjoy the day the proceedings were filmed and as quickly as possible shown across the country and very soon after the event the school was lined up and marched down to The Royal Aquarium, oh how that cinema played an important part in my early life, to enjoy the Royal Wedding. This was the way we knew about our Royal Family. Every day events could be seen on cinema newsreels but major events especially trips abroad were turned into films and earlier in the year we had again been marched across town on that occasion for the visit of the King and Queen to South Africa, where they seemed to be forever shaking hands with all and sundry with exception of the one person in Africa we boys knew and loved, Tarzan.
Chapter 29 – A Point to Pause in my Story
For those of you who may read this story I think it is necessary to remind you that it is now 1947 two years since the end of a war that although our country had been on the winning side it didn’t mean that all was sweetness and light, rationing of food especially nonessential food such as sweets and chocolate was still doled out in small portions and then only if you had the money to pay for it, there was at the same time what was called the “Black Market” where you could and again only if you were able to afford it, buy all the things that rationing restricted. It was with such an issue that I recognised a side of my father that would have always been there but not had been revealed until then. He was vehement in his criticism of what he called Spivs and if that was the only to be able to get certain items, through the black market, then we would go without, he would only buy what he could afford, nothing on the “never never” or tick, but from my memory it didn’t cause any arguments in the family, my father was a small man but not a man to be trifled with and his word was law when we were young. My father never owned his own house, thus never had a mortgage, always paid the rent on time, never got into debt, but of course in 1947 I was not aware of all these facts, my mother supplied them after he died in 1964 and she and I were tidying up his affairs. The sum total of his life I found was alongside his work clothes, two suits one bought in 1938 and the other 1962 for my sister’s wedding and in the breast pocket of one of those suits a pay packet containing £27. This had an enormous effect on me, in that I determined that I would not end up in the same circumstances. One other thing I carried from my father was his advice given when I was starting out on adult life it went as follows and I suspect in modern times it would not be well received by some feminists, it was as follows “You may not meet many real ladies in your life, but always treat all the women you meet as if they were” it was good advice.
Chapter 28 – Changes in my Life
However, it was not all gloom in 1947. If we were not required to carry out some chores or must attend Sunday School, then we would meet up, but our activity would be confined to our immediate vicinity, but as it was Sunday whatever activity we took part in it was required that it would observe the holy day and our activities were less vigorous than a weekday. Therefore football or cricket, dependant on season was out of the question, failure to follow these strictures would warrant interference from a parent, more likely a father, or a neighbour, in the latter case they rarely confronted us but if they knew where one of us lived would take their complaint directly to your house and it was nearly always our house, and that would bring on an appearance from father, more heavy handed for having to prove something to a neighbour. As if school five days a week was not onerous enough, the threat of Sunday School hung over us like a dark cloud. Of course when you are ten years of age there are many things going on in your life that you are not directly responsible for, one of them being an introduction to religious teaching, which after the requirement to attend “proper school” from Monday to Friday, the threat of a further period on confinement, especially one without any prospect of football, cricket, conkers or cigarettes but opening our hearts and mind to stories of Jesus was not something we looked forward to. To make it worse in my case I was the only one whose mother felt I needed something more spiritual in my life, and to say the least I was not happy at all, to cut a long story short, I was taken or sent to at least five different Sunday Schools in order to bring the message of Jesus into my life, and one after another they gave up the task and eventually my mother gave up as well, my father didn’t take part in this exercise, I suspect he took the view that I was already beyond redemption.
It was also on a Sunday that we would get a visit from my mother’s step brother, my Uncle Alf. Earlier in this story you may recall that my maternal grandmother was married three times and on the second occasion she married a ship’s captain who was welsh and came from Cardiff bringing with him his son and my mother’s step brother Alfred.
You may recall that Alf brought with him a welsh accent so thick it was assumed he was from a foreign country and he was nicknamed “Dutchy”, this from boys and girls outside the family, but as my mother told me much later he was not made welcome inside the family by his “new” brothers and sisters and my mother to her eternal credit stood up for him, taking him under her wing and offering him protection and love, as a result when reached manhood his main contact with the family was my mother, I don’t think he ever forgave the others, to such an extent that in recent conversation with one of my cousins Margot, her father being my Uncle Herbert, had not met him at all or remember his name being mentioned.
Like all my mother’s brothers Uncle Alf had served in the armed forces during the war, in his case the army and on his return to “Civvy Street” started a new career with the Inland Revenue and with his wife Aunt Elsie, working in the office of an upmarket manufacturer of ladies shoes and no children to bring up, he was able to afford a car, a Ford Anglia and on some Sunday afternoons they would drive from Norwich to Wellesley Road to visit and take tea with us. With so few cars on the roads in those days one parked outside your house caused notice to be taken by all and sundry especially my friends and some others who were not regarded as such. As a result, my popularity on those days soared, to such an extent that the front of 38 Wellesley Road was a hive of activity, an opportunity that I couldn’t resist taking advantage of. As most of those who gathered there to look at the car were of a similar age to myself and like me rarely if ever saw or sat inside a car the situation presented an opportunity, one that I took advantage of. Such was the innocence of those days my uncle rarely locked the car doors, the question was how could I benefit from his kindness, I quickly worked something out, standing on the running board one cigarette card, of my choice, not one someone and everyone had two or three of, in the back seat two and for the privilege of the front seat and hands on the steering wheel three cards or a sweet, as the visits were unannounced beforehand I had to make do with what was on hand on the day and continued until my father found out and my uncle was asked to lock the car and I was given a severe talking to, but that was a few visits under my belt away. I have a suspicion that despite bringing my little game to an end both my father and uncle were quite impressed with my initiative.
As 1947 moved into the autumn we still played outside but cricket was taking a back seat and football came back into being our game of choice, at school in the playground or in an organised manner one day a week plus Saturday morning if you made the school team, which I did and on Wellesley Road under the street lights on most evenings, we were not given homework. These games played were with a tennis ball against the wall of the Wellesley Recreation ground, the same wall that served us well for cricket. But with football getting regular exposure on the wireless and in the newspapers we were becoming more familiar with current players rather than those from the 1930’s on our cigarette cards. One of these was Tommy Lawton who played for Everton and England, a centre forward, or in modern parlance a striker, and was at the top of his game in the First Division, now it would be the Premier League. In 1947 Lawton was transferred from Everton in the First Division to Notts County a team in the Third Division South, the equivalent of Division One in the modern league set-up. Why did this make such an impact with a group of small boys playing football with a tennis ball under street lights in Great Yarmouth? Autographs!
The lure of cigarette cards was fading, those we treasured were all at least nine to ten years of age and the modern ones not nearly as good so something had to take their place. The craze that took their place was Autographs and living in a seaside town that in the summer especially had shown featuring stars from the Radio shows there were plenty of opportunities to pursue the new hobby, we all managed to get an autograph book and fierce competition ensued. Let us get back to Tommy Lawton and Notts County, his move meant that his team would come up against Norwich City, in the same league and a bare 22 miles away. Norwich and 22 miles could have been as far away as the moon as far as we were concerned, there was no chance we could get on a train to Norwich or afford the price of entry to see the great man play and then wait outside the ground in the hope of catching sight of him to ask him to sign your book.
But if you believe in miracles then sometimes they happen. The match was to be played in Norwich but for whatever reason on the Friday night before the game the Notts County team were staying at The Star Hotel in Great Yarmouth and another miracle, my friend Peter Cuttings mother worked there as a chamber maid and she agreed after much badgering to take our two books with her to try and persuade the players to add their signatures to our collection, try to imagine how we felt when she returned home on Saturday afternoon when the team had left the hotel for Norwich and the game, informing us that she had been unable to help with our request and then to produce the books from her shopping bag with the precious contents of nearly all the teams signatures but especially Lawton and Jackie Sewell also an England international, on that weekend we knew what heaven was like.
One of the interesting lessons in life I learned then although I really only understood later, was the lower down the pecking order the signature you were after the easier it was to get your quarry to oblige, as a result the players in our local teams Yarmouth and Gorleston were only too pleased to sign as were Neville Bishop and members of his showband who were the resident summer entertainment at The Marina, the open air theatre on the sea front. The chance that they would ever achieve national or international recognition was unlikely but throughout the summer season in Great Yarmouth they did two shows a day, afternoon and evening, to full houses of satisfied customers and between the two shows they would relax and leave the theatre for whatever reason and we were ready to pounce. It was much more difficult with the other theatres the Regal where the show changed each week was evenings only and those on the piers the same and you had to try to catch them before the show as there was no chance of being outside the stage door after the evening show at ten years of age, and we had nobody on the inside to help as happened with Tommy Lawton.
However, notwithstanding these difficulties, we persevered and managed one way or another over the summer to fill several pages of our books. The quality of the writing varied and some of the signatures were impossible to discern, so if you were sure of the writers name as soon as you could you wrote their name in brackets underneath, some you didn’t even know, they just came out of the stage door and were happy to sign your book, we didn’t mind, it was a signature and they were in show business or football.
Autumn was now firmly established with the days shorter and the nights longer and I can’t recall that we received home work to complete so the evenings after tea and Dick Barton were our own and we enjoyed “floodlit football”. It didn’t matter how cold and dark it was, we were out on Wellesley Road playing football under the street lights until we got the call and we reluctantly returned to the bosoms of our respective families, we were skinny but we were fit and when the opportunity came we ate like horses, obesity wasn’t a word you heard much of in 1947, in children or adults. As Autumn turned slowly but inexorably into winter the days and evenings got colder, the east wind blowing from the North Sea was merciless and even we, as hardy as we believed ourselves to be, gradually gave in to the climatic conditions and spent more time with our families. This meant playing table games with my brother and sister and of course my mother, the latter essentially to see fair play, making sure the rules were followed to the letter and that each of us had a turn at winning, otherwise my younger siblings had little or no chance of that happening, Not that I would have cheated but merely the age difference gave me a considerable advantage which if it been allowed to take a natural course would have ended with my brother crying at not winning, he was always crying about something. Once again I cannot stress the fact enough that none of my friends were invited into our house to play nor me to theirs, and although my father rarely joined in to this family activity, he would if home from work, sit in his armchair, the one nearest to the fireplace and listen to the wireless which meant we had to play in whispers if it was a programme other than music.
Chapter 27 – Growing Up
Our lives however did not revolve around the wireless and my exploration of Great Yarmouth expanded in the summer and Autumn of 1947. Unlike Cheddleton both in size and topography, Great Yarmouth was divided by the Rivers Yare and Bure, the name of the town derived from the former. To the east of the Yare was the main town originally surrounded by a defensive wall, sections of which were still in place on three sides, the fourth side being the river, with one bridge only to allow for entry or exit. By 1947 when I started to explore there was another bridge this over the River Bure connecting the main town to what would originally been the village of Runham and which now housed a main line Railway station, Vauxhall, plus all sorts of small business’s including tannery’s and if the wind was from the west the smell crossed the river and permeated the main town. As far as we were concerned and being the most we had roamed in our home town it was exciting, as a walk along the river to the end of the line of houses brought you to marshland and all the excitements that it had to offer.
I say excitements, for it was totally different to any other area in the town. The marsh was named Breydon Water and is the confluence of the two rivers, but as important for us was apart for some allotments very near the houses it was open, you could wander without let or hindrance, no one to tell you to clear off, it was crisscrossed with streams of varying depths and width which of course were to challenge to a group of ten year old boys and many were the days when one or more walked home in wet trousers and shoes. Another attraction was the natural wild life we were introduced to, butterflies, grasshoppers, insects of all shapes and sizes and in season frog spawn, which turned into tadpoles and ultimately frogs. In season we all carried a jam jar with a string handle to enable us to take home the spawn and watch for results, another jar was required for the tiny fish that populated the streams, sticklebacks in spring and early summer the marsh seemed to be populated by gangs of small boys, rarely girls enjoying the freedom that nature provided. Our days were long, bread and jam and a bottle of pop our staple midday meal and the enjoyment of a way of life that has all but disappeared along with many other aspects of life when I was ten years of age.
One of those and again it was something that applied to Great Yarmouth very significantly was “The Fishing Season”. I don’t mean the citizens who took rod and line to the river or beach but the industry that came from the herring that swam down the coast in the North Sea from Iceland followed by the fishing boats on the East Coast of the UK. From October through to December these boats named Drifters followed the fish down the coast our neighbours Lowestoft being the furthest south, I never knew why but that seemed to be as far as the fish came. With the boats came the fishermen and the fisher girls, the men caught the fish the girls processed them, gutting, salting and packing and just before Christmas as quickly as they came they left just like the fish.
What would that have to do with a gang of small boys, well first the spectacle. The armada that left the quaysides on Monday returning during the week disgorging their catch and setting off again was fascinating. Learning where the boats came from by the initials on the prow, two letters, the first and last of the home port YH for Yarmouth, LT for Lowestoft, FH for Fraserburgh and PD for Peterhead, BF for Banff. These little boats would come and go out into the North Sea over and over again, chugging down the river, relatively calm, over the Harbour Bar and out into the North Sea at which point they would start to pitch as they battled against the sea trying to get into the river, the men in these little boats with smoke being pumped out of their chimney stacks were an unforgettable feature of me and my friends lives in 1947. However, it wasn’t just the fishermen, the boats, and the origins that we went to see. Once the fish were landed they were given to a host of young and middle-aged women who worked outside in all weathers gutting and cleaning the herring and packing them into barrels and boxes. This was hard and relentless work, and as a result their hands were split and bleeding and bandaged from the knives and salt they worked with, and like their menfolk the “fisher girls” as they were known, followed the fish until in their turn they returned to Scotland when the season came to an end. Such was the importance of herring and fishing to the economy of our town that it was part of the school curriculum and a trip down to the quay would be organised to see and learn about this very important industry. The class would line up in two’s and in the same manner as sport and swimming we walked from school to the Fish Wharf, no hiring of coaches then and I don’t recall anyone going AWOL on the way there or back. We walked across Church Plain, onto North Quay by way of Fullers Hill, the latter now long gone as part of a road widening scheme and along the Quay past the Haven Bridge, Town Hall, Police Station and eventually arriving at the Fish Wharf, taking at least thirty minutes. As far as I can recall of the 45 boys who set off the same number returned.
Without TV, Computers, Phones, mobile or otherwise you may wonder how we kept ourselves busy and in touch, the answer is a simple one, organisation. Other than the days when we were obliged to attend school we made plans on day one for day two, and on two for three and so on through the week and for those who lived close to one another collect up as you walked and for those a bit further away a meeting point would be agreed as a result groups of small boys could be seen progressing in different directions on most days of the week Monday to Friday, Saturday and Sunday were not so easy to arrange, on those days families came into play, some of us would be obliged to assist mother on a shopping excursion to the market, some had chores to attend to, some of us in the football season would be involved in a school match, games were played on Saturday morning and Sunday was a family day, and for us a penance. Father was not at work and we would have the main meal of the week, so it was required that all the family be present, as my brother and sister didn’t go far in any case without a parent it mattered not to them, but as far as I was concerned Sunday was like being given a jail sentence, the only consolation being that my friends were suffering as much as myself.
Chapter 26 – Life was not all about Football
Football was not the only pleasure my father and I began to share together. In the summer of 1947 with the holiday makers back the Summer shows started again. The two piers had theatres and they together with the Royal Aquarium had permanent shows for the summer season featuring a major act together supporting acts. The Regal Theatre, which like the Aquarium was a cinema outside of the summer season put on weekly variety, with a different headline act and support each week. These were all headline acts and most weeks, first house on a Saturday, my father and I would go to the Regal to see the weekly variety show and then over to the Theatre Tavern where I would stand in the doorway with a fizzy drink while my father would enjoy a half pint pale ale. then we would walk home. I loved those evenings, I was with my father, but it also was the start of an interest and love of the variety theatre and all those great Variety Artists.
To try and list all the artists who appeared would be a book of its own, but some stand out in my memory, acts that still bring a smile to my face as I recall them. This was an era when comedians who topped the bill told jokes and certainly didn’t pepper their act with four letter expletives. Max Miller, Max Wall, Rob Wilton, Norman Evans, Jimmy James, Hal Monty, Arthur Haynes, Jimmy Wheeler all headline acts who toured the halls year after year including the Regal Great Yarmouth, others who stood out especially as they were not regarded as comedians, Bonar Colleano an American film actor and Jon Pertwee who went on to be Dr Who on TV. but not all the headliners were comedians, singers also topped the bill, Vera Lynn, Anne Shelton, Dorothy Squires, Ann Zeigler and Webster Booth and of course the show bands, the most famous being Billy Cotton and others who didn’t have the celebrity of Cotton. Big Bill Campbell and his Rocky Mountaineers, they also had a show on the BBC light programme, Felix Mendleson and his Hawaiian Serenaders, Macari and his Dutch Accordion Band and although didn’t they top the bill Morton Fraser and the Harmonica Rascals, the name says it all. Those trips to the Regal in the summer of 1947 and following years were part of a British tradition now long gone, summer variety theatre, but I was lucky to have been able to enjoy it thanks to my father, and when I retired from fulltime business was privileged to read the narration behind a short film that recalled those halcyon days.
1947 however was not all football and variety shows, life went on as usual, in the school summer holiday period I continued to deliver milk for sixpence a week not knowing that progress was on hand to take that pleasure away from me, at the end of that summer and when I was back at school the little horse was pensioned off and Arnold was the proud possessor of a motorized delivery vehicle and for whatever reason my services would no longer be needed. This meant that I would no longer have to get up at 6.30 am in late July through August the following year and I was at first quite disappointed but being ten soon got over it, there were so many other pleasures to be sampled. Not least the radio or as we knew it the wireless.
You may recall I wrote about my wartime memories of the wireless programmes especially Children’s Hour. That programme was still a favourite and if you were in the house at 5pm you would listen to it, but with the end of the war the BBC relaxed somewhat, and much lighter weight programming started to take place. I think it is important to underline just how vital the wireless was to the listeners, TV was still a long way off for the general public and the internet even further away, the wireless ruled and there were three channels available to cater the needs of the listening public.
There were three channels the Light Programme, the old National Programme, the Home Service and the Third Programme. the first of these offered what was known as light entertainment, the second more serious and cerebral offerings, the last serious music and intellectual discourse. We rarely visited the last two,
There is an argument put forward that the heyday of radio was the 1930’s in which case it must have been exceptionally good to compete with leave alone beat the late 1940’s, 1950’s and 1960’s. ~These were glory days as far as I am concerned we listened to the Light programme much more than the other two for the simple reason that it had something for everyone in the family. During the day popular music programmes, predominantly records, and I can fondly recall my mother happily singing to the popular songs, people sang a lot in those days. Two programmes stand out Housewife’s Choice between 9 and 10 am Monday to Friday, which is exactly what it says, requests from women working at home, so popular that it continued with changes of presenter until the 1960’s. At 10.30 until l1am Music While you Work, which commenced during the war for the workers in factories, mostly women, this programme also was broadcast five days a week until the 1960’s and was full of songs you could sing along with.
I have to admit however the programmes I have highlighted were not intended for children especially for me my friends, we were out all day unless it rained and even then I don’t think we paid much attention to the daytime offerings, that is until five pm and Children’s Hour which had not substantially altered from the description I gave earlier but which still held our attention but better was to come. In 1946 the BBC produced the opening episode of a series that was to capture the attention of the younger listeners. Dick Barton, Special Agent, together with two sidekicks Jock and Snowy. It was the type of adventure usually seen on the screen on a Saturday morning transferred to the air waves and we loved it, tried not to miss an episode,15 minutes each five times a week at 6.45 in the evening, magic. we were heartbroken when it was taken off air in 1951 to be replaced by The Archers, an everyday story of country folks. The glory of Dick Barton was not just the story line but the sound effects, you hear him jumping out of a window, breaking down the door, the punches being thrown and landed, the grunts and groans of the fighters, they may have been acting, but it was flesh and blood to us and together with exciting music which opened closed each episode “The Devils Gallop” made it unmissable. At its peak it drew an audience of 11 million, for an early evening wireless programme, in 2018 most TV shows would be happy to have such figure at peak evening times.
Unlike TV the radio or wireless as we referred to it brought families together, you could listen and do some other task at the same time, until the News came on at which point we all sat down and listened, at least father listened and possibly mother, the three children kept quiet. One of my abiding memories of such evenings was the making of rugs or mats made from strips of cloth as a result of cutting up old clothes. Father would have bought a backing sheet and myself and my brother and sister but mostly me and my mother would cut the strips and by some miraculous process my mother would hand stitch them onto the backing cloth and gradually a mat would appear, you can’t do that watching TV or playing on computers. Those winter evenings working together are warm memories, in the summer I would not be in the house unless I was ill and that was a very rare event.
Most, no, all our listening would be to BBC programmes, there were other foreign English language stations, the most popular being Radio Luxembourg which was mostly music but whatever delights they may have offered they did not get a listening in our house. Most of our listening and I suspect most of the public came from the Light programme, the title indicated why, the predominant offerings were as the title suggested light. The mix was eclectic, Music, comedy and drama with emphasis on entertainment rather than educational or improving, that was the province of the Home Service and the Third Programme, if they were available on our wireless set then we didn’t know how to find them. One of the interesting aspects of the BBC Light programme was how through the light entertainment fare the offered is how many of the artists involved in secondary roles went on to stardom in their chosen field of entertainment far too many to list here but I will put together an appendix of the show titles, the headliners, secondary and up and coming under Appendix 1.
Chapter 25 - Football
One of the few pleasures my father had in his life was football and our move to Wellesley Road brought us together even more. Our house was opposite the main gate of the Wellesley Recreation Ground, the home of Great Yarmouth Football Club and after the wartime break football was getting back to normal. As a result, we began to go on a regular basis and as well as meeting his friends, began to learn about the club and about my father. Later in my life I became an ardent supporter of our nearest Football League Club, Norwich City, but in 1947 it was the team literally on our doorstep Great Yarmouth Town, nicknamed “The Bloaters” so called after a local culinary delicacy, but more of bloaters later. My father was a very reserved man but get him talking about football, pre-war of course he came alive. he talked of local players who went on to play professional football, Charley Bradrooke, and George Edwards were two I can recall, the former with Norwich City the latter with Aston Villa and better than that I was with my father when we met both at different times in the jobs they did when their football careers had come to an end. George ran a wet fish and shellfish shop and Charley a sports equipment store, I was starstruck.
With the return to normal of League and FA Cup football after the war our knowledge of players and teams increased, to an extent that we no longer relied solely on pre-war cigarette cards. ln 1946 England had played at Wembley against a Rest of Britain team, players from Scotland, Wales and Ireland and from reading the back pages of newspapers we began to get to know new and different players, this together with commentaries on the wireless, second halves only in those days, meant that we had a crop of new heroes to emulate, this was real fantasy football, we never had a chance to see them play, just hear and read about them, no wall to wall TV coverage, but what you have never had you don’t miss, but we did have more local heroes.
Until my father and I started to watch Yarmouth Town on a regular basis the only real match I had seen was the Stoke City v Newcastle United match during the war and I could remember that team and so it is with our local team in 1947. In goal Jimmy Marjoram, Fairchild and Green the full backs, half back line of Watts, Burrell and Sanderson and a forward line to be reckoned with Smith, Brown, Hollis, Hacking and Colley, all local men. Football was much simpler in 1947, no floodlights, no endless combinations of tactics to confuse, no substitutes whether injured or not playing well, just the pleasure of playing for your local team and if you won so much the better, everyone went home happy. Of course there was always the possibility that if you had a very good young player it was likely that a bigger club would be casting envious eyes upon him and so it was with Roy Hollis, tall and raw-boned, he was good, both in the air and with the ball at his feet and could score goals, to such an extent that at the end of the 1947/48 season he left for a professional career, initially with Norwich City and then with Tottenham Hotspur, but for that season when we played football on the road outside our house we all claimed to be Roy Hollis.
One major difference in 1947 against the time of writing was the lack of commercial activity surrounding the club and in fact all clubs whether it be the Eastern Counties League in which our team played or the clubs in the Football Leagues, you could purchase a scarf or have one knitted by mother in the team colours in this case yellow and black and that was it, the days of crowds all turning up in shirts of the team you favoured with sponsors names emblazoned on the chest were far off. Football was the sport of the working man and in those days the working man’s wages did not stretch that far even if they were available. An example of this was football boots. Until I started to play football on a regular basis for my school all our football was played in the shoes you wore every day, but playing in a team required proper football boots, and they were indeed boots, unlike the lightweight footwear for today’s players. Made or perhaps constructed is a more appropriate description, made of leather, over the ankles, hard toe caps and yards of white laces and six studs in the sole, and heavily covered in dubbin to keep the wet out, you had to be strong to play boys football in 1947.
Another area that has changed is the reporting and broadcasting of football at all levels. As far as Yarmouth was concerned there was a report on the game in the local Football paper “The Pink Un” on a Saturday night and a fuller report in the “Yarmouth Mercury” on the Friday following the game. The former was sold on the streets and in newspaper shops from 7pm onwards and the latter in a more prosaic manner six days later. With no TV and with radio commentary limited to second halves only for a First Division game or FA Cup. If you had a favourite team other than the local one you had to wait for the evening paper or listen to the BBC’s Sports Report on the Light Programme at 5pm, when the results would be read out and some reports on individual games but we had to wait until 1948 for that and you can still hear it on BBC Five Live Sport, good old BBC.
Yarmouth Town FC was not the only local club in the Eastern Counties League, there were two local derby’s which brought out the best and worst of the supporters. nine miles away was Lowestoft Town and closer to hand, in fact the other side of the River Yare, Gorleston FC, the former in Blue shirts and white shorts, the latter Green Shirts with white sleeves and white shorts, and how we disliked them both, and games were usually hard fought, both on the pitch and off, especially against Lowestoft.
Like Great Yarmouth, Lowestoft was a fishing town, but whereas Yarmouth was primarily inshore and drifters in season, Lowestoft boats were nearly all deep-sea trawlers, and their fishermen an entirely different breed, with a penchant for clothing, suits especially in very bright colours, nearly all with arms and bodies covered in tattoos, before it became fashionable. They could be out at sea for anything up to a month and ready for action when back on shore and because the sea front in Great Yarmouth was more enticing in every way, it was like a flame to the bright coloured tattooed moths. The rivalry that could be seen on the seafront and in the public houses was repeated when the local teams came up against one another, although we enjoyed beating our very local rivals to beat Lowestoft was akin to winning the FA Cup at Wembley and considered to be the result of the season.
Chapter 24 – A Special Year, 1947
I can’t recall much of our first Christmas at No.38 perhaps because it was like all our Christmas’s past but one memory sticks with me, I think it was the first time that I was involved with the preparations, but only in very minor manner. The paper decorations or as we knew them trimmings had appeared mysteriously overnight, covering the ceiling from corner to corner in the living room, this must and probably had been the case when we lived in Cheddleton, but I have no recall of it happening but what I remember most distinctly is walking up to the Market Place to get a chicken for Christmas lunch. My father waited until late in the afternoon of Christmas Eve then we set off, timing was all important, not too soon before the prices were reduced and not too late in case all the bargains had been snapped up.
My father’s timing was impeccable, and we bought our chicken and were as far as I was concerned ready to set off back home with the chicken fully feathered, legs tied together with a loop for ease of carrying, dead of course. Then came the big surprise, a Christmas tree, I hadn’t expected that at all, working on the same principle of timing we made the purchase and set off for home with a chicken and small but very welcome Christmas tree, I couldn’t wait to see the reaction of my brother and sister.
It was all that I could have hoped for, excitement reigned and after tea we set about decorating the tree, as a family, we didn’t do much in that vein, so it was the more enjoyable. Bed came next and trying to sleep and then the excitement that followed on Christmas morning followed by Christmas dinner, roast chicken, in 1946 an expensive luxury. I can’t recall if it was this Christmas, but I do know it wasn’t a Christmas in Cheddleton, but my main present was a bagatelle, a pin ball machine, but you didn’t need to put money in. The back drop was aircraft of various sorts and I loved that bagatelle, there were other smaller presents and the obligatory book but compared to the time of writing it was small beer.
At the time of writing the world of work comes to a halt in the week after Christmas until January 2nd unless of course you work in the retail sector, no such luxury in 1946, my father was back at work on 27th of December with no more breaks until Easter, and certainly no Bank holiday on New Year’s Day. We of course did not have to return to school until January, so we had ample time to relax with the spoils of Christmas at home or outside with friends, mostly the latter, being in the house all day was tantamount to being incarcerated in prison especially as I was expected to “play” with my younger siblings. It is perhaps time to bring them into the story, my brother was six years old and would be seven in April, my sister three and four in the following November. It grieves me but my brother and I were never friendly to each other throughout our lives, we were chalk and cheese even during the period presently being chronicled. The gap in our ages was only three years but as far as I was concerned it could have been twenty years. Thinking about it now I am not sure whether my animosity to him was justified or cruel, mother certainly had an opinion at the time, and it didn’t favour me.
Although we had the same parentage we could not have been more different, I was a typical boy of that age in that era, brought to life on the page by Richmal Crompton in the form of William Brown, living in a world of tree climbing, den building, playing football and cricket in season, sailing as close to wind as far as we could in defying the rules emanating from the world of adults. My brother did not or could not do any of those things, he always seemed to be grizzling, had a runny nose and unable to keep up or join the activities which were our meat and drink, but my mother insisted I take him with me if she was busy with some other tasks, much to the chagrin of my other gang members who if they had younger brothers were certainly not made to look after them as was my case. I am convinced that the mutual hostility that followed us for the rest of our lives until his death in his fifties stemmed from those early days.
With Christmas duly celebrated we looked forward to the New Year 1947, but nobody could have forecast what happened in January, and I use the word forecast without irony especially as forecasting the weather was not the science it is as I write. It started to snow, nothing unusual there you may think, I had experienced snow before, both Cheddleton and Great Yarmouth, but not on the scale of this assault. I don’t know if it because Great Yarmouth is a seaside town, but prior to this any snow that fell was relatively light and soon gone, but this was different, it continued and off through January into February and into March, not every day but enough that it didn’t clear from paths and gardens and it was cold, very cold. Great Yarmouth with the wind from the east is used to cold weather but this was different to anything I had experienced in my young life until then and not confined to the East Coast the country came to a virtual standstill, a country still recovering from the damage inflicted by the war, it couldn’t have come at a worse time.
The snow didn’t last forever, nor did it hinder our new life on Wellesley Road. As the year progressed and we settled into our new surroundings my relationship with my father began to take on a different aspect, up to then he had of course been my father, the man who went out to work every day and came back every evening but unlike my relationship with my mother it had not been very close. Probably because I was now ten years of age we could start doing more activities together, the things men do. One of the first of these changes was me being allowed to walk to the factory and meet him out of work, and then walk home with him, not much perhaps, but it was something I looked forward to and treasured especially as the year went into the months of September, October and November. Being allowed to go to meet him on those dark cold evenings made me feel grown up and I looked forward to them, although from my memory we didn’t do much talking, just being together was enough. Earlier I wrote that my father worked in the dye-house at Grouts Silk Factory. It was the bombing of this factory in 1942 that despatched the family to Staffordshire, then their product had been silk for parachutes but now the work produced goods for domestic use. I didn’t ask and he didn’t volunteer any information, but I do remember the smell of his raincoat which must have hung near his vat daily and the odours of the various acids and dyes permeated that garment, and the memory of that smell remained with me into my adult life.
Chapter 23 – Turning Point
Following the long dark years of war 1946 was really a turning point for the town to which we had returned. 1945 had been a half year of looking at the wounds and where possible putting on some bandages or ointment to heal them but 1946 was the year when the patient rose from the hospital bed and started to recover his or her strength and the will not just to live but to look forward to a good life. As far as we were concerned they were little things but they still stand out in my memory, remember I was nine years of age, I had never seen an orange or banana let alone eat either, they were talked about by my parents almost as if they were precious gem stones, not that I had any idea what gem stones were but I was old enough to know that I had never seen one, when if ever would I see either of these almost mythical fruits, well we had to wait a little longer but one thing that did start to become available on a regular basis was ice cream. If my grandchildren ever read this they will probably be surprised that there was a world without ice cream and chocolate bars readily available. Sweets and chocolate bars could be seen in large jars on shelves against the wall behind the counter of your local corner shop and if you were lucky enough to have some money and some sweet coupons, they were still rationed, whoopee, if not you just looked and looked. But to get back to ice cream, at the time of writing ice cream and seaside holiday towns go hand in hand but in 1946 there was still a shortage and if you were lucky to be around when they were on sale, bliss. Our move to Wellesley Road proved to be lucky in that respect, it took ten minutes to walk from home to the Britannia Pier and the Wall’s ice cream kiosk adjacent to the front gates. On Sundays from 2pm while stocks lasted it was open, it might have been every day, but Sunday was a day for treats and my father would give me a shilling for four blocks of ice cream together with the wafer biscuits that went with them. alongside the money I also took two or three sheets of newspaper to wrap them in to keep them cold, together with the admonition of getting back as quickly as I could, which I did, if the walk took ten minutes, I could run it quicker than that and I did, I didn’t time myself but the ice cream never melted and when I handed it over to my father, he first of all inspected it to ensure I had resisted the temptation to eat some on the return journey then cut one in half for himself and my mother and a whole one each for us children. Oh, how I looked forward to Sunday afternoon in 1946. It would be 1947 before I saw or tasted a banana or orange.
The long summer break from school continued, and we settled into our new home, we had a garden, compared to Woodlands Avenue it was small but unlike that garden it had a tree, which you could climb, an empty fish pond which doubled as a trench and the back wall overlooked the Great Yarmouth Beach Railway Station, the soundtrack to my life in 1946 was the wireless, my father’s records on his wind up gramophone and the hiss of steam and train whistles, I am sure that without my being aware, it started a lifelong interest in railways in the UK and dance music.
I am sure I am not the first nor will I be the last to say this, but back in the days I am describing it didn’t ever rain, it must have done but my memories are of endless sunny summer days and the pleasure that went with them, and even if rain did occasionally spoil a day I can’t recall it. Weekdays were ours, weekends less so, on weekends the wider family was involved but you can’t have everything. A typical day would be getting up around 6.45, a quick breakfast and wait at the end of the road for Arnold and the milk float, the deliveries would take until around 9am, the little horse was punctual, by now we would be on Euston Road at the southern end of Wellesley Road having gone in a square and at that juncture I would say good bye and run home, I seemed to run everywhere in those days. All this hard work had given me an appetite so my mother would fortify me with a substantial slice of bread and margarine covered in Jam or Golden Syrup, or as we knew it then treacle, and wait to see what was on the agenda, errands or meeting friends, there were generally some errands but as most of them were near it wasn’t too much of a chore. As was the case in Cheddleton we met on the road outside each other’s houses. You were not invited in nor did you expect to be, we knew from the previous day what time we would meet and where, no phones for deciding. The only occasion I can recall that we crossed a friends’ threshold was when Graham Worth had a birthday party. His parents kept a private hotel with large rooms and could deal with eight or nine boys in comfort, as far as the rest were concerned I can’t remember going into any of their homes and nor them into my own, in those early post war days, we lived our lives out of doors. That was the pattern of that long summer into Autumn and winter of 1947 as we settled down to life and our first Christmas at 38 Wellesley Road. Without my being aware of it the year 1946 was both a period of rehabilitation and reconstruction for the town. As far as I was concerned it was school, football, cricket, pictures on a Saturday morning, new friends and a new home, while around me the town was rebuilding a normal life as a major seaside holiday resort and also rebuilding the lives of townsfolk whose lives had been so savagely interrupted by six years of war, a classic example of this was the construction of the Shrublands Housing Estate, the largest development of pre-fabricated homes in the UK, and with one of those co-incidences that life occasionally throws up, the home of the Bowles family, the father being a close friend and workmate of my father and whose son Malcolm and I later worked together and became close friends before we found out about the connection of our fathers.
Chapter 22 – Settling In
I don’t need to tell you that that summer holiday wasn’t just waterways, Britannia Pier and total freedom, family life went on as usual and part of that was the provision of meals. Although the war had ended a year ago other than we no longer had to worry about air attacks and the wireless didn’t carry bulletins about the latest battle success everyday living had not changed very much, most food, fuel and clothing was still rationed but we were used to it, so it didn’t bother us much if at all, that was something mother dealt with. Rationing was a system that was intended to ensure that each family had enough of essentials to meet their needs and mostly it worked and met people’s needs although there were some who wanted more and this could be obtained on the “black market” operated by “spivs” and was more expensive than the normal shops, as far as I can remember my parents did not buy anything on the black market, whether this was on principle or lack of money, I don’t know but I hope it was the latter.
One major difference between then and as I write was shopping patterns. Sainsbury’s was in 1946 an up market high street grocer and the nearest branch was in Norwich, which as far as we were concerned could have been on the moon, supermarkets were still at least twenty or more years into the future so shopping especially food shopping was done on a daily basis, the reasons were simple we didn’t have a refrigerator and we didn’t have enough money to enable my mother to stock up for a week let alone a month.
As a result of this another major difference between Great Yarmouth and Cheddleton was revealed. Each day I would be despatched to one or more of the various shops to buy and bring home the daily rations, Blakes, Chittleburgh or Cumby’s for meat, Edwards for bread and Weldons for greengrocery, of course not all of them every day. Bread is not referred to as the staff of life without reason, that was nearly every day, but luckily it was quite handy, there and back in ten minutes if I walked less if I ran, not including the time waiting in the shop, for those shops not only provided sustenance but also a verbal community notice board, everybody knew everyone else in that small area, and certainly everybody seemed to know my mother. “how’s your mother young Harbo” or if on really good terms “How’s May” and after assurance having been given and digested “get on home, and behave yourself” that final admonishment always delivered at the end of the enquiry, it’s odd but I didn’t ever wonder what would have been the reaction if my reply had been “She’s feeling ill” for the simple reason she was never ill, or at least never said so.
As is pointed out we didn’t have Sainsbury’s to brighten up or lives, but we did have the International Stores, the Home and Colonial and the Maypole Stores, all three what we would now refer to as multiples plus numerous private grocery shops most of whom offered a home delivery service, in most cases a boy on a bicycle. My mother, possibly on the recommendation of my Aunt Obe’ gave most of her business to a grocery shop on Northgate Street, Bells, I think the man who ran the business was a family friend, but it was a good shop, grocery and some fruit and veg when available and they delivered. We did not have a phone, so it meant quite a long walk to the shop, placing the order then arranging a delivery time, I liked Bells, they had a long counter in the front of which was a line of boxes of biscuits, there to encourage customers to try and of course buy if they liked them, as a boy I was happy to keep trying all the options and very occasionally my mother would give in to my entreaty and buy some, my favourites being chocolate creams, a rare treat. The other plus when using Bells was my mother would walk around the corner to my aunt’s house for tea and a chat, we were a close family.
I am not sure if it was unusual but although I had a group of friends and we spent a lot of our time together I also have memories of spending a lot of time with my mother in those early years and I can only assume that it was this that led to our bond as we both grew older. My father was not a man who said very much and because he worked long hours did not feature greatly in my childhood at this stage, he had gone to work before we children were up and about and we had eaten our evening meal or tea as it was called before he came in from work to eat his, and then we would be ready for bed and I cannot recall him ever reading us a bedtime story he was probably too tired.
It might be appropriate at this point to give you a pen portrait of my father. In terms of stature he was a small man, thin and wiry but strong. A man of few words but those words when spoken meant we as children listened, I cannot remember him ever physically chastising us for any transgressions he didn’t need to, he let you know what you had done wrong in his eyes and that he didn’t expect it to be repeated. If I was in trouble with neighbours or authorities at school my father would listen to my side of the argument and unless I had very strong case would almost always believe that I was deserving of any punishment I had received at their hands, or if not it compensated for other things I had done in the past for which I had not been punished. As I said he was small in stature and his wardrobe matched his stature, during the week his sole mode of dress was a collarless shirt, bib and brace overalls and work cap and stained raincoat, and I can still remember the smell of that raincoat, and of course a cap, he had two, one for work the other for Sunday, work was six days a week then. Sunday was the day when his only suit, colour navy, came out for a weekly airing, together with white shirt with detachable collar and tie plus the Sunday cap and a clean raincoat. That was his total wardrobe, I only must look at mine as I write to understand the enormous changes that have taken place in my life compared to his.
Each Sunday rain or shine my father would take his only relaxation, on would go his Sunday clothes and he would leave home at around 11.30 am to meet his father and younger brother Richard and the three would walk to a public house on the sea front, where each would in turn buy a round of 3 half pints of beer, no more no less and then walk back to their respective homes and in our case we would sit down as a family to Sunday lunch or as we called it Sunday dinner, that routine was observed for as long as we lived at Wellesley Road. As a boy of nine years of age I had little understanding of my father’s life and he was not a man who offered much information, the little I did know and that was gleaned much later in life was that at eighteen he was called up to join the Royal Flying Corps, the forerunner of the Royal Air Force, this was towards the end of World War One and he was sent out to what is now known as Pakistan, but then was at that time India, and that had an effect on him for the rest of his life, partly in his attitude to Asian people, which caused us to have a bitter political argument later in our lives, and also on his facial appearance, due to regular and large doses of quinine to combat malaria, his teeth rotted and he had them removed and either didn’t want or they were not available replace them with dentures, and for as long as I knew my father he had no teeth, but it didn’t stop him eating, but it did him look much older than he was. At the time of writing I don’t know how my father would have coped with the multi- racial society we enjoy now, but I suspect he would have come to terms with it in his quiet manner.
If my father was quiet and somewhat reserved my mother was a totally different cup of tea. My mother was very friendly and outgoing and always tried to see the very best in people and she knew a lot of people, everywhere we went she would know someone, often more than one and as I accompanied her quite a lot when we first moved to Wellesley Road, together with my younger siblings I was able to see this at first hand and in turn get to know these people. I don’t know if she had planned it but going with her on these outings introduced me to the various shops and shopkeepers that we used on an almost daily basis, as a result I was judged competent enough at age nine to be sent out with a shopping bag, list of requirements and names of shops from which to purchase the various foods plus the money and any “rationing points” that may have been required, this saved my mother having to get the younger children ready and to be able to deal with daily household chores. Luckily or perhaps she arranged it my assistance was not required every day and in that first long summer at 38 Wellesley Road I made the most of it.
It was one of the quirks of my boyhood at number 38 that although I lived opposite one recreation ground and just over a hundred yards from an even bigger one most of our cricket in that summer was played on the road outside the house. Cricket had become a bigger part of my sporting life since arriving back in Great Yarmouth, one reason was that Graham Worth had a proper bat of his own, up till then I had made do with one that my father had shaped from a solid piece of wood, in fact a length of old floorboard, ok it was crude but it was as near a real cricket bat as I was going to get, that and the tennis ball that doubled as a football in the appropriate season was enough for us to live our dreams of Larwood, Hutton, Hammond, Verity, Tate and others when we had bat or ball in our hand. Those names we had gleaned from that always reliable source of sporting information, Cigarette cards. If we were bowling we were probably not concerned if our hero was a spinner or pace man we bowled and the same with batting we hit out at the ball as hard as we could, distance more important than style. We didn’t have stumps, but we did have chalk The wall of the Wellesley Recreation ground was made from concrete panels divided up by brick pillars which were wide enough to enable us to chalk some stumps and we bowled from the edge of the pavement on the opposite of the road, a ball hit directly without bouncing into a garden or hoiked over the wall into the Wellesley was adjudged six and out, this was our version of Lords or the Oval, and of course with long summer evenings we made the most of it and unless called in played until it was nearly dark, and when in bed we slept well. From my memory most people who lived on the road were very tolerant towards us and our cricket.
We were of course lucky to be able to play on the road, there were very few of the residents who had cars so most of the time we had the road to ourselves. We were forbidden to play on the Wellesley Recreation Ground it was only for organised sports. In the summer athletics training if you were in a club, bowls if you were ancient, or so they seemed and tennis if you were wealthy. There were boys and girls who played tennis but not of our age, mostly what we now call teenagers and they had the correct clothing, when we played cricket we wore the same clothes that we wore every day, although by now I had left clogs behind and was in proper shoes or if you were lucky plimsoles, I wasn’t that lucky. The other recreation ground was the Beaconsfield, are you counting these military references? The Beaconsfield was really five or six football pitches for the winter months and a couple of cricket pitches in the summer, none of which were available for us to play on. In the football season you could put down coats on one or two of the pitches but not allowed to use the goalposts and nets, but again only on those pitches that were not used for local organised league football on Wednesday and Saturday or school football on Tuesday and Thursday and Saturday morning, no Sunday football in those days. If you did attempt to break any of these rules you came up against the wrath of the groundsmen, two on the Beaconsfield and one on the Wellesley, Mr Cubitt, an acquaintance of my father, and as for the two on the Beaconsfield, I didn’t know their names. Mr Cubitt, although he knew my father made no allowances for us boys, rules were rules and to all intents and purposes as far he was concerned we were persona non grata, I wonder if he had ever been young. Oh, lest I forget at the very far northern end of the Beaconsfield there was a play area, swings, slides roundabouts etc, we would very occasionally walk that far but as it was mostly peopled by girls our visits were infrequent.
Cricket was mostly played in the evenings after tea. During the day when not running errands, and I wasn’t the only one of our little group who carried out these nearly daily duties we enjoyed our usual games in the usual places, the waterways, the cemetery, the bombed buildings. By now the gang had enlarged, Johnny Ellis, Eddie Pestell, who, my father no doubt with Shakespeare in mind insisted to my annoyance to call Pistol and Frank George. I met John many years later but of all the others I have no knowledge at all, I wonder if they are doing as I am and putting as much down as they can recall for posterity. Among all the shopping duties that came my way one that didn’t was milk. Milk was delivered daily from Cotton’s Dairy by a little man called Arnold. Arnold had a milk float pulled by a small horse, which went on its own stopping at each house where Arnold delivered without any word at all from him. I was fascinated by this, so much so that in the summer months I was up early and with my parents’ permission joined the world of work, becoming his assistant. The milk came in bottles and in a churn, some houses like us took their milk by the bottle others left a glass or tin jug with a muslin cover on the doorstep to be filled. Arnold did that, I delivered the bottles and the horse moved on from house to house, teamwork. For this Arnold gave me the princely reward of sixpence on Saturday morning, from my memory I don’t recall Sunday deliveries. This was purely a summer holiday job, I was not allowed to enjoy my gainful employment on the dark winter mornings or on school days. I did this for two summers only, but without my being aware of it, it was the forerunner of my future school summer holidays, only not delivering milk. Arnold like my father was a man of very few words, with a horse like that he really had no need to say very much. I wonder what child safeguarding would say in the twenty first century.
Chapter 21 – Our New Life
As we settled in to our new life on Wellesley Road we began to find our lives changing, and mine being the eldest and with more freedom than my younger siblings probably changed more than theirs. I was nine years of age and looking back it is fascinating just how much freedom of movement I was given by my parents but to begin to understand it I ought to try and describe it more fully. We moved from Rainbow Corner just before the end of the Summer Term so almost immediately we were into a break of six weeks from school and that meant I had time to get used to my surroundings at leisure add to that we still had the luxury of double summertime. I referred to double summertime earlier in this writing, but perhaps it is time to offer a fuller explanation. During the war in order to give farmers the opportunity to take advantage of the longer daylight hours from March to September they were given an extra two hours of working time in the evening plus the extra labour provided by older school children during the summer break, a working holiday for town and city children. For us who were not old enough to go to work it meant in Great Yarmouth it was daylight at the height of summer until eleven pm and did we try to take advantage of it, we certainly did.
Not all of the houses on Wellesley Road had been requisitioned but in those that had several were occupied by families with children some of whom became friends some didn’t, one in particular was at the every far end close to the Beaconsfield Recreation Ground was a boy called Peter Cutting and we became firm friends together with a boy who lived on Sandown Road, Graham Worth, neither of whom had been at the Priory School with me, Peter and his family had moved in from a village outside the town and Graham went to a private prep school, add to these Gordon, Keith and Bobby from the Priory and it was a mixed little group.
One of the more interesting things about the move to Wellesley road was how it changed our living habits outside of the house. The first was going to school, the same school but from a different direction not only did it take a good ten minutes more of uninterrupted walking, but it was an entirely different landscape. From Rainbow Corner it was up the Row, cross over Northgate Street and Church Plain and you were at school. Done and dusted. From Wellesley Road something very different, first meeting up with friends at the corner of St. Nicholas and Nelson Roads, me from the east, Bobby King from the south, Keith and Gordon from the north. The first place to claim our interest was Edwards’s bakers’ shop, boys are always hungry, next was Spurgeon’s Newsagents, for an obvious reason, comics. Spurgeon’s was opposite the Garibaldi Hotel, now I had never heard of Garibaldi in 1946/7 but he turned out to be another military legend, albeit on this occasion from Italy. When we were walking past on our way to school it had been used as lodgings for soldiers during the recent war and not returned to its former glory, it’s current use being of no interest to us. Next on our right was Grouts Factory where my father had resumed work, now a mere five minutes’ walk from home. From the gates to the end of St Nicholas Road was a mixture of shops, houses and pubs, too numerous for me to recall with one exception, Doris Langton’s. At the time of writing I suppose you would call it a corner shop but to us it was a magnet. Mrs Langton sold bags of broken crisps. In those far off days shops bought their crisps in large boxes and then sold them by the bag including a little blue wrap containing salt, three pence a bag, however when the bottom of the box came in sight there was a layer of broken crisps which she put in smaller bags and sold for one penny per bag including salt, and were they popular, of course they were, we lapped them up. When I say broken it was a literal description and as you reached the bottom of the penny bag and not wishing to waste your money you wet your finger in your mouth dipped into the bottom layer of broken crisps and sucked the residue stuck to your finger, finally the bag was tipped at an angle for the dregs to go into the waiting mouth, nothing was wasted, after paying a penny you couldn’t afford that luxury.
Each morning we left our respective homes, met up outside Edwards and commenced our journey to school. You may recall that earlier in this memoire I referred to the rivalry between the Priory School and the Hospital School. Both schools claimed to be the oldest in the town and in the main drew from different catchments, The Priory from the east and north sides of town, our rivals from the south and west, and never the twain shall meet without mixing, and that mixing could be on the rough side. In order to reach our destination, we had to walk to almost the end of St. Nicholas Road and if you were unlucky be confronted by a group of our rivals.
Most of the time we would be subjected to verbal abuse but if snow was on the ground they would be ready, perhaps as many as twenty or more to show our small group just exactly who was the best. This however brought out the best in the Priory School boys, instead of going straight to school they would congregate on the Church Plain and battle would commence, a running battle that went back and forth with more boys from each school adding to the troops on the ground until teachers from both schools appeared and called a truce at which point we were marched back to our respective schools, to be given a lecture on behaviour and then sit for the rest of the morning in clothes wet from snow fights. But we were happy, we had defended our school and history with honour, well at least in our eyes. To be truthful I didn’t ever have the same attachment to my next school the Great Yarmouth Grammar School, but more of that later.
However, to go back to our change of house, we moved into 38 Wellesley Road just as school was breaking up for the summer holiday period and all the pleasures that it promised. My mother had not yet gone back to work, that would come later so for the summer the world was my oyster and for the next six weeks freedom beckoned. Looking back what is interesting is with the beach, now open for most of its length and certainly at the bottom of Albemarle Road how little it attracted us, the waterways certainly did, still not officially open to the public we fully took advantage. It had everything required for boys games, overgrown shrubs, five or six hundred yards of the artificial rivers which in normal times would have passenger carrying boats in a sedate manner, were in some case half or more filled with sand blown from the beach, in others still with water in the form of large puddles and the bridges connecting the islands around which the waterways flowed and in the middle a small lake again have filled with sand. Heaven, and less than five minutes from home.
Although the beach itself didn’t really thrill us the Britannia Pier did, luckily despite all the bombing the town received, the two piers and the jetty were untouched and of course open for exploration and games and the Britannia was the nearest for us. In 1946 holiday makers had not returned in great numbers and we had the beach and pier virtually to ourselves, together with other groups of children, mostly boys, this summer was to be cherished for the following year saw more and more normality returning, cutting off many of the avenues of free play we were able to enjoy during that particular summer, especially as the sun shone every day, or seemed to do so. I think one of the experiences I remember that was so different from my life in Cheddleton was walking on the pier over the beach and then over the sea, looking down through the cracks in the wooden planks that made up the floor and looking at and listening to the seawater washing against the metal legs the pier was built on. It is also interesting that many people have that same memory, it is very much a British memory as such piers are almost singularly confined to this country. They were initially erected to service the passenger steamers that carried passengers from south to north and vice versa, but with the coming of railways they were used less and less and to make them worthwhile other purposes had to be found, among them theatres that would provide summer entertainment for the growing numbers of holiday makers, as well as an excellent training ground for variety artistes as they were known. Seventy years later I had the pleasure of narrating the background to a short film about the demise of that entertainment. We could not have known that the total freedom we enjoyed in the summer of 1946 would not be repeated nor could we have anticipated the winter of 1947.
Chapter 20 – A New Beginning
But life in great Yarmouth in 1946 wasn’t just Saturday morning fun, everyday life continued in many ways, one of which was no longer sharing with my Grandmother in her tiny house. As I have mentioned earlier in this story Great Yarmouth had been on the front line during the war and suffered from continuous bombing raids by the Luftwaffe (German Air Force) resulting in many houses being destroyed or very badly damaged and while these properties were a play paradise for us children it also meant a severe shortage of houses to live in. One way of dealing with this problem was that large empty properties without any damage were requisitioned for use by the local council until a house building programme could be commenced. As a result of this policy we found ourselves moving from Rainbow Corner behind the Brewery in the town centre, to Wellesley Road, overlooking the home of Great Yarmouth Town Football Club and to the north one hundred yards from the Beaconsfield Recreation Ground and to the East a similar distance to the Beach, for a boy, heaven on earth. The naming of roads after military heroes continuing.
Leaving Rainbow Corner meant the making of some minor adjustments in our life style, for one instead of a five-minute walk to school it was now fifteen minutes, and then only if no dawdling or meandering took place. For my father his journey to work meant no change at all in time as it was equidistant from both Rainbow Corner and Wellesley Road and he neither dawdled or meandered but as he normally set off to work before or as we were getting up we were able to set our own pace, collecting friends along the way, and also forming new alliances with boys who lived along the route to school. Bobby King, whose parents kept a Guest house, Keith Brightman who lived over a pub, the Elephant and Castle, opposite the Beach Station and Gordon Mitchell, his father was a Road Sweeper and lived on the corner opposite the pub, all of them on Nelson Road, yet another military hero. As a footnote to the future, of those three names only Keith failed to make the magical grade for the Grammar School with yours truly, although a boy who lived further down to the south on Nelson Road, Chris Scarles did pass that test, but he didn’t go to The Priory School. we met later in my story.
However, if I had a longer walk to school it was more than compensated for by the living accommodation. Unlike Rainbow Corner which was little more than a slum, Wellesley Road was paradise. Built during the reign of Queen Victoria it consisted of large detached houses for the wealthy middle class of Great Yarmouth, flanked at the northern end by Sandown Road with very similar houses and on the southern flank Albemarle Road, more militaria, which in turn backed onto Norfolk Square, a large green square just less than the size of a football pitch with grand Victorian houses on northern and southern flanks with the east end facing the North Parade and the sea and the west facing onto Wellesley Road, both ends protected by chest high walls and locked iron gates, the challenge for us of course, getting in to play without being caught and thrown out.
Between the two latter roads was the Wellesley Recreation Ground, what the Victorian residents thought when it was put there I can only imagine, but as an amenity for the town it was excellent. In addition to the football pitch with a seated and covered Grandstand on the eastern side and a covered standing area on the western side there was a running track, 440 yards long, I know that from later experience running in the school sports in that race plus tennis courts and bowling greens, I didn’t get around to using either of those. Important to recall that outside of organised athletics events or official training or paying to use the greens or courts this amenity was off limits to the children who took up residence on Wellesley Road, for we were not the only family to find ourselves in such a lucky situation.
When we received the news of our impending departure from Rainbow Corner the first task was to look over the property, probably to see how our furniture, still in store at Brett’s depository, would fit our new home. I may have misheard or perhaps not understood it correctly but we didn’t get the keys to the whole house just the ground floor and when we carried out our inspection and entered the front door our new home for the first time and as it turned out for the last time, your truly, ignoring any warnings from parents, ran in and straight up the stairs and into the first room I found only to be greeted with another family sitting at a table eating, I am not sure who was the more surprised, but I was quickly shown the way back down and Mr Bexfield followed me down the stairs to meet the rest of my family and probably to ensure I didn’t do it again. As a result of my actions my father pocketed our key to the front door and from then until the end of our residency we used the back door.
The house was large, and the rooms had high ceilings and electricity, after Rainbow Corner that was a blessing, we had been used to it on Woodlands Avenue, so the status quo had been restored, but it also meant watching what we spent, as a result we only had the lights on in the room or rooms being used. My father was nothing if not careful. I was not able, nor did I try to find out how many rooms were occupied by the Bexfield family, but I can recall how many we had use of. As we went in the rear entrance, sounds better than back door, the kitchen was on the left of the back stairs, on the right a larger room which we used as a parlour or sitting room from which the door opened onto the hall, the first room on the right was used by my parents as their bedroom, it was large enough to take a double bed, wardrobe and dressing table, I didn’t at the time stop to think what the room would have been used for in normal circumstances but now it intrigues me. Back into the hallway and on the right a large room with French windows, this was our room, again a double bed and furniture, we all slept in that bed with my brother and I at the top and my sister at the bottom, it was a larger room than the one my parents slept in but not as large as the room at the front of the house, which was to the right of the front door as you entered, not that we did after my first disastrous entrance. The front room was only used on very special occasions and there were not many of those, it was off a large hall with a wide staircase leading up to the first floor. The room seemed enormous, bigger than the whole ground floor dimensions of Rainbow Corner and of course looked out onto Wellesley Road, we had gone up in the world. Oh yes before I forget, all the rooms had a fireplace to keep the occupants warm, not that we used the ones in the bedrooms and the floor coverings were linoleum with rugs or mats, so you didn’t dilly dally in getting into bed in the winter.
There was one facility we didn’t have, a bathroom, that was a privilege given to our neighbours upstairs, but in truth it didn’t matter very much, Woodlands Avenue did have a bathroom but no hot water and Rainbow Corner no such facilities at all. We coped by having a bath which rested on the roof of the outdoor toilet and came in on Sunday evenings for the weekly ritual of bath and then a spoonful of syrup of figs and off to bed. The bath was filled by hot water from kettles and we bathed in order, first my sister then my brother and finally yours truly, so by the time I got in although it was still warm it was not entirely pristine, but I don’t remember making a fuss, it was the way it was and would have made no difference. The younger ones then sat on the kitchen table to be dried off and I, probably because of my seniority dried myself standing in front of the fire, then on with pyjamas, large spoonful of syrup of figs and off to bed. I don’t recall any of us having dressing gowns, probably a luxury too far, in fact I didn’t use a dressing gown until I married. The bath wasn’t big enough for an adult so where and when my parents bathed I have no idea, but they didn’t ever smell of body sweat and much later in life I did ask my father about this and he claimed and I have no reason to believe or doubt it that he and others took the opportunity to bathe in the large vats they used in the factory for soaking silks or bandages when they did overtime, which in my father’s case was virtually every day, his joining us for dinner or as we called it tea was a rare event. I am sure that is why he insisted all the family be there for Sunday lunch or as we knew it dinner, but more of that later.
One of the major differences between Rainbow Corner and No 38 was we had a garden and as we had the ground floor we had sole use of the garden. The house was a large one but the garden not so, but it was a garden and it was ours. A path ran alongside the house from the front to an arched gate which opened into the garden and first a large pear tree, then a fish pond, with some water but no fish then a lawn and finally a rockery running up to the garden wall beyond which was a coal yard and then a railway station Great Yarmouth Beach. Attached to the back of the house was the outside toilet and on the side of the house opposite the pond the back door up two steps with the kitchen on the left and living room on the right and the back stairs which we were forbidden to use lay between them, but best of all a cellar or basement, which was quite a size and eventually useable, I stress eventually as at first it stored the furniture we couldn’t fit in plus packing cases and suit cases etc.
So we were now established in No 38 Wellesley Road and would remain there for another five years and they were in the main very happy years, but it has to be said that all of my childhood years were happy ones, we were part of the working poor but we as children were not aware of that, all our friends were the same, but although we didn’t enjoy the luxuries of the present day, such as cars, television or foreign holidays, my parents never took a holiday together during their married lives, we were never hungry or without clothes on our back or shoes on our feet. We had a roof over our heads, food on the table and warm beds and that was all we needed, plus something that children in 2017 don’t have as much of, freedom without worry. Our lives were not governed by the internet, mobile phones or social media, our world may have been a small one, confined to our part of Great Yarmouth but it was a safe and secure one.
Chapter 19 – Going to the Pictures
By far the most important change in my life was the cinema, you may recall from my writing earlier that cinema visits in Cheddleton were rare, primarily because it required an organised trip into Hanley and for parents and three children apart from the expense it was a logistical nightmare of buses etc, but Great Yarmouth was entirely different. In 1946 there were four cinemas. The Regal, Regent, Royal Aquarium and The Empire to choose from if you were an adult, but for myself and friends there was in those early post war days only one The Aquarium, we didn’t bother with the Royal part of the name. They ran shows for kids on a Saturday morning which was the equivalent to a magnet and iron filings.
The formula was straightforward a “short” followed by the main feature, usually a western and then the serial, which finished with a “cliff hanger” in which the hero, heroine or both were left in a dangerous and impossible situation, which was of course overcome in the opening minutes of the next episode, for which you had to wait a week. The way they managed to escape from these situations was incredible and in real life would have been laughed at, but we were nine years old and for two and a half hours on a Saturday morning lived entirely in that world that only Hollywood could offer, and we believed everything that was put in front of us on the “silver screen”.
Who were these hero’s, who on a Saturday took us out of the world we lived in. A world of home and it’s restrictions, school with even more restrictions, food shortages, especially sweets, chocolate bars and ice cream, plus queueing for almost all the everyday staples of home life. On that screen was the chance to live in a different world, a world of make believe that seemed normal and natural. When we left the cinema to make our way home we rode imaginary horses, we all had imaginary pistols on our hips and spoke in the language that we presumed real cowboys spoke, that of the Hollywood “B” western film.
The formula which I identified earlier was the same almost every week but on rare occasions we were blessed with a showing of a major film but more of that later. the “short” film which kicked off our entertainment was about fifteen minutes long and usually a comedy of some description the simpler the better, then the main feature normally ran for an hour and would feature our heroes and we all had different favourites, the choices were wide and varied and the list long. Roy Rogers, Buck Jones and Gene Autrey, they were all singing cowboys. Hopalong Cassidy, the Durango Kid, the Cisco Kid these characters remained the same in all their films.
Then there were the films where the lead actor played a different character in each film examples were Rod Cameron, Bob Steele, Tim McCoy, Bob Baker, Ken Maynard and the aptly named Lash Larue using a whip as much as a pistol.
The plotting was simple and followed the same pattern whoever was in the film and they nearly all had a sidekick, providing some sort of comedy relief from the tension. These actors were not so well known but were able to switch from assisting one hero to another in one film after another prime examples were Smiley Burnett who worked mostly alongside Gene Autrey, George “Gabby” Hayes, so named because of fast speech pattern with Hopalong Cassidy, Andy Devine with Roy Rogers who was also supported by the country singing group The Sons of the Pioneers led by Bob Nolan and Fuzzy Knight who supported Bob Baker. What was missing were any female actors leading the films but plenty in supporting roles but apart from Dale Evans who not only worked with Roy Rogers she was his wife, their names escape me, but I was only ten years old and girls didn’t feature highly in my life.
Alongside these heroes and nearly as famous in some cases were their horses, Hopalong Cassidy and Topper, Roy Rogers and Trigger, Buck Jones and The Lone Ranger had horses named Silver, although The Lone Ranger was mostly in the serial section and finally and probably the most famous of them all Gene Autrey and Champion, a horse that in the end was as famous as it’s rider and had a major TV series “Champion the Wonder Horse”.
If the main features were mainly westerns the serials were varied indeed, all of them featuring heroic lead roles and a damsel in some sort of distress and villains that made your flesh creep and hide behind the seat in front of you, they knew how to give the audience villainy on a grand scale but somehow never came out on top, but that was the glory of the Saturday morning serial.
The listing could go on to fill a book on its own but a few remain in my mind the first and most memorable was “Riders of Death Valley”, a western, the opening shot every week was the five riders riding line abreast across the screen and then onto the meat of the plot, if I close my eyes I can still see it now.
Serials could be broken down into five main sections. Westerns, Spies and Cops, Jungle, Science Fiction and Super Heroes, a catch all where the lead role was more important than the story line. They would normally run to eight episodes about twenty-five minutes long and end with the cliff hanger, a tried and trusted formula and we loved them.
The first section was Westerns too many to try and deal with here. The second Dick Tracy, taken from the comic book series. Junior G-Men. Don Winslow US Coastguard adapted from a radio series in America. The Spider and Return of the Spider, The Phantom and The Green Hornet and Buck Rogers The third mostly Tarzan films but not featuring the only Tarzan that really counted Johnny Weissmuller, among the imposters were Herman Brix (later to take the name Bruce Bennett, I can see why) and Buster Crabbe of whom more later. Last but by no means least were the Super Heroes all taken from The Marvel Comics Series which as I said earlier in my story we were now able to buy if you had the money and read and exchange with your friends, so different to British Comics. Here they were on the screen Batman and Robin, Superman and my favourite Captain Marvel played by an actor who was also in many of the westerns Tom Tyler, although he didn’t look like the cartoon drawings we were familiar with we swallowed that and as with all the other serials lived them vicariously, once out of the cinema and back into the fresh air we were those heroes all the way home until you were brought back down to earth.
One of the very interesting differences between 1947 and 2018 is how long films stayed on the circuits. Now they are in the cinema for two or three weeks and then onto TV or Box Sets, not the case back then. All the films and serials I have highlighted were made in the 1930’s and early 1940’s and were recycled on a regular basis so although Hollywood and the much smaller British film makers were back in business after the war they couldn’t keep up with demand, so films from the 1930’s continued to do the rounds without seeming to date and people continued to pay money to see them. For the cinema goer or as it was called going to the pictures the formula was always the same a “B” picture, some adverts and then the main feature and it was a continuous showing starting at 1.30 pm until the National Anthem at 10.15pm, so if you weren’t caught out you could see the whole programme at least twice in one day or go in halfway through one or other of the films and watch until you reached the point you came in at, at which stage you got up and went out. There were occasions when mother would send me and my siblings to the pictures with strict instructions not to come out until a given time when she would be home to receive us. This meant an almost state of guerrilla warfare with the usherettes whose job was to make sure this didn’t happen. At a point in a film I would issue instructions to my brother and sister to drop onto their knees and we would crawl along the floor from one part of the cinema to another and resume watching from entirely different seats and hope our ruse had not been discovered. Success or failure in this exercise depended entirely on which usherettes were on duty, some knew what was going on and if the cinema was not full or expecting to be would ignore all this manoeuvring. One however seemed to have made it her aim in life to thwart all such efforts, on not just on our part but all others with similar instructions from their mothers and was never happier than when she would escort a group of children to the front door and out into the street, but as often as she succeeded so did we. At the interval, when most of the action took place and when dropped to our knees she would switch on her torch, and starting at the rear of the auditorium look along every row to identify any miscreants, it was much like the POW films we saw later in life with the German Guards looking for escapees, the difference being we were trying to avoid capture and ejection rather than further imprisonment. Looking back this only occurred at the Aquarium which must have been our cinema of choice, because it was the nearest one to where we lived.
You might remember that earlier I referred to the occasional treat of a major film, this usually happened but not every time when a serial came to the end and before the next one started the following week we might get the major treat of a full-length film. These were of course geared to appeal to the Saturday morning audience, no romances, action was the order of the day and especially those featuring Errol Flynn, whose heroic roles lived in the heads of boys for the rest of the following week. There were three films that stick in my memory still, The Sea Hawk, Captain Blood and The Adventures of Robin Hood. These films were made by Warner Bros in the late 1930’s but were still doing the rounds in the mid and late 1940’s and we loved them, especially Robin Hood. There have been many films about Robin Hood since then but none as memorable as the 1938 version with Errol Flynn, in glorious technicolour, and containing the shadow sword fight on the castle stairs with Basil Rathbone. As we went home, all of us in our heads Robin Hood, from somewhere we managed to find enough sticks to recreate this famous fight scene repeatedly.
Chapter 18 – Understanding Yarmouth
Although it took up a lot of our time, school was not the most important part of our young lives, it was what we did after school hours, at the weekends and during school holidays that were most important, and we couldn’t wait for those times to come around.
I think it is time for me to give you a detailed description of the enormous difference between my former life in Staffordshire and my new life in Great Yarmouth.
The most immediate difference was the comparative size of each, the whole of Cheddleton could be put in one small section of my home town without being noticed and it was this much larger canvas that both allowed and encouraged me to paint different pictures in my life, bear in mind I was still only nearly ten years old and learning just how different life was in many ways, my description of school being just one of them, but it was what opportunities that presented themselves outside school life that were more interesting.
Great Yarmouth had been what was termed “a front line” town during the war we had just endured, in addition to being a seaside holiday resort it was also an important port for mercantile trade and during the war a base for the Royal Navy thus a target for the Luftwaffe, their efforts had certainly made their mark and the evidence was all around us in the many bombed out buildings in the town but as far as we schoolboys were concerned it was a playground from heaven while it lasted and before the authorities were able to clear it away. Officially we were banned from playing in the bomb-damaged buildings but there were far more buildings than wardens to prevent small boys doing what they do best, enjoy themselves reliving the war in the debris left behind by the real thing.
It is hard to put into words the pleasure we were able to get from the ruins we played in, half a house still standing with the stairs still intact against one wall which meant you could reach the first floor where perhaps the flooring had been partially destroyed leaving cross beams and joists which could be jumped or crawled over while in our imagination we were commando’s or some hero from the films we saw, and that was another big difference, the cinema, but more of that later. Not all the damage done by German bombing was stairs to be climbed, cellars were there to be explored together with gardens overgrown after being ignored for years, it was an outdoor paradise for gangs of small boys to exploit and that was another thing “the gang”. It was almost exactly the same as Cheddleton, no phones with which to arrange meeting up, you called for each other, or agreed the day before the time and place to meet and turned up, waited to make sure everyone who was going to be present was present and then off we would go to enjoy the day, and we did enjoy the day, it was an outdoor life in a post war paradise, where the authorities were thin on the ground or just too busy to worry about the activities of gangs of boys, out doing what boys did best in those days, play games they made up daily, from their imagination, imaginations that ranged far and wide, fuelled by what we saw on the silver screen on a Saturday morning, or from our comics which we read assiduously and exchanged back and forth between the gang, somehow without any planning we all seemed to have comics different one from another, and we relived the adventures we had seen or read about every day. If you want to get a flavour of our life back then get the DVD of the film “Hope and Glory”. sections of that film could have been drawn from our lives in those post war days.
If the excitement of games played in the buildings ruined by bombing palled or was curtailed by the authorities there were plenty of other delights on offer, it may seem funny now, but another popular “playground” was the Churchyard and the adjoining cemetery. You would think the word churchyard would be self- explanatory, but this was different from the average. The Churchyard surrounded the Parish Church, dedicated to Saint Nicholas, declared the largest church which wasn’t either a Cathedral or Minster under the auspices of the Church of England, and accordingly the churchyard matched it in size therefore offering opportunities for adventure for gangs of small boys. The western end was surrounded by the remains of the old town wall, part of which was a tower, known as the Bone Tower which was forbidding even in daylight and terrifying in the gloom of a late afternoon in winter, it was indeed a brave soul who ventured in alone after dark. The name I learned much later in life was based upon truth., It was a Charnel Tower where during the plague of the middle age bodies were burned, and the residue contained bones, hence the name.
Notices warned that climbing on the wall was forbidden, this of course only made it the more attractive, so it was not uncommon to see bands of small boys running jumping and sword fighting along the top of the wall, which ran for some fifty yards from Northgate Street to the Bone Tower attached to which was a gate that let pedestrians out of the Churchyard to Maygrove, a small estate of pre-war houses, where some of my friends lived. As with all our games the theme was taken from comics or films the most popular of which was Robin Hood but more of that later.
I imagine I don’t need to tell you, but our activities in the Churchyard and the adjoining cemetery were not allowed, but as with most other public spaces where such fun was forbidden it made it more attractive and add in the fact that the attendants were either too old or in most cases non-existent, our games went unhampered most of the time. Due to the war the trees, bushes and vegetation in both Churchyard and Cemetery were overgrown, so even if an attendant did try and catch one of us the hiding places were so many that the chances of being caught and punished was slim and even if you were caught the admonishment was probably a clip around the ear, which of course was a badge of honour. The retribution you didn’t enjoy was being reported to mother or father, my father held such authorities in high regard and dealt out suitable punishment to fit the crime. But we rarely got caught so my father did not have much cause to worry about the family reputation.
A further major difference in our new home compared to our previous location was the beach. As I pointed out earlier when we first arrived back from our wartime home the beach in most part was out of bounds due to the wartime laying of land mines but gradually the beach was being cleared and was open to public use again especially on the central promenade, the further north you walked it was less likely to be available for use by the public, but it was all clearly identified so there was no excuse for going onto the wrong section of the beach and I cannot recall anyone making that mistake and paying the inevitable price. Looking back now it seems strange but in those early days after the war I don’t recall much time being spent on the beach it was mostly in those playgrounds already identified.
Chapter 17 – Outside the Classroom
The other teacher was Mr E.C Thompson, known affectionately as “Ernie” he taught the Junior Four class, my last year at the school, he also picked the school Junior football team. Sports were encouraged as part of the curriculum but taking part was not easy as the school had no sport facilities on the premises. In season we had football, cricket and swimming, the first two were relatively painless but not the latter.
Football and cricket were played on the Beaconsfield Recreation Ground, another heroic name, but to get there we had a twenty-minute walk, well twenty for adults but think about supervising forty or more boys and it becomes a different proposition, but usually we arrived there with no significant losses of personnel or major injuries.
Swimming was even more of a trek. The only swimming pool in Great Yarmouth was on the seafront and again a long walk, in fact a thirty-minute swim took up a whole morning, the walk taking up at least twenty-five minutes each way and then changing and swimming and then getting dry and the walk back it is easy to see where the time went. Swimming was not a pleasure at all, it commenced in May until end of term in July. The water in the pool was drawn from the North Sea, and the North Sea is not the Mediterranean and in May and June in particular, COLD. On arrival we would look at the board outside the front entrance, on the board was chalked the water temperature, of course in those days Fahrenheit and that information raised or lowered our spirits, mostly the latter, but whatever the temperature there was no escape. The swimming instructor was an ex professional boxer “Bandsman” Blake, we didn’t know his first name, no need he was Mr Blake.
As we were forced into the very cold water and turned blue, Mr Blake joined us, he however was clothed in thick shirt and trousers, heavy white woollen sweater and chest high waders, looking back it was my first encounter with sadism although at the time I had not ever heard the word spoken.
The next half an hour was sheer purgatory, Mr Blake was merciless, you were in and you stayed in, no half measures. It didn’t matter how hard you swam back and forth you could not get warm, you could hear teeth chattering all around you, it was the longest half hour of our short lifetimes, the only small comfort was the warm drink at the end of the torture, that is you had been given money to buy it, if not it was the sight of the next class waiting in trepidation at the side of the pool for their turn. Since then the pool has been modernised it is indoor and the water heated, softies.
If swimming wasn’t an activity I looked forward to then football certainly was, and the weekly excursion to the Beaconsfield Recreation Ground from September to April was a highlight of our school existence, especially for me as I found out I could play well enough to be selected for the school team and pull on the yellow and black striped jersey, the school colours. In those days inter school matches were played Saturday mornings, no skipping classes for midweek matches, but it made no difference we would have played whatever the day or time, we just loved playing football. We had a fairly good team and were in the running to be top of the league but our nemesis then and it seemed the rest of my school football life, was North Denes School which contained the Huggins brothers, when I was at the Priory it was the twins and when I was at the Grammar School they joined their elder brother, they were big, strong and very intimidating, both on the pitch and off. It is funny but when I met them again socially later in life they didn’t appear so intimidating, probably because by then they didn’t go around in threes all the time.
Our form master was also in charge of the football team and that mix of success in classroom and the football pitch was a heady brew and something you worked hard for, although looking back you didn’t exactly know why. I had no ambition to go to the Grammar School, in fact I don’t think most of us did, we did the lessons that were put in front of us and accordingly sat where we were put in the classroom pecking order but getting into the school football team was an entirely different matter and once there you guarded your place jealously. One instance springs to mind, for some reason or another I was off school, which in itself was unusual, I was not a sickly child, and on my return found my place in the team had been usurped and I was upset to say the least when I wasn’t immediately reinstated on my return, Mr Thompson took me to one side and told me that in my absence the team and my replacement had done well and I would have to work to get my place back, if he had told me my school work had slipped a notch or two and my prospect of the Grammar School had diminished I would not have been concerned in the slightest, but being left out of the football team was different, I did work hard, but luck was also on my side, another of my team mates was off with some illness or other and I was back in the team, not at outside left as before but behind him at left half where I found myself to be more suited and stayed there as first choice( I was good enough to be chosen for a trial for the Town boys team but just not good enough to achieve a place), until I left the Priory to go the Grammar School, life can play funny tricks.
Chapter 16 – Early School Life
Earlier in this memoir I wrote about cigarette cards and how they opened new worlds of football, cricket, films, history and many other areas of life for myself and my friends and how because pocket money was unknown in the circles I moved they became a form of currency. This was underlined at school. At this point I think I should explain the playground structure at The Priory School. You approached the school from Priory Gardens, through the Main Gate, turning left you passed the Headmasters Office building on the left and arrived in the lower playground or quad as it was fancifully called, imitating the public schools we read about in our comics, in the far corner was the main entrance, once inside you turned left to the Junior Years classrooms and right for the Senior Years, classes numbered J1 to J4to the left S1 to S4 on the right and never the twain should meet.
Ball games were not allowed in the Junior Playground, I have no idea why, in 1946 it wasn’t considered necessary to explain school rules, you were expected to do as you were told, and most boys did. This rule however did enable other games to flourish in a relatively calmer atmosphere than that of the Senior Playground, I have alr eady written about marbles but that was just one of several that were enjoyed throughout the school year, one or two seasonal, some all year round. The main seasonal game was “conkers” played with horse chestnuts, with a hole drilled through the nut and a string inserted and knotted at one end to stop the nut falling or flying off, I say flying for the object of the game was to smash your opponent’s nut, also on a string, if you achieved that goal your successes were noted as a 1er,2er, 3er etc in order to be more successful some boys would get their fathers to pickle their conkers making them like iron and thus more likely to be winners. Winning was important and having an unbeaten conker gave great kudos to the owner.
Among the more sedentary games that flourished two stand out in my memory. The first was played with the treasured cigarette cards, and I don’t use the word treasured lightly, conkers came and went, but your collection of cigarette cards were an important part of your life, the more sets you had in your collection especially those connected to sports, aeroplanes, cars and films and film stars the more envied you became, wild flowers and animals didn’t carry so much weight with nine year old boys. The individual sets within your overall collection could be built three ways, by purchasing, swapping or winning in a game. The first was very unlikely as money was an even rarer commodity and if you did have any it would be kept buying a new comic or if you were flush a visit to the cinema on a Saturday morning.
Swapping or bartering was also prevalent, if you had repeats of any cards in your collection you would look out for someone who was looking for that card and hope he had a repeat he was willing to exchange in a set where you had gaps, once the set was complete it was secured with an elastic band for safety and into one of the numerous tobacco tins that lay around our home.
The whole point of the game was to be able win cards that would fill the gaps if you couldn’t find anyone able or willing to swap with, or to build up a stock of repeat cards in as many sets as possible for the bartering process. The game itself was simple, a card was stood up against the wall and from about three feet away you took turns flicking cards at the standing card with the aim of knocking it down, if you did you claimed not only that card but also those laying around that had failed to do so, a successful knock down in a long game with three of four contestants could add considerably to your stock of repeats and sometimes set you off on collecting a new set, even wild flowers. Oh, happy days.
A very similar game, but one which did not involve bartering was instead of cigarette cards, milk bottle tops. This was really for those who hadn’t made the big time in the cigarette card arena. It seems funny looking back but we could make a game out of virtually anything and everything you could find, pick up and carry, in this case tops off a bottle of milk.
You may recall that I wrote of receiving a small bottle of milk at Wetley Rocks School as part of a plan to make sure children had a nutritional diet at school, the bottles contained one third of a pint, but the important part was the cardboard top, which had a hole in the middle to take a straw. At the end of the war this was continued, in fact until the nineteen seventies when it was stopped by a politician whose name would become famous for more than that meanspirited act on her part. With boys’ ever being inventive the possibilities of making a game from them was soon realised and they were used in a game the same as with cigarette cards but without the need to swap to make up sets.
Who can remember snake belts, every boy had one, normally red and black cloth with a snake buckle? Your collection of cardboard tops was strung together and the string plus tops looped through your belt, the more you had looped on your belt the higher up the pecking order you were, the interesting thing was that by the very nature of the importance of your cigarette card collections and the fact that you didn’t carry them around all the time added to the importance of your belt full of bottle tops, boys are funny creatures, I wonder what has replaced cigarette cards and bottle tops in 2018.
But school life was not just being in the playground, there was a more serious side, education, although I don’t think that was the thought uppermost in our minds, although it consumed most of our day at school, the classroom was only a hindrance to be endured between breaks and going home time.
Classrooms then are not at all like those of 2018, much more regimented, seating determined by a pecking order and mostly clothed in silence. Although not at all to be likened to the Yorkshire Schools exemplified by Dotheboys Hall in Charles Dickens wonderful work Nicholas Nickleby, they certainly did not possess the more relaxed atmosphere of classrooms in 2018. The first major difference was the seating, the desks were two seaters, the top divided in half allowing each pupil his own storage space, where all the necessary material for your work could be stored and more important left overnight, day after day, week after week, in fact the only time you needed to clear your desk was at the end of term, prior to any seating rearrangements, which were determined by testing and results.
As I said earlier the seating was in a strict pecking order, determined as follows. The teacher looking at the class of boys, yes all boys, with the blackboard behind him would survey up to five rows of five two seater desks, at the top left at the back sat the boy who had come out in the pre term end tests as the most successful pupil and next to him the second and in the row in front third and fourth and so on up and down the ranks until at the very front of Row Five would be the very least able or the laziest, a world where everyone knew their place, This could and would vary each term depending on results, and did, although there was little or no movement in Row Five, competition in Row One was totally different, number one David Sell was an immovable object, but the next three or four places were open to change, however yours truly was not lucky enough to be in that little group although I did achieve seventh and one year I slipped to ninth .The group received rather more attention from our teacher than the far side of the room, the reason for this was simple, we were being groomed to take the eleven plus and thus the Grammar School beckoned and although league tables as such were not in place, the number of boys you sent on to Grammar School gave the school kudos in the eyes of prospective parents, it was a pernicious and divisive system although I wasn’t aware of it at the time.
However, the one thing you can celebrate is that boys didn’t worry about who sat where when the bell rang, and we were released from classroom to playground. Where you sat wasn’t an issue for most of us, although there were cliques of course, they were known as gangs in my less erudite days, and I can promise you I was not in any group that welcomed David Sell into their midst. It is difficult to try after such a long time to say why there was so much antipathy on my part to David, but I can remember him always saying in a manner that irritated me that his parents were thinking of calling him Christopher William but had they done so his initials would have been CWS and his father didn’t want him to have those initials for fear people thought that they shopped at the Co-op, well we did and got the divvy, it may have been a joke but not one I could understand. Oddly enough in the end I don’t recall whether he passed for the Grammar School, I have two school photographs but cannot see him on either, perhaps my memory is going but I don’t think so.
It is interesting but I find I cannot recall many of my teachers’ names from those early days, two spring to mind, the first Mr Holdsworth was the woodwork teacher. The woodwork room was at the northern end of the larger playground and of course subject to a constant battering from balls used in the numerous games of football that took place daily and that leads me on to football outside the playground.
Chapter 15 – Don’t Look Back It is advised that in life you should never look back and make comparison with life as it is at present, but when writing about your “life” you have no choice and perhaps rose-tinted spectacles are on the end of my nose as I write this piece, but it was different then.
The sun seemed to shine all the time, the days were endless, and freedom to come and go was a given to a small boy without the fear that exists in the 21st century. We did go out early in the day, take a sandwich or if you were near enough go home for lunch, but we didn’t use that word and then back out again until tea time beckoned, it was the Cheddleton routine all over again, but with different friends and writ large.
Writ large because the canvas on which we painted was so much bigger. Great Yarmouth in 1946 was trying to recover from the war, it had been a frontline town, and this was evident wherever you walked. At first being introduced to our new surroundings was carried out in the company of adults, usually parents or grandparents, but after a short while having made friends at school with boys who knew their way around a new freedom was established and I saw the town through the eyes of a boy.
Our playgrounds were numerous, the streets immediately around where we lived, a little further away the St Nicholas Church Grave Yard, then expanding to the Town Cemetery, so far none of the green fields I had been used to.
Let me take you on a little journey. We will walk up the Row, across White Horse Plain and Northgate Street, into the Cemetery via the Churchyard, out onto Nelson or Kitchener Road, depending on the game being played, and the gate we used, note the heroic names our roads were given. Our route then took us under the level crossing, it was a subway which echoed, and on down the road to the beach, this route avoided too many main roads, these cut down on the opportunity for imaginative games. All I have just described was entirely new to me for although we had paid the occasional visit to Great Yarmouth from Cheddleton I had no memory of anything outside of the immediate vicinity of my grandmothers’ house and that was very sketchy, so the first time I saw the seafront was an experience as clear as if it were yesterday.
After crossing Nelson Road, you came to Wellesley Road, another hero from the past, and the Wellesley Recreation Ground, then the seafront, North Parade, and The Waterways. The Waterways was a self-contained winding canal several hundred yards’ long with little islands connected by wooden and brick bridges, which should have been filled with water and with boats carrying passengers back and forth. When I saw it for the first time it had been neglected during the war years and was filled with sand blown from the beach with occasional lagoons of shallow water, it was a playground paradise for gangs of small boys, until of course you were chased out by some official, who obviously had never been a boy himself. The beach which ran parallel to the Waterways was off limits to all but the bravest of souls, rolls of barbed wire and large signs with Danger Mines above a skull and cross bones were more than enough to deter us. As the year progressed more and more of the beach was cleared of mines and our horizons expanded, one part of that expansion was Britannia Pier, the sand had blown up the north side of the pier to such an extent you could walk up and climb onto the pier without let or hindrance, and many games could be enjoyed in and out of the run down and abandoned wooden buildings and of course to walk out over the sea peering through the gaps in the wooden boarded floor at the water below. I was nine years old and life was good.
But Great Yarmouth wasn’t just waterway and beaches, it was a world that I couldn’t have imagined while living in Cheddleton, first the numbers of people, one example to think about, there were probably more in my class at The Priory than in the whole of Wetley Rocks school put together or so it seemed. The playground bounded on one side by remains of the medieval town wall and other three by houses. The school buildings were in three parts, a square at either end joined by a walkway in the middle of which was the school gate exiting onto Priory gardens and then onto Priory Plain dominated at the eastern end by the enormous Methodist chapel fronted by two large Doric columns, it looked like something from Ancient Rome or at least as I imagined Ancient Rome to be. The lower quadrangle was for the younger boys and the upper for the older pupils, I have worked it out and there would have been over two hundred boys in the playground at dinner break, we were not so sophisticated in those days to understand the nuances of lunch and dinner when it came to satisfying hunger in boys. If we had even thought about it our parents paid for school dinners, so it was dinner time at 12pm each day.
Although parents and teachers probably lived in the dream world where boys looked forward to going into the classroom bursting with enthusiasm for a day of education my memory is of something entirely different, we lived for break time, to be out of the classroom, looking forward to the playground games, renewing friendships that had been cruelly interrupted by lessons and often settling old scores with an adversary from a rival gang, for even then turf wars were evident, although they didn’t have that sophisticated description. Different groups of boys took over different sections of the playground in which to carry out whatever activity was popular that day or week and with so many pupils on the school roll space was at a premium, and if needed would be defended stoutly. The games we played were varied from almost sedentary to the extremely vigorous, the latter being more prevalent in the upper playground, the older and bigger boys being more aware of the gang culture that existed and conscious of not losing face.
With so many bodies in such a small space football was not easy, especially if played between rival groups as it often was, using a tennis ball rather than the large leather ball I had become used to in Cheddleton. The goals were either coats laid on the floor or chalked on the wall depending whether the game was being played from north to south or east to west, and sometimes both at the same time which in itself normally presaged major or minor chaos as the ball from each game got mixed up and even more when disputes as to whether the ball had been between the chalked posts on one hand or the piled coats on the other often led to arguments being settled in a physical manner.
Chapter 15 - Not All Knocks and Bruises
Not all the games required such physicality, there were others less demanding on the seemingly boundless energy we all seemed to possess in those days, games that possibly required a more studied approach. One of these was marbles, a simple game, chalk a circle on the floor, chalk was a much sought after commodity in those days, determine who would be going first, the toss of a coin if anyone had one, or guessing which hand held the stone or far more sophisticated, stone, paper, scissors, the competing boys would hide one hand behind their back and produce them together, either clenched-stone, flat and open – paper or two fingers in a vee -scissors, arriving at a result was somewhat complicated, paper could wrap around stone to win, scissors could cut paper and stone could break scissors, needless to say it was not unusual for arguments to break out over a contested result over the best of three to see who would start, the losers alley being placed in the chalk circle, the winner would then propel his alley at the first alley to try and remove it from the circle, each player took it in turns to try and knock the opponents alley out with their other glass marbles and the winner would collect all the marbles left in the circle together with the losers alley, You probably don’t need me to tell you that arguments were numerous and disputes settled in the time honoured manner, a wrestling contest. Unless of course an attempt at settlement was interrupted by a teacher, who in turn took the opportunity to mete out his own brand of justice.
Chapter 14– Getting to Know Great Yarmouth
The Rows in Great Yarmouth were unique, and perhaps if still around in the 21st Century would have been declared a World Heritage Site, but most them were pulled down at the end of World War II, and possibly without anyone realising at the time exactly what they were doing. When I first returned I had no idea of how important the rows were in the history of the town. There were 145 in total and ran from the East to the West from the main roads that ran through the centre of the town to the various quays alongside the river. Their origin came from medieval times when it was forbidden to build outside the Town walls, so they were crammed in to meet the need of the growing population, and eventually ended up as slums.
My maternal grandmother lived no more than a quarter of a mile from my paternal grandparents, number five Row three, which ran from Northgate Street to North Quay and was if anything smaller than the house we were then sharing, or so it seemed to me at the time. The living room was very small and crowded with ornaments and tobacco tins. The ornaments got a passing glance, but the tobacco tins, well they could be useful, for a start storing buttons, remember them. It was only later as I grew older that I realised that Grandad Newark’s house was different, I learned that the living room had once been a shop and the room behind it, always concealed by a very heavy blue curtain, and now a large kitchen had been part of the bake house, for that had been the family business making bread and cakes.
My grandparents were very kind and gentle people I can’t remember either of them ever raising their voices and there were always toffees on offer on visits, I think by the time the war ended Grandad must have retired or nearing it for I don’t recall ever seeing him in working clothes. My father wore navy bib and brace dungarees every day except Sunday, whereas Grandad sported jacket, trousers, waistcoat and cap, even in the house always a cap, although when it was removed he had a fine head of thick white hair, he was a man of few words, leaving most of the talking to my grandmother who if admonishment was ever required would quietly say, that’s enough for now John Willy, her pet name for him, and lest I forget, a cigarette, he like my father smoked roll ups, do it yourself cigarettes, the difference being my father used his fingers and Grandad a small machine about the size of one of the numerous tobacco tins, into which was put a cigarette paper, some tobacco and by a miracle out the other end came a cigarette. My father preferred his fingers, my mother later told me it was because they used less tobacco than the machine, that didn’t help him, he smoked all his life and it more than likely ended his life prematurely.
Perhaps it is time to give you some idea of how different I found Great Yarmouth to Cheddleton. First it was a town, not a hamlet, and it had all the amenities a town could offer in 1946, and of course being a seaside town a beach, but the biggest difference was that I was a foreigner in my own home town, I didn’t know where anywhere was, didn’t have a school to go to, and didn’t have any friends, just my family but it very quickly changed and the second stage of my early life soon took shape.
Perhaps the major difference other than those recorded was the effects of the war. Great Yarmouth had been on the front line and subject to many German bombing raids and the evidence was all around in the form of bombed buildings, looking back considering the number of bombing raids the town had endured and how near some bombs landed both my grandparents were lucky to have survived the war without damage to their houses or themselves.
As soon as we were settled in to our new home the first thing required of my parents was to find me a school, I had just turned eight years old, my brother five and my sister three, it is funny that as you grow up into adulthood those age differences mean nothing, but at eight they are enormous and if my siblings have not featured much in this account it is very simple, I had very little to do with them during that early part of my life, but once back in Yarmouth they began to play a larger role. So where to put me for the next stage of my education, and here we ran up against history, both my parents went to different schools in their childhood, my father to the Nelson Boys School and my mother to the Edward Worledge School for girls, I can guess who the first was named for but not the second, but both these establishments were at the other end of the town so whatever their feelings for their alma maters they had to find an alternative.
The nearest school to our temporary home was The Priory School for Boys and next door the girl’s school, both adjacent to the Parish Church of St Nicholas, itself the largest Parish Church in England but fire bombed during the conflict we had just endured. The Priory from which the schools took their names was in the church grounds and less than a short walk of perhaps five minutes if they would accept me. Luckily for me my Uncle Percy was friends with the headmaster Mr Sillis, oh what would Charles Dickens made of him, but we will never know. In the event I was accepted, it might have been my academic prowess brought from Wetley Rocks, but more than likely my uncles influence and as it was a Church School the fact that I had been baptised into the Church of England Faith at that very church could have been in my favour. Whatever the reason in late February my education re-commenced at The Priory Junior School for Boys, I was on my way in a new life.
At this point I feel I should give you a brief explanation of how the school system worked in my new hometown. The Priory was one of twelve junior schools who in turn were fed by infant schools, they also had senior secondary modern schools attached, plus if you passed the scholarship The Great Yarmouth Boys Grammar School and the Great Yarmouth High School for Girls beckoned, if you were of a more practical nature there was a Technical College providing for both genders. The Priory School engaged in fierce rivalry with The Hospital School which was not only located three hundred yards away but laid claim to be the oldest surviving school in the town, a claim that was strenuously contested both on and off the sports field, especially if it had been snowing overnight.
Once at school my years away from my home town became obvious and somewhat of a handicap, I didn’t sound like my new classmates, I was as far as they were concerned with my Staffordshire accent, a foreigner, and one to be made fun of, but it was also a lesson in life, children can be both cruel and kind for it wasn’t everybody who made fun of the newcomer and soon I had been accepted into a small group who remained my friends until I left the school three years later to go to The Grammar School, I had passed the scholarship, but more of that later.
The difference between our home in Staffordshire and Great Yarmouth was striking, the former was a hamlet in the countryside between Leek and Stoke, now I was living in a town of some 50,000 people and open country was hard to find, but it had something for a small boy that Cheddleton didn’t have, excitement.
One small example, the Row which started just outside our front door emerged onto White Horse Plain, so called because of the Public House on one end of the square, which in turn was part of Northgate street, one of the main roads through the town.
On that street were a row of shops and another public house The Crystal which was on the corner of Fullers Hill and Northgate Street, but it was the row of shops that were of most interest to me, from the Plain the first shop was Doughty’s a Gentleman’s outfitters, then Cox the Jeweller and after that the shop which was the one that changed my young reading life Anni’s newspaper shop. In addition to newspapers, cigarettes, tobacco, sweets, such as were available on ration, were comics and not just those which up to now had been my staple diet, American comics. How he managed to get hold of them I don’t know but he did and they introduced me to Superman, Captain Marvel, The Hulk, Batman and Robin, all in colour, a whole new and to an eight year old boy wonderful world, these were graphic comics, then came the funnies sold in the USA as part of a Sunday newspaper, but we just got them as standalone comics featuring Dick Tracy, Popeye, The Katzenjammer Kids and many more fascinating and different characters, I loved going in that shop as long as I had some money.
Chapter 13 – Getting to know my family
I don’t remember what I expected on our return to Great Yarmouth or for that matter, whether I thought about it but whatever the answer to that is, it came as a very severe shock. We had been living in Staffordshire for more than five years and those years were part of my early growing up, the life we had was the one I knew and loved, the one we came back to was entirely different. The house we had lived in prior to our evacuation had been rented to someone else, and until we were found somewhere to live we shared a house with my Grandmother and her third husband Fred Duffield, I think it worth giving a bit of background to my maternal grandmother. When her first husband, my mother’s father died at the age of thirty-one she was left with five children and no means of supporting them, no welfare state to fall back on in in the 1920’s. As a result of this and because she had no work and no money they were made homeless, and the children were split up and sent into care. But Grandma, or Nanny as she was known, was nothing if not resourceful and within a short space of time she met and married her second husband and was able to get the family back together again.
Her second husband was a Welshman, a Captain in the Merchant Navy, widowed with one son Alfred, who had an accent so thick he was mistakenly thought to come from Holland and acquired the nickname “Dutchy”, in some senses he was a cuckoo in their nest and my mother took him under her wing and in later life I became the child he and his wife were unable to have. But back to my grandmother, in due course the Sea Captain passed away and just before the outbreak of war she married again.
You might wonder why I have given you so much detail about my Grandmother, well she was a major part of my early life and we were very close until her death, add to this she offered us a home when we returned from Staffordshire and thus you can see the reason.
The house we shared with her and Fred, we didn’t call him Grandad or Grandpa or other affectionate name, in fact I can’t remember what we called him, was one of eight around a courtyard, with four shared outside toilets and a washhouse with two big coal fired boilers, almost communal living. The house itself was small, one room and a scullery on the ground floor, two rooms on the first floor and then an attic room above that. It was a bit of a shock after Woodlands Avenue and may have been one of the reasons my Grandmother spent so much of the war living with us, as well as getting away from the German bombs.
Amenities were few. A cold water tap in the scullery, no electricity, gas mantles provided the lighting, but on the ground floor only. When you went upstairs in the dark you took a candle and the stairs were in the wall, you opened a door and there they were, we didn’t think about it then, but we three children were in the attic with only a candle for lighting, a tiny window and stairs in the walls, it doesn’t bear thinking about even now.
After all these years’ I can still remember that courtyard behind the eight houses, our house was one of two fronting onto Laughing Image Corner, four more onto Rainbow Corner and the last two onto Brewery Row, it was a slum, but we didn’t know and of course didn’t care, we were all together.
To help keep warm in the downstairs room was a Kitchen Range, a forerunner of the modern AGA, coal fired, and on all day and night three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. It was used for cooking, heating, provided hot water, you boiled kettles on it and warmed flat irons on it, it was certainly multi- purpose, but in the summer months it made the room unbearably hot. Ironing was done on the large table which stood in the middle of the room together with two armchairs, one of which was the sole property of Fred and the other my father when he was there, the rest of us perched on dining chairs or on the floor on cushions, a bit different to Woodlands Avenue. That was not the only difference, the major one was outdoor space, I had been used to walking out of the front gate into green fields, now it was closely built housing, the Yarmouth Rows, more of that in a moment.
Chapter 12 – Going Home, at Last
Although I said we could think about returning to Great Yarmouth, that is all we could do, think about it, but to be honest, I don’t think I did, it was something for my parents to worry about, my life carried on as before, back to school and another Staffordshire winter looming up. Christmas came and went and suddenly our stay in Woodlands Avenue was over, in February 1946 we made the journey back to our home town, and as a boy aged nine totally unprepared for what we would find.
I have to admit, I have no recall of how we prepared for and carried out our leaving of Woodlands Avenue, of any farewells fond or otherwise but our arrival back in Great Yarmouth was different entirely, we were back in the bosom of our families and myself, Peter and Christine would meet our paternal grandparents again, to my knowledge they did not make the journey to Staffordshire and any meetings we may have had on our rare wartime visits were forgotten. This was just one of many adjustments which would have to be made.
Chapter 11 – Will the War Never End?
As the war rumbled on so life in rural Staffordshire continued at the same easy pace, spring, summer, autumn, winter, we enjoyed or endured them in turn, for us children spring and summer were the prime months, long days, sunshine if you were lucky and freedom, and different experiences. One experience that you probably would not see on a regular basis in a town environment, the birth of a calf. I have already indicated that the field opposite our houses which separated us from Folly Lane served two purposes, football pitch and grazing for the farm cattle, and on one occasion providing a spectacle we had not witnessed, a calf being born, how long the birthing took I am hazy about but it seemed to go on for ever, first the hooves, then the bottom of the legs then the shoulders then the head then the trunk and finally more legs, and all the time the cow was making a loud crying noise, but suddenly it was all over and there on the grass was the calf, covered in a kind of transparent envelope which the cow commenced to lick away, after a period of time the calf was on it’s very unsteady legs and nuzzling the cow for food, it was amazing then and still is, the start of life, watched by six or seven small children.
But life on Woodlands Avenue was not all sylvan bliss, although we had long days in the summer holidays there was always school to go back to when those days came to an end. As far as I can recall not one of our friends or neighbours was the owner of a car, and even now as I wrack my brain nor can I recall seeing a car visiting anyone who lived on the road, the coal was delivered by horse and cart as was the daily milk, only the milk float was much smaller as was the pony. We would fight to be the one who during the long summer breaks was chosen to be the assistant to the milkman and run up the path with the daily delivery, there wasn’t such a clamour to help on the dark, cold mornings of the Staffordshire winter. But dark and cold didn’t mean no school, we set off whatever the weather with Joan Colclough leading the charge. Down Woodlands Avenue onto Folly Lane, over the first style, across fields, via more styles, if you were a girl, over the black dry stone walls, peculiar to that part of Great Britain if you were a boy, to the top of the rocky outcrop that loomed over the village of Wetley Rocks, scaling down the face and onto the main road from Leek, in front was the ruin of a Roman villa, we ignored it, walk along the road, sharp right turn over the little bridge and the school yard awaited us. I have just measured it on a detailed map and the total distance as the crow might have flown was a mile and a half, small beer for an adult but for a gang of children all under the age of ten, it was some journey each morning and afternoon, no surprise we were hungry all the time.
I was bright in school, I have my last report in an album and there I was top of the class, the first in a group of eleven pupils and for that I received a prize, a reading book, it hung around the house for years, but where is it now, I don’t know. The comments were pretty encouraging as well, but somehow at some time over the subsequent years I managed to undo all the good work I achieved under the tutelage of Miss Alcock. My memories of school are nowhere near as vivid as those of time spent outside in the fields, I can only think it means that I must have been well behaved if only I could have maintained it in my later years at senior school. There is however one memory that stands out from my days at Wetley rocks School. You may remember that we had to cross a small bridge to get to the school gate, that bridge was over a bright, shallow but fast flowing stream and was out of bounds to all pupils and therefore a temptation especially to the boys, but not me, I don’t know if I was afraid but I was never inclined to follow the lead set by others, until one day and I can’t recall if it was a result of a dare and taunting, but I removed shoes and socks and went in to the stream. It was a mistake, it was on a day when Mr Machin, the Headmaster chose to leave the school building to see what offences were being committed. I was given a good warning and was out of the water before he could see me, but then the problems kicked in, I had no towel to dry feet and legs and if you have ever tried you will know how difficult it is to get woollen socks back on to wet legs and feet. the school bell rang, and I still had not completed the task so returned to class with bare feet inside my clogs and was taken to meet Mr Machin in his office, although he made it clear that I should not under any circumstances do it again, I received no further punishment, and I breathed again.
One of the major differences from today is the lack of traffic on the roads, you could play all day on the field on Woodlands Avenue and apart from the milkman and very occasional trades vehicles you had the road to yourself, bliss. Even the main road from Leek to Hanley was empty for the most part, workmen used a cycle or the bus, if we took a journey into Leek, primarily for the market on a Saturday, it was the bus, and it seemed as if the whole of Woodlands Avenue would be waiting at the bus stop.
As my father worked on a Saturday morning, we would go in with mother , grandmother and one or other of the aunts in the morning for fresh vegetables, season by season, no imported strawberries from Spain in the middle of winter, my father would catch a bus from the Leekbrook factory and meet up, and enjoy the luxury of a half pint of beer in a local hostelry, just one, we children waited outside, yours truly in sole charge of younger brother, sister left at home with another aunt or cousin Jean, depending on who was there at the time, I have no idea where they all slept. I have been back to Leek in the recent past, and the centre hasn’t changed that much that I couldn’t recognise it, not in detail of which shop was where but an overwhelming feeling of familiarity.
Of course, looking back at those early days, my happy life seemed to go on for ever, we had no responsibilities other than to enjoy ourselves, which we certainly did, but of course time doesn’t stand still and before I knew where I was it was 1944 and the news broke on June 6th that the Allied Armies had landed in France. We were in school and Mr Machin called us all into the playground to tell us of the event. I have to admit that I cannot recall how I reacted, or anyone else for that matter, but I do recall him standing there his face solemn, nothing new there, informing us that the tide had turned, did we cheer, I don’t think so, but I do know that my father was really pleased and my mother talked of going back to Great Yarmouth, but that was a long way off. I can remember the front page of the newspaper the next day but that is because on the 50th anniversary those issues were reprinted as souvenirs, but at the time I don’t think we children were aware of how important that day was.
The summer of 1944 was much like those that preceded them from 1940, I can’t recall whether the weather was sunny and warm, but I do know that everything else remained the same, rationing of food was still in place, and it might be interesting to look at our daily diet. As I said earlier the day started with porridge, at the midmorning break we were given a small bottle of milk and then school lunch, this was introduced early in the war to ensure children got a least one good meal each school day and of course another piece of bread and jam or perhaps condensed milk when we arrived home after school to stave off starvation until the evening meal or tea as we referred to it, was on the table. I could not remember exactly what the lunch would have consisted of, but research revealed a sample menu Spam or Cheese and Potato pie with mashed potato and baked beans, or beetroot followed by Jam Roly Poly and Custard, food fit for a king, perhaps not, but we enjoyed it and it kept us going through the long afternoon and walk home. Our school day in summer was 9am- 12pm and 1.30 pm until 3.30pm and in winter 9.30am until 4pm, with a one-and-a-half-hour lunch break, this because the extra summertime hours were not removed in the winter, therefore we could walk to school and back home again in daylight.
Although I and the other refugee children from Great Yarmouth may not have been aware of it, that autumn and summer of 1944 was the beginning of the end of our stay in Staffordshire. The D Day landings in Normandy had been successful and the Allied Forces drove on through France, Belgium and Holland from the south and the Russians through Poland from the east, until in Spring 1945 they were almost at the stage of joining up in the final push on Berlin. What I am about to chronicle is a result of what I remember from then and what I have learned since. The description of what they discovered in the concentration camps in Germany and Poland will be with me forever. The inhumanity of those camps and the people who built and ran them was difficult to believe and certainly impossible to understand and it had a lasting effect upon me and I still after nearly seventy years find I cannot look at pictures of those camps without a mixture of anger and sorrow, even more so in that my maternal grandfather was a Jew and if Hitler had been successful in invading our island that could have been my family.
But he didn’t and on May 8th, 1945 the German High Command signed the surrender documents and the war in Europe was over and Church Bells rang out again for the first time in nearly six years and we had a party, and did we have a party.
If we were going to have a party we would need food and somehow from somewhere food materialised, luckily it was summer, and we were able to hold the party outside. Everyone on our road was involved together with Folly Lane. Tables and chairs ran down Woodlands Avenue, strings of bunting were put up, my father fixed up a loudspeaker system and music was played all afternoon, songs were sung and people danced it was something we had never seen before our parents enjoying themselves, the war was over, in Europe that is, and for one afternoon at least people let their hair down, rationing could be forgotten, there would be another day tomorrow, but just for once we lived for today.
Tomorrow came however and normal service was resumed, we went back to the routine of school and my parents to work, rationing was still on and the war in the far east continued and going back to Great Yarmouth was still a distant dream. We had of course no idea what would happen next, the Atomic bomb meant nothing to the children of Woodlands Avenue and Folly Lane, but it hastened the end of the that part of the war.
Wakes weeks will mean little or nothing to people reading this, but they were in the days I am chronicling the annual holidays for the working man in the North of England. The first Atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, a city in Japan, on the sixth of August 1945 and although we were not and could not be aware of it, changed our lives forever, a second bomb was delivered on the city of Nagasaki on August the ninth 1945 and this was enough for the Japanese nation and on August 15th Emperor Hirohito surrendered, the war was finally over.
We were in Longton Park on that day near the end of the holiday period, we were there for a day out, there were stalls and a fair, things had relaxed since May and I can remember the newspapers with the headline “Japanese Surrender” being sold and everybody buying them, cheering, shaking hands and buying tea and cakes and ice cream as if there were no tomorrow, it was a sunny day and one to remember. Now we could really think about going back to our proper home by the sea.
Chapter 10 – Family Life
But it wasn’t all about being with the gang, there was always family life, I had a younger brother Peter and an even younger sister Christine. When you are adult four year’s difference in age isn’t an enormous gap, but at seven it is, so outside the house I had little or no contact with my brother, he wasn’t old enough to join in our daily games and showed little desire to do so, it is sad to say that my brother and I were never close and as we grew up we didn’t really like each other. I have found photographs of he and I together on the steps leading up to our kitchen on Woodlands Avenue, why it had that name I have not worked out, there was no woodland in sight, and we seemed happy enough, me in school cap and raincoat or mac as we referred to it, and he in a balaclava and boots, he had a thing about wearing boots all his life, as an adult he preferred them to shoes, although when he was an usher at my wedding, at my mothers’ insistence, he did relent and buy some shoes, but as a child unless he had his boots he would be wailing, from my memory he was always crying about one thing or another. If my sister ever reads this she will give a wry smile, I can remember very little about my sister’s involvement in my early life, she was six years younger and a baby, but I can remember that she and Peter contracted measles, and both were very ill, to such an extent that my sister’s life was in danger, for some reason I missed it, but I do recall for two or three weeks I slept on the floor in my parents’ bedroom, on a small mattress, sleeping bag, I don’t think so.
One of the big regrets of my life was that I didn’t ever really get to know my father well. My early life developed within a matriarchal group, my mother, with whom I had a lifelong mutually loving relationship, her sisters, Niobe and Lily and of course my maternal grandmother Georgiana, always known to us as Nanny, I was the apple of her eye, her little Herbo, pronounced in her Great Yarmouth accent “Harbo” and the feeling was mutual, I adored my grandmother, she helped raise me from babyhood.
My grandmother had had an interesting life, but of course I wasn’t aware of it then.
On the 1901 census, she was 15 and in service in a house in Middlegate Street in Great Yarmouth, Georgiana Crickmore. I have built up a little story which I retail whenever I can, I love it. It relates to how and why I was given the name of Herbert.
Picture the following scenario, Georgiana Crickmore in service and morally sound meets up with an itinerant Jewish pedlar who had worked his way from London to Great Yarmouth. My mother’s telling of the story is that he had a box attached to the rear wheel of a bicycle which he peddled and sold pots, pans and sharpened knives. He met my grandmother and sharpened his knife on her and as a result along came my mother’s elder brother Albert, born out of wedlock and given my grandmothers family name Crickmore, the next sharpening saw mother on the scene and it wasn’t until the third sharpening and Aunt Obe was on the way that he determined to make an honest woman of Georgiana, who by now must have been all of twenty years of age. Other than Albert all the rest of the family, my mother Jessie May, Niobe Amelia (Obe), Lily Maud, Leslie, he died in infancy and finally Herbert Spencer all took his family name Chaplin. By now he had given up peddling and worked where he could as a casual labourer, including work as a lumper unloading ship’s cargo and this caused his early death, he slipped from the quayside into the river in the month of February, was partially crushed and died of pneumonia, aged 31, and my mother always said he had never had occasion to shave in his life and did not have a beard, it must be in the genes, I didn’t have to shave regularly until my early twenties and can still go two or three days without a noticeable facial growth.
There was no contact with his London family, he had married out of his faith and was cut loose. In order to try and establish links his youngest son was given the name Herbert, the same name as a wealthy uncle and in turn as the first grandson born in the family so was I, but all contact was refused, and I got stuck with the name, which as I grew up I hated.
But that is to drift away from my mother and her sisters, her brothers Albert, Herbert and step brother Alfie were all in various parts of the world with the British Army and were completely unknown to me until much later in life, but her mother and sisters were very much in evidence, a group not to be trifled with.
My mother was the elder, then Obe and then Lily, who was unquestionably the beauty of the family, and according to my mother was aware of it.
They appeared together, with my grandmother at irregular intervals during our stay away from our home town, and those stays were not just weekends, but a month or more at a time and as one left another appeared, or so it seemed. Of course it was a great help to my mother, meaning that after the birth and weaning of my sister she could take work in the same factory as my father and bring some much needed money into our domestic economy, leaving one or other of Nanny and Obe or Lily to look after the three of us children, in reality my brother and sister, I at six or seven years of age was totally able to look after myself, or so I thought, well as long as food was on the table at the correct time and clothes ready to wear, although I wasn’t much concerned about how often they were washed or laundered.
The fact that they were in loco parentis was taken seriously, and any misdemeanours were dealt with as swiftly and effectively as if it were either of my parents and probably more severely if truth be known, spare the rod and spoil the child seemed to be the family motto, but in truth I probably more than deserved it, that must have been the case for I held no long or short term grudges against any or all of them. My grandmother was probably the easiest to convince of my innocence, which my mother later told me surprised her, for when they were growing up she ruled with a rod of iron and allowed no room for manoeuvre. It was probably because I was the first grandson born into the family and if given the chance I took advantage. This matriarchal ring of power continued when we eventually returned to Great Yarmouth as initially we found ourselves all living next door and opposite each other in the same Row, more of that later when I will explain the word Row.
My Father was an entirely different cup of tea, it is to my everlasting regret that I didn’t really begin to get to know my father until near the end of his life, which was sudden in 1964, on a Sunday, two heart attacks and it was all over, it was twenty years after that before I was able to grieve for my father.
I am sure that one of the reasons for my distance from my father as opposed to the females in the family was the fact that he was hardly ever there, not absent from the family but from family life. My father was a member of the labouring class, no white collar worker he, and that was the problem, he went to work early and came home late, by bicycle or bus or in the bitter Staffordshire winters by foot, and all day heavy manual labour, by the weekend he was exhausted and of course Saturday was a working day until 12.30 or 1pm so his weekend was Saturday afternoon and all day Sunday after a forty four hour working week, no wonder he was tired, I can recall one occasion when we were back in Great Yarmouth, I would have been in my teens, he fell asleep over his evening meal his face ending up in his plate after having been at work from 6.30 am to 7.30 pm it was such occasions that shaped my future political opinions.
In Staffordshire during world war two my father did his bit for King and Country and if he didn’t have too much time for yours truly I didn’t really notice it then and didn’t hold it against him in later life, just regrets when he had gone that I should have tried to know him better. My father was brought up in a world where men were men, they worked for their family but didn’t reveal their emotions, he was strict, he never gave me the benefit of the doubt, his word was law, I don’t recall sitting on his knee, his reading a story or making things together, but he protected me. If I was bullied and I was from time to time, no hesitation, once I had convinced him and he had checked that I was telling the truth, because small boys sometimes do elaborate, he would deal with it, straight to the house of the bully, it was never revealed what took place but it always stopped straight away and not just to me, others of the gang who may have may have suffered at the hands of the bully found their lives a lot easier for a time. I can recall later in life my mother told of an occasion when they were courting, isn’t that a lovely expression, courting, they were at a dance on the Britannia Pier, and as they whirled around the floor, my father was a bit of a fancy dancer by all accounts, a local man nicknamed Tarzan, kept flicking his hand out and touching my mother whenever they passed each other, when that particular dance had ended my father left my mother strolled over to where Tarzan and his friends were gathered, bear in mind my father was about five feet seven or eight, slight of build ,but strong, he warned Tarzan about his behaviour, he must have laughed and made some comment because my father got his nose between two of his fingers and twisted until Tarzan was on his knees in pain, he didn’t touch my mother again. Much later in life, by now I was serving Queen and Country doing my National Service, my sister complained to my father that a young man in his early twenties, who lived a few doors away from us kept touching her on the crowded bus home. My father left off work early caught the same bus but kept away from my sister and the young man, he touched her, probably on the bottom, she told my father as they got off the bus, from the bus stop to our road you had to walk down a lane, my father caught him up, tapped him on shoulder, grabbed him by the nose, and twisted, the man was head and shoulders taller and thirty or more years younger, and my sister said he went down nearly to his knees, “touch my daughter again and I will break your neck”, he didn’t even get on the same bus again, let alone pester my sister, my father was a hero.
Chapter 9 – Our War Time Lives
The gang - I wonder where they are now. Our games continued season by season, with no real understanding of what happy days they were. In 1945 the war in Europe ended, followed soon after by the war in the Far East. But before those momentous occasions I began to see a wider world than the fields around Woodlands Avenue.
As I indicated earlier we regularly played host to my maternal grandmother and aunts, but we also made occasional trips to Great Yarmouth. In retrospect it might be thought that with the bombing continuing we were safer in Cheddleton and I suppose that was true, but the call of home was stronger and for all our new life Great Yarmouth was still our home. My father’s family were all there.
I have vivid memories of one early visit, on the train of course. Travel by rail during the war seemed endless and what would now be a journey of four or five hours took all day and this occasion all night as well. I have no memory of the early part of the journey but can remember that we were due to arrive in Great Yarmouth in the evening and it was dark, so it must have been winter. The train left Norwich on the final stage of the journey but by the time we arrived in Reedham, the last stop before Great Yarmouth the nightly bombing raid had started. I can remember as if it were yesterday sitting in a blacked-out railway carriage looking toward our Home Town and seeing the sky lit by searchlights and explosions. We remained there for several hours, it would have been very cold, but we children must have gone to sleep for we woke up in Lowestoft. The journey then took us to our destination via Southtown Station rather than Vauxhall. By now in daylight, my next memory is walking over the Haven Bridge from the station with our luggage, in bright sunlight with smoke still in the air from the bombing raid of the previous night. Welcome home.
The only other memory of that visit was being put into a cupboard under the stairs during one of the nightly bombing raids that took place while we were on that visit. The children were in the cupboard, my mother and grandmother under the kitchen table and my father who must have been a fatalist remained in an armchair, he was fond of quoting “if your number is due to come up, there is nothing you can do about it”. He died suddenly in June 1964 following two heart attacks in a few hours. That was the day his number came up.
Trips “home” were rare, but visits from family less so, my maternal grandmother and aunts were regular visitors to Woodlands Avenue together with my cousin Jean. She was about three years older than me and of course made me aware of that difference, children do, but when and if I could I would try to assert the authority I enjoyed over my younger brother and sister, not always successfully, on one occasion my failure to do so must have boiled over. We had walked across the field outside our house to meet her mother from the bus but whether we were late or the bus early she was walking towards us down the lane when we saw her. When she met us, she reached into her shopping bag and drew out something small wrapped in newspaper, which she gave to Jean. It was a small block of ice cream, children today with all the choice available would probably not be at all impressed but in the dark days of war it was a treat you could only dream of. There wasn’t one for me or so I thought, and my frantic demands were met with denial, which I later found were meant to be a joke. By then it was too late, my anger at being left out and I suppose my inability to beat my cousin at anything caused me to lash out and I kicked her in the leg. Normally that would have been enough to get punishment, but I was wearing clogs and the gash that was left in her leg meant I didn’t get the other ice cream but also had to face the wrath of my father when he arrived home from work. That was something I didn’t look forward to, and with good reason, he was a small man but not to be trifled with. My father didn’t believe in giving me the benefit of the doubt under any circumstances, my protestations of innocence, which were sometimes justified were always dealt with in the same manner. He was convinced that any misdemeanours on my part which he couldn’t prove were balanced out by punishments issued when not guilty, what he defined as swings and roundabouts.
Life in wartime Cheddleton continued, and as children we were in the main blissfully unaware of it. As we had grown up with rationing and shortages we didn’t feel in any way deprived it was normal and nobody in the house was hungry and as far as I was aware nor any of my friends.
If our lives were not blessed with riches we were not hampered by their lack. If it wasn’t raining we were outside, and away from the watchful eyes of mother. When school holidays came around we were free, free as the air we breathed, free from the daily restriction of school and once out of sight of home free from any boundaries which parents may have imposed.
We were lucky, the open country of Staffordshire was our playground and we made the most of it, out of sight and hearing distance of home but near enough to go back for lunch and tea and in the summer back out again. If my mother worried about not being in constant touch with us it wasn’t apparent. We were given our instructions about the time to be home for lunch or tea and we followed them, we were not burdened with mobile phones nor were we worried about our safety. It was a simple system the older children looked after the younger ones. After all we were used to walking to school every day, whatever the weather without parental accompaniment, so going out all day to play well away from the houses came naturally, in fact we would have bridled at the thought of an adult having to keep an eye on us.
Our only enemy was rain, and Staffordshire was not short of it. Rain kept you in the house, it was like being in prison, and this is where the buttons my mother brought home came in useful. Although we had no luxuries we were not hungry but toys as such were hard to come by, so I made up games with the buttons. Although I can’t recall from this stage of my life what the games were my mother told me later that the button kept me amused for hours on end. I know I had a younger brother and sister, but they were little more that toddlers so if it rained I played on my own, I can’t recall many occasions when friends came around to play or going to their homes, I didn’t ever get past the doorstep of Chinky’s house. If you called for each other you or he or they would be waiting at the garden gate or you would knock on the door and shout, we didn’t have telephones to enable us to make prior arrangements.
There was no TV in those far off days and the wireless wasn’t geared up for children until 5pm each afternoon. At that time, seven days a week on the BBC Home Service we could listen to Children’s Hour and listen we did. Looking back at it now it was probably middle class and a bit patronising, but we were not aware of that, this was a programme on the wireless for us, for children, and we lapped it up.
The main presenter was Uncle Mac who together with Aunty Kathleen held the programme together. As with most BBC programmes on the wireless in those days it had to have substance, it wasn’t there just to entertain but to educate and it did. But it did entertain and if you were to ask people my age to identify what they remember from Children’s Hour it would be more likely Toy Town than any of the nature or more improving items. It surprises me now or on reflection perhaps not that this programme caught our imagination as much as it did. It was a puppet show on the wireless, you couldn’t see the various characters, but we all thought we knew what they looked like. Larry the Lamb and his pal Dennis the Dachshund were as familiar to us as our families as were. The Mayor, Ernest the Policeman and of course Mr Growser the grocer. His name said it all, the forerunner of Victor Meldrew. By the same token the reading of stories was obligatory, Enid Blyton’s Just so Stories, Winnie the Pooh and Worzel Gummidge stand out in my memory. Naturally detective stories were popular, Sherlock Holmes and his loyal number two Doctor Watson, these came in abridged form, although we were not aware of that and perhaps even more popular Norman and Henry Bones, the Boy Detectives. They were brothers who week after week got themselves into and out of tight corners that we could only fantasise about, solving mysterious crimes was second nature to them. On the radio the elder brother was played by Charles Hawtrey who later found fame as a member of the “Carry On” Film company. The obsession with Public Schools which was prevalent in our comics was also evident on the BBC. Jennings at School a series of books by Anthony Buckeridge were dramatised for Children’s Hour. These schools so unlike our own seemed so natural to us that I think we believed we attended such establishments. But we didn’t. At that time Grange Hill and Byker Grove were not even in the embryo stage, and I suspect that the BBC would have recoiled at such programming, they had problems dealing with the uproar following Wilfred Pickles reading the News in a northern accent.
Children’s Hour was our escape, it fed our imagination, widened our horizons and kept us quiet for at least one hour a day, especially in the long dark days of winter.
In the summer months we made every hour of daylight count, and due to double summer time the evenings were long. Our games meant that we roamed far and wide out of sight but within earshot of our parents. When time for bed came Fathers would come to the front gate and call your name. If you were lucky you could ignore the first two but after the third woe betide the tardy. With no school during late July and early September parents were a bit more forgiving regarding the time but when the call came you took heed.
It seems quite odd when looking back to my early childhood to see how confined our lives were. For although we had a freedom that the children of today would love, our world was very limited. A circle about a quarter of a mile in circumference was our world for much of our daily lives, except for our daily journey to school and back during term time and very occasional family jaunts. Although jaunt was not a word I would associate with our family trips. There was always a purpose to these events, we didn’t have a car, nor any of our neighbours, so a day out just to see the local area was not possible. If our destination was not within walking distance it meant catching a bus and the restrictions of the timetable and meals. I cannot recall going into a café to eat until I was much older.
Despite these limitations our world was not dull. The differing seasons brought different opportunities for play and pleasure. Nearly every household grew some sort of vegetables to supplement the meagre wartime rations of meat. Next door Mr Colclough had a passion for beans and peas, and when the growing season was at its height we would lay alongside the fence that separated our garden and pull the pea and bean pods from their stems and eat them. You wouldn’t offer them to mother, she would have asked awkward questions. My father planted potatoes at the far end of our garden, and it was these that gave me, and I am sure my friends our first taste of potatoes cooked over an open fire. The potatoes were black on the outside, and just better than raw on the inside, but to us they tasted wonderful
I don’t remember much fruit being grown but on the way to Consall Steps blackberries grew in abundance and when the season came around we gorged on them and of course returned home with fingers giving the appearance of being printed at a police station.
As mentioned earlier Christmas and birthdays were always highlights of those wartime days and with football being my passion, even though we knew very little of the game outside of our games with a tennis ball. Who taught us the rules?. If you can conjure up the scene a dozen small boys in grey shirts and trousers, socks around their ankles chasing a ball around a field where the length of the grass was probably higher than the ball, jackets laid down as goal posts, constant arguments as to whether the ball was inside or outside the posts/jackets, this was the essence of the beautiful game. No Match of The Day, no Sky Sport, if there were live commentaries on the wireless I don’t remember them, but we knew who we were when we were playing, Stanley Matthews, Raich Carter, Eddie Hapgood, Len Goulden, Vic Woodley, Tommy Lawton and many others we all had our favourites, of course we all wanted to be Tommy Lawton, a centre forward, a goal scorer and no one wanted to be in goal, so the wrestling would commence to determine who played where, not that positioning meant anything once the ball was in play, at that point it took on a magnetic effect, with everyone chasing and kicking at it, happy days.
Back to Christmas and the excitement of a present or two, and it was a present or two, not the cornucopia you see nowadays. Toward the end of the war, although we didn’t know it then, so it must have been 1944, my Christmas present was a real leather football, size 4, a real leather football, it was unknown for one of our gang to have such a gift, I was the very first boy in the gang to have a real football and as far as I can recall the only one, and was I popular, well I was when the jealousy faded away, I can remember very clearly gang members wrestling each other for the privilege of just carrying it down to the field, of course we played in our school shoes in fact our clogs, so the ball took a battering, no fancy coloured boots, club replica shirts and shorts, just a ball, clogs and a gang of little boys, truly a beautiful game. To this day I don’t know where my father found the money for such a luxury, but if in his lifetime he had not given me anything else at least on Christmas Day 1944 he made me the happiest boy in the world
As we had no football on TV or the wireless and no football magazines how we knew who our favourites were, obvious, cigarette cards. In the 21st century cigarettes have a bad reputation and justifiably so, but in those far off days they were our window on the world, well the little picture cards that came in the packets certainly were. Aeroplanes, motor cars, ships, animals, wild flowers, film stars, literary characters, scenes from films and theatre productions, cricketers and the most desirable of all footballers, and that is where we found our favourites, and of course in our own eyes were able to reproduce their skills on our rough football pitch. Cigarette cards also had another facet, like comics they could be used as currency, to be bartered or swopped or won in a game, they were multipurpose objects before the word had been invented.
As in all societies our group had a hierarchical structure, the older you were the more likely it was that your ideas would be the ones that determined play for the day, I was never the gang leader, that privilege lay with young Jack Hillyard, he being at least two years older, and almost able to challenge Joan Colclough when it came to the school walk each day, but he didn’t, but out of term time it was different, Joan rarely joined in the daily games so young Jack was king, and we courtiers, Jack decided what the game of the day would be and we followed, sometimes offering up an alternative strategy which he accepted if it remained within his basic premise, because I lived next door, I was slightly favoured but only slightly, and if I wasn’t exactly frightened by him, I was intimidated. My time in the sun came when I received the present of the football, suddenly my star was in the ascendant, Jack took me under his wing, I was almost his lieutenant but only almost. I met him again years on, I would be about sixteen and by then he was working back in Great Yarmouth at the same factory as my father and he was just an ordinary young man in dungarees and not at all the god like creature of my childhood, we spoke briefly, and I haven’t seen him since. He will be an old man now.
Chapter 8 – It’s Not All About Comics
But life wasn’t all comic books, we spent most of our time outside of the house. If the weather was anything less than rain you were despatched out so as not to get under mothers’ feet, but we didn’t mind it meant freedom, freedom to roam the surrounding lanes and fields with their trees, bushes and ponds. As I got older I was introduced to and read voraciously the Just William books by Richmal Crompton, why were they so popular? Well it is clear, his life and adventures mirrored ours, although we were never as bold as that heroic figure. But we had a den, cut bows and arrows, made swords with cardboard protection for our hands, rode imaginary horses, and fought imaginary enemies, and all without the “protection” of a mobile telephone. We would go out straight after breakfast, collect up the gang, we didn’t knock on doors, but just stood at the end of the front path, outside the front gate and waited. Out they came one after another until all the gang were accounted for unless of course family commitments got in the way in which case you went on your way leaving behind a pal with a doleful countenance. On our road and in the bungalows across the field lived a few girls, although the boys outnumbered them, and they were allowed to follow along, and follow along was the operative word, boys were in charge or so they thought, they could run faster, climb higher, and were stronger in the inevitable wrestling matches that took place almost every day, although the girls always seemed to come up with placatory answers to settle any arguments and nearly always seemed to get their own way without having to boast or fight, there is a lesson there somewhere. So straight after breakfast we were out of the house, returning for lunch, how we knew when to go back I don’t know, nobody had a wristwatch, perhaps our stomachs were our clock, get your sandwiches, usually jam, down as quickly as possible and then out once more, with the collection process starting all over again, all of these activities aided by double summer time, done to give farmers longer days it was like living in Scandinavia to us, virtually permanent daylight. And so, our days went on, looking back it was a blissful time.
But of course these were summertime activities, the winters in Cheddleton were of a different nature, they were bleak, bitterly cold and an abundance of snow, later when recalling these winters my father told of how because of the ice and snow on the roads between our village and the factory at Leekbrook the buses came to a standstill and so the men walked the three miles from home to work and we walked to school about three quarters of a mile, if the schools closed then I don’t remember it but of course in those days teachers lived close to the school and walked or cycled in to bless us with their knowledge. Keeping warm was upper most in our minds, no central heating so what did we have? Certainly, as far as 13 Woodlands Avenue was concerned a fireplace in all the downstairs rooms, but I can’t be sure about the bedrooms, I can remember when the cold weather arrived our bedrooms were very cold and waking in the morning to find your breath had frozen on the inside of the window pane making beautiful plant like frost patterns. We didn’t have carpet on the floor upstairs or down, linoleum or sale as it was referred to by my parents with rugs or mats to stop your feet from freezing, so how did we keep warm? The open fires in the downstairs rooms helped although I think today they would not be considered fuel or heat efficient and the feather mattresses and heavy eiderdowns ensured you were warm in bed and once in you were very reluctant to get out again, so calls of nature were ignored for as long as possible and as we didn’t have an upstairs toilet a chamber pot was under the bed, looking back it is difficult to see why, if a bathroom had been installed, why no hot water connection to bath or basin and why no toilet when the plumbing was there, but as least we had electricity upstairs and down, the older houses at the top of the road were not so lucky. One other thing springs into my mind, how my mother did the washing, in addition to the electric cooker, we had another modern device, a boiler to do the weekly wash with, next door Mrs Colclough had a dolly tub which compared to the boiler was very labour intensive but having done the wash then a mangle was require to squeeze the water out prior to it being hung on the linen line to dry. My memory regarding the next step, the ironing is vague as far as Cheddleton is concerned but much sharper when we get back to Great Yarmouth.
However, cold or not, we spent as much time as possible outside, running around warmed you up and if it didn’t rain we were out and about, all year round. Snow of course meant snowmen and snowballs and a longer journey to school but best of all the ice slides. Health and safety as I write would frown on it, but where ever possible an ice slide would appear, in the school yard, on the road, wherever there was frost on the ground and room to run at it. Some seemed to go on for thirty yards, but I suspect not, much as Wetley Rocks seemed to touch the sky, but I was much smaller then.
All of these activities were carried out with your friends, but sometimes you had to go out with your family, and what a cloud descended on those occasions, looking out of the window and seeing the collection process taking place and not being able to stroll out and take your rightful place was akin to being shut in prison especially as you could see no good reason for it. I don’t remember taking what we now know as a holiday, there was a war on, this became a familiar litany from my father, it was a great help to him, a reason for refusing any reasonable request which was outside the usual requirements of day to day living, “sorry, there is a war on” and to be truthful I don’t think he was sorry, just pleased to have an excuse. We did however go on “Days Out”, excursions into the what was then the great unknown, not just to me as a six or seven-year-old, but also my parents, to whom what the various delights Staffordshire and Derbyshire had to offer were a big a mystery. There was no car so all our travelling was done by bus or train, or on very special trips a Motor Coach and I think it fair to say now with hindsight, those people who moan about the huge number of cars on the modern roads, should have a taste of getting a family of two adults and three small children around for just a day on public transport, you needed a Sherpa to carry everything and if you were in any way tardy you could your miss your bus/train/coach at the beginning or end of your day out and the whole thing would be ruined.
The days out, unwelcome as they may have been when looking out of the window, were in the main very enjoyable. Our first visit to Belle-Vue Zoo stands out in my memory. For those of you who don’t know, the Zoo was in Manchester, almost opposite Manchester City’s old ground at Maine Road. It was the first time I had seen an elephant other than a picture in a book, and to be truthful I am not sure I had even seen a picture of one, or giraffes, lions, tigers, apes etc. Belle Vue is no longer there it is now a business park and was until someone sensibly turned it down due to be the home of a Super Casino, I can’t think of anything more likely to desecrate the wonderful memories I have of the Zoo. Now I realise the distance was at least fifty miles, with a car nothing, but in those dark wartime days, an epic, not be taken lightly and nor was it, but we made it there and back and as far as I can remember no tantrums from anyone
Trips to the cinema or theatre were rare, I can remember seeing a film called Thunderhead, Son of Flicka, starring Roddy McDowell, then a boy actor, later to star in the original Planet of the Apes. A visit to the pantomime at the Theatre Royal in Stoke to see Cinderella, where they brought a coach with real horses onto the stage still stands out in my memory, but we didn’t do that sort of thing very often, and not only because of the expense. The journey to Stoke to the cinema or theatre was an exercise that needed planning and was accompanied by a familiar warning from my father “no wants”, in other words don’t ask for extra treats, if there were any treats, a bag of sweets perhaps, they were doled out with the advice ” there is another day tomorrow” which made you accept they would be few and far between, however I can’t recall that it made me unhappy, because tomorrow I would be back with the gang.
Chapter 7 – The Love of the Comic
The main source of entertainment for us as children in wartime was the comic, and in its way our first form of currency, a desirable comic could be swapped for two or more publications that were less so. There were comics for all age groups starting with Tiny Tots, Rainbow, Play Box and Tiger Tim’s Weekly for the very young, for the relatively grown up among us, Dandy, Beano, Knockout, Film Fun and Radio Fun, all of these were predominantly made up of pictures with bubble speech and then for the older statesman, Wizard, Hotspur, Rover, Champion and Adventure which had proper stories with perhaps one drawn picture at the start of the story, and you needed to be able read properly to get the best out of them. As I grew older, when the war had ended, and we returned to Great Yarmouth American comic books started to become available which opened a whole new world.
I can’t recall much of the comic papers, as they were grandly called, for the very young except that they were very colourful, but the Beano and Dandy remain firmly in my memory. During the period of the war, due to a paper shortage, they were published on alternate weeks, by DC Thomson in Dundee, the schoolboy’s friend. The front cover of The Dandy featured Korky the Kat and in the Beano Eggo the Ostrich, but it was the inside features where the favourites could be found. Among others in the Dandy you met Desperate Dan, a cowboy of gigantic proportion especially his chin, who appeared to live on enormous cow pies, cooked in oversized dishes with horns sticking out, by his long suffering Aunt Aggie, Hungry Horace, whose name says it all, Keyhole Kate a schoolgirl with an insatiable curiosity about other people’s business and my favourites Our Gang, a cartoon strip taken from a Hollywood short film series of the same name, and later Black Bob the Wonder dog, however for all those delights my preference was for the Beano, Lord Snooty and his Gang were in direct opposition to Our Gang, Tom Thumb, Pansy Potter the Strong Mans Daughter, and from that all boys in our school with the surname Potter were given the nickname “Pansy”, The Shipwrecked Circus and my favourite Jimmy’s Magic Patch, this was about a boy whose trousers were patched on the seat with a piece of Ali Baba’s Magic Carpet, and if he wished for something it whisked him off to another adventure. These comics were treasured and read again and again and swapped, you didn’t get every copy on the week they were published, after all they cost 3d- that’s 1.25p in today’s money and it wasn’t always available to be spent on such luxuries. Film Fun and Radio Fun were exactly as the titles suggest comics featuring stars of the silver screen and the wireless, I recall that Laurel and Hardy featured on the front and back page of the former and Arthur Askey on the front of the latter. With Film Fun it was interesting that although Laurel and Hardy, a Hollywood pairing graced the front cover, the characters inside, Old Mother Riley, George Formby, Frank Randle, apart from Joe. E. Brown were all British.
Radio Fun however was totally home grown, featuring Max Miller, Revnell and West, a female “schoolgirl” comedy duo, Jack Warner, Vic Oliver and a relatively new comedian Charlie Chester, they also ran a printed story with Inspector Stanley of the Yard and his nemesis The Falcon. Oh, happy days.
I was also lucky that my uncle, in The Fire Brigade in Great Yarmouth also liked comics, and he regularly sent The Wizard for me to read, but not to swap. The Wizard was different to the comics already described, together with several others the stories were on the page not in cartoon picture format, however the content was remarkably similar, rather like Television is now, if one Channel finds a successful formula another will copy it, so it was with comics, stories featured either athletes, football, a detective, wartime hero or an up-market boarding school. The Wizard had the inimitable William Wilson, ageless, he was born in 1795 his adventures covered so many years he must have been an old man, but he didn’t change, always wearing the same outfit a black one-piece costume, like a leotard. In his adventures he ran the first mile under four minutes, climbed Mount Everest single-handedly without cold weather clothing or oxygen, fought the Germans, he was a heroic figure. The Wizard was one of five similar comics published by DC Thompson the others being The Rover, Hotspur, Adventure and Champion and I started to read them at about age seven. All them pursued similar themes but with differing hero’s, in the Wizard as well as Wilson, there was, and a particular favourite, Limp along Leslie, a football yarn about a lad who lived on a farm with his widowed mother and his trusty sheepdog, the title tells all, he was injured early in life and made up for his limp by teaching himself skills that in football today would not be regarded out of the ordinary but back then were exceptional, bending the ball etc. In the Rover the football story revolved around player manager Nick Smith supported by his tough wing half Arnold Tabbs, he of the toothy grin, The Adventure’s hero of the panelled ball was Baldy Hogan another player manager, the Hotspur kept us up to date with the exploits of Cannonball Kidd, but as far as the Champion is concerned I can’t remember a football yarn, but I do recall a cricket story featuring Kangaroo Kennedy, the Demon bowler.
Another very popular series of story lines were those featuring Public Schools and Detectives, the former had Red Circle, with boys from all over the world, in the Hotspur, Jimmy Keane of Greycliffe Fourth in the Champion, Smith of the Lower Third in the Wizard, the Iron Teacher in the Rover and Professor Potter in the Adventure, as for the Detectives the ones I remember best are Dixon Hawke in the Adventure and Colwyn Dane in the Champion, there were probably others but then it was a long time ago, almost seventy years ago, so together with all the other stories these comics made up for the lack of play stations, TV and cinema visits for children.
Chapter 6 – The School Years
But all good things had to come to an end and in 1943 at the age of six it was time to go to school, Wetley Rocks Church of England School, I have been back to see where I commenced my full-time education, and apart from the scale of size it is exactly as I remembered it. As I said we walked to school, down the lane, over a stile, through two or three fields, up and over The Rocks that gave the village its name, across the road, down a lane and school was on the right, behind ran a stream, where on sunny days in the summer term if you were brave or foolhardy you could sneak out, remove clogs and socks and paddle in the crystal clear water, there was a small stone bridge for racing sticks, the stream was populated with tiny fish, newts, dragon flies and if you were not caught, shared with small boys. Being caught was a constant risk, this was a very small village school, our class was only eleven pupils, I still have an old school report, and although my memory is vague I know there were other classes but not that many children that a few heading off to the stream would not be missed, and on the one occasion I plucked up enough courage to join the paddlers the headmaster Mr Machin, decided to have a round up and although we had enough warning to get away before he arrived I had no time to dry my feet and learned one of life’s lessons,
long woollen socks do not pull easily onto wet feet and legs, and because I wasn’t prepared to walk barefoot over the stony ground back to the school yard, I slipped my bare feet into the clogs, in those day’s small boys wore short trousers and my misdemeanour was quickly evident and together with two more were lined up in front of the other pupils and given a dressing down, I didn’t do it again.
Clogs, what a memory, we didn’t have shoes for school, we wore clogs, unlike the wooden ones favoured by the Dutch, these were made of leather, laced, and to prolong wear had a V shape metal strip on the sole, looking back it is hard to believe but we did everything in them, football, cricket, walking, running, climbing and especially kicking, for if you were set upon, they were a very handy form of defence, they were of course used by all the pitmen but not by our fathers, it was a very quick way of sorting out who was local and who not, but for reasons of economy nearly all the boys I knew were clog wearers.
To a boy of six The Rocks, which we climbed down in the morning and up in the evening seemed like Mount Everest, there were of course well-worn paths to follow, which most girls took, but of course the boys, had to climb up and down the cliff face still continuing some imaginary attack on a German Fort or Red Indian Camp, often arriving at school as Miss Alcock was ringing the bell, hair awry, clothes dusty at best and clogs scuffed, ready and eager for another day of learning.
As I cast my mind back, nearly all the children from Folly Lane or Woodlands Avenue were at the same school and names have come drifting back to me, Young Jack Hillyard, his father was blessed with the same name, Maureen Warner, Jean Yarham, they were cousins, my own cousin Jean who came to live with us for a while to get away from the bombs at home, all from Great Yarmouth and locals, Joan Colclough, who led us all to school, Mildred Capewell, my particular pal Trevor Curbishley known to all as ‘Chinky’, I don’t know why, and one of the early loves of my life Barbara Bunting, dark hair and eyes and plaits , I am sure there are more but it is a long time ago. We were lucky we had miles of countryside to explore and use, behind the first houses in the avenue, there was a large field with a pond shaded by trees on one side, it was really a water hole for the cattle, but proved to be a magnet for us, further afield through what I remember as Parkland we would walk to Consall Steps, the steps leading into a gorge with a river running through it and had at one time been used for some sort of quarrying, there were caves in the side of the gorge, ideal for games involving smugglers and pirates, of course we were not supposed to be there on our own, and it was important not to give the game away when questioned by mother “what have you been doing?”
Life was not all peaches and cream however, not that we knew what peaches were or cream, although one highlight came in 1943 when we had a new baby sister Christine, for late starters my parents were making great efforts to catch up, three children in six years, at a time when bringing children into a world at war was either very brave or foolish, I prefer to think the former.
With school came all the things that go with it, mumps, measles, chicken pox, and of course whooping cough and the ordinary common cold, of course I went one better, scarlet fever, then a disease that required separation. As a result of this I was despatched to The Isolation Hospital for three weeks, I remember that a school friend, Mildred Capewell, “Mindy” was there at the same time. The Boys ward had high ceilings and long windows. There was a common room, where everybody met containing puzzles and games. The Hospital was built in large grounds and if the weather was fine we could go outside in our pyjamas and dressing gowns, the latter supplied by the hospital. I was an adult before I bought another one. Later, during our stay in Cheddleton I contracted diphtheria, which was a very serious illness. I still have the memory of being wrapped in my father’s raincoat and taken by Ambulance to the hospital, it was late at night and dark, I can even recall the Doctor examining my throat and observing that it looked as if there was a large piece of apple lodged in my throat.
The war of course had another effect on children, with no sweets readily available and few if any of the families possessing cars and “junk food” not yet invented most children were lean and fit, due in no small measure to our walking to school and the games we played, always on foot and mostly running. Clothing was straight forward, boys wore short trousers, long socks with elastic garters, the latter charged with the almost impossible task of keeping them up just under the wearers knee and offering some air of tidiness, but mostly down around the ankles, the elastic garter being recycled into something much more useful, like a catapult. Above the waist a shirt mostly grey, short sleeve in the summer, and a woollen jumper, again grey or possibly navy and over that a jacket again grey and to finish the ensemble clogs, girls wore dresses or skirts and blouses, cardigans, shoes and white ankle socks, and in the colder weather long coats, we all looked alike, probably because we all had our clothes from the same place The Co-op in Stoke or Leek, if denim jeans had been invented they certainly hadn’t made an appearance in Cheddleton, and without the battery of advertising which is aimed at children today we didn’t have to ask for the numerous items of apparel necessary to be cool, in any case asking would have been a waste of time, life was much simpler then.
There was another good reason for the simplicity of our lives, lack of money. Men worked long hours for low wages and the cost of providing a roof over the family’s heads, food in their mouths, coal for the fire and electricity for cooking and lighting took up most of the money coming into the house leaving very little for frivolous living, although birthdays and Christmas were always observed. The state of war however, had one beneficial effect, with men away in the Armed Forces the work they would have done for the war effort was handed over to women one of whom was my mother, enabled to do so by my grandmother and the aunts moving in with us at various times and sharing the burden of looking after myself, my brother and my new sister, although where they slept is still a mystery. Mothers work, as well as adding much needed money to the family income also brought into the house hundreds of buttons of all shapes and sizes, my mother’s job was to cut them from old clothes which were then, by some miracle beyond my understanding then and now, turned into uniforms, the buttons were not required and ended up in tins in our house and were a source of endless indoor play for me over the next few years, for as we moved around so did the buttons although their number diminished as the years rolled on.
Our life in Cheddleton carried on without much incident, being in the middle of England and away from centres which the Germans thought important enough to bomb, we were, as children hardly aware of the war, although as a family we listened to the BBC news every evening, the bulletins giving news of events which to children were well beyond our understanding. My father being over forty was lucky to be in a reserved occupation, war work, and not required to “join up”, but he had two brothers and a brother-in-law in the army and a brother in the navy, my mother had three brothers, all in the army, and a brother-in-law in the RAF and another in the Fire Service in Great Yarmouth, so the family certainly “did their bit”, and by good fortune all came back unscathed, at least physically, my mother’s step brother Alfie was in the army, serving in the Middle Eastern Campaign with the Long Range Desert Group, fighting mostly behind German lines, my mother said he was never the same man again after his return, although he was my favourite uncle and I loved him which was reciprocated, after his funeral many years later, my mother revealed the mystery of his change from a carefree young man to the taciturn returnee, he was closer to my mother than any other of his step siblings, and told her that he had had to shoot one of his own comrades, the reason was never revealed, but he lived with it for the rest of his life.
Home life was simple, you woke in the morning, had breakfast, porridge, homemade, overnight, with sugar if you were lucky and the ration hadn’t run out, and if it had, broken biscuits or the occasional luxury of golden syrup to add a sweet flavour to the stodgy start to the day. Walk to school, across the fields, sandwiches in your pocket, no fancy lunch boxes with Disney characters to cheer you up, a hard day in school, walk home again and depending on the contrary Staffordshire weather, played outside until you were called in for tea. Because of rationing certain foods were unheard of, I can’t remember eating an orange or banana until well after the war ended, ice cream at home was unheard of, we were lucky to live near the Blakeman Farm, he provided local people with a regular if small supply of fresh eggs, milk, potatoes and very occasionally home cured bacon. Home grown produce from the shops was seasonal, but plentiful at the appropriate time of the year, no strawberries from Egypt or southern Spain in December, lettuces were available in the summer only and from January onwards you lived on root vegetables, Swede, Turnip, parsnip all going into stews, the word casserole wasn’t used in our house, together with the tiny meat ration.
Looking back there were favourites then which are still in our cupboards, condensed and evaporated milk, Camp bottled coffee, Spam or pork luncheon meat as it is grandly titled now, baked beans, jam, split peas, homemade thick pea soup with the addition of a ham hock and Norfolk Dumplings, was not only food fit for kings, it was cheap and lasted two days, my mother or grandmother or one of the aunts, whoever was on duty, shopped and cooked every day and the memory of coming in hungry from school into a kitchen filled with smell of good plain wholesome cooking will remain with me for ever, especially as the walk up the lane took you past about twelve or more houses with similar activities taking place, so that you were ravenous by the time you opened the back door, and had to be consoled with a doorstep sandwich of jam or condensed milk, and the out again to play, bliss.
Chapter 5 – War Time Entertainment
With television having been invented in the late 1930’s and the preserve of the rich within a twenty mile radius of Alexandra Palace on the edge of inner London, and then switched off for the duration it meant that the radio or wireless as it was called in those days was our main source of news and entertainment, the nearest cinemas were in Leek or Stoke and ‘going to the pictures’ was a treat indeed. Before the war started Britain could receive broadcasts in English from Europe, mainly light entertainment interspersed with advertising, Radio Luxembourg and Radio Normandy from France, Hilversum from Holland and Athlone from the Irish Free State, but with the occupation of Europe by the Germans and falling out with the Irish over neutrality the BBC was the only service available, unless you had access to a shortwave radio and could pick up Voice of America or ‘Lord Haw Haw ‘ with his propaganda broadcasts from Berlin. The BBC had two services The National Programme which offered although offered is not the best description, gave you music and light entertainment and The Home Service for the more serious provision, the BBC were fastidious in sticking to the requirement of education as well as entertainment but as that was all there was we lapped it up.
The comparison between scheduling now and then is interesting, during that period of my life the emphasis was on programmes that offered improvement, entertainment being secondary although as the war progressed it dawned on the Government and the hierarchy at the BBC that the spirits of the nation needed lifting, and programmes were put on that aimed to do that, Music While You Work and Workers Playtime, were two examples, the former thirty minutes of “popular music” being broadcast at 10.30 am and 15.30 pm into factories and the latter a half hour slot at 12.30 transmitted from a factory “Somewhere in Britain” featuring comedians and singers, accompanied by a piano, it being too expensive to take a band around. These two programmes proved to be popular both to those working and at home to such an extent that they lasted until the 1960’s. These were primarily aimed at an adult audience, but of course as children were not at school all day and every day you became familiar with them as you grew up, remember father controlled the wireless and there was only one in the house.
Of course, the wireless was more than just entertainment, it was also the main means of getting over information and propaganda. Although we didn’t like that word, it was linked too closely with Herr Goebbels in Germany. The news highlighted the progress the Allies were making, or more truthfully how it wasn’t going as badly as it could have been etc and of course for stirring speeches notably from Prime minister Winston Churchill and occasionally The King. However, most of my memories are of the entertainers and the shows they were in. The most popular “ITMA” starring Tommy Handley, Jack Warner, who in later TV life played the role of Dixon of Dock Green, his sisters Elsie and Doris Waters with a cross talk act as two Char Ladies “Gert and Daisy, The Western Brothers, Kenneth and George, I still don’t know if they were brothers, Max Miller, Arthur Askey, Tommy Trinder and Northern comedians Rob Wilton, Sandy Powell, Jimmy James, Norman Evans and Albert Modley, I must have heard them only occasionally because their transmissions would have been in the evening and I was in bed by eight weekdays, but before that happened there was Children’s Hour but more of that later.
Chapter 4 – Moving to Staffordshire
This move was one of those happy accidents of life I referred to at the beginning of this piece, we were safe
from the endless night time bombing which reduced many areas of the town to rubble and although the house we had lived in remained untouched that is no guarantee that we would have escaped injury or worse going to or taking refuge in the Bomb Shelters, in contrast Cheddleton was a haven of peace, with nearest bombing taking place in Manchester over fifty miles away.
Our refuge was very different from Great Yarmouth our new home was on the very outskirts of a medium sized village. I suppose it could have been described as a hamlet, if a lane off the main road with a few houses and a small shop fitted even that description. A good mile from the main village it was probably nearer to Wetley Rocks where I would eventually go to school than Cheddleton and it was here we commenced the next phase of our lives at 13 Woodlands Avenue, Folly Lane, Cheddleton, Staffs, no postal codes in those days.
We were not the only refugees from our home town, several other families made that move, and I can still remember some of the names, Hillyard, Tripp, Swann, Warner, Fish, Yarham, Simmons and more whose names may come back to me in time, all these families were housed in the same road, today it would be described as an enclave, but they very soon settled in and in the main found acceptance from their new neighbours, I recall that we had a Yarmouth family, the Tripps’ on one side and the Colcloughs local to the area on the other, they had one daughter Joan, older than me, but it couldn’t have been a great difference for when I reached school age, we walked there together. My father and his colleagues were sent to work at Joshua Wardle, a textile factory in Leekbrook, three or four miles away towards Leek, making the ubiquitous silk for parachutes; eventually my mother and several of the women would also take up employment for the same company, one of the by-products being the appearance in our home of quantities of buttons of all colours and sizes, but more of that later. I can remember the house clearly, semi-detached, redbrick, the front fence and gate made of wooden rails, just inside the gate a large rock, three steps led up to the front door which opened into a small hall with the staircase to the upper floor, and two doors one to the living room, and the second to the kitchen, each room warmed by a coal fire, and as far as my mother was concerned a wonderful modern item, an electric cooker, or stove as it was called by my parents, this being just one of the differences in language we were to experience, occasioned by this move. The kitchen ran along the rear of the house with a door to the garden in the side of the property, a fair sized
back garden with a drystone boundary wall at the far end and dividing fences made up of three strands of wire, easy for a small boy to crawl through. Upstairs there were three bedrooms and a bathroom, which had cold but not hot water connected, to take a bath the hot water had to be taken up by hand, one up from the zinc bath most people would bring in on a Friday, Saturday or Sunday for the family bath session. We were to be here for the next five years, broken by very occasional visits to Great Yarmouth, but enlivened by more than occasional visits by my maternal grandmother and the aunts.
As far as I was concerned those years were very happy, Woodlands Avenue had houses on one side only, the other being a large field owned by a local farmer, bounded on the far side by the bungalows on Folly Lane, as I grew older this field when not being grazed by cows, was in turn according to the season a football or cricket pitch, or failing that a meeting ground for the children both local and incomers, who as children universally do, treated each other at first with suspicion and then with familiarity, and that is where the question of differing speech patterns became obvious, we sounded very different to the local children and were made aware of it by the taunting and attempted copying of our east of England accents, and I can remember retreating home in tears because I had been humiliated for my non Staffordshire dialect, but we learned quickly and soon began to use local words in our everyday speech and by the time we eventually returned to Great Yarmouth, I was so immersed in our adopted tongue, I received the same treatment all over again from new found friends in my home town.
Chapter 3 – Evacuation Times
Of course, being only four years old when we embarked upon life in Cheddleton my horizons were somewhat limited. I had to remain within the range of my mother’s vision, and as the kitchen was at the rear of the house, this meant being confined to the back garden together with our neighbour’s children. As I grew older the garden became, in my imagination, the unseen football stadia I had heard of or read about, peopled by players I had not seen play, but who were familiar from cigarette cards. At the age of six I made the great leap from fantasy to reality and was taken by my father to see Stoke City play against Newcastle Utd at the Victoria Ground. As far as the visiting team was concerned, I can remember one name only, Albert Stubbins. A red headed centre forward, who was creating a stir at that time and being touted as a future England player. It was not to be, but he did eventually move to Liverpool and enjoyed moderate success. The Stoke side remain in my memory as if it was yesterday. In goal Denis Herod, full backs Mould and McUre, a half back line of Frank Mountford, Neil Franklin and Jock Kirton, and a forward line to be reckoned with, the incomparable Stanley Matthews, Frank Bowyer, Freddie Steele, who had as little hair as Stubbins was blessed, Tommy Sale, and the second Mountford brother George, unless you are of a certain age and live in or around Stoke many of these names will be unknown to you, Matthews of course everybody knows, being in that group of English players who are legendary, Dixie Dean, Tommy Lawton, Tom Finney, Bobby Moore, Bobby Charlton, Jimmy Greaves, there may be modern players who will one day qualify to join them, but just at present I can’t think of any.
The football was still ahead however, and our lives settled into a routine, play for the children and work for the parents, I can remember walking with my mother into Cheddleton village passing The Copse on the left and Beresford’s Bus Garage on the right, it is still there, my mother pushing my newly born brother in the pram, down a quite steep hill, Cronny Bank, to the small cluster of shops that supplied our everyday needs, our major fuel was coal, which of course was delivered as was the milk and bread, but in the village there was a greengrocer, butcher and general store/post office, and I am sure there would have been a couple of pubs, but I was too young to go out in the evening to find out. One thing I do remember quite distinctly is the snow in the winter, lots of it, and the buses, or buzzes as the local pronunciation dictated, would have a struggle to maintain schedules on the frozen roads,
Woodlands avenue was a long road, consisting of two separate communities, the newer houses, and the original properties which always seemed smaller and darker in colour, and whose occupants almost a different breed, I recall my father saying they were mostly miners from a local pit, that they didn’t mix and kept their coal in the bath, they received the coal free, no doubt as part of their wages, which seemed to upset my father, whether it was the coal being free or where they allegedly stored it, I am not sure to this day; one thing of which I am certain is that the children from those houses and ours and those from the bungalows across the field did not mix, no hostility, just didn’t meet or play together.
Although we didn’t play with the children from the original houses, we were aware of them, our games were not dissimilar to those played by infants and juniors today, skipping, more popular with girls than boys was a cheap and easy game to take part in, and they went in for singing games where one by one they would be removed until the last girl remained, I do know that these games were a mystery to me then and remained so for the rest of my boyhood, boys however went in for less complicated activities, Cowboys and Indians, English and Germans, and as we grew older, football, with a tennis ball, try playing that on a field where the grass was kept short by grazing, and of course the obligatory wrestling matches, as boys tried to establish and then maintain superiority within the group, now as I watch on TV; groups of pack animals going through the same ritual , it brings it all back. Our biggest enemy was rain, we hated it, you had to stay in the house, and as far as I can remember alone with mother, I cannot recall groups of friends coming around to play and “sleepovers” were out of the question, we didn’t have the room and we didn’t have the food to give away to other people’s children.
Possessions were few and treasured, if one of the gang had a new toy it was envied, but there was little peer pressure in those days and absolutely nothing to be gained from asking Mother or Father to supply the same as your friend, you had what you had and made the most of it, one treasure I do recall was a toy pistol, metallic blue, and even then it was not the whole of the pistol, it was made in two sections and I had the right hand side, I never found out who had the left, but it served its purpose, it looked like the real thing, others among my friends had rifles and pistols fashioned from wood either crudely carved from the solid or even more crudely joined together with nails, how we knew how to conduct our games I don’t know, we had no cinema to be our guide and television was unknown, but we kept ourselves occupied all our waking hours in that wonderful world of children’s imagination.
Chapter 2 – The Coronation
The year nineteen thirty-seven was quite a significant one in Great Britain, but my birth had no impact on events at all, however it was Coronation Year. In 1936, Edward the Eighth had abdicated the throne and a younger brother took on the task of being king. At that time Europe was in ferment, with Hitler and his Nazi party, by now in complete control in Germany and looking around for territory to claim or reclaim, but in Great Yarmouth things went on as usual. It seems I was not an easy child, my mother told tales of visits to the Hippodrome Circus, during one of which my misbehaviour was such, that we, my mother, her mother, her sisters, my cousin and I were asked to leave, on another occasion while attending a Bible Class, I chose to discuss at length differences I apparently had with the Church Leader, Captain Tippler, but really, with a name like that who could take him seriously, I was not yet three and I was evidently spoiled but being the only boy, surrounded by my mother, grandmother and the aunts that was going to happen. On a brighter side the news was not all bad, I have memories taken from snapshots of sunny days on the beach, although even then I was able to spoil the party, one such occasion was a visit to Sandy Hook, an area of beach on the river bank just inside the Harbours Mouth, we had enjoyed a pleasant day until it was time to leave at which point I chose to “put my parts on” in other words refusing to go quietly and throwing a monumental tantrum until my Father who had less patience with my bad behaviour than Mother dealt with the situation in a summary manner and order was restored. I can recall visits to the Pleasure Beach, a permanent Fun Fair at the southern end of the main promenade, where I remember looking at what seemed then to be a gigantic figure not unlike the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, and being the possessor of a Lucky Jim Doll, he was the logo on Force Flakes, competitors to Kellogg’s.
We were not long in Morley’s Alley, and our next move was to a dwelling over Curry’s Radio Shop on The Market Place, this was a major step up as there were more rooms than we could use, so some of the bedrooms were used for lodgers and of course contained several modern amenities one of which was a bathroom, luxury. I don’t have any recall of our life there but as a boy of seven or eight I can remember it being pointed out to me, by then of course there had been a war and Great Yarmouth had been subject to heavy bombing by the Luftwaffe, but somehow the building had escaped damage of any sort, but new tenants had been installed and we had to live elsewhere.
The period between that move and the Declaration of War was, according to my Mother, both happy and rewarding, with my Father’s work, including overtime, making silk for parachutes for the ensuing conflict, together with the income from the lodgers, making life a good deal easier than it would be for a long time to come. It came to an end in 1940, by then the nightly bombing had commenced and the Factory where my Father worked, was destroyed and the decision was taken to move the works and workers to the North Midlands, between Leek and Stoke on Trent where the prospect of bombing and the resultant damage would be considerably less, Father was forty years of age and in a reserved occupation so not called upon to serve in the Armed Forces, and so with Mother heavily pregnant we set off to Cheddleton in Staffordshire where we were to stay until early in 1946.
Chapter 1 – In The Beginning
Over the years my wife has urged me to write an account of my life as part of a family history, to be passed on to grandchildren. And with all the interest in genealogy stirred up by the BBC programme ‘Who Do You Think You Are’ especially that of Zoe Wanamaker, her grandfather did just that, I agreed to try to put as much as I can remember on to paper. And now that I have started I realise that it is what I can remember and only that which will be on these pages, recently I have been part of a mentoring programme at King Alfred’s School and find that because I have chosen to use examples of my own school experience to help in my discussions with the boys I mentor, I can now remember many things that I had forgotten, therefore what I propose to do is to take my time, look at photographs, talk with contemporaries if they are still alive and build up the story.
Over the time I will be trying to recall there has been the rise of Hitler, the Second World War, the demise of Hitler, the birth of what we now know as the Welfare State, the break-up of the British Empire and it being reassembled as the Commonwealth, the formation of the United Nations, the Cold War and in the end the breakup of the Soviet Block, England winning the World Football Cup, TV taking over from Radio as the major home entertainment, and the automobile taking over everything. Quite a lot there, so here we go. Just one thing, as I write we still have a war taking placing somewhere in the world, no lesson learned there then.
I know people, both male and female who have told me their lives have been mapped out for them or that they knew from an early age what they wanted from life and how they had followed the paths to success, my life hasn’t been like that, but a series of accidents some unfortunate, but mostly lucky that have brought me to today, in my old age healthy and happy, for me it isn’t what you have done in life that makes you the person you are, but what you have learned and how you use it.
I was born on Sunday, January 24, 1937, at five o’clock in the afternoon, weighing 11lb 3oz, at No 3 Morley’s Alley, off Howard Street, Great Yarmouth in the County of Norfolk, how can I be so sure of this detail? Well, I heard my mother say it on so many occasions it was as if it was written on a piece of paper and given to me to keep in case of emergencies.
I know where the house was, but I haven’t seen it, together with many other similar dwellings it was either destroyed in the Second World War, or pulled down in the aftermath, but I am aware that it was a typical working man’s home of the pre-war period, lacking in all the facilities that we now take for granted, but it was our home at the time of my birth, and for a short period after that.
My father was a factory worker, a silk dyer, and I have many memories associated with that, my mother a waitress and barmaid. I later realised that in a sense his job was a comedown in life, his Grandfather and Father had both been owners of small businesses, the former a Whitesmith, the latter a Baker with a shop, my father, together with his younger brother had been trained in Baking possibly with a view to continuing the business but in the 1920’s the business was bought out by a larger bread and cake manufacturer, Grandfather went to work for that company, the boys were left to find other employment. My mother, had a varied working life, starting at age fourteen in service, then becoming a Beatster, making and repairing Fishing Nets, before following her younger sister into the hotel trade. So, it was at ages of thirty-seven and thirty-three respectively and living in Morley’s Alley next door to another of my mothers’ sisters, I was brought into the world.
The family particularly on the maternal side was very close, my mother being one of six and from my earliest memories all the girls lived near each other and were in constant contact, my paternal Grandparents lived some distance away or so it seemed to me as a child, of course now as an adult retracing those childhood steps it was perhaps no more than three quarters of a mile, but that distance must have been significant for it was not until I was eight or nine years of age that I can recall meeting my Fathers family
My previous week of working must have been acceptable for as the summer holidays got nearer my mother asked if I wanted to repeat it, she couldn’t promise but felt sure that the opportunity would present itself. Having had my first taste of having money in my pocket I was hoping that I would have a second chance. July continued on its natural progression with no indication that work was likely to be offered and I was worried that someone else had been given the work, no amount of questioning of mother could elicit a positive response, just that she had not heard that it been given to someone else which led me to, in my head, paraphrase the oft repeated quote “Hope sprang eternally in my breast”. It was in the week before we broke up at GYGS that I received the news I so desperately wanted to hear, that the summer job was mine. It was later during August that I found out I could have been put out of my misery much earlier but my mother had not been sure that my Aunt Lily would be able to help look after my brother and sister during that busy summer month. Perhaps it is time for a family roll call.
The family members on my mother’s side were far more involved with us than those of my father, to such an extent that apart from my paternal grandparents and his younger brothers Richard and Fred, sister Eva and her husband Jimmy who I met slightly more than occasionally. Jim was a gardener with The Great Yarmouth Corporation with particular responsibility for the floral clock in the gardens opposite the Wellington Pier, another Great Yarmouth military reference and Fred worked on the railway and received free travel which irked my father. However, if I had walked by any other members’ in that side of the family anywhere in the town streets or shops’ I suspect I would not have known them. It was much later, in my twenties, that I met a female cousin who introduced herself “I think you are my cousin” and she was Fred’s daughter, don’t ask me to recall her name. As a result of this disparity my father’s family were hardly if ever included in any social gatherings which meant that as far as I was concerned my family were all on my mother’s side, and if any of them needed help it came from that grouping. Luckily Aunt Lily who had the previous year recovered from Tuberculosis and was still recuperating, in that she was not back at fulltime work and as a result was able to look after my younger brother and sister. Looking back with the benefit of time I was a lucky boy, luck that has walked hand in hand with me all my life.
So as soon as term came to an end I was back at work, but this time with added responsibility and longer hours, I still did the breakfast shift but added on was lunch preparations and rather than sending me home between those shifts I was given further responsibility. When breakfast was out of the way and I had eaten in order to replenish my strength I had an hour break. Then prior to commencing lunchtime duties I was given another task, this time in the long bar, now I know I was only thirteen but hotel licence hours were different then, the bars did not open until midday so my job was to follow the barman as he restocked the shelves making sure all the bottle labels faced the front at all times, it was not like the work in the kitchen and in my eyes working alongside a grown man I felt grown up. As a result of working the extra hours my weekly wage packet was more substantial and each week having received my wages I celebrated by buying a book from one of the stalls on the sea front. I had found a new hero in literature, Simon Templar “The Saint”, written by Leslie Charteris, but as usual mother made sure that some if not always most of my new found wealth was put to good use, something I benefited from in later life.
Chapter 62- A period of change – Part 3
With the experience of my first week’s proper work under my belt and first weeks’ payment disposed of it was back to GYGS until July and the long summer holiday and the daily routine that accompanied it although on this occasion things were different. Very different. Like our family Peter Cutting and his mother and father lived in the ground floor flat of a Victorian house on Wellesley Road at the very far end of the road. Once again, like my father, Peter’s father was a working man but unlike my father he was of substantial build and in this case his work was on building sites and due to the replacement of all the houses bombed in the war being replaced and the new estates of prefabs and council houses springing up he was very busy, especially in the summer when overtime was plentiful with the long evenings, so although I got to know his mother, who was very small, I rarely came into contact with his father.
I have stated before that we were rarely if ever invited into our friends houses so it came as quite a shock when on our way home from school I was asked to go in as he had something to show me. I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t what I found. Before that let me give you some background, I had been in into their house before, in fact his mother was perhaps one of the more friendly parents in our group and ranked highly with us due to managing to get the autographs of Tommy Lawton and Jackie Sewell which I chronicled earlier. Because we lived on the same road his mother was more familiar to me than any of the others and although my visits were hardly of a regular nature she was relaxed enough to give me a nickname, “Lord Cork”, a soubriquet that meant nothing to me and I just hoped that it was in some form complementary, but couldn’t pluck up the nerve to ask the question, why ? Thanks to Wikipedia I think that it probably was, in addition to his Irish title he was an Admiral of the Fleet, involved in two world wars, but I still don’t know why I received it, and of course now I never will.
If the invitation came as a shock it was nothing compared to the reason behind it, if I had been offered one hundred guesses not one of them would have elicited the correct answer, a piano. My first reaction although I was able to conceal it was why, and the second was how, this was a full size piano although not a grand and I wondered how they managed to get it up the outside steps for although it was a ground floor flat there were three steps from the pavement to overcome, together with a narrow hallway and the start of a staircase, I must have been so surprised that I didn’t even realise that from wherever the piano was purchased they would have been able to deal with that problem. The second and perhaps more obvious to me was why? A question that I posed, for in those first moments of shock I could think of no reason for such a decision and more than that the purchase. The answer was prompt and must have rendered me speechless, it was for Peter to learn to play, and arrangements for lessons had been made and the final stab was they would be straight after school on two days every week.
It was such a shock that it brought out the “Just William” in me. Why would anyone want to play the piano when you could be outside playing football or cricket, his answer would have been straightforward, you wouldn’t, it was something forced onto you by adults, and luckily my parents had so far not gone down that road. I did casually mention it to my mother, her equally casual response was “Oh that’s nice” and carried on with whatever she had been doing. I breathed an invisible sigh of relief, I was safe.
Chapter 61 -A period of change – Part 2
The previous chapter highlighted my coming of age in so far as my desire to be able to put my hand into my pocket and find money. Money that I had earned and money I need not keep looking at or worrying that once gone there was no more. Up to then virtually nearly everything I had to spend came from money I had been given as a birthday present or largesse from one or other of my parents, the former being once a year and the latter although more often than that was not a regular event and usually coincided with some particular task I had undertaken or been given, more than likely the latter, and even then the amount was small, a regular stipend or as it was known pocket money, was simply not available to me from the combined income of my parents, but this is not a sob story, I was able to go, in season, to the speedway and football, and without having to ask, in either case one of my parents would be always be forthcoming. As a result, I learned not to take their generosity for granted, and it wasn’t going to be long before I wasn’t going to have to rely on them, at least while the summer season was in full swing
Goodes Hotel, where my Aunt and mother both worked as waitresses, was looking for someone to work in the kitchen and my name was put forward, I don’t recall having to attend an interview obviously the recommendation from my Aunt, who was the head waitress was sufficient and sometime in May or June, it must have been half term, I entered the world of proper work for the first time, and it was work, hard work, but I was going to be paid and that was the most important part, ok the pay, 10 shillings per week wasn’t going to feed a family but to me it was like manna from heaven. I was required to be ready to work at 7am, my first task was to get the big plates for the breakfast shift which commenced at 8am onto the still, a metal counter in the kitchen, to be warmed and from where the waiting staff, my Aunt, mother and one other lady Lina, would deliver them full of food into the dining room for breakfast, and this was a large dining room in a large hotel, in those days one of the best hotels in Great Yarmouth in a prime position on the Sea Front. I can’t recall how long it took to get into the rhythm of the kitchen but that was essential, an hour may seem long under other circumstances but not in a busy kitchen under the watchful eyes of my aunt, mother and the chefs, especially the Head Chef, one of a team of three, who if he spotted a minor infraction had no hesitation in administering a clip around the ear, or more accurately the back of the head, sometimes just because he felt like it. One breakfast plate doesn’t weigh very much but a dozen certainly does when you are thirteen, having to be carried from warm storage to the still, even now it seems not unlike one of the labours of Hercules, but once I got into the swing of it, it ran like clockwork, just time for a cup of tea before the used plates started to reappear to be taken to the washing up point where luckily there was a man who was responsible for that operation. It was hard work but I loved it, I was of course lucky I knew my Aunt, mother and Lina before getting the job but family or not it was expected that I would pull my weight, not that at thirteen there was much weight to be taken into consideration and it wasn’t, I quickly understood the value of team work and was both proud and pleased to be part of the team.
When the last plate, cup and saucer was safely back in the kitchen, washed up and back in place it was time for me to get my breakfast and was I ready for it? You bet I was, and together with my aunt, mother and Lina sat down to the full English breakfast at the large kitchen table, sometimes the Chef’s sat with us but more often than not they ate standing up and the dish washer was on his own at the far side of the kitchen, I did not understand the word apartheid when I was thirteen but I realise now it existed in that kitchen. At the end of the week I received my first wage packet for eight days work, I have to say the exact amount has slipped my memory but you have my assurance it didn’t go to my head , no chance of that, before it even had a chance to reach my pocket my mother took charge and gave me back five shillings, the remainder being put to one side for a rainy day, but even allowing for my mothers’ foresight that five shillings was more money than I was used to and with my fathers words ringing in my ears “There is another day tomorrow”, which I promptly ignored, I managed to make a significantly large hole in it in short order.
PS: In todays currency five shillings would be the equivalent of twenty five pence.
Chapter 60 – A period of change- Part One
My time at GYGS was slipping by with little or no incident, the walk to school, working to the everyday timetable, and walking home again, the breaks from the routine being school holidays, Easter, Summer and Christmas, there may have been half term breaks but I can’t recall them with any special memories. The Easter break was like Christmas, three weeks but it was the summer break of six weeks that stands out in my memory, it was during one of those periods of school inactivity that I was eventually introduced to the prospect of joining the world of work. I was aware that some of my contemporary’s had already made that leap within a gamut of differing employment, weekend paper round, after school grocery delivery service and the afore mentioned luggage trolley service for holiday makers from the railway stations. The scholarship that got you to the Grammar School was an education leveller but didn’t put money in your or your parent’s pockets.
Great Yarmouth being a town that, prior to the days before “foreign holidays” became one of the first choices of working people, relied predominantly on the yearly surge of holiday makers from the more industrialised areas of the Midlands, North and incredibly Scotland, I say incredibly, due to the distance travelled in order to enjoy the delights the town had to offer for one or mostly two weeks break from the workplace, especially as the road system in those far off days did not offer Motorways or in the main not even dual carriageway roads, a situation that as I write still prevails in my home county of Norfolk, but if you didn’t have a car or were not travelling by a motor coach there was always the railway and three stations waiting to receive you.. Vauxhall and Beach serving the Midlands and the North and South Town for London and the South. Oh, the good old days.
From the end of May or perhaps the end of the second week of June all the activity that presaged the new “Summer Season” was in full swing, guest houses had their final lick of paint and the “Vacancies” sign hung in the windows ready for the onset of those visitors who were prepared to take a chance and turn up without making a booking, and there were plenty, which always surprised me, and still does, although early in the season it was not too much of a risk, mid- July and all of August would have been almost suicidal but it was this activity that heralded opportunity with casual work for the summer season, which of course meant money in your pocket, a rare event for me, and how I envied those that did enjoy that privilege.
From the town centre the main thoroughfare to the Sea Front was Regent Road with so many delights that to list them all would take far more time than this reminiscence has available, but let me stick to those who might be looking for a hardworking boy of thirteen. Ice cream parlours and cafes the most likely, among the former the largest was Vetese’s, I know there is only one S but it was pronounced as if there were two, Vetessie’s, with two cafés almost opposite each other but they mostly employed girls. In truth my eye was on “The Bloater King” at the top of Regent Road, the first shop to catch the eye of the multitude of visitors heading down to the seafront. For the uninitiated a bloater is a smoked and cured herring unlike a kipper it is not split down the back nor as salty and is specific to the town of origin, “Yarmouth Bloater”. It was the nickname of the Speedway team and Great Yarmouth Town Football Club, as well as being part of the staple diet in our home, but what was the attraction for me.
The shop had a double front open to the elements and two or three long tables behind which were boys boxing up customers bloaters which they could take away or have sent by post as gifts, and oh, how I envied them, as far as I was concerned this was the life I wished to share, my mother however had different ideas. I don’t recall ever receiving an explanation for her reasons but it was made very clear that she would not give her approval, and if you lived in the same house, which of course we did, then my mother’s word was law, and although I was disappointed there was a ray of sunshine about to appear over my horizon.
Chapter 59 – All play and no work, means, what?
I am sure that no one in the future who may be reading this memoir will lose any sleep over my decision to skate over the details of my inglorious career at GYGS, none of which can be laid at the feet of that institution, they did their best. If I had perhaps responded with 20% of the effort they put into the task, perhaps my immediate future when I said my farewell would have taken a different route and I would be recalling a different story. But I didn’t and even now at a quite advanced age and with a happy life and successful career behind me, I still have, from time to time, the question in my head “what if.”
OK, so I said that I would not bore you with the GYGS minutiae, and I will try and keep that promise, however I must bring to your attention the things that made a lasting mark on me, literature and history initially as separate disciplines, then as a combination of art and historical literature, and within the latter the other great interests, the art of stage and cinema. As I write this epistle in my office, behind me is a bookcase which pays tribute to both genres with numerous volumes that I have read and used as reference on many occasions, latterly assisting in an amateur recording of “The Pickwick Papers”. But back to the past.
It was sometime within my first two years at GYGS that the school was taken on trips to the cinema, even Grammar schools did not have the equipment to be able to show films to their best advantage. As a result on a given date we would walk from Salisbury Road along the North Parade to the cinema, The Royal Aquarium, so named because from the front door and through to the theatre both sides of the majestic entrance hall sported tanks which must at some time have contained exotic fish, but in the aftermath of the war lay empty. We did not lose any sleep over it we were out of school for the afternoon.
It was a requirement however that the films had to contain education value and so they did, Oliver Twist, Great Expectations and Hamlet, all made in British Studios in 1948, I am not sure of the order but that is not important, the value is how it affected me for the rest of my life. Reading a book is one thing but seeing a book brought to life on the stage or in a film adds a whole new dimension, in my case it encouraged me after seeing the films to try and tackle the books, a practice I still follow if possible. I have found over a lifetime of reading to try and see the film or play before tackling the book, I find I can pick up nuances that the adaptation may have missed. This of course only applies to books that are deemed worthy of such treatment. One major example is the John Le Carre’ classic spy novel “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier Spy” with the original BBC TV adaptation ensuring the book became a major best seller. The alternative nearly always leads to disappointment, have you tried just reading Shakespeare? Not nearly as enjoyable as seeing it brought to life on the stage as I realised when the school put on a performance of “The Scottish Play” with Hamish Swanson in the role of Lady Macbeth, truly a tour de force.
These school trips also brought me back to Charles Dickens, who had until then been just a name on the wall alongside the main door of the Royal Hotel on South Parade on the seafront in Great Yarmouth, where during a stay he started to write David Copperfield. This connection has stayed with me all my life so far, it being my favourite book by my favourite author.
Chapter 58 – What did we do before technology was invented?
When I posed that question I was aware that technology had been around much longer than the period of my life that I am describing but perhaps in not such an all pervading and recognisable manner. One of my two favourite subjects was history the other literature, it was the combination of the two disciplines that gave birth to the title of this chapter.
The use of technology could be found in virtually everything we were learning at school, take the common or garden book that we opened every day, thanks to the invention of the printing press, technology, the bus we caught every day to get us there, replacing the horse drawn omnibus, technology. I could fill the page with examples of how technology in its various forms affected or enhanced our every day lives, but one in particular was behind this chapter, radio or as we knew it the wireless, the effect it had on our everyday lives and its prescient nature. “Last night did you hear?” a regular question on the walk into school.
As far as we as boys were concerned the programmes we preferred, Dick Barton Special Agent, Riders of the Range and Journey into Space tended to be formulaic, hero and two sidekicks. In the latter, hero Jet Morgan had two other members of the spaceship crew, Doc and Lemmy. The latter played by the then unknown later famous character actor David Kossoff, was almost a comic turn, but that was not a problem for we young listeners especially as Journey into Space, which at it’s highest point was getting more listeners on the wireless than people viewing BBC TV, even as it was, at that time, the only TV service on offer, and without us realising it pointing in the direction that was achieved in a mere twenty years in 1968, putting a man on the moon. Technology at its’s best.
But with the benefits of radio technology, and there were benefits if you knew where to find them on the dial and if you had control of the tuning knob there were other broadcasters, especially in the evening, but in the evening my father was in control and the delights of the main commercial station Radio Luxembourg were more often than not denied us. There was also the concern that there could be a less than beneficial effect in other areas of leisure activity one of which was the theatre. Without question that was a very present concern especially in the field known as variety, an area we knew a lot about in Great Yarmouth, the argument being that if you could hear them on the wireless for free you wouldn’t pay to go and see them. This worry however proved to be unfounded, in fact quite the opposite, hearing them on the wireless whetted the appetite when they appeared in one of the summer shows. An appearance in the successful radio programme “Educating Archie” certainly was the case for Max Bygraves, Dick Emery, Beryl Reid and a young lady singer who went on to greater fame than any of the others, Julie Andrews. Success on the wireless ensuring that seats were sold throughout the summer season. On the down side Arnold got a mechanised milk float and I lost my job.
Chapter 57 – Learning Lessons
Anyone other than myself reading the title of this epistle might have assumed that with the bulk of the current recollections taken from my years at GYGS that the epistle would singularly be concerned with their attempt, with as it turned out not great success, to educate me to a standard well ahead of that I could have received at my previous school, and that would have been a reasonable conclusion to draw, as it contains a large measure of truth, it also contains evidence of the fact that however hard they tried I failed to take advantage of the opportunity.
The title therefore is as much about my learning lessons outside school as inside. I have indicated in previous recollections, how I quickly recognised where my strengths and weaknesses lay and I am sorry to say predominantly in the latter, what I still have to work out after many years is why that was the case, it certainly was the not the fault of the teaching staff who certainly did their best to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. The inevitable conclusion is that the fault lay at my own feet and my inability then to either recognise or accept or perhaps even care that I was not making the best of this opportunity, a tendency that followed me into early manhood.
Learning lessons was not strictly confined to the classroom, an example of this was out on the sports field, at the Priory when the school football team sheet went up my name was on there, except for the occasion when illness caused the removal but I worked hard and fought my way back in, now the competition was of a much higher level and any expectations I had of being automatically chosen for form or house easily were soon exploded, remember then there were no substitutes standing on the touchline hoping and praying for an injury to the player in your position, we went to the house matches in school uniform not playing kit. House masters sometimes watched form football in order to select the team but I suspect they also relied on reports from the sports masters, as it turned out I was lucky, I was in both form and house teams until I suffered from a broken bone in my instep as a result of receiving an over enthusiastic tackle, which kept me out of football for the remainder of the season. I can still recall the look on my mother’s face when she came home to find me with my right foot in plaster and two crutches in the corner of the living room, it was the first she knew of it, no telephone at home or mobile back then. It took me over a year to get to back into the house team.
Outside of school I learned another lesson which has remained with me since then. Two friends and myself returned home each day from school via the Beaconsfield Recreation Ground, a stroll of ten minutes which took us past the Groundsman’s Hut and Store Shed. There were two groundsmen, the senior being Mr Barber a man in late middle age of substantial build and his assistant Mr Jackson, an elderly man with what we knew as a medicine boot on his right foot, it was built up to reduce his limp but nevertheless it was very obvious, add to that a prosthetic metal hook on his right wrist, he was not the most mobile of men. As a result, and I am ashamed of it even now we were unkind to Mr Jackson, taunting him calling him “Hookie” and affecting a similar limp knowing he was in no position to deal with us and his colleague did nothing about it. There is a saying” be sure your sins will find you out” it is based in truth. Mr Barber moved on and a younger, much younger groundsman took his place, he was not only young he was vigorous as I found out to my cost. He was aware of our behaviour as on one occasion when after a warning from him not to taunt his colleague and we not aware of his presence and we taunted Mr Jackson, the new groundsman came out of his hut where he been hiding, like a train out of a tunnel, and he was young and he could run like us, I set off at a pace he following carrying a broom which he threw, it got tangled in my legs and I went down, he caught me and gave me what was known in those days as a good hiding and the admonishment not to do it again. I had to confess to my mother the reason for being so upset, I was 12 and in tears and of course not the full story. My mother was horrified and said my father, when home from work, it was summertime and the Rec was open until 9pm, would go and deal with it, which I insisted was not necessary, my mother wouldn’t listen and when my father came in from work, his question “What did you do” and my reply “nothing” cut no ice. I was taken back to scene of the crime. The full truth came out and as a result my father made me apologise to Mr Jackson, to the vigorous groundsman who was the cause of my visit, together with his permission to mete out the same punishment if I transgressed in future, he need not have worried. On the walk back he told me why Mr Jackson was as he was,of injuries sustained in World War One and that I should be proud of him rather than taunting him. I learned a lesson that has been with me since that day.
Chapter 56 - Broadening Horizons, There is a world outside Great Yarmouth
Since returning to the town of my birth at the end of the war in 1946, I had not as far as I can recall strayed outside the boundaries of the town other than a bus ride to Gorleston with my father for a football match, or to Caister for speedway and they were really part of the Borough of Great Yarmouth, even Norwich, 22 miles away, where my Uncle Alf lived was out of my reach, so you can perhaps imagine the excitement generated at GYGS when we received the news that the school was planning a trip to Paris, yes I will repeat it, Paris, in France. Three years on from the end of the war, the physical scars, were still evident in many parts of Great Yarmouth as well as the psychological scars that may have been endured by the some of the citizens including my parents. The excitement the news generated within the school may not have been repeated among the parents, certainly not if it was anything like the reception it received in my home when I presented the notice, first to my mother and then to my father when he came home from work.
The stumbling block was the most obvious one, the cost. When trying to recall it, the first amount I had in my mind was £101 but on much wracking of my memory It may have been £75, either way it was out of the question, even the latter would have been the equivalent of 30 weeks of my father’s wages, but irrespective of which amount it was out of our reach, my mother toyed with the idea of asking one of my aunts for a loan, quickly squashed by my father, “if you can’t afford it you can’t have it”, a principle he applied all his life. As a result of his obduracy my visiting Paris would have to wait another twentytwo years. If I was disappointed so were the bulk of my classmates in 1A, I can’t recall who did go but it wasn’t any of the coterie of friends I had made.
But Paris was not the only opportunity on offer during my stay at GYGS. In 1951 to celebrate how Great Britain in general and London in particular had bounced back from the dark days of the war Mr Attlee’s Government announced a Festival of Britain to highlight the countries recovery in Industry and Arts since 1945. Built on the South Bank of the Thames the intention was to take peoples mind off the grinding economic conditions left over from the war, and there is now on reflection an acceptance that it did just that with people coming to the capital from all over the United Kingdom, many for the first time, if only for a day. One of them was yours truly.
That day would have been a long one, a very early by train from Yarmouth South Town Station (now long gone) to London Liverpool Street and then onto the Festival Site, my memory fails me as to how we traversed the metropolis, probably by bus as I have no recollection of going on the underground and that would have stood out in my memory, but whatever the method we travelled by to the South Bank we all made it without mishap, in school uniform with a packed lunch, in time for what would be one of the most memorable days of my life up to then . I know that it was the enormity of everything in London that impressed me most of all, the buildings were not only tall but packed close together and it wasn’t until we got to the Exhibition that the sky opened up and the first thing that I saw was the OXO building on the South Bank, we all knew what OXO was and we hadn’t reached the Exhibition Grounds by then, which covered several acres. With less than a day, the choice of where to go and what to see was important. The Festival Hall we bypassed, if there was a concert on that day it wasn’t for us to enjoy. The prime attractions were the Skylon, the nearest description I can offer is a gigantic cigar with pointed ends and the Dome of Discovery, where we spent most of our time, the eccentric Miniature Railway, the Guiness Clock and at the far end the Battersea Park Funfair, that particular venue not on our list of treats that day.
The Dome of Discovery was undoubtedly the star attraction as we were all, singly or in groups able to see ourselves on an invention that had not arrived in Great Yarmouth in 1951 – Television
The other major trip that sticks in my memory was again a rail journey, this time to Windsor and a visit to the Castle and the Park now familiar to everyone thanks to Television and Royal Weddings. Once again it was the size of the castle that I remember more than anything, especially as the town of Windsor had been built around it and those buildings looked no bigger than doll’s houses in comparison, the castle also had soldiers in uniform on guard something that the other castle we visited from school did not have, and in travel terms was on our doorstep, and yes, another train journey, Norwich Castle.
Norwich Castle we were informed, was a classic example of a Norman Castle and although it could not offer the grandeur and soldiers in Bearskins it was our castle, on our doorstep and informed us about the history of Norwich and the county of Norfolk of which Norwich was not only the capital but in the days of Henry V111 the second city of his kingdom. One of the things I remember most was the gallery exhibiting the work of local Artists especially the work of John Sell Cotman, whose paintings of Norwich in the past certainly caught my imagination.
OK, these trips were not to Paris but I still remember them with great affection and although I didn’t realise it at the time, as the start of the broadening of my mind.
PS: My visit with a school party to Windsor Castle was not the only time I was inside those walls. No longer living in Great Yarmouth, my change of job in the 1960’s gave me an opportunity to visit the castle every two weeks, I had a pass to go in without paying, enabling me to restock the tea and coffee in the staff kitchen.
Chapter 55 - 1948 - A Year of Change in Different Ways
If someone who had lived through the post war era had been asked to describe what is was like to live in Great Britain in general and Great Yarmouth in particular in 1948 the response would probably have been in one of two areas, for those for whom adulthood was post war it might have been downbeat for those who recalled the pre- war era it was probably much more optimistic, let me try and put some flesh on those bones, an apt simile in many ways.
The war had been over for nearly three years but the cost of that war was still evident in three areas, physically, financially and mentally. I think to fully understand the late 1940’s it is necessary to go back to the 1930’s and compare the attempt by the newly and surprisingly, to some, elected Labour Government to ensure that the pre-war hardship for the majority of the working people would not be repeated, but how would that be carried through in a country trying to recover from a war that although it had been won had been made virtually bankrupt by that victory.
The then daily necessities of life were the same pre or post war, a job, something to eat and somewhere to live, a problem that had be-devilled the country in the 1930’s as well as across the world, by 1948 however there had been a serious attempt made to counter those three problems and to some degree had been successful. A significant number of towns and cities including Great Yarmouth had been subject to air attacks during the war and as a result the subsequent bombing had inflicted serious damage to industrial premises and housing stock much of which was to say the least not of the highest standard so those air attacks could if one looked for a kind way of describing it, call it a necessary slum clearance exercise, which ever the way you chose to look at it the necessity for large amounts of housing stock was apparent.
Let us deal with that trio of necessities in the order already given. Getting a job, if nothing else can be said about the Government they had certainly learned a lesson from World War 1 when at the end of hostilities the army released millions of service men onto a none existent job market, this time the demobilisation was done in stages with married men first, at the same time instead of leaving Germany to their own devices as in 1919, the Allied Forces occupied West Germany and in 1946 National Service was introduced which meant that young men at the age of eighteen unless in University or an apprenticeship would serve a minimum of two years in one of the Armed Forces, as a supplement to the regular full time service men, at the same time some major industries were brought under public ownership thus trying to ameliorate the vagaries of the 1920’s and Government and Local Authorities were expanded and given the task of rebuilding the local lives and economy with an emphasis on the Housing Stock. This was a two pronged attack the first being a major scheme of building houses by local councils for renting alongside the requisition of larger empty properties which were sub-divided into flats and rented out alongside the housebuilding already identified, and to speed this up the innovation of factory made prefabricated dwellings, know affectionately by those who lived in them as prefabs. These dwelling were finally phased out in the 1970’s having served their purpose and to the chagrin of the families still occupying them.
Housing was underway and together with increased work opportunities to catch up with the demand being created in the economy in both the private and state sector, the country had far more than six war years to catch up with. All that activity had to be fed and by 1948 although rationing was still in place for necessities, more and more items which were in those days treated as luxuries, oranges, grapefruit, bananas, coconuts were coming into the shops.
There were of course anomalies clothing, meat, bread, butter and tea were rationed but not milk, families had ration books that indicated how many were in the family and thus your entitlement, it wasn’t perfect but obesity was a not a problem probably because sweets and chocolate were on ration. The other major item on ration was petrol, but as very few working people had or even aspired to have a car this rationing had little effect on every day living.
Away from everyday economics the main forms of entertainment were the wireless, mainly BBC although Radio Luxembourg could be obtained although not in our house, going to the pictures (cinema) and in Great Yarmouth the summer shows which were just getting into their stride again. Football and Cricket were in full flow the Australians were here for Don Bradman’s final tour and in football Portsmouth were First Division Champions and Manchester Utd won the FA Cup and I passed the Scholarship to go to Great Yarmouth Grammar School.
Chapter 54 – Time flies whether you are having fun or not
With the first day and then the first week safely under our belts Form 1A settled into the regular routine that would be the background to the Autumn term, with each day of each week being exactly the same on paper but differing in the content that was put in front of us as we progressed or not in the varying subjects, and becoming aware of which subjects we enjoyed more than others and which of them we were able to tackle with confidence, in my case Maths and Science subjects did not come to the top of my list whereas History, Geography, Art, English and surprisingly French, I began to both enjoy and look forward to. I have of course left out my favourite, weekly sport, in this term gymnastics and football and becoming aware that not everybody in 1A enjoyed it as much as I did to the extent that some actually disliked it, to someone like me to whom sport in general and football and cricket in particular had been a major part of my life this was difficult to come to terms with.
In the classroom which house you were in was totally insignificant but on the sports field that was different, whatever you did was for the house, in my case South. As I recall it two houses dominated the sporting arena, South and North, in football, cricket and athletics they were predominant and each house had one student who everyone in their respective houses looked up to. North had Johnny Blyth but we had Ted Buswell, both of whom were heroes to the supporters in their respective houses and I am sure a certain grudging accord from the other two houses whose athletes suffered at their hands or more correctly feet. As far as we in South were concerned Ted Buswell was accorded almost god like status and to be recognised by him for some sporting achievement, a pat on the head or shoulder and “well done” even if you came second or third was the equivalent of an Olympic medal, Ted as head of house always came to watch Junior inter house competitions if he could.
Two weeks in and we learned more and more every day, not necessarily in the classroom, although that was the case, but about the workings of the school, especially the pecking order and how to distinguish who was who and what was what. Unlike my previous school where it was difficult or perhaps impossible to distinguish length of time remaining before being sent out into the world of work at GYGS the clothes you wore indicated the year you belonged to. First and second year, simple and straight forward, cap, Blazer, grey shirt and school tie, short grey trousers, knee socks and black shoes, and as you progressed through the years the upper body covering remained the same with long grey trousers replacing the short version until sixth year when the uniform could be replaced with sports jacket and flannels, the lifetime of cap wearing was never identified and once away from school environs they were very quickly put into a pocket. For the rest of us on all official school functions the requirement was for uniform to be worn with the exception of Sports Day when mufti was acceptable. Five days a week, certainly in term time, we had to wear the school uniform but on the weekends we reverted to our pre GYGS clothes, although one of the stand out portions of the Head’s welcoming speech on our first day made it clear that when at weekends if wearing the GYGS uniform our behaviour must be such as not to let the school down, did he really think we would be wearing school uniform at the weekend, although I suspect my mother would not have taken umbrage if I had.
The Autumn term in 1948 flew by and we broke up for Christmas, three weeks with no homework, no uniform and at eleven years of age still a large measure of excitement at the prospect although we were reminded of the real story behind Christmas with a carol concert at school in the last week of term, the highlight of which was “ Good king Wenceslas” with Mr Balfour and a student, whose name I cannot recall but certainly not one of my friends and three of the teaching staff giving an unforgettable “We Three Kings” although for most of us the Orient meant Leyton rather than Palestine. Our Christmas in 1948, followed the pattern described in a previous chapter and on Christmas day we went through the ritual of opening presents which were in a pillowcase at the foot of our bed, how my father did that without one or all of us waking I don’t know. In addition there were a few more important presents under the Christmas tree, one of which was for me from my beloved Uncle Alf and Aunt Elsie. Looking at it I was in seventh heaven although the writing on the attached tag should have given me a clue, “a special present to celebrate my scholarship” the parcel was about six inches in length and two inches across, I knew immediately what it was, I had been canvassing my parents for one for months since seeing Morton Frasers Harmonica Rascals at the Regal, a mouth organ. With that certainty in my mind I left it till last, and when the time came and it was the last present still with wrapping, my younger siblings had no sense of theatre, I opened the package.
If until then I thought I knew what being disappointed meant then I was wrong, I think the weight should have given me a clue, but the excitement overcame every other thought. There in a smart box was another note indicating how much they hoped I would appreciate it in the new term, a ball point pen, a Biro. My Uncle and Aunt never knew about my chagrin, I must have been a good actor even then, although my father, who I later realised was far more perceptive than I thought at the time, understood just how disappointed I was. I was however the only boy in Form 1A with a ball point pen in January 1949.
Chapter 53 – My Immersion in the cold bath
My first term at GYGS was exactly like being plunged into the proverbial bath of icy cold water, you knew that it would be as described, a shock, but I was not prepared in any way for the severity of the experience or the length of time before I was able to start to swim and get some warmth back. It was no consolation that a substantial minority of my new class mates, sorry form, were having the same or similar difficulties.
Reading the curriculum we were given made me realise how different my life was going to be. Mathematics, History, English, I was familiar with, but French, Physics, Chemistry, Art, Woodwork, Music, there could have been more but if so I have forgotten them, my untrained brain had difficulty in coping with the task and as a result of that inability the first few weeks of my new school life were anything but happy and I feel sure now with the benefit of hindsight those unhappy weeks set the pattern for the next five years, certainly of my life where education was concerned. Although I didn’t think so at the time possibly because I wasn’t aware of it, my mind was blinkered as far as anything inside the classroom was concerned. This was going to be of great benefit in later life, but at eleven years of age and especially from a background that had not up to then asked much of me, I was finding the new pressures difficult to deal with, although it would not have been evident at home, I was without realising it starting to cover up any anxieties from school, a skill that I was able to carry through most of my life, whatever the situation I always managed to put a smile on my face. The modern use of parents evenings, giving them an update on the students progress was not common practice, in fact I don’t recall my parents coming in to the school for any reason in all the five years I was in attendance, so they had to rely on me and end of term/year reports for information as to any or no progression. If, they were less than encouraging, which they nearly always were, these reports did not appear to upset my parents, the assumption seemed to be that I was doing my best, and in fact I was, and that was all that could be asked of me. I for my part did not worry about it, my parents were happy enough and in all other areas I was keeping out of trouble and that was the pattern for the rest of my time at GYGS, in my mind it was only confirmation that my passing the entrance exam was a one day wonder, but nevertheless an event that made my parents and close family proud a fact that I should have taken more notice of.
Chapter 52 - What is it like?
I suppose it was natural that my parents, well my mother, would be interested in my new school although for my part I couldn’t imagine why and without wishing to appear rude fended off her questions as best I could, but having lived with my mother for the whole of my then short life I should have realised that there was no chance that I would get away with a cursory answer, my mother liked detail and nothing less would do and would not accept the fact that I had only been at GYGS one day and knew only what I had experienced up to the end of the first day, so I was obliged to recite the experience of that day, but recalling that questioning after all these years has brought back to me the differences between my new school and my previous school life both educational and physical.
The first major difference was the overall size of the two schools, GYGS was vast in comparison, well at least in my eyes aged eleven. I have as a grown man been back to look at my alma mater and although the overall area including the school field was as I remember it, the original building looked very small but in 1948 when I walked through the gates for the first time in comparison with the Priory school it appeared massive, externally and internally, from the Gymnasium at the western end and at the eastern end the woodwork room, both separate from the main block. Entrance at each end was gained passing cloakrooms and toilets into the main hall, where we had gathered that first morning sitting cross legged in front of the stage for our first assembly, an assembly which was repeated every morning of the school year. Off the hall was a class room to the left of the stage as we looked at it. To the right of the stage by the entrance was the office of the school secretary, who was, apart from the dinner ladies and Mr Pillar, the only non- teaching member of staff.
Leaving the stage on the south side of the hall, first was the Headmasters office and next to that the double door exit to the school field, followed by the staff room and then the exit from the hall and facing the stage, music room and library. The hall was essentially the fulcrum of the school and a quiet fulcrum except at break or lunch time, if it was deemed necessary for you to have to go through the hall during work periods singly or in a group silence was required, as even the slightest noise ran the risk of the headmaster appearing like an avenging angel in black, an angel with built in radar who could sense a wrong doer with unerring accuracy, for although this was a grammar school, with pupils who were by dint of passing an exam deemed to be the pick of the crop, there was rarely a shortage of pupils waiting outside the Heads office where the most unlikely result would be congratulations and a pat on the back.
The majority of the teaching rooms including the science labs were on the first floor and 1A for that was the form I had been allocated under the guidance of Mr Hillyer looked out over the school field although the windows were so placed at a height that it was necessary to stand up in order to look out and the necessity to stand up was rare unless it was to deal with a call of nature, although one teacher in particular required you stood up to answer a question aimed at a specific student. I had previously indicated the determination of which form you had been allocated, unlike the Priory where you were in a class, just one of the little differences. The form you were given depended on the date of your birthday January to June 1A, July to December 1B. With the exception of the Science subjects, woodwork, Art and Sport all lessons were taken in your form room which meant unless one of those subjects was on your daily curriculum you remained at your desk all day allowing for breaks and dinner and of course the afore mentioned call of nature, which meant teachers for the varying subjects moved around, again one of the differences from my previous school, where Mr Thompson under the banner of “Jack of all Trades” taught everything. The working day was divided into periods, some lessons being a single period, some double, at the end of a lesson the teacher would collect whatever was necessary and leave for his next session, at which point we all had to stand quietly as he left the room. Unless the next teacher was waiting outside the door we sat at our desks and from our desk produced whatever we might need for the next lesson, on his arrival, note his, for in 1948 with one exception and she dealt with senior pupils, all the teachers were men, we would then stand up and wait to be told to sit, at which point we would get out whatever was needed for that lesson, accompanied with much banging of desk lids until order was promptly restored and the lesson commenced. There were times when the Headmaster paid a visit, everyone stood up until it was indicated you could sit, his gaze would sweep around the classroom, I don’t know if it was only me but I always tried not to catch his eye, I don’t recall him ever saying anything he just stood with his back to the board and gazed around the room as the teacher proceeded with his teaching and every boy kept their eyes onto the page or teacher, then after a short period of time he would turn and make for the door at which point the teacher would indicate we should stand until the door closed behind him and normal service was resumed.
Question: How do I explain all of that to my mother when she asks what was it like. My response would have been of far less detail but hopefully sufficient to satisfy her interest. She must have been content with whatever response I offered and presumably later in the day conveyed it to my father, for I have no recollection of his posing the same question on that day or any other. One thing is certain, my mother would have indeed appraised him of my first day at GYGS.
Chapter 51 – Learning about being responsible
If there was one major difference between The Priory and GYGS it was responsibility and finding out how to handle this new part of our lives. This commenced as soon as we walked through the gate. Earlier in this narrative I wrote about the cloakrooms where your outer garments i.e raincoat plus sports kit would reside until if and when they were required. Your satchel containing all you needed for the day went with you and sat at your feet under your allotted desk, or on your seat back. I stress allotted desk as we sat in the same seat every day, and we were seated in alphabetical order, so if your family name was Brown you would be on the left side of the teachers vision and if your best friend’s family name was Young he would be on the far right, with my family name beginning with N I was more or less in the middle of the class. Before the first lesson of the day started you put on the desk top all you would require for that particular lesson, thus there was both singular and collective responsibility to ensure the lesson started on time and without one or more of your classmates leaving in order to get some forgotten item, of course it didn’t always run so smoothly and oddly enough it seemed to get worse the further up the school you went. The major seating difference from J4 at the Priory School was that at GYGS it was much more democratic, at the Priory you were seated in accordance with your results in class, thus you knew your place in the pecking order. For the first few weeks of our first term we were all equal but even when it became obvious that some were more capable than others you were not made aware of it every day because of the seating arrangement.
The first item on the daily agenda was taking the register, the form teacher , for us on this first day Mr Hillyer would read the names out in alphabetical order and receive the required response either here, yes or sir, this would be the procedure for the next five years as we moved on through the school in different form rooms with different form masters and so our first week was under way. The thread of this particular narrative is responsibility and it was in the first week that I was given my first taste of what it meant. I was given the job of being the Ink monitor. Why that honour was bestowed on your truly I didn’t know and it took me a while to understand what a privilege it was, and how to make it work to my advantage.
For anyone reading this in the days of ball point and marker pens and lap tops, ink is like something from a history book, but alongside ink went pens and knibs, and although ink was considered utilitarian and not of any real value, pens and knibs however, were to a schoolboy charged with this responsibility, the realisation that they were the equivalent of currency. At the time of writing many years later, ink can still be purchased in a bottle and used to fill fountain pens and enable the owner of this archaic instrument to sign cheques and documents in the time honoured fashion. As ink monitor I did not enjoy that facility, before I could do anything I had to mix the ink, this on its own was an interesting procedure. The ink powder was in a large jar and a portion of that powder was then required to be transferred to a large jug and water added and then the individual ink wells on each desk topped up ready for the days school work, well that was the theory. There were no instructions as to quantities of each part required so it was very much trial and error and in the beginning error was uppermost, of course there was no shortage of willing assistants or ink stained fingers and inks of varied shades but as they say practice makes perfect. Then I had to take the jug and fill or refill all the ink wells, all before the bell was rung for the commencement of the first lesson, luckily it was not a daily exercise.
Earlier in this chapter I drew attention to the pen and the knib, let me put some flesh on those bones. The pen was made of wood between five and six inches (15cm) in length, who remembers inches, at the end of which is attached the knib holder into which was inserted the knib, which the student would then dip into the afore mentioned filled ink well and put down on paper all his knowledge as required on the day according to the subject. Well that is theory and in the main it was a workable theory however it did not make allowance for the ability of boys of eleven years of age to think of alternative avenues of usage. One of which was the conversion of the pen into a dart, simple but effective but which required the knib to be altered but the alteration also rendered it useless as a writing instrument as a result of which the demand for knibs was much greater than whole pens and I am sure that I wasn’t the first ink monitor to see how it could be turned to advantage and for the period that I was in that situation knibs were currency and commanded a quid pro quo. I had that responsibility for my first term at GYGS and perhaps without my realisation it was the start of a life in commerce.
Chapter 50 - Settling Into My New Surroundings - Part Two
One the great blessings of Great Yarmouth was the climate, especially as it was a seaside holiday resort. Situated as it is on the east coast with the North Sea lapping the shore, it was never going to offer the prolonged spells of the soft balmy weather that bless the coasts of the southern counties of Dorset, South Devon and Cornwall, but it was mostly dry and sunny, or least that is how I remember it, windy and cold in the winter, breezy and sunny but cooler than the more southern resorts in the summer. Holiday makers however were easily recognised as the sun and wind left their mark on foreheads, noses and exposed torsos and limbs, but if you were born and raised on the east coast you and the climate went through life hand in hand with a smile on your face summer and winter, although winter tested your smile to the full.
Anyone reading this chapter could with good reason ask why I have given so much space to the climate insofar as my first days at GYGS are concerned? The previous chapter described how we dealt with times of inclement weather, this chapter charts the days and weeks which were predominant, when it may have been sunny or not, warm or chilly but essentially dry and we could take breaks and dinner break in particular outside on the school field. The field was bigger than two football pitches and on the far side from the school buildings was one pitch with posts and nets in season but out of football season it constituted one large field, with a cricket pitch laid out, oh what difference from the senior playground I had been used to at the Priory School.
For that ninety-minute period between midday and 13.30 each day the school field was filled with the majority of the school population, there were always some of the students who never appeared outside, but they were not part of any grouping that I was in. In that first week or any other while I was at GYGS, the activities were varied but mostly sporting with rarely less that six games of football or cricket taking place at the same time Depending on the time of year, the energy at that age is amazing. There was of course supervision at all times mostly by prefects and when they had enjoyed lunch, the duty master. There was however one constant every day of every week the headmaster and his lunch. He lived in a house at the far side of the school field which entailed his walking diagonally across from the main building to a gate into his garden.
The only way I can describe it is to use a biblical reference, it was like the parting of the Red Sea. Mr Palmer as ever all in black, suit and gown, like a gigantic crow, head and eyes swinging from left to right and back again, gown swinging in the ever present breeze, marched home for his lunch, with all the boys on the fringes of that corridor averting their eyes until he had passed, the fear being if he caught your eye he could misconstrue it into guilt for an as yet unknown crime. It was not until he passed through the gate that everyone could relax, that is until ten minutes from the end of the dinner break and his return journey, if you were foolish enough to obviously try and distance yourself from the trajectory of his path you ran the risk of his assuming you had committed an offence and been overcome with guilt before the trial had commenced. it took a few months before I overcame the feeling of fear that I felt on my first few days.
Historical Postscript - VE Day 2020. The celebrations and reminiscing of the end of the war with Germany in 1945 made me look at what I wrote in the appropriate chapter and it was to say the least sketchy, unlike my memories of the Japanese surrender later in the same year. However, listening to one of the many radio programmes mention was made about the ringing of church bells when the war was over, and it all came back to me. Tuesday 8th May 1945 Wetley Rocks school just after 3pm the bells of the adjacent church started to ring, we were summoned to the playground and a smiling Mr Machin told us that the war with Germany was over, they had surrendered, and we had won. Then after a moment for three cheers we went back to our classroom until we went home. But I do not think we did much work for the remainder of that day.
Chapter 50 - Settling Into my new surroundings - Part One
By day three we were becoming more knowledgeable about the school and its ways of working and I say we because all of us had been thrown into the deep end and expected to sink of swim. OK one or two had older brothers but I suspect from conversations with some of those newly arrived, that their asking of their older brothers did not render such assistance that would or could help them, and in a way it was a successful method for all of us, we had to find our way around, learn where and where not to go and at which times, who to be wary of and why. Sink or swim.
The first unwritten rule was rain or shine, classrooms were off limits at break times and dinnertime, although I certainly, and I suspect I was not alone, couldn’t wait to get away from those locations when the bells rang their welcoming chimes. If it was inclement and from my memory that wasn’t often, rather like my memories of living at the seaside where the sun always shone, in the majority of recollections it didn’t rain or at least not enough to ensure we stayed indoors.
if you were on first dinner, that was simple, you walked or ran or scuffled. One thing I have learned is that at that age no matter the school and its notional place in the educational hierarchy, you can take the boy away from his scholastic background but you can’t take the human background away from the boy. Put boys in a queue especially for food and some of them will start a scuffle, a scuffle that can be contagious, a contagion that if not nipped in the bud can spread throughout the queue. To combat this possibility at least one teacher and more than one prefect would be on duty to ensure scuffling did not spread through the queue, as far as I can recall the scuffling very rarely developed into fighting. Well at least not in the dinner queue, in fact I can truthfully say that in all the years at GYGS I can’t recall seeing or being involved in a genuine fight with fists. No Tom Browns schooldays there.
Dinner is over and it is raining where do we go and what do we do if classrooms were off limits? First of all let me make it clear there was no written rule that prevented you from returning to your form room, getting your books out and catching up on studies and there were some of my colleagues in 1A who probably did, others may have joined the Chess club, the Music Group or the Drama Group none of which held any thrall for yours truly. As it had been at The Priory School and all through my life up to then rain had been an enemy, an enemy that I took up arms against throughout all of my boyhood and rarely manage to defeat it.
I think by now you will have come to the conclusion that as tempting the opportunities listed above were they did not tempt me, therefore if it was raining, we would congregate in the Main Hall or Cloak rooms, where in the latter there were benches to sit on and revert to the age old schoolboy pastime of cigarette card collections and “swopsies” or just talk, form liaisons and make new friends. I am sure that is how my lifelong friendship with Brian Benge- “Beanie”- commenced, we came from a similar working class back grounds, my father worked in a factory, Mr Benge was the chauffeur for the Mayor of Great Yarmouth. We had very similar interests, we both liked football, cricket and speedway and neither had a bathroom in our homes, but whereas I had the Sunday night ritual described in an earlier chapter, Beanie took his towel to the Slipper Baths on Hall Quay once a week, as such we were comrades in domestic adversity. I have since thought long and hard as to why such friendships are formed and why they are sustained into adulthood, but have no answer to offer.
Chapter 49 - Learning the Ropes
If day one had been in some ways a maelstrom introduction it was an accurate forerunner to the remainder of the first week. This was so different to my previous school in several ways, ways that were not in a print version that you could find in the school library and read up, differences that came at you from the front, the back and when you were least expecting it, let me give some examples.
As we had found on the first day there were two entrances to the school, East gate for seniors and West gate for juniors, this had to be observed to the letter with prefects on duty at each to ensure we followed instructions. If you had plenty of time fine, but if your bus was running late the extra fifty, sixty yards could seem like a marathon. In Autumn without any extra baggage, ok you could just about make it if you were of an athletic build and luckily aged eleven and used to running nearly everywhere outside of school we were, nine times out of ten you could be successful, occasional failure meant your name being taken by a prefect and no punishment, but consistent tardiness and the demerits that went with it brought your name to the attention of your form teacher and punishment, usually a mild detention, initially at dinner time, which although you had your food with everyone else you then went to the library to serve your sentence under the watchful eye of whichever teacher was on duty and missing out all that took place on the school field until classes commenced at 13.30.
One major difference from my previous school was who could issue the demerits, certainly any member of the teaching staff no question but in addition two other areas. The first group was the prefects and the second and totally unlike any other schools I had been to or worked in since, the School Caretaker. Mr Pillar, that was his name, lived on the premises and habitually wore a grey dustcoat and occasionally a boiler suit when necessary. Although he wasn’t at any assemblies and not on any school photographs, he was a very important member of staff. Mr Pillar knew the environs of the school both inside and out, every nook and cranny, and by some sixth sense was aware of them being used when they should not have been and dealing with the situation. He might not have given out detentions but if he caught you in any such situation then you were made aware of his displeasure, he was a big man and to an eleven year old, new to the school you made sure you did nothing that would incur his wrath or at least made sure, if possible, you didn’t get caught.
Being aware of which offence was worthy of a demerit is something you learned by experience, there were no obvious written rules, especially for those handed out by prefects or Mr Pillar, but working on the basis that you learn from your mistakes gradually I found myself able to go into school every day without worrying about a possible demerit, which in itself was a major achievement, for what could earn you a demerit one day was ignored on another day by prefects, not however Mr Pillar, if nothing else he was consistent. I think it was towards the end of my second week that Mr Pillar came into a conversation I was having with my mother “Oh, Albert, how is he” and she then went into a long monologue about knowing his family and background finishing with “make sure you don’t upset him, I don’t want him to think badly about us” and following it with “tell him who you are, he knows me”. One thing I had no reason to doubt was that Mr Pillar knew my mother, nearly every person I met in Great Yarmouth knew my mother, but I had no intention of revealing that fact to Mr Pillar or to any of my new friends and risk the taunting that would come with that knowledge. It was well into my first term at GYGS before I came under the radar that Mr Pillar seemingly employed when working out who were the miscreants involved in something outside the school rules. I was obliged to give my name and even if he recognised the family connection he made so show of doing so, much to my relief. I was learning the ropes.
Chapter 49 - Learning the Ropes
If day one had been in some ways a maelstrom introduction it was an accurate forerunner to the remainder of the first week. This was so different to my previous school in several ways, ways that were not in a print version that you could find in the school library and read up, differences that came at you from the front, the back and when you were least expecting it, let me give some examples.
As we had found on the first day there were two entrances to the school, East gate for seniors and West gate for juniors, this had to be observed to the letter with prefects on duty at each to ensure we followed instructions. If you had plenty of time fine, but if your bus was running late the extra fifty, sixty yards could seem like a marathon. In Autumn without any extra baggage, ok you could just about make it if you were of an athletic build and luckily aged eleven and used to running nearly everywhere outside of school we were, nine times out of ten you could be successful, occasional failure meant your name being taken by a prefect and no punishment, but consistent tardiness and the demerits that went with it brought your name to the attention of your form teacher and punishment, usually a mild detention, initially at dinner time, which although you had your food with everyone else you then went to the library to serve your sentence under the watchful eye of whichever teacher was on duty and missing out all that took place on the school field until classes commenced at 13.30.
One major difference from my previous school was who could issue the demerits, certainly any member of the teaching staff no question but in addition two other areas. The first group was the prefects and the second and totally unlike any other schools I had been to or worked in since, the School Caretaker. Mr Pillar, that was his name, lived on the premises and habitually wore a grey dustcoat and occasionally a boiler suit when necessary. Although he wasn’t at any assemblies and not on any school photographs, he was a very important member of staff. Mr Pillar knew the environs of the school both inside and out, every nook and cranny, and by some sixth sense was aware of them being used when they should not have been and dealing with the situation. He might not have given out detentions but if he caught you in any such situation then you were made aware of his displeasure, he was a big man and to an eleven year old, new to the school you made sure you did nothing that would incur his wrath or at least made sure, if possible, you didn’t get caught.
Being aware of which offence was worthy of a demerit is something you learned by experience, there were no obvious written rules, especially for those handed out by prefects or Mr Pillar, but working on the basis that you learn from your mistakes gradually I found myself able to go into school every day without worrying about a possible demerit, which in itself was a major achievement, for what could earn you a demerit one day was ignored on another day by prefects, not however Mr Pillar, if nothing else he was consistent. I think it was towards the end of my second week that Mr Pillar came into a conversation I was having with my mother “Oh, Albert, how is he” and she then went into a long monologue about knowing his family and background finishing with “make sure you don’t upset him, I don’t want him to think badly about us” and following it with “tell him who you are, he knows me”. One thing I had no reason to doubt was that Mr Pillar knew my mother, nearly every person I met in Great Yarmouth knew my mother, but I had no intention of revealing that fact to Mr Pillar or to any of my new friends and risk the taunting that would come with that knowledge. It was well into my first term at GYGS before I came under the radar that Mr Pillar seemingly employed when working out who were the miscreants involved in something outside the school rules. I was obliged to give my name and even if he recognised the family connection he made so show of doing so, much to my relief. I was learning the ropes.
Chapter 48 - Settling in to my new school life
The first day was out of the way but there was still so much to learn, but walking home I think we all agreed that it had not been as difficult as we had anticipated. What was interesting was without admitting it all of us had concealed very similar concerns and had similar worries about one or another aspect of our new scholastic lives. My mother of course was full of questions about day one and would not allow me to get away with a grunt or two as a response particularly with regard to the uniform and whether it had been right in every way, which of course it had, but the question had to be asked and my mother was very satisfied that we had done it properly allowing her to hold her head up when asked about it by interested family members or friends, it seems in hindsight to be trivial but in 1948 I was the very first in our extended family to go to the Grammar School and they were very proud of my achievement, perhaps more so than I was.
Looking back I think one of the things that I was aware of on that first day was the differences in the schools, not just the assembly with gowned masters, the prefects and not forgetting the black clad headmaster who made a bigger effect on me in that assembly than Mr Sillis in all my time at the Priory School, I can’t say it was fear more like apprehension, a determination not to cross swords with him, if only that had remained the case.
The next major difference was the location, GYGS was at the north end of the town, adjacent to the North Parade and the beach, with wide open skies overhead. In contrast the Priory was in the centre of the town overlooked by the largest Parish Church in England and flanked by the old town wall, eight hundred years of age, in comparison the sky was like a postage stamp and view non-existent. As far as sport was concerned on site at the Priory -nil apart some PE in the hall in the winter and in the seniors playground in the summer, winter commenced in October until April whereas at GYGS the school building was surrounded on three sides by a playing field with a full size football pitch, thank God it wasn’t a rugby school, and a gymnasium for PE. At the Priory to play football we had a walk of twenty minutes to the Beaconsfield and then another twenty minutes on the return journey and back into school clothes, now the Beaconsfield was two minutes away and when the final whistle blew a hot shower welcomed us. A different world, but those differences were not confined to the sports field. Classrooms were not very different I don’t think they are anywhere but the Science laboratories Chemistry and Physics and Biology certainly were plus the Music Room and my favourite the Library. Two boys from J4 class at the Priory were in my form I should have been happy but why wasn’t I? I think I have to look back to try and give that question an answer and I have come to the conclusion that I lacked confidence in myself, at the Priory I was familiar with everything about the school, a group of firm friends among whom there was friendly competition and confidence in each other, how long would it take to rebuild in my new surroundings?
As it turned out not very long. At dinner break on the second day we were on again on first sitting and thus had an opportunity to mix on the school field until the bell rang for afternoon lessons and it was during these breaks from organisation that we got to know the boys who had not gone to the Priory and start to form groups of likeminded boys, these of course were fluid but some remained together throughout their time at school and in my case after. Being first year entries of course meant that you were still learning the ropes and there were a considerable number to learn and meeting the odd boy who remembered you from the Priory who had made the leap the year before was a great help, but mostly it was trial and error. A quick way to learn. But learn we did, sink or swim and slowly I learned how to swim.
Chapter 47 - My first day at GYGS
Our first Assembly was over the Headmaster had departed followed at a respectful pace by the rest of the teaching staff who had sat silently behind the Head, during his address, briefly leaving the stage empty. In their places came the prefects, again something I had not experienced at the Priory School, although we would soon learn all about them. The most senior of the prefects first of all introduced those who stood behind him, one from each house, and most important they were the senior prefects and we were told how we could recognise them from the badge they wore, we were instructed to get to know them as they were our link between pupils and staff. Although it was new to me there was a familiarity that I couldn’t place just then. Later I understood why I had that feeling, it came from reading the stories about the boarding schools in the comics, Wizard, Hotspur, Rover etc and of course Tom Brown’s Schooldays.
The senior prefects each had a list and they commenced reading them out, calling the register, this was a familiar process from all previous schools. Having established that everyone was there we were then divided up to into Forms 1A and 1B. This process did not take very long as there were no more than seventy boys to be dealt with. From there we taken to the cloakroom where you were assigned a peg where your gym bag and if the weather was inclement your raincoat could be left, and it could be left with confidence that it would be there until you next needed it. Following that we were taken to our form room to take up our allotted desks and meet our Form Master, Mr AP Hillier who also took us for French. Mr Hillier seemed to be a mild mannered man but as some found on another day not a man to be trifled with, but today he did his best to make us feel relaxed and comfortable, not an easy task. We were invited to lift the lid on our desk, it was our desk for the year, every day the same desk, if you made a particular friend who didn’t sit next to you, that friendship could only flower outside the classroom.
Let us take a look at the desk, on the exterior a hinged lid, a channel for pens and pencils and an inkwell, plus evidence either carved or written by previous occupants. Inside was empty except for our weekly timetable, this is where you kept your books and mathematics equipment, and of course the evidence of previous occupants, which you in your turn would add to. With the exception of the science subjects, music, gymnastics and sport all other subjects were taken at your desk in this room, the masters moving around from room to room. It is hard to believe when I think back to this day that having settled us down and giving a brief explanation of what we would be doing for the rest of the day Mr Hilllyer bade us farewell leaving us under the charge of the prefect while we waited the arrival of the master who would be taking our first lesson at our new school, Mr M.S Colbeck. Double Maths, talk about a cold bath.
Mr Colbeck was not far behind the departing Mr Hillier and on his entering we were told by the prefect “Stand Up” and we did, we had learned that much already. Mr Colbeck, first name Malcolm but no one would have the temerity to address him by his name, his nick name was Charlie but not within his hearing, for as mild as Mr Hillier appeared to be, Charlie Colbeck did not have that appearance and he lived up to his appearance, he was from Yorkshire and had a low opinion of all those not from his sacred county. I can’t say that other than that already charted I can recall much about that first experience of a totally different class life but we survived, we had to, and at 12.00 hrs the bell rang and it was lunchtime and were we ready for it.
The dining hall was at the eastern end of the school field and our class was scheduled for first sitting. Each table which was round seated six or seven students and a master or prefect. You queued for and received one main course, meat and vegetables and one dessert, stodgy pudding and custard, if there was an allowance made for allergies or religious requirements I can’t remember them but I can remember being very ready for that first “school dinner” and I did it justice. We had forty minutes to queue for and to eat our lunch, then back onto the school field allowing the second sitting to take place. Lunch break or as we knew it dinner was 90 minutes, which meant we were not back in class until 13.30 with lessons. To be honest I cannot recall the afternoon subjects, but at 16.00 the bell rang to celebrate the end of lessons and thus my first day at Great Yarmouth Grammar School was over.
Chapter 46 - A New School and New Friends
September 1948 - the exact date escapes me but I do remember that it was a Monday and my first day at the Great Yarmouth Grammar School for Boys. The excitement however, if it was indeed such had commenced the evening prior to that momentous day as against my wishes my mother had insisted on a dress rehearsal, therefore I had to model the complete kit including raincoat and satchel against the list to ensure that our family head could be held high on this forthcoming momentous day. As a result there I was standing in our kitchen ready to commence, if only several hours early, the next phase of my educational and social life, for although I could not have known it then the second of those would be a much more important long lasting part of my life than the first. Having satisfied my mother that she had no need to concern herself about the following day an early night was called for, whether I slept soundly or not I cannot recall, so I must have done.
First day at Great Yarmouth Grammar School and what a day. Having all met up at 8.15 we set off through the Beaconsfield Recreation Ground, emerging at the far end opposite our new school, the obstacle in our way a wire fence at least eight feet high and at either end a locked gate, hardly making us feel welcome, it meant we had to turn right on to the sea front, walk about two hundred yards to the next left turn and there it was the gates of our new school or so we wrongly thought. We had arrived at the Senior’s entrance and were very swiftly and curtly sent on further down the road to the Juniors gates and the start of our new educational lives.
The GYGS was so different from what we had been used to and we very soon found out what those differences were, we were at the bottom of the pile and it was made very clear to us by teachers, prefects and the caretaker on that first and subsequent days until we were used to what would become the way of school life for us.
I suspect that like the majority of the new pupils, I say majority for I later found some of the new intake had older brothers at the school already and perhaps had some idea of what to expect, I was intimidated by the first day or certainly the first half of the first day. First of all, the noise mostly from those who were already residents and then the prefects who shouted out orders above the general hub-bub, these orders were supposed to herd you into House Groups before being directed into the main hall for morning assembly, where we were told to sit down with crossed legs until the rest of the school made their way in, and took their places, with the teaching staff also making their entrance one by one on to the stage. The hum of conversation mostly from those already at the school came to a sudden halt at the appearance on the stage of a gaunt figure all in black, like a large crow, A.G.H Palmer, the headmaster. All the teachers stood up as did the whole assembly including the new boys who had been signalled to stand by one of the teaching staff, who was stationed at the end of the stage nearest the Headmasters Office. The Headmaster looked around the gathering, almost like a searchlight seeking out enemy aircraft, before obviously satisfied, he signalled to everyone to sit. If it was meant to indicate to all in front of him who was in charge it worked. This pantomime was carried out every morning for the next five years I was at the school. Add to this with the singing of the school song every day, this was a whole new world.
On that first morning his speech was to welcome everyone to the new school term and explain what would be taking place that day following the assembly. With that out of the way he was then able to concentrate on the new cohort. I think it is time to give some background to those not old enough to be aware of it. In 1947 the Education Act put through Parliament by the Labour Government made Grammar Schools available to all who passed the necessary tests to attend without fees being involved, in effect we were the second year of pupils to get their education at that higher level free of charge and I think it rankled with him. His address to the 1948 cohort was such that it was made clear that if it had been left to him, we probably would not be receiving these words. It was made clear that we would to have to work harder both in and out of the school to be worthy of our places and to uphold the honour of the school than those with parents who could afford to pay and who knew how to conduct themselves both in and out of school although financial background was not mentioned at all.
After his speech of “welcome” came to an end, and the school song sung the teachers and all the gathered assembly stood again as he left the stage. The new intake were told to sit down again to wait to be told your form and your form teacher, all male. The boy I was sitting next to was Brian Benge, who lived in a different part of the town and had been to a different school, but here we were thrown together in a “foreign land” with one thing in common we both played football for our old school teams and must have played against each other at some time. The new intake was placed in 1A or 1B based on date of birthday, January for me meant 1A, for Beenie July meant 1B, but we played in the same house team, the same school team, he was my best man and I was his and we remained friends until his untimely early death.
Chapter 45 - Ready or Not School Life is going to Change
The Summer break of 1948 that presaged the change in my life, school and all else, was initially no different than any of the previous years of summer life back in Great Yarmouth, it was as if I had blocked out the changes which would take place and it must have been the same with my friends for try as hard as I can I cannot recollect any of that group either discussing, let alone showing any worry of the impending Autumn term. Perhaps it was a case of what you don’t know you don’t worry about. I think therefore it is time to highlight the differences between 1948 and 2020 for young people moving on from Junior to Senior Education. In the first instance I had no idea until I received the by now notorious letter back in March where the Grammar School was, being a junior we didn’t play them at football, it was then I was told it was nearer to where I lived than the Priory. If you think that I immediately went to reconnoitre with my friends you would be wrong, it was not until one week or so prior to the commencement of the September term we deigned to walk via the Beaconsfield Recreation Ground to go and look through the fence to see our future school, perhaps it was a case of what you don’t know wont worry you, perhaps it was fear rather than curiosity, I am still not sure. If the move from Junior to Senior had been as it is in 2020 there would have been visits with parents to be shown around, meeting teachers and current pupils and other new students. Advice about the curriculum, timetables, modes of travel, on foot, bicycle, bus or train, would have been dispensed in order that come September you would commence with knowledge and confidence in your new school life. Not so, as it was, that first day in September 1948 was very like my first meeting with Mr Blake and learning to swim, you jumped into very cold and unwelcoming water and you quickly learned to sink or swim, but more of that later. The summer of 1948 also saw some changes within our family life. Since coming back from Cheddleton my mother had not returned to work other than some very occasional “jobs” with my Aunt Obe and her team for Matthes, a local caterer, most of which were evenings or weekends. In 1948 the war had been over for three years and Great Yarmouth had almost totally recovered and the holiday makers were more and more in evidence with the bulk of them arriving in August when factories closed for two weeks, including Grouts where my father worked, this meant for two of those summer weeks my father would be at home and my mother would be out at work which was a totally different dynamic within the family and not an unpleasant one. This break from his labours meant my father had the time to relax and not be so tired and be more accessible to his children, the younger two were nearly always ready for bed when he came in from work. Together with my brother and sister we had the opportunity to be with our father and enjoy things together, something that rarely happened. Because of the age differences, I had different friends and to be honest did not welcome my siblings into my group, but for two weeks my father would be determining what we would be doing each day and he wanted us to do more together than I was used to. The result was I would be more involved with the two younger family members than was usual, this change meant we were able to enjoy what were referred to as treats and one of the treats we enjoyed was an afternoon visit to the Marina Open Air Theatre to see the Neville Bishop Showband. Up to then the nearest I had been to this treat was trying to find a gap in the surrounding wall to peep through, it was really frustrating to look at the publicity photos outside, hear the music, laughter and applause, and not be able to join in, but on that day, we could and did, and it was well worth the wait. It was all that I imagined it would be, music, singing, comedy routines and talent competitions that were suitable to all ages. Adults and children joined in on an equal level, to be able to do that is a rare talent and Neville Bishop certainly had that gift. One other memory sticks out, the man in the seat next to mine had what I can only describe as a virulent rash over the lower part of his face, which fascinated me to such an extent that I was almost hypnotised, at some point probably the interval and he had temporarily vacated his seat I took the opportunity to ask father about it, his response was “Barbers Rash” and urged me not to worry about it, I didn’t worry but I have never forgotten it. Of course we didn’t go out as a slightly diminished family every day but when we did another of the occasional treats came our way, one in particular stands out in my memory, ice cream, not in a block wrapped in newspaper which I used to run up to the Britannia Pier for on a Sunday, no this was in a cornet and poured from an ice cream machine in an Ice Cream van, we not only lived in a seaside resort we were on holiday there, well at least for those two weeks. The sun seemed to shine every day when I was eleven years old.
Chapter 44 - Preparing for a different life?
July 1948, I walked out of the gates at the Priory School for the last time, it didn’t matter that it was not a farewell of my own choosing, fate had decreed it, fate and my most unlikely passing of the Eleven Plus exam which earned me a scholarship at the Great Yarmouth Grammar School for Boys, an opportunity that I hadn’t sought and that I wasn’t looking forward to taking up. Scholarship, I don’t think I really understood the meaning of the word and how that lack of understanding would haunt me throughout my time at the Grammar School. The enormity of the difference in the two schools, the past and future, was brought home to me when I was “fitted out” with a new uniform and sports kit from Palmers, description of that event was highlighted in a previous chapter but which in reality came in the first week following my leaving The Priory School. It was so much more than I was used to, the list went on and on. Blazer and cap, complete with badge, short grey trousers x 2, grey socks with black and red banding x2, black shoes, grey shirt x2 and school tie again black and red striped and a raincoat, belted. If that was not enough then came sportswear. PT vest and shorts white and gym shoes, football shorts and socks, black and boots, the latter being the only item on the list that I already had and finally House football shirt, navy blue, I was designated to be in South House. This was the only aspect of my new school that had any familiarity with the Priory where I had been in Paget, house colour Red the others being Paston, Palgrave and Nelson all prominent Victorians with Norfolk connections, which in all truth I have only found out due to writing this memoire. The only one I knew anything about was Admiral Lord Nelson, about whom we had been taught in a history lesson. He is immortalised in Great Yarmouth with a Column on the South Denes, not looking out to sea but inland in the direction of the small town in North Norfolk where he was born, together of course with several Public Houses. The house system at the Grammar School was much simpler, North, South, West and Centre, why not East ? I have no idea, perhaps the fact of the location of the school one hundred yards from the beach and the North Sea had something to do with the choice, but no amount of questioning ever revealed the true answer. My mother had been asked if she would prefer all the above to be delivered which she had answered in the affirmative, primarily for the fact that Palmers would be coming to our door but which in the end proved to be one of necessity with the amount of items we would have had to carry home. Whether I liked it or not my life was about to change. The change however was still sometime away, and six weeks free from the strictures of school awaited our group of friends, six weeks in which to metaphorically spread our wings and not just in that manner, physically as well. In an earlier chapter I referred to a cottage on Church Plain which had been the home of the author Anna Sewell and that another author perhaps even more distinguished than Miss Sewell had connections to my home town, but at the time of this discovery on my part I could not have known how much that persons work would become an influence in my later love of literature. There were and still are several hotels on the Sea Front in Great Yarmouth but one in particular has a very special claim to literary fame, The Royal Hotel. It was here that Charles Dickens stayed while writing “David Copperfield”, his “autobiographical” novel, set partly in Great Yarmouth and in a nearby village Blundeston, with the village pub “The Plough” being especially featured. One of the main characters in the book was his nurse Peggoty. Her family lived in an upturned boat on the beach near the Jetty in Yarmouth, for some reason the Great is not in the book, and this caught my imagination and I walked on that section of the beach on and off all that summer trying to work out in my head the exact location of Peggoty’s boat/home. Since that day in 1948 I have seen many of the film and TV versions of this wonderful book but my favourite remains the 1937 Hollywood production starring Freddie Bartholomew in the title role and the great WC Fields as Mr Micawber, all thanks to my reading one summers day in 1948 the plaque on the front of the Royal Hotel which told all who read it that Charles Dickens had indeed stayed there while writing what I consider at this late stage of my life to be his magnum opus.
Chapter 43 - A Fond Farewell and a Cautious Look Ahead
With my initiation into Speedway now firmly under my belt and being the only one among our little group, who had so far achieved that goal, I could have been accused of one-upmanship, or showing off and although I probably wouldn’t have agreed, there is no doubt that I made the most of that visit in the following days. In the playground at school I was however more circumspect as my one visit cut little ice in comparison to the more seasoned supporters of our newly found topic of sporting conversation or those who made claims that could not be disputed and who were more senior in age and larger in size and strength. It was then that I fully understood the word discretion. I could however at least join in the conversations where the relative merits of our newly found hero’s were discussed and my preference for Bill Carruthers was roundly mocked by those who chose Billy Bales or Reg Morgan, who without argument took top spot. There is no doubt that during those discussions or arguments we were seeing them as they were on a Tuesday evening at the stadium, wearing leathers, with a neckerchief, which was pulled up over the lower part of the face during the race, helmet either red, blue, white or yellow and green and boots with a shield over the left foot, and riding a speedway motor cycle. They were of course every other day of the week like other men and that was brought home to me when I was out with my mother one day that summer. We had just come out of Woolworths at the top of Regent Road and waiting to cross, and standing beside us in rather untidy jacket and trousers with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and one arm around the shoulder of a quite ordinary young woman was Reg Morgan, the hero of so many in the senior playground. I recall whispering to my mother “Reg Morgan, that’s Reg Morgan” it cut no ice with my mother, I whispered an explanation of who he was, she in turn looked him up and down “It’s time he cleaned his shoes” and we crossed the road, hero worship can be cruel, but nevertheless I still wish I had my autograph album with me that day. My final term at the Priory School was coming to an end and odd as it may seem, and it was the first time I had experienced such a feeling, I began to get quite unhappy that I would not be coming back in the Autumn, something I didn’t experience when saying farewell to Wetley Rocks school although I left as top of the class, albeit a class of eleven, with a glowing report, something I was not destined to repeat in the rest of my life in the education system. I think however that the lack of regret on that occasion may have been due to knowing I was going back to my home town, whereas I knew that in September I was going on to a school that was not my choice but that of luck in passing an exam. There were however other things happening in my small world, events that were away from school and speedway and cricket, don’t forget that amid all the excitement of speedway the Ashes were still being contested at Lords and Headingly etc as well as the wall of the Wellesley Recreation Ground, into all this excitement came the ABC minors. Up to then my cinema going on a Saturday morning had been confined to the Royal Aquarium, it was the only cinema that offered programmes for children, simple and straightforward, a cartoon or comedic short, a film, mostly a western and a serial, you paid your sixpence and went or not as you were able. The ABC Minors was much more sophisticated, it was a club you could join, competitions with prizes,a song which was sung with gusto and of course the staple diet of Saturday morning cinemas a film and a serial but with a more varied offering including being introduced to Tarzan the Ape Man. If Robin Hood had captured our attention and made us copy our hero on the way home and during the following week so did Tarzan, picture it now a group of small boys looking for trees to swing from while practicing his yell, how we didn’t end up in A&E I will never know. It was at the Regent Theatre ABC Minors that I won a competition for naming all the actors who had played Tarzan in films up until then but Johnny Weismuller was the Tarzan we all tried to emulate, the others were mere copies. July 1948, end of summer term and I finally cut my ties with the Priory School, there were no fanfares, no assemblies, I can’t recall if Mr Thompson offered any words of wisdom or if any of those not moving on as we were to a different educational life bade fond farewells. I walked out of the gate for the last time knowing I would miss it and not sure of what I had in my future.
Chapter 42 – Part 2 – Still running down the clock
As I wrote in the previous chapter the last term at the Priory School was relatively easy and could have been boring but it wasn’t the case. April ran into May and speedway had finally arrived in Great Yarmouth but not for me. My father had made it clear that he had no intention of attending this new attraction and he certainly remained true to his word as far as the first season was concerned. This of course meant that as my mother showed an equal lack of interest the first meetings of the season were out of my reach, but t once again fortune smiled upon me. One of the brothers who lived in the flat above us had loaned me back copies of the Speedway Star, which I had read and re-read while waiting for the season to commence and now that it was here I was able to supplement this knowledge by reading reports of the new sporting attraction in the Yarmouth Mercury, the local weekly paper. He approached my mother with the offer of letting me accompany him to the next home meeting the following week. Those few days were vital in allowing my mother and father to discuss the offer and come to the decision that it was safe for me to go with him and so on the following Tuesday evening with enough money to pay my entrance fee plus bus fare and a programme and not forgetting to take a freshly sharpened pencil I was ready for the new adventure called speedway. My first surprise was after walking up to the Market place to catch the bus, was the bus queue, it seemed it was over a hundred yards long, something I had not seen before but this was just the first in an evening of surprises. I think we waited for two or three more buses before we were able to board and set off, luckily in those day’s buses were plentiful, regular and inexpensive. As I said an evening of surprises and it began with the bus journey. Until that May evening, one to remember, I had not been any further than the railway bridge at the very end of Northgate street and the start of Caister Road, about a mile at most and once past that bridge it was a different world. We were upstairs on the bus and the first thing that caught my attention was on the right hand side, the Corporation Bus Station where the buses were serviced and stored overnight, bringing back memories of the same in Cheddleton for the PMT company only much larger. Next was that the houses were much larger, mostly detached and with large front gardens and gates, this was a different world. As we got nearer to the stadium on the left side of the bus was The Bure Hotel which I would recognise now as being built in the Art Deco style of the 1930’s and as we progressed the air was permeated with the lovely smell of cooking coming from Smiths’ Crisp Factory, three more minutes and we were there, Great Yarmouth Stadium. If I was disappointed at all that evening it was with the description “stadium”. In my minds eye I think I had pictures of Wembley but this stadium was not on that scale. It’s primary function was greyhound racing and it had a small seated grandstand on the eastern side opposite “the pits” on the western side. The rest of the stadium had spectators standing and open to the elements, and Great Yarmouth received a fair share of the elements especially the East wind off the North Sea, but on that occasion it was sunny and mild, perfect for motorcycle racing, and I fell in love with Speedway on that early summer evening. I don’t remember the details of the result but I think we won and I had a new hero, Bill Carruthers. Even now I can’t remember why I made that choice, most people went for Reg Morgan, Billy Bales or Tip Mills but Bill went on to be one of the most successful riders especially when Bales was unable to ride due to being called up for National Service in the RAF, but speedway is a team sport and captain Sid Hipperson, Johnny White and brothers Ted and Bert Rawlinson made up the Yarmouth Bloaters first speedway team in spring and summer of 1948. If you are wondering, a Bloater is a smoked herring unique to my home town, you can get kippers from most fishing towns but bloaters only from Great Yarmouth and even now every time I hear the pulsating melody “Entry of the Gladiators” my mind goes back to speedway racing and my boyhood. What I hadn’t reckoned with was that all the people who came on the bus would be going back on the bus and if the queue in the Market place was long the one outside the stadium you could multiply by ten or more, so Arthur, I have just remembered his name, suggested we walk, and we did, being early summer it was still light so we set off back along Caister Road, onto Freemantle Road, over the bridge past the Racecourse, via Beattie Road and Nelson Road and eventually home, roads that until that evening I did not know existed, most of the journey discussing the evenings events. I can only think it was not much longer than waiting for a bus as when I arrived back my mother had a sandwich for me to eat with a cup of tea and one for Roy who then allowed me to regale my parents with thea evening’s events before I went to bed with my precious programme under my pillow.
Chapter 42 - Running down the Clock – Part One
Together with the rest of Junior 4 at the Priory School following the “excitement” of the Eleven Plus Exams, the Annual Fair and of course the promised arrival of Speedway we settled down to the summer term, which would be my last at the Priory School. If I had thought it would be in anyway significant, I would have been disappointed. It was just another term to be negotiated, both in and out of school. As far as Mr Thompson was concerned, it appeared he had done what was required for those of us who would be moving on and away from the school and he concentrated on the remainder who would be going up to Senior 1. Therefore, if not left to our own devices we were certainly given an easy ride.
Life of course was not confined to school and by now the evenings were much longer although double summertime no longer applied and even in Great Yarmouth the weather was warmer and Cricket was back on the menu. The promise of Speedway had for a while taken our eye off the ball as far as cricket was concerned, but the realisation that Speedway was to be watched and going to cost money and that cricket on Wellesley Road certainly did not, unless the ball was lost, which was very rare. These facts concentrated our minds and with the Ashes being contested between England and Australia play resumed for another season. I am not sure any of us really understood the history of the Ashes when we drew lots to see who would be England and who would be Australia, but the matches played on those early summer evenings on Wellesley Road were as hard fought as any at The Oval or Lords.
In previous chapters I recalled how my father and I were much closer due to football in general and our support for Yarmouth Town in particular. By the end of April the football season was over and my father did not have an interest in cricket as he did football, plus the fact that he worked long hours every day meant that I saw much less of him. The working week for my father was from 8am to 6pm Monday to Friday and on Saturday 8am to 1pm anything after that was paid overtime and they must have been busy because my father worked until at least 7pm Monday to Friday but Saturday must have been sacrosanct as he always finished on time. It was on one of these Saturday mornings that I decided to walk down to the factory to meet him. This was not unusual in itself as I would often meet him out of work on winter evenings but on summer evening’s I had other fish to fry, mostly cricket, and on Saturday mornings the cinema, so if it wasn’t a rare event it was not regular. On this day I stood in my usual spot at the factory gate when a friend of my father Mr Fish, who knew me from football walked by and stopped to talk, that in itself was unusual, recognition was normally a cursory nod but today he must have been feeling kind. It was after all Saturday, which was the background to what happened next. It was nearly 1pm and he said he would take me to my where my father worked in the dye house. To get there we had to go through one of the workrooms filled with looms and the ladies who worked on them.
The thing I remember most is the noise of the looms, ear splitting, something I had not experienced before in my short lifetime, I can still remember it but more than that I remember the ladies who worked the looms. Singing while they worked to music I could barely hear. They all smiled and waved to me as I followed Mr Fish, it was as if I was one of their family. It was a new and different world and one that I would read about later in my life, to learn that less than fifty years prior to that morning, boys and girls my age would have been working in such conditions and some that were even worse. However, on that Saturday my introduction to the world of work had not finished, following Mr Fish we left the weaving room and the noise back into the open air and quiet. We walked away from the noise of the Weaving Shed into the gloom of the dye house which in comparison was like a church, very quiet, high windows which looked as if they had not been cleaned for some time and several large vats which I could hear bubbling like the stew my mother would make on the cooker and the smell, the smell of dye and acid that I would always associate with my father, and there was my father. At first glance I wasn’t sure it was him, boiler suited, goggles, rubber gloves up to his elbows but it was his cap that gave him away, I would know that cap anywhere. Mr Fish told me to wait just inside the door and I did, I wasn’t going to do anything to spoil the occasion. I remember thinking how small my father looked against the size of the vats, he wasn’t a big man but in the dye house his lack of height was intensified, but as I stood just inside the door, for whatever reason and I cannot say why, I was very proud of him and remained so for the rest of his and my life. Thank you, Mr Fish.
While I waited just inside the door my father started to disrobe, off came the gloves, goggles and boiler suit and something I had not noticed until then, heavy rubber boots and there once more was the man I knew so well, shirt without a collar, bib and brace dungarees, shoes and jacket and of course his cap. We waited just inside the door until a loud siren started to wail, it was 1pm, the end of the working day. He told me to wait and I soon understood why, the empty yard that I had crossed earlier became a surging mass of people on foot and bicycle, leaving off time and the end of the working week. As soon as the yard was clear we set off for home, walking side-by-side, little or nothing was said, we did not need conversation, I was going home with my father and that was sufficient.
Chapter 41 - Something Old, Something New
Amid all the excitement that came with the announcement of Speedway it must be stated that life outside our little group in Great Yarmouth carried on as usual and to be fair it was the case that having digested the news of that particular prospect there was then a hiatus between the announcement and the first meeting and there was only so much discussion to be had from reading the Speedway Star’s that were doing the rounds. Much of that discussion was about the “stars” whose names were prominent in the magazines, Jack Parker and his brother Norman, England internationals both, riding respectively for Manchester Belle Vue and Wimbledon Dons were prominent but it was the names of overseas riders that really caught our imaginations. Lionel Van Praag, Aub Lawson, Max Grosskreutz, we had no idea how to even pronounce his name and the exotically named Ken Le Breton, who as well as his name which caught the imagination, he was called “The White Ghost” due to the colour of his leathers, so much more exciting than the names of our football and cricket hero’s, Len Hutton or F.R Brown, see what I mean.
It wasn’t just within our group that the approaching Speedway season was creating interest, at first it was the major topic in the school playground although unlike football or cricket it could not become a major attraction at playtime and lunch time, due I am certain to the fact that running round an imaginary track on imaginary speedway motor bikes recreating the imaginary roar of the imaginary engines soon lost attraction especially as the bigger boys always seemed to win, as a result cricket resumed it’s primacy.
For some of us this was our last term at The Priory School and of course I am not able now nor was I then able to say how those who would be leaving to take up a place at the Grammar School or the Technical School felt about their departure in the Autumn to pastures new. I was aware of my own feelings, especially as the term proceeded and the big step into the unknown got nearer. Those feelings were a mixture of excitement, fear and regret although not necessarily always in that order, although I think fear was probably uppermost most of the time. I was eleven the same age as my literary hero William Brown, who also eleven feared nobody or anything, oh how I wished I could be like Just William. Mixed in with that fear was an excitement which at times caused me to take part in activities that were frowned upon by the School playground authorities, something which until then I had steadfastly kept clear of and which caused our form teacher Mr E.C Thompson to call a small group of us into our classroom, before the afternoon session commenced, with a view to stamping out this behaviour especially those of us who were moving on to pastures new. It was an effective intervention, well at least as far as I was concerned and I learned a lesson from “Ernie” as he was affectionally known. You don’t have to shout to be heard. Thank you, “Ernie”. Now onto regret. I was leaving to go to another school, I had passed an exam that earned me that privilege, thus it was described. The Priory School however was in some senses my Alma Mater, my first real school. My class contained more pupils than the whole of my only other school Wetley Rocks Junior and I had made it mine. All my friends were in that class at that school, we walked there together and home again most days of the school year and when necessary dealt with the denizens of the Hospital School together. We played football for the school team, we learned to swim together under the baleful eye of Mr Blake and together we started to live and learn about the town in which we had been born and luckily, the eleven plus, however hard it tried failed to split us up, we went to the Grammar School together. I would never find the feeling I had for The Priory School at GYGS.
Chapter 40 - Something New on the Horizon
The news about the prospect of speedway coming to Great Yarmouth caused great excitement, primarily because we knew little or nothing about speedway, with football and cricket we were experts but not speedway. We did however find out by word of mouth, probably culled from one of the local newspapers or the national newspaper we had on a daily basis, by a parent or older family member but certainly not one of mine. This information was that there was a team in Norwich, Norwich Stars based at The Firs Stadium and that they were in Division Two of the National Speedway League and that was all. Not much help, but this should have been enough to be going on with until the more information was available, but we were eleven year old boys and it would have been then our imaginations took over, for as we had no concrete facts to offer each other which would impress, we would have made it up, usually without a challenge being offered, it was a case of ignorance being bliss. It was then I had my stroke of luck.
The family whose meal I had so rudely interrupted when we paid our first visit to 38 Wellesley Road were I think in the main forgiving of my trespass on that day, I stress in the main for although we lived cheek by jowl we rarely had any contact with them, to such an extent that I would have great difficulty providing a description of them. I do know that there two parents and two sons. Compared to us the sons, Arthur and Roy were grown up, sixteen and eighteen, perhaps older, I do recall however they were tall and athletic, mostly wore khaki shorts and had bicycles with drop handlebars which were resident in the hall when not in use, as they were in use virtually every day and as we children rarely ventured into that area of our part of the house they were not a problem, and as my mother had a habit of making clear to anyone who may have asked about the bikes in the hall, we were lucky to have a roof over our heads. One of the brothers and I can’t recall which one, wore spectacles, but I do remember if they were removed for any reason, perhaps to clean off rain then the indentation of the frames were visible on the bridge of the nose and towards the ears, funny the details that stick in the memory.
Now back to my stroke of luck, one of the brothers, must have engaged my mother in conversation and within it the news of Great Yarmouth having a speedway team and she in her turn revealed the excitement it was causing me and my friends. According to my mother the prospect of speedway was all my conversation contained, I would of course deny that particular claim, but mother knew best. It turned out that he was also interested in Speedway and he went upstairs and came down with several copies of the Speedway Star for me to read. My mother handed them on to me alongside the admonition that I was to take good care of them, as if I wouldn’t, if I had been given a gold bar I could not have been more happy, I had what we band of warriors wanted, information, which would be a priceless commodity in the discussions about who knew what about speedway in our group, especially if I was the only one with facts on the page in black and white.Until then the arguments in our group could be fierce but usually without factual evidence to back them up, and for a brief period I had such evidence to draw on but as the bartering system took hold and as the treasured magazines went around the group it all evened up. Up to then not a wheel had been turned by the team which would be named Yarmouth Bloaters, but we were hooked.
Chapter 39 - A time for calm and reflection
Easter was past, the fair had been and gone, the exciting news about the Speedway was being digested, the summer term, my final one at The Priory School for Boys had commenced, but otherwise life carried on in same steady fashion, revolving around friends and family and daily gaining more knowledge about the town I lived in which would provide the background to my life for the next twenty years.
In the previous chapter of this memoire I stressed the importance of family in my life in 1948, a factor that in retrospect I only fully appreciated at a much later stage, but I was only eleven and probably did not really understand the value of a loving and caring group of people around me. But part of that loving and caring was that they understood how an eleven year old boy lived his life and made all the allowances needed as well as the guidance to keep my feet on that straight and narrow path, it is only at this much later stage of my life that I can look back and thank them in absentia for their love and kindness and try to follow their example in my now grown up world.
I was lucky, I had two grandmothers, one grandfather and one, I suppose I can only refer to Fred as a step grandfather, four aunts and four uncles plus two cousins from either side of my parent’s marriage, who we would meet on an intermittent basis but very rarely all together, plus another four uncles and aunts and five cousins again divided between mother and father who either lived in other parts of the country or in Great Yarmouth who I had not met or did not meet until much later in my life.
I loved my maternal grandmother as only the first grandson can love and be loved and I have since been made aware that there was no doubt I was her favourite and that I allegedly took advantage of that situation, if it was the case I hope it wasn’t something I was aware of and thus took advantage of. The walk from Wellesley Road to my grandmothers took about twenty minutes or more, my father would have done it in 12-15 minutes but he would not have been subject to the diversions of a various nature that an eleven year old boy is prone to on the same journey, diversions that only they are attracted to and which they find it necessary to deal with immediately, irrespective of any other task they may have been already given or intention already being followed. Since our move to Wellesley Road my grandmother had gone from Rainbow Corner to another dwelling less than a three minute walk away from the house where we had landed on our return in 1946 and very near to my two aunts and unless my memory misleads me and you don’t easily forget what I will describe next, one of their houses or one of those next door was rumoured to be occupied by a poltergeist which threw furniture around when the occupants were out. In the family the narrative regarding this was legend, but I never saw any evidence as nothing would have persuaded me to venture over the door step even when and if the opportunity had been available, so I must have believed it and it was enough to persuade both aunts to look for other dwellings although I think my grandmother stayed on, obviously made of sterner stuff than her daughters. The reasons for my visits to my grandmother were twofold, the first was to run errands for her, looking back I am fairly sure she was quite able to do this for herself but I didn’t mind as she would always push a three penny piece into my hand when I completed the task and I could also be sure that one of the cakes from the bakers just might be mine and the second I am sure was company for her and I was happy to fill that gap. Fred of course was out at work, I have no idea of what that work was, but although I always thought of my grandmother as being an old lady I have worked out as I write that she was in 1948 sixty years of age, and she was precious to me and at a bare five feet in height, a little gem.
Let us return to the rest of the family. Although our meetings as individuals were regular I cannot recall many family gatherings where uncles, aunts and cousins were all together until my cousin Jean got married and by then I was sixteen, so as a family we could hardly be described as gregarious, but we were friendly when we did meet, I can’t recall any of them “falling out”.
One of the really interesting aspects of the family was the diverse employment they were engaged in, my Aunt Obe and my mother were in the hospitality trade, waitresses, Aunt Lily I cannot remember her job but my father’s sister Eva, and sister in law Gladys worked at the same factory as my father but in different departments but of their husbands I have much better recall.
Uncle Harry was a painter and decorator for Carter’s a local firm of builders, Uncle Jimmy a gardener for the local town corporation and his handiwork could be seen throughout the summer in all the municipal flower beds in the park and along the sea front and Uncle Fred worked on the railway at Yarmouth Vauxhall Station, there were at that time three railway stations, not bad for a small town especially if you liked trains. The remainder of my father’s family I knew nothing about as far as work was concerned, but I do know that I liked the thought of Harry’s job the best and for a short period at a later date when leaving full time education was imminent I thought it might suit me, but in the event it wasn’t to be the case, Harry made me aware of the nebulous nature of the work and I listened. My Uncle Percy had an entirely different job to the others he was a delivery driver for a wholesale tobacco and confectionery company, delivering cigarettes and tobacco, sweets and chocolate when available, rationing was still in place, from a van to business premises all over the town and was well known for his cheery manner, I liked my Uncle Percy, his humour was that of a school boy grown up and he always had a new trick to reveal when you met him. The last of my uncles was Uncle Alf who lived in Norwich and was the only “white collar worker” he being employed by the Inland Revenue and he eventually had a more significant role in my life than I could have anticipated. Up to then it had been the infrequent Sunday afternoon visits and my early venture as an entrepreneur involving my friends and his car and cigarette cards. What I did not know was that he and my Aunt Elsie had a baby boy
that died and were not able to have another. When as a boy from Cardiff he first joined the family, my mother took him under her not insubstantial wing, protecting him against the other three and as a result I became, by proxy, the son they did not have and received the love they would have given to him. I was a small part of a very happy family but of course at eleven years of age not aware of how lucky I was.
Chapter 38 - After the Lord Mayor’s Show
The excitement of the Eleven Plus results began to fade and life slowly got back to the routine that we were all used to, school, football and our new pleasure the market place. It is fascinating to look back at the time of writing this memoire to recall and compare not what we had but what we didn’t have, television, telephone mobile or landline, computer, internet and all its attendant functions, a family car, dining out, holidays, but of course working on the basis of what you have not had you will not miss we were happy with what was available to us and that our horizons were also widening and becoming brighter.
As we came to the end of the post winter term and the days became longer and even in Great Yarmouth warmer, so our attention turned away from football as our singular sport back to cricket, not however at school, where the football season had still to come to an end. The Priory had enjoyed a good season which would culminate in a “Cup Final” against, who else, North Denes and the dreaded Huggins twins. As well as the school team doing well, in my new position I was being noticed and selected to take part in a trial for the Town Boys at my age group, if that was not enough excitement it was to take place on a Saturday morning at the ground played on by Yarmouth Town, Wellesley Road, opposite my front door, near enough for my mother to come over and watch, she didn’t, and as it turned out I am pleased she did not, my father of course was working. It would be fitting if I could report that my audition was a success, regrettably that was not to be, at some stage in the game I was hit in the face at short range from a clearance by one of my own team which knocked me out and meant I took no further part in the game. I of course was disappointed but that was very soon forgotten when a week or two later we returned to the Wellesley to face North Denes. As far as we were concerned it was our equivalent of a visit to Wembley Stadium, a place we had only read about or seen on a cinema newsreel and once again I wish I could offer a fairy tale end to our season but that also was not to be, my last game in the yellow and black but more excitement was on the horizon.
As I indicated earlier our forays as a group were taking a wider and more cosmopolitan aspect, if that word could ever be used to describe our lives outside of school in Great Yarmouth, but that was how we saw ourselves, eleven years of age, beginning to exercise more independence in an ever widening if still local world, 1948 was the year when we found out about the town we lived in outside of school and the boundaries exercised by family life, and we enjoyed it. To use a cinematic reference, it was as if our lives had gone from black and white to technicolour.
Great Yarmouth is an old town with an historic background, some of which I have already described and that history was with us nearly every day. My school was a part of that history but I don’t think we really understood or cared or valued it. The first clue was in the name, The Priory School, originally solely for boys but by 1948 and my attending, also girls, although in separate sectors joined by the hall which was used by both. Located in the shadow of St Nicholas Church which had been bombed to a shell in the war, the church was the size of a cathedral which enabled it to claim to be the largest parish church in England and because of the location the school had a resident priest, Canon Baggot, who lived in a house adjacent to the school on the aptly named Church Plain and next door to a house which had been the home of Anna Sewell who wrote the classic novel for children, Black Beauty, incidentally not the only famous author with links to the town. The canon was a familiar figure to us, as he conducted the daily assemblies for both schools. For all that I cannot recall he ever spoke if we crossed his path.
As I have indicated earlier in this memoire the town was surrounded by a wall on three sides and part of that wall was in the senior boys playground with the remains of a tower at the northern end and would have extended through the churchyard to the Northgate ergo Northgate Street which led to a later development Newtown. In total the wall had two gates and nine towers but as best as I can recall none of this history was part of our school curriculum.
The end of Easter term was coming along fast and with it entertainment of a singular nature, the travelling fair, I stress singular as it was an annual event that took place for two days the weekend following Easter and it took over the area that we had just made our own, the Market Place, together with Brewery and Church Plain and now for the first time our little gang would be able to check out the delights on offer without parental interference, not that we had the necessary money that would enable us to enjoy the rides or sideshows, that only happened if you met parents on either of the two evenings and they paid for you but the atmosphere of a travelling fair was an experience I will never forget, and how we envied the young men who worked on the various entertainments, tall, tanned, smiling and carefree, show me a boy of that age and era who would not have exchanged all they had to be able enjoy that life, instead of which all we had to look forward to was the summer term and after that in my case the Grammar School. I know there was a permanent fairground at the far end of the promenade in the summer season but as far as I was concerned it didn’t carry the romance of the travelling fair.
The fair however was a two day wonder and by Monday morning packed up and off to their next rendez-vous leaving behind memories but in the end no regrets, there would always be next year and the loyalties of boys aged eleven are transitory and cricket was back on our menu. The visitors were the Australians and the final visit of the great Don Bradman. Great as he certainly was, he still didn’t hold the record for the highest number of runs in an innings in a Test match, this honour belonged to Len Hutton of Yorkshire and England, 364, it would be many years before it was bettered. Other than the statistics gleaned from my News Chronicle Treasury of Cricket all we knew about Hutton and what he looked like we obtained from our cigarette cards and by now they were ten years out of date, 1938 being the year he made that record innings, but even so we thought we not only knew him but looked like him as we shaped up with home made bat and tennis ball for the new season. We had our favourites from the England players, Hutton was high on that list for most when batting although I was always loyal to Bill Edrich and when I bowled, Alec Bedser of Surrey whereas with most of the others Johnny Wardle of Yorkshire was popular, not easy trying to spin a tennis ball on tarmac but they tried. Many years later as a married man I had the pleasure of meeting Mr Bedser at a charity event and I took the opportunity to pass on my boyhood fantasies, his pleasure was as evident as my hero worship and when we shook hands his engulfed mine in a 3-1 ratio.
With Easter out of the way and the football season all but over and Test Cricket not due until June our lives resumed a familiar pattern, squeezing as much as we could out of the precious school holidays. We did not have access to the various pleasures of the present day so we made our own fun, and it was fun, and although we must have done so I cannot recall any arguments with regard to what pursuit was on the menu day after day, but one thing I am sure of we rarely went onto the beach, it wasn’t that we were forbidden by parents or adult authority such as reigned over us on the two recreation grounds that were within walking distance from our homes. It doesn’t make sense even now having two recreation grounds and for the most part unable to play on them, but the beach had no such restrictions and from my front door was less than one hundred yards but for whatever reason it did not entice us, but what did stir up excitement was the news that Great Yarmouth was going to have a speedway team. This meant two things, the first was to find out about the sport and the second to impress your friends with your knowledge, and with no coverage on the wireless and no TV or internet that knowledge was hard to obtain, certainly not from my father, who said he knew nothing at all of this sport, so I was struggling, but I was not the only one in the gang with the problem, as exciting as the prospect was knowledge was scarce, but I was lucky and quite out of the blue I had a stroke of good fortune.
Chapter 37 - Some Pride and some Prejudice
The Sunday after receiving the letter confirming my achievement was a bit like the day after the Lord Mayors show. The initial excitement had calmed down and I remember very clearly that I started to get apprehensive about my educational future, even to concocting stories in my head that might be reasons for not taking the opportunity, but on each occasion that I broached the subject my mothers excitement was such that I was unable to reveal my concerns and she in her turn was looking ahead on my behalf with such pride that in the end I resigned myself to my new status, a Grammar School boy.
If my head had been in any clouds and it certainly wasn’t, it would have been brought back down to earth when I went back to school on Monday, I was not the only recipient of that important letter. The Priory School for boys had not been let down by it’s pupils Gordon Mitchell, Frank George, of my particular group of friends were among the “lucky” ones including my own particular nemesis David Sell, but on this occasion I was happy enough so that it didn’t rankle, my pals would be making this particular journey with me, thus one of my fears had been assuaged, I would not be a lone stranger in a foreign land. This must have been quite an unusual day for hardly were we all seated in J4 classroom than we were honoured with a visit from the Headmaster Mr Sillis. Our form teacher Mr Thompson read out our names and one by one we had to stand up, and for the first time I became aware of just how many of the class would be making this new and in my case frightening journey, probably a third, it had been a good year. Now it was the turn of Mr Sillis. It was very rare to see Mr Sillis except in his office and then it would be in the event of a major misdemeanour but here he was in our classroom and smiling or as near to a smile that he ever allowed us to see. He was proud of us, he said we had upheld the academic reputation of the Priory School, he went on to urge us to not let it down when we arrived at our new destination, “we were the oldest and most highly regarded Junior school in the town and our history must not be blemished in any way”. This seemed to be a very heavy burden to have placed on our young shoulders after all it was just a school, it was some time before I began to find a lasting place in my heart for my first proper school. He then left the classroom as quickly as he arrived and as it was not deemed necessary that I visit his office for the remainder of my time at that school our paths did not cross again.
If my parents and I daresay those of the other successful students had nothing but pride and pleasure in the results it was less so with a section of our classmates who we would leave behind. For a brief spell we became the butt of unpleasant remarks and in some cases, although not in mine, physical bullying. These activities which took place in the playground as well as outside the school gates must have been noticed by teachers on duty at those locations but were generally ignored, some sort of rite of passage which we had to endure and of course we did, we were growing up and living where we did, were aware that worse things happened at sea.
I was eleven years of age and metaphorically spreading my wings as well as the boundaries of experience. For me and my friends it was a period of discovery and this meant outside of Wellesley Road and immediate environs, one such was the Market Place. Our daily walk to school was such that we skirted the Market Place every day but rarely if ever turned left instead of right at the end of St Nicholas Road unless it had been snowing and we made snowball raids on the Hospital School, our deadly rivals, situated on the east side of the Market Place, but on a Saturday or school holidays it was open to us without let or hindrance and was new and exciting.
The question could be asked, what would a group of boys eleven years of age find exciting in a market place? Although up to now we had not been constrained in any way as far as where we could go to play, beach, waterways, marshes, churchyard, the Market Place was different and the answer was simple, it was new to us, away from the roads we up to then lived and played on, and in an adult environment without the restraints that came with being with adults, but now with their approval. We were growing up and it was exciting especially at the southern end of the market place and the chip stalls that stood there together with tripe and hot pea stalls, bliss, well bliss as long as you had some money to spend, a luxury we rarely enjoyed.
The market place in Great Yarmouth may not be unique but it was distinctive in a way I have not found anywhere else since the days I am writing about and I have travelled the UK far and wide. Chip stalls, not fish and chips, just chips and there were three, Kelly’s, Brewers and Thompsons and families had their own favourites, ours was Thompson’s, I think my mother knew them well and so when my turn came to buy my chips without supervision I naturally bought them from that particular stall and did so into young adult life and then not only because of the quality of their chips but that the daughter of the family was working there and I for a brief period was smitten with her, she however, did not reciprocate, but I still bought my chips there. Alongside the chip stalls, were a tripe stall and a hot pea stall, the three together enabled you to have a satisfying meal, later in life a treat that most people I knew indulged in, although aged eleven beyond my means. If I did have some money to spend it would most likely be a threepenny bit, a coin thicker than the average with eight sides, and unlike any other coin could be stood on edge. I didn’t receive pocket money from either of my parents but nor was I asked to do chores and therefore didn’t expect it but for one last summer I did receive my sixpence for helping Arnold and the pony deliver milk, which my mother immediately took and put into an insurance policy to save for my future, which at the time I was not entirely happy about but which later in life I came to bless. If I did receive a gift of money, usually from my grandmother and usually 3d it meant I could afford three pennorth of chips, a rare treat indeed. As for the insurance policy when my employment with Arnold came to an end my mother continued to pay it from her limited housekeeping until I left school and went to work in my own right and I resumed the payment from my small wage and that 6d per week helped clear my mortgage in later life.
I would like to try and paint a picture of the market place for you. On Wednesday and Saturday as well as the permanent chip, tripe, hot peas and greengrocery stalls at the southern end the whole space and it would be a good one hundred yards long and twenty five yards wide was filled with other stalls with a huge diversity of offerings and all of this surrounded on all sides by Pubs, Banks, Bakers, Grocers, Butchers, Ironmongers, Gentleman’s tailors, Ladies costumiers, a Bicycle shop, a Café and two Departmental stores and of course Woolworths, no town of any substance was without a Woolworths. You could and did all your family shopping in that area, and I loved the romance of it when I was eleven and amongst it with my friends.
There was however no getting away from my success in the scholarship story. A few weeks after the now infamous letter bearing the news came another, this one however was not greeted with the same joy, in fact it came as a shock to my parents and took some of the gilt off the original ginger bread. The letter contained the list of clothes and equipment and the prices, required before I could set foot on the hallowed ground and where it could be obtained, Palmers.
Palmers was one of the two departmental stores on the Market Place, the other being the Co-op, in addition there was a third, Platten’s in Broad Row and our shopping would usually be carried out with the latter two, the Co-op for the dividend, known affectionately as the divi and Platten’s for their stamps, a local forerunner to Green Shield Stamps. Palmers offered neither of these inducements and we did not shop there, it was well beyond our family budget and a building that I had up to then not set foot in, but Palmers was the only shop where the regulation clothing could be obtained.
Looking back, I am not sure how tight were the rules regarding the clothing etc, but my mother and father took it very seriously, thus one Saturday afternoon later in the year and nearer to the fateful day, the three of us Father, wearing his suit, Mother, and I crossed the threshold for the first time on to the hallowed ground that was Palmers. From the distance of time I know it was only a shop but then it was for me like entering St Pauls Cathedral, high vaulted ceilings and hushed tones and on arrival at the Gentleman’s Outfitting Department hearing my mother and father addressed as sir and madam and in my turn as young sir, adding felicitations with regard to my success, it was a different world. I was duly measured for height, chest and shoe size all against the precious list and appropriate garments and footwear agreed upon and we came to the point where payment was required. I know now with the benefit of time that the man who attended to us was a true gentleman, he asked if we would like it put on our account and when it was determined that we would be paying in cash he offered the option of delivery rather than having to wait while the purchases were wrapped, my mother accepted without argument, the thought of Palmers delivering to our door was an opportunity not be missed. It was only when I was in my twenties shortly after the death of my father that my mother revealed that we would not have had enough money, £17, to pay for the clothes on that list and that my aunts and my uncle Alf had all chipped in so I could have all the right clothes and equipment when I started my new school life. That seventeen pounds would have been two months wages for my father. She also revealed that the gentleman who attended to our requirements, had been at school with her at the same time, but had kept that strictly to himself on that auspicious occasion. A family is more than just a group of brothers and sisters and a good friend more than gold.
Chapter 36 - Pride without Prejudice
It was early in March when we received the news that the time had come for us to take the exam that could make a big difference in our young lives. Unless I was different to all my classmates this information neither excited me or concerned me, and I don’t recall Mr Thompson making changes to our classroom routine by force feeding us anything that would be of assistance on the day, as far as I can recall we were told the day before it was to be on the following day and we went home and life continued as on every other day, no mocks or revision or in my case a sleepless night. As I had no expectation of success I had no fear of failure. I have no specific memory of the test other than it was in our normal classroom or if there were personnel from outside of the Priory staff to ensure fair play or if I had any nerves, we sat the test and having completed it school routine went back to normal and with it our usual lives, there must have been discussion between us but if so it doesn’t ring a bell with me.
What was my normal life? It was changing, but you would expect that, at eleven years of age our world was expanding in different directions, football and cricket and conkers in season, cigarette cards, autographs and in my case stamp collecting was my staple diet but my parents were beginning to allow me more license in other areas, one such being having your haircut. I must remind anyone reading this memoire that fashion in clothes and shoes did not exist in our world in 1948, if denim or trainers had been invented they had not reached Great Yarmouth, we played in the same clothes as we went to school in, your jacket was removed to become goalposts or the wicket at the bowlers end, if I had a “Sunday Best” it escapes my memory. Let us get back to having a haircut. Until I reached this magical age one of my parents would accompany myself and my brother to have our hair cut, more often or not my father. The barber’s shop was on St Nicholas Road, the one we walked every day to school and almost opposite the gates of the factory where my father worked, why is this detail required, simple, in the days before the average family had a telephone there had to be some form of communication between parents and the outside world regarding the behaviour of their offspring and it worked as follows, in such a small community wherever you went your were under surveillance from family friends or work mates, and they would report on your behaviour as and when necessary, and one such was Percy Maidstone, my fathers barber of choice, therefore the barber of choice for myself and my brother. There were other barbers in the town, one or two of them calling themselves Gentlemen’s Hairdresser but I didn’t get to find out the difference between a barber and a Gentlemen’s Hairdresser until much later when I could afford to pay for my own haircut, while my father paid I followed his direction and until now it was literally his direction, he sat and watched Mr Maidstone cut the hair of myself and my brother, having issued his instructions “short, back and sides, not too much off the top” and Mr Maidstone followed those instructions with a will and woe betide if you moved your head in any other direction than the one he pulled it in, failure to do so fetched a slap around the head from Mr Maidstone and an admonition from my father to sit still, there usually would be a number of adult males waiting their turn and as you looked in the mirror you could see them all nodding in approval, justice was not only done but seen to be done. Ok I am eleven and deemed to be old enough and responsible enough to go on my own, only to find that my father had issued a lasting instruction that no deviation from the cut would be allowed and Mr Maidstone had my fathers approval to mete out rough justice as needed, and he followed it to the letter, but at least it was a first step away from parental control and an even bigger bonus I could go on my own without my grizzling younger brother.
My world outside my immediate group of friends was slowly expanding, my “errand running” for my mother was one example of this new freedom. Up to now the Market Place had only been somewhere I had been to with one or other or both of my parents or Grandmother, but now I was deemed sufficiently responsible to make such visits on my own and it opened up a new world for me., but more of that later.
Toward the end of March an envelope arrived that was to change my young life in a major fashion. Whether it was accident or design I am not sure, but it arrived on a Saturday addressed to my father and looked official in that his name and address was typed rather than handwritten, therefore we had to wait until he came home from work, yes, factories worked on a Saturday until 1pm, to reveal the contents. Against all expectations on my part, and I have no doubt those of my teacher, I had passed the eleven plus exam to enable me to attend the Great Yarmouth Grammar School commencing in September 1948. I recall being really surprised at the differing reactions from my parents, my father showed no emotion other than “Well done” whereas my mother started to cry, one of the only two times in my childhood that I saw tears in mother’s eyes until my beloved Grandmother died some years later. As for me, I am not sure that it was what I really wanted but I do remember wondering out loud whether any of my friends had received the same news and my mother by now partially recovered from the shock saying “it doesn’t matter, you have” and I had, I don’t think I fully understood the effect of this success inside my immediate family, and for that brief period whatever my reaction I was not aware of the effect it would have within the wider family, but one thing was certain I would be going to the Grammar School in September and my parents were pleased.
Chapter 35 – Springtime, extended family and broadening horizons
Earlier in this memoire I drew attention to Great Yarmouth in the winter and how the town to all intents and purposes switched off the lights and hibernated, but with my birthday now behind me and the nights gradually getting shorter and the days longer the fascination with the stamp album waned slightly, not completely but enough to draw attention to it here. Our school activities continued, learning, well hopefully learning, football, cigarette cards although they were now losing some of their shine and autographs, but life away from school was taking on a different aspect, I was eleven years old and looking for more independence away from the area around where we lived and exploring a wider world.
My mother had started to work on a more regular basis, not every day but enough that one of my aunts or maternal grand mother could be called upon occasionally to take care of us. If not me then certainly my brother and sister. My mother together with her sister Obe were in what we would now refer to as the Hospitality Business, they were waitresses, although she was the younger sister Obe was the senior and she had a team of part timers who could be called upon on a regular, irregular basis, one of which and her second in command was my mother. It is interesting to look back and realise that my extended family, or more to the point those that I was aware of, was in 1948 quite small and we rarely got together.
The exception to this was my grandmothers sister always referred to as Aunt Annie, in reality my great aunt, although I was not aware of such niceties and if I referred to her at all in our meeting, other than hello with my head down it was a rare event, it wasn’t that she was fierce although I suspect I thought she could be but that outside my coterie of friends I was quite shy in the company of adults. In hindsight I am not surprised at that, we rarely had social contact with adults other than our parents or teachers. Among all the memories that I can recall, conversations with my friends’ parents do not feature among them, it is more than likely that they were not aware of our names, and as I have indicated before we were rarely welcomed into their houses.
But back to Aunt Annie, she was my grandmothers elder sister, her married name Allen and like my grandmother she produced a large family, how many I don’t know, I can only recall meeting one of them, Cecil, and he was the black sheep of the family, a family that according to my grandmother, had, to paraphrase its’ “fair share of sheep of a darker hue”. Cecil, I was told, had enjoyed the occasional holiday at His Majesties pleasure, nothing serious, the odd bit of larceny, no details were ever divulged, but to me, an eleven year old boy he was fascinating, the more so when my mother said I was to keep clear of him and not believe his stories, what eleven year old could resist that challenge.
My mother need not have worried that I would be influenced by the charismatic Cecil, for he certainly fitted that description, the only time we would be likely to meet was occasionally on a Saturday around midday in The Fish Stall House, a very large pub on the Market Place, when after the completion of the Saturday market shop my mother, grandmother and occasionally my Aunt Lily would get together with Aunt Annie for a family meeting and if yours truly was there, usually the bag carrier, I would be included and get a lemonade and if lucky meet Cecil and listen to his stories, they were not for my benefit, I was only on the fringe, being confined to waiting just outside but within sight of my mother, and although the ladies knew that the tales were more than likely fiction they listened without interruption and when we were on our way home my mother would remind me not to believe a word he had said. The interesting thing for me to think about as I write was on some Saturdays he was accompanied by a young woman, I am not sure if it was always the same one, he obviously had something about him but looking back I can’t think what it might have been, other than some form of charm, for he was not tall and handsome like the stars you saw on the silver screen, he was just ordinary, with a little moustache, but he always had a smile for me and sometimes a second lemonade and I liked him.
However, back to my non-extended family. You may recall my mother was one of six children three of whom Albert, Herbert and Alfred lived away from Great Yarmouth, Albert in Birmingham, Alfred in Norwich and Herbert, a soldier and always on the move. That left my grandmother, mother, Obe and Lily, the latter two with one child each, both girls in our home town. On my father’s side were his parents, brothers Richard, George and Fred and sister Eva. We did occasionally meet my grandparents and Eva and her husband but the others I didn’t meet until I was very much older, but even then never altogether in fact I don’t think I knew they existed as my father rarely if ever talked about them even though he and Richard met their father for a drink every Sunday lunchtime, and because they were unknown to me I didn’t miss having an extended family, I was happy with my group of friends little knowing how things would change in the next months.
Chapter 36 - Pride without Prejudice
It was early in March when we received the news that the time had come for us to take the exam that could make a big difference in our young lives. Unless I was different to all my classmates this information neither excited me or concerned me, and I don’t recall Mr Thompson making changes to our classroom routine by force feeding us anything that would be of assistance on the day, as far as I can recall we were told the day before it was to be on the following day and we went home and life continued as on every other day, no mocks or revision or in my case a sleepless night. As I had no expectation of success I had no fear of failure. I have no specific memory of the test other than it was in our normal classroom or if there were personnel from outside of the Priory staff to ensure fair play or if I had any nerves, we sat the test and having completed it school routine went back to normal and with it our usual lives, there must have been discussion between us but if so it doesn’t ring a bell with me.
What was my normal life? It was changing, but you would expect that, at eleven years of age our world was expanding in different directions, football and cricket and conkers in season, cigarette cards, autographs and in my case stamp collecting was my staple diet but my parents were beginning to allow me more license in other areas, one such being having your haircut. I must remind anyone reading this memoire that fashion in clothes and shoes did not exist in our world in 1948, if denim or trainers had been invented they had not reached Great Yarmouth, we played in the same clothes as we went to school in, your jacket was removed to become goalposts or the wicket at the bowlers end, if I had a “Sunday Best” it escapes my memory. Let us get back to having a haircut. Until I reached this magical age one of my parents would accompany myself and my brother to have our hair cut, more often or not my father. The barber’s shop was on St Nicholas Road, the one we walked every day to school and almost opposite the gates of the factory where my father worked, why is this detail required, simple, in the days before the average family had a telephone there had to be some form of communication between parents and the outside world regarding the behaviour of their offspring and it worked as follows, in such a small community wherever you went your were under surveillance from family friends or work mates, and they would report on your behaviour as and when necessary, and one such was Percy Maidstone, my fathers barber of choice, therefore the barber of choice for myself and my brother. There were other barbers in the town, one or two of them calling themselves Gentlemen’s Hairdresser but I didn’t get to find out the difference between a barber and a Gentlemen’s Hairdresser until much later when I could afford to pay for my own haircut, while my father paid I followed his direction and until now it was literally his direction, he sat and watched Mr Maidstone cut the hair of myself and my brother, having issued his instructions “short, back and sides, not too much off the top” and Mr Maidstone followed those instructions with a will and woe betide if you moved your head in any other direction than the one he pulled it in, failure to do so fetched a slap around the head from Mr Maidstone and an admonition from my father to sit still, there usually would be a number of adult males waiting their turn and as you looked in the mirror you could see them all nodding in approval, justice was not only done but seen to be done. Ok I am eleven and deemed to be old enough and responsible enough to go on my own, only to find that my father had issued a lasting instruction that no deviation from the cut would be allowed and Mr Maidstone had my fathers approval to mete out rough justice as needed, and he followed it to the letter, but at least it was a first step away from parental control and an even bigger bonus I could go on my own without my grizzling younger brother.
My world outside my immediate group of friends was slowly expanding, my “errand running” for my mother was one example of this new freedom. Up to now the Market Place had only been somewhere I had been to with one or other or both of my parents or Grandmother, but now I was deemed sufficiently responsible to make such visits on my own and it opened up a new world for me., but more of that later.
Toward the end of March an envelope arrived that was to change my young life in a major fashion. Whether it was accident or design I am not sure, but it arrived on a Saturday addressed to my father and looked official in that his name and address was typed rather than handwritten, therefore we had to wait until he came home from work, yes, factories worked on a Saturday until 1pm, to reveal the contents. Against all expectations on my part, and I have no doubt those of my teacher, I had passed the eleven plus exam to enable me to attend the Great Yarmouth Grammar School commencing in September 1948. I recall being really surprised at the differing reactions from my parents, my father showed no emotion other than “Well done” whereas my mother started to cry, one of the only two times in my childhood that I saw tears in mother’s eyes until my beloved Grandmother died some years later. As for me, I am not sure that it was what I really wanted but I do remember wondering out loud whether any of my friends had received the same news and my mother by now partially recovered from the shock saying “it doesn’t matter, you have” and I had, I don’t think I fully understood the effect of this success inside my immediate family, and for that brief period whatever my reaction I was not aware of the effect it would have within the wider family, but one thing was certain I would be going to the Grammar School in September and my parents were pleased.
Chapter 35 - Springtime. Extended family and broadening horizons
Earlier in this memoire I drew attention to Great Yarmouth in the winter and how the town to all intents and purposes switched off the lights and hibernated, but with my birthday now behind me and the nights gradually getting shorter and the days longer the fascination with the stamp album waned slightly, not completely but enough to draw attention to it here. Our school activities continued, learning, well hopefully learning, football, cigarette cards although they were now losing some of their shine and autographs, but life away from school was taking on a different aspect, I was eleven years old and looking for more independence away from the area around where we lived and exploring a wider world.
My mother had started to work on a more regular basis, not every day but enough that one of my aunts or maternal grand mother could be called upon occasionally to take care of us. If not me then certainly my brother and sister. My mother together with her sister Obe were in what we would now refer to as the Hospitality Business, they were waitresses, although she was the younger sister Obe was the senior and she had a team of part timers who could be called upon on a regular, irregular basis, one of which and her second in command was my mother. It is interesting to look back and realise that my extended family, or more to the point those that I was aware of, was in 1948 quite small and we rarely got together.
The exception to this was my grandmothers sister always referred to as Aunt Annie, in reality my great aunt, although I was not aware of such niceties and if I referred to her at all in our meeting, other than hello with my head down it was a rare event, it wasn’t that she was fierce although I suspect I thought she could be but that outside my coterie of friends I was quite shy in the company of adults. In hindsight I am not surprised at that, we rarely had social contact with adults other than our parents or teachers. Among all the memories that I can recall, conversations with my friends’ parents do not feature among them, it is more than likely that they were not aware of our names, and as I have indicated before we were rarely welcomed into their houses.
But back to Aunt Annie, she was my grandmothers elder sister, her married name Allen and like my grandmother she produced a large family, how many I don’t know, I can only recall meeting one of them, Cecil, and he was the black sheep of the family, a family that according to my grandmother, had, to paraphrase its’ “fair share of sheep of a darker hue”. Cecil, I was told, had enjoyed the occasional holiday at His Majesties pleasure, nothing serious, the odd bit of larceny, no details were ever divulged, but to me, an eleven year old boy he was fascinating, the more so when my mother said I was to keep clear of him and not believe his stories, what eleven year old could resist that challenge.
My mother need not have worried that I would be influenced by the charismatic Cecil, for he certainly fitted that description, the only time we would be likely to meet was occasionally on a Saturday around midday in The Fish Stall House, a very large pub on the Market Place, when after the completion of the Saturday market shop my mother, grandmother and occasionally my Aunt Lily would get together with Aunt Annie for a family meeting and if yours truly was there, usually the bag carrier, I would be included and get a lemonade and if lucky meet Cecil and listen to his stories, they were not for my benefit, I was only on the fringe, being confined to waiting just outside but within sight of my mother, and although the ladies knew that the tales were more than likely fiction they listened without interruption and when we were on our way home my mother would remind me not to believe a word he had said. The interesting thing for me to think about as I write was on some Saturdays he was accompanied by a young woman, I am not sure if it was always the same one, he obviously had something about him but looking back I can’t think what it might have been, other than some form of charm, for he was not tall and handsome like the stars you saw on the silver screen, he was just ordinary, with a little moustache, but he always had a smile for me and sometimes a second lemonade and I liked him.
However, back to my non-extended family. You may recall my mother was one of six children three of whom Albert, Herbert and Alfred lived away from Great Yarmouth, Albert in Birmingham, Alfred in Norwich and Herbert, a soldier and always on the move. That left my grandmother, mother, Obe and Lily, the latter two with one child each, both girls in our home town. On my father’s side were his parents, brothers Richard, George and Fred and sister Eva. We did occasionally meet my grandparents and Eva and her husband but the others I didn’t meet until I was very much older, but even then never altogether in fact I don’t think I knew they existed as my father rarely if ever talked about them even though he and Richard met their father for a drink every Sunday lunchtime, and because they were unknown to me I didn’t miss having an extended family, I was happy with my group of friends little knowing how things would change in the next months.
Chapter 34 - Statistics, surprises and a new found hero
2 shillings and 6 pence was a lot of money to try and spend in one go, especially if you were eleven years of age in post war Great Yarmouth. Austerity was still prevalent, the war years had taken a toll on the economy to such an extent that it would be another five years before it would start to pick up again, as a result shops had more in necessities rather than luxuries, especially if father’s wages just about covered everyday expenses and luxuries were out of the question, but we were not aware of such differences in opportunity, we had what we were given and made the most of what we had. One example of this were the British Restaurants started during the war to provide lunch at a reasonable price for the average member of the public and which myself and my siblings took advantage of until they stopped in 1947, not every day but probably on days when my mother was at work, on other days we would go to my Grandmothers on Rainbow Corner but mostly we ate at home, less of a drain on the housekeeping.
However back to the remains of my 2/6d, as you will be aware from previous writing, myself and my friends were in season very keen on playing cricket and reading about it, that was the only way we could keep up with the game outside of Wellesley Road. 1947 had been a year to remember warm and sunny and the County Championship dominated by Middlesex and two batsmen in particular, Bill Edrich and Denis Compton, newspapers called them the “Middlesex Twins” but they were the most unlikely twins, Compton, tall, elegant, on and off the field and handsome, he featured in adverts for Brylcreem. a hair dressing for men. Edrich on the other hand was short, pugnacious, from yeoman stock and from Norfolk our home county and one of three brothers and one cousin who all played County Cricket. In the pre-war period the Edrich family were able to field a team of eleven to play in Norfolk cricket. As well as playing for Middlesex and England, Bill Edrich was a pilot in the RAF during the war, Wing Commander in Bomber Command, he was the stuff from which hero’s were made and when I picked up the bat to play, I was always Bill Edrich.
I still hadn’t managed to spend all of the 2/6d but a national newspaper came to my aid, the News Chronicle,now long gone. Each year they published a book with all the previous seasons statistics and prepared the cricket loving public for the upcoming season and in 1948 we would be welcoming Australia and that meant Ray Lindwall, Keith Miller and of course the great Don Bradman, they were due to arrive in April and this was still only January, by the time they put bat to ball for the first time we knew all there was to know about them and the players who would probably be facing them on behalf of the home country, no TV or internet, all from a book, and we, of course, were confident about who would come out on top.
But the cricket season was in the summer, still some time away, and by the time my birthday came around we had been back in school for three weeks and without our knowing it working hard in preparation for something that one way or another could be decisive in your school life and possibly the rest of your life. When I say without being aware, it was due to the fact that I cannot recall it being thrust down our throats that this term was make or break, or if it had been it had gone over my head, that was quite likely, but at home I cannot recall it being the centre of attention. And what was this event, it was the eleven plus exams which took place toward the middle of the term. Success in this exam offered the opportunity to take your secondary education at the Great Yarmouth Grammar School for Boys, the alternative was failing and continuing your education at The Priory Senior School for Boys but if the thought of failure did worry me I cannot remember it, but as it turned out I would not need to worry.
Chapter 33 - New Interests and Locations
January 24th 1948 the eleventh anniversary of my arrival in the world, a world that had seen many changes in that time and in turn had seen changes in my own life and without me being aware of it would see more before the year came to a conclusion.
Anyone who has been reading this memoir will by now be aware that other than references in the early part of my recollections to Joan Colclough, Barbara Bunting and Mildred Capewell in Cheddleton girls had not played any part in my social life and 1948 was to prove to be the same, I have been wracking my brain to recall someone of the feminine gender I have missed but without success. There is my sister Christine, but she was at that point only just starting her school career and I probably ignored her unless my mother insisted on me being involved with her and my brother and that would have been under sufferance.
Did I have a birthday party? The answer is again a negative. As I write the facilities that exist for children’s parties are many and varied, bowling alley, paint balling, go-karting, swimming parties, there was a swimming pool but not for parties, and as it was open air certainly not in January in Great Yarmouth. They were not available even if they had been affordable, but I did get a present that would start me on a hobby that I pursued into adult life, a stamp album and I still have that original album on a shelf in my office, and this memoir has given me the opportunity to look at it all over again.
Together with the album was a packet of stamps to get me started, I can’t recall how many stamps there were in that first packet but there was a sufficient number and varied enough to keep me busy. Can you imagine receiving such a present today and that it gave an eleven old boy so much enjoyment and knowledge. Until I opened that album and the packet of stamps’ I was unaware of the length and breadth of the British Empire or that Sverige on a stamp meant it came from Sweden or that Magyar was Hungary, and where those countries were. As well as the I knowledge I gained I soon became aware of how dull UK stamps were compared to other countries, certainly France with stamps showing famous buildings whereas our stamps were almost all the Kings head or if you were lucky Queen Victoria, I didn’t have that sort of luck. It was some years before the Post Office started to produce special issue collections. Alongside the album I also received the ultimate present, a Postal Order to the value of 2/6d, I can’t give you the equivalent value as I write this but I do know that back in 1948 that amount of money as a gift could only be dreamt about and it was all mine and having changed it into hard currency I was escorted to Middleton’s stationers in Broad Row and with some of the precious money bought an atlas to enable me locate the countries from which my stamps originated. I wasn’t aware that the purchase would generate a lifelong interest in maps and how useful they can be. Although I can’t claim to still have that original atlas I do have two very detailed versions showing the world, together with road maps of the UK and France, I know GPS is the modern way but I still like to have a map handy. So here I was with a new interest, stamp collecting, all well and good but one packet of stamps was not really enough to satisfy me after they had been safely put into the album, what next, where were you able to buy more of these precious items? The answer? Woolworths. Woolworths was the answer to everything in 1948 including stamps and so with some of the remains of the 2/6d I purchased the second packet of stamps, 3d, I was hooked.
Chapter 32 - A New Era – Part 2
Our second Christmas came and went on Wellesley Road and the New Year 1948 arrived, like 1947 the weather was cold, when wasn’t it in Great Yarmouth in the winter, but not with the snowfall of twelve months earlier, but once in our home it was always warm. I had no idea as the old year went out and the new year came in how different the next twelve months would be.
At first life carried on as usual, school, football both playing and watching, listening to the wireless, going to the pictures and reading. When I say listening to the wireless it was really listening to Dick Barton, well certainly on weekdays, Sunday was entirely different, my father was present and he controlled the choice and nobody argued with it. The offering on Sunday was very different from that of the weekday. The equivalent to Radio 2 was the Light Programme but where the former is 24 hrs a day and virtually all music, in 1948 it commenced at 8am in the morning until 11pm in the evening with a mix of programming, the majority of which held no interest to me but equally nor did the entertainment on offer on the other six days of the week apart from 5pm on Saturday and Sports Report. The exception on Sunday was at midday, Two Way Family Favourites, a music request programme between London and Cologne in what was then known as West Germany, from families in the UK and members of our Armed Forces in Germany. This was the most popular show on Sunday and even at my age I could understand why, the more so as the presenters Jean Metcalfe in London and Cliff Michelmore in Germany eventually met and married, a real-life fairy story. Many years later I had the pleasure of meeting Michelmore, at that time hosting a popular early evening TV programme and was amazed at how tall he was, I was six feet and he towered above me.
Since beginning this walk down memory lane I was lucky enough to find two school reports from my time at The Priory School, one from 1946 and the other from 1947, neither indicating anything to be proud of, I was an average student but my strengths were in English, reading, spelling and composition. Outside of school I read voraciously and still do, it is just that the content has altered, then it was comics and books, my hero was William Brown, Richmal Crompton’s eleven year old anti-hero, how I envied his life and that of his friends Ginger, Henry and Douglas, close behind William came Biggles, written by Capt. W.E. Johns. No anti-hero, Wing Commander Bigglesworth also had loyal acolytes, Algy and Ginger, who together fought their way through World War’s 1 and 2 but soon there was going to be reading of a different content coming into my life.
Chapter 31 - A New Era
As the autumn and winter of 1947 worked their way to an end with our second Christmas at Wellesley Road and a New Year approaching, there was no reason why I should have been aware of the changes both social and political taking place in Great Yarmouth as well as the country at large and how if at all I could or would be affected by them.
Let us go back to 1945 and the end of World War 2, I have already chronicled my memory of hearing the news and the subsequent celebratory parties and where I was on both occasions, but one event had passed me by, but was now brought into focus within my family life although I didn’t understand it then, but I recognise now would affect me in the future. The 1945 General Election, which returned by a landslide a Labour Government together with similar results in local government, Great Yarmouth for the first time had a Labour MP and a Labour Council.
I of course had no recognition of the significance of these events but it was in 1948, with their feet firmly under the table and the Nationalisation Bills were being passed in Parliament that I became vaguely aware of the fact that my parents were not supporters of these actions, or the people enacting them, Coal Mines, Railways, Electricity and Gas did not as far as I can recall give my father in particular any pain but it was for some reason which even in later life I could not fathom, the formation of the National Health Service on July 5th 1948, that was the proverbial straw.
The fact that it would be free was the major cause, I can remember his promise never to visit a doctor again, and he was lucky for as far as I can remember until the day he died in hospital in 1964 following two heart attacks in quick succession, he didn’t need to go back on that promise, the family however did, yours truly especially with recurring bouts of tonsillitis throughout my childhood and life.
His concern about it being free was that everybody would use it and I can recall his naming people who he knew who would now be able to visit their doctor without worry and that they were not worthy of such a bonus, “ They will be queuing up at the door every day to get something for nothing” Of course being ten years of age it went over my head, as did my mothers antipathy to local Labour councillors, who were in her opinion “getting above their station”, a familiar litany she repeated to me when later in life I looked to buy my first marital home rather that put my name on the list for a council house. Education was never mentioned in our house other than the reading of school reports so whether or not my parents were against the 1947 Education Act which enabled all students to have the chance to go on to secondary education without having to pay, who knows, if that was the case I wasn’t aware of it.
Chapter 30 – It isn’t all bright lights and candy floss
What do you do in a seaside holiday resort in the winter, when the strings of lights on the promenade are turned off, the Ice Cream, Candy Floss and Shellfish Stalls are closed down, the Pleasure Beach Fun Fair is no longer welcoming any customers and it is much too cold to go on the beach? This not a question for those whose living depended on a good summer season alone. The seaside in the winter is not a cheerful place. Early November however a light shone in our darkness, Bonfire Night. Fireworks were not readily available throughout the year but leading up to November they appeared as if by magic in Mr Spurgeon’s newspaper shop and when we went in to buy our weekly comic, we could and did cast envious eyes in their direction, but as we had no money it was wishful thinking. My father, was able to withstand the temptation that Mr Spurgeon was offering in the firework department, but on fifth of November, he was home from work on time, to eat his tea, it was his dinner, but we knew it as tea, you had your dinner at midday, don’t ask me to explain lunch, that was something you had as a sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper.
Having eaten we would all put on the warmest clothes we possessed and set off to the seafront, to join the crowds of people there to look at the bonfires lighting up the beach from the Britannia Pier to the Wellington Pier, each with a mini firework display. In the course of the evening I would meet most of my friends, like me shackled to family, but it was just one night in the year and bearable.
As I have stressed before it was still only two years since the end of the war and the country now that the euphoria of being the victors had subsided needed something to cheer it up and on November 20thit received the boost required. The Wedding of Princess Elizabeth to Prince Phillip.
I must remind you this was before television ruled leave alone the internet and from my memory on that day we were of course, at school. In order that as many people as possible could enjoy the day the proceedings were filmed and as quickly as possible shown across the country and very soon after the event the school was lined up and marched down to The Royal Aquarium, oh how that cinema played an important part in my early life, to enjoy the Royal Wedding. This was the way we knew about our Royal Family. Every day events could be seen on cinema newsreels but major events especially trips abroad were turned into films and earlier in the year we had again been marched across town on that occasion for the visit of the King and Queen to South Africa, where they seemed to be forever shaking hands with all and sundry with exception of the one person in Africa we boys knew and loved, Tarzan.
Chapter 29 – A Point to Pause in my Story
For those of you who may read this story I think it is necessary to remind you that it is now 1947 two years since the end of a war that although our country had been on the winning side it didn’t mean that all was sweetness and light, rationing of food especially nonessential food such as sweets and chocolate was still doled out in small portions and then only if you had the money to pay for it, there was at the same time what was called the “Black Market” where you could and again only if you were able to afford it, buy all the things that rationing restricted. It was with such an issue that I recognised a side of my father that would have always been there but not had been revealed until then. He was vehement in his criticism of what he called Spivs and if that was the only to be able to get certain items, through the black market, then we would go without, he would only buy what he could afford, nothing on the “never never” or tick, but from my memory it didn’t cause any arguments in the family, my father was a small man but not a man to be trifled with and his word was law when we were young. My father never owned his own house, thus never had a mortgage, always paid the rent on time, never got into debt, but of course in 1947 I was not aware of all these facts, my mother supplied them after he died in 1964 and she and I were tidying up his affairs. The sum total of his life I found was alongside his work clothes, two suits one bought in 1938 and the other 1962 for my sister’s wedding and in the breast pocket of one of those suits a pay packet containing £27. This had an enormous effect on me, in that I determined that I would not end up in the same circumstances. One other thing I carried from my father was his advice given when I was starting out on adult life it went as follows and I suspect in modern times it would not be well received by some feminists, it was as follows “You may not meet many real ladies in your life, but always treat all the women you meet as if they were” it was good advice.
Chapter 28 – Changes in my Life
However, it was not all gloom in 1947. If we were not required to carry out some chores or must attend Sunday School, then we would meet up, but our activity would be confined to our immediate vicinity, but as it was Sunday whatever activity we took part in it was required that it would observe the holy day and our activities were less vigorous than a weekday. Therefore football or cricket, dependant on season was out of the question, failure to follow these strictures would warrant interference from a parent, more likely a father, or a neighbour, in the latter case they rarely confronted us but if they knew where one of us lived would take their complaint directly to your house and it was nearly always our house, and that would bring on an appearance from father, more heavy handed for having to prove something to a neighbour. As if school five days a week was not onerous enough, the threat of Sunday School hung over us like a dark cloud. Of course when you are ten years of age there are many things going on in your life that you are not directly responsible for, one of them being an introduction to religious teaching, which after the requirement to attend “proper school” from Monday to Friday, the threat of a further period on confinement, especially one without any prospect of football, cricket, conkers or cigarettes but opening our hearts and mind to stories of Jesus was not something we looked forward to. To make it worse in my case I was the only one whose mother felt I needed something more spiritual in my life, and to say the least I was not happy at all, to cut a long story short, I was taken or sent to at least five different Sunday Schools in order to bring the message of Jesus into my life, and one after another they gave up the task and eventually my mother gave up as well, my father didn’t take part in this exercise, I suspect he took the view that I was already beyond redemption.
It was also on a Sunday that we would get a visit from my mother’s step brother, my Uncle Alf. Earlier in this story you may recall that my maternal grandmother was married three times and on the second occasion she married a ship’s captain who was welsh and came from Cardiff bringing with him his son and my mother’s step brother Alfred.
You may recall that Alf brought with him a welsh accent so thick it was assumed he was from a foreign country and he was nicknamed “Dutchy”, this from boys and girls outside the family, but as my mother told me much later he was not made welcome inside the family by his “new” brothers and sisters and my mother to her eternal credit stood up for him, taking him under her wing and offering him protection and love, as a result when reached manhood his main contact with the family was my mother, I don’t think he ever forgave the others, to such an extent that in recent conversation with one of my cousins Margot, her father being my Uncle Herbert, had not met him at all or remember his name being mentioned.
Like all my mother’s brothers Uncle Alf had served in the armed forces during the war, in his case the army and on his return to “Civvy Street” started a new career with the Inland Revenue and with his wife Aunt Elsie, working in the office of an upmarket manufacturer of ladies shoes and no children to bring up, he was able to afford a car, a Ford Anglia and on some Sunday afternoons they would drive from Norwich to Wellesley Road to visit and take tea with us. With so few cars on the roads in those days one parked outside your house caused notice to be taken by all and sundry especially my friends and some others who were not regarded as such. As a result, my popularity on those days soared, to such an extent that the front of 38 Wellesley Road was a hive of activity, an opportunity that I couldn’t resist taking advantage of. As most of those who gathered there to look at the car were of a similar age to myself and like me rarely if ever saw or sat inside a car the situation presented an opportunity, one that I took advantage of. Such was the innocence of those days my uncle rarely locked the car doors, the question was how could I benefit from his kindness, I quickly worked something out, standing on the running board one cigarette card, of my choice, not one someone and everyone had two or three of, in the back seat two and for the privilege of the front seat and hands on the steering wheel three cards or a sweet, as the visits were unannounced beforehand I had to make do with what was on hand on the day and continued until my father found out and my uncle was asked to lock the car and I was given a severe talking to, but that was a few visits under my belt away. I have a suspicion that despite bringing my little game to an end both my father and uncle were quite impressed with my initiative.
As 1947 moved into the autumn we still played outside but cricket was taking a back seat and football came back into being our game of choice, at school in the playground or in an organised manner one day a week plus Saturday morning if you made the school team, which I did and on Wellesley Road under the street lights on most evenings, we were not given homework. These games played were with a tennis ball against the wall of the Wellesley Recreation ground, the same wall that served us well for cricket. But with football getting regular exposure on the wireless and in the newspapers we were becoming more familiar with current players rather than those from the 1930’s on our cigarette cards. One of these was Tommy Lawton who played for Everton and England, a centre forward, or in modern parlance a striker, and was at the top of his game in the First Division, now it would be the Premier League. In 1947 Lawton was transferred from Everton in the First Division to Notts County a team in the Third Division South, the equivalent of Division One in the modern league set-up. Why did this make such an impact with a group of small boys playing football with a tennis ball under street lights in Great Yarmouth? Autographs!
The lure of cigarette cards was fading, those we treasured were all at least nine to ten years of age and the modern ones not nearly as good so something had to take their place. The craze that took their place was Autographs and living in a seaside town that in the summer especially had shown featuring stars from the Radio shows there were plenty of opportunities to pursue the new hobby, we all managed to get an autograph book and fierce competition ensued. Let us get back to Tommy Lawton and Notts County, his move meant that his team would come up against Norwich City, in the same league and a bare 22 miles away. Norwich and 22 miles could have been as far away as the moon as far as we were concerned, there was no chance we could get on a train to Norwich or afford the price of entry to see the great man play and then wait outside the ground in the hope of catching sight of him to ask him to sign your book.
But if you believe in miracles then sometimes they happen. The match was to be played in Norwich but for whatever reason on the Friday night before the game the Notts County team were staying at The Star Hotel in Great Yarmouth and another miracle, my friend Peter Cuttings mother worked there as a chamber maid and she agreed after much badgering to take our two books with her to try and persuade the players to add their signatures to our collection, try to imagine how we felt when she returned home on Saturday afternoon when the team had left the hotel for Norwich and the game, informing us that she had been unable to help with our request and then to produce the books from her shopping bag with the precious contents of nearly all the teams signatures but especially Lawton and Jackie Sewell also an England international, on that weekend we knew what heaven was like.
One of the interesting lessons in life I learned then although I really only understood later, was the lower down the pecking order the signature you were after the easier it was to get your quarry to oblige, as a result the players in our local teams Yarmouth and Gorleston were only too pleased to sign as were Neville Bishop and members of his showband who were the resident summer entertainment at The Marina, the open air theatre on the sea front. The chance that they would ever achieve national or international recognition was unlikely but throughout the summer season in Great Yarmouth they did two shows a day, afternoon and evening, to full houses of satisfied customers and between the two shows they would relax and leave the theatre for whatever reason and we were ready to pounce. It was much more difficult with the other theatres the Regal where the show changed each week was evenings only and those on the piers the same and you had to try to catch them before the show as there was no chance of being outside the stage door after the evening show at ten years of age, and we had nobody on the inside to help as happened with Tommy Lawton.
However, notwithstanding these difficulties, we persevered and managed one way or another over the summer to fill several pages of our books. The quality of the writing varied and some of the signatures were impossible to discern, so if you were sure of the writers name as soon as you could you wrote their name in brackets underneath, some you didn’t even know, they just came out of the stage door and were happy to sign your book, we didn’t mind, it was a signature and they were in show business or football.
Autumn was now firmly established with the days shorter and the nights longer and I can’t recall that we received home work to complete so the evenings after tea and Dick Barton were our own and we enjoyed “floodlit football”. It didn’t matter how cold and dark it was, we were out on Wellesley Road playing football under the street lights until we got the call and we reluctantly returned to the bosoms of our respective families, we were skinny but we were fit and when the opportunity came we ate like horses, obesity wasn’t a word you heard much of in 1947, in children or adults. As Autumn turned slowly but inexorably into winter the days and evenings got colder, the east wind blowing from the North Sea was merciless and even we, as hardy as we believed ourselves to be, gradually gave in to the climatic conditions and spent more time with our families. This meant playing table games with my brother and sister and of course my mother, the latter essentially to see fair play, making sure the rules were followed to the letter and that each of us had a turn at winning, otherwise my younger siblings had little or no chance of that happening, Not that I would have cheated but merely the age difference gave me a considerable advantage which if it been allowed to take a natural course would have ended with my brother crying at not winning, he was always crying about something. Once again I cannot stress the fact enough that none of my friends were invited into our house to play nor me to theirs, and although my father rarely joined in to this family activity, he would if home from work, sit in his armchair, the one nearest to the fireplace and listen to the wireless which meant we had to play in whispers if it was a programme other than music.
Chapter 27 – Growing Up
Our lives however did not revolve around the wireless and my exploration of Great Yarmouth expanded in the summer and Autumn of 1947. Unlike Cheddleton both in size and topography, Great Yarmouth was divided by the Rivers Yare and Bure, the name of the town derived from the former. To the east of the Yare was the main town originally surrounded by a defensive wall, sections of which were still in place on three sides, the fourth side being the river, with one bridge only to allow for entry or exit. By 1947 when I started to explore there was another bridge this over the River Bure connecting the main town to what would originally been the village of Runham and which now housed a main line Railway station, Vauxhall, plus all sorts of small business’s including tannery’s and if the wind was from the west the smell crossed the river and permeated the main town. As far as we were concerned and being the most we had roamed in our home town it was exciting, as a walk along the river to the end of the line of houses brought you to marshland and all the excitements that it had to offer.
I say excitements, for it was totally different to any other area in the town. The marsh was named Breydon Water and is the confluence of the two rivers, but as important for us was apart for some allotments very near the houses it was open, you could wander without let or hindrance, no one to tell you to clear off, it was crisscrossed with streams of varying depths and width which of course were to challenge to a group of ten year old boys and many were the days when one or more walked home in wet trousers and shoes. Another attraction was the natural wild life we were introduced to, butterflies, grasshoppers, insects of all shapes and sizes and in season frog spawn, which turned into tadpoles and ultimately frogs. In season we all carried a jam jar with a string handle to enable us to take home the spawn and watch for results, another jar was required for the tiny fish that populated the streams, sticklebacks in spring and early summer the marsh seemed to be populated by gangs of small boys, rarely girls enjoying the freedom that nature provided. Our days were long, bread and jam and a bottle of pop our staple midday meal and the enjoyment of a way of life that has all but disappeared along with many other aspects of life when I was ten years of age.
One of those and again it was something that applied to Great Yarmouth very significantly was “The Fishing Season”. I don’t mean the citizens who took rod and line to the river or beach but the industry that came from the herring that swam down the coast in the North Sea from Iceland followed by the fishing boats on the East Coast of the UK. From October through to December these boats named Drifters followed the fish down the coast our neighbours Lowestoft being the furthest south, I never knew why but that seemed to be as far as the fish came. With the boats came the fishermen and the fisher girls, the men caught the fish the girls processed them, gutting, salting and packing and just before Christmas as quickly as they came they left just like the fish.
What would that have to do with a gang of small boys, well first the spectacle. The armada that left the quaysides on Monday returning during the week disgorging their catch and setting off again was fascinating. Learning where the boats came from by the initials on the prow, two letters, the first and last of the home port YH for Yarmouth, LT for Lowestoft, FH for Fraserburgh and PD for Peterhead, BF for Banff. These little boats would come and go out into the North Sea over and over again, chugging down the river, relatively calm, over the Harbour Bar and out into the North Sea at which point they would start to pitch as they battled against the sea trying to get into the river, the men in these little boats with smoke being pumped out of their chimney stacks were an unforgettable feature of me and my friends lives in 1947. However, it wasn’t just the fishermen, the boats, and the origins that we went to see. Once the fish were landed they were given to a host of young and middle-aged women who worked outside in all weathers gutting and cleaning the herring and packing them into barrels and boxes. This was hard and relentless work, and as a result their hands were split and bleeding and bandaged from the knives and salt they worked with, and like their menfolk the “fisher girls” as they were known, followed the fish until in their turn they returned to Scotland when the season came to an end. Such was the importance of herring and fishing to the economy of our town that it was part of the school curriculum and a trip down to the quay would be organised to see and learn about this very important industry. The class would line up in two’s and in the same manner as sport and swimming we walked from school to the Fish Wharf, no hiring of coaches then and I don’t recall anyone going AWOL on the way there or back. We walked across Church Plain, onto North Quay by way of Fullers Hill, the latter now long gone as part of a road widening scheme and along the Quay past the Haven Bridge, Town Hall, Police Station and eventually arriving at the Fish Wharf, taking at least thirty minutes. As far as I can recall of the 45 boys who set off the same number returned.
Without TV, Computers, Phones, mobile or otherwise you may wonder how we kept ourselves busy and in touch, the answer is a simple one, organisation. Other than the days when we were obliged to attend school we made plans on day one for day two, and on two for three and so on through the week and for those who lived close to one another collect up as you walked and for those a bit further away a meeting point would be agreed as a result groups of small boys could be seen progressing in different directions on most days of the week Monday to Friday, Saturday and Sunday were not so easy to arrange, on those days families came into play, some of us would be obliged to assist mother on a shopping excursion to the market, some had chores to attend to, some of us in the football season would be involved in a school match, games were played on Saturday morning and Sunday was a family day, and for us a penance. Father was not at work and we would have the main meal of the week, so it was required that all the family be present, as my brother and sister didn’t go far in any case without a parent it mattered not to them, but as far as I was concerned Sunday was like being given a jail sentence, the only consolation being that my friends were suffering as much as myself.
Chapter 26 – Life was not all about Football
Football was not the only pleasure my father and I began to share together. In the summer of 1947 with the holiday makers back the Summer shows started again. The two piers had theatres and they together with the Royal Aquarium had permanent shows for the summer season featuring a major act together supporting acts. The Regal Theatre, which like the Aquarium was a cinema outside of the summer season put on weekly variety, with a different headline act and support each week. These were all headline acts and most weeks, first house on a Saturday, my father and I would go to the Regal to see the weekly variety show and then over to the Theatre Tavern where I would stand in the doorway with a fizzy drink while my father would enjoy a half pint pale ale. then we would walk home. I loved those evenings, I was with my father, but it also was the start of an interest and love of the variety theatre and all those great Variety Artists.
To try and list all the artists who appeared would be a book of its own, but some stand out in my memory, acts that still bring a smile to my face as I recall them. This was an era when comedians who topped the bill told jokes and certainly didn’t pepper their act with four letter expletives. Max Miller, Max Wall, Rob Wilton, Norman Evans, Jimmy James, Hal Monty, Arthur Haynes, Jimmy Wheeler all headline acts who toured the halls year after year including the Regal Great Yarmouth, others who stood out especially as they were not regarded as comedians, Bonar Colleano an American film actor and Jon Pertwee who went on to be Dr Who on TV. but not all the headliners were comedians, singers also topped the bill, Vera Lynn, Anne Shelton, Dorothy Squires, Ann Zeigler and Webster Booth and of course the show bands, the most famous being Billy Cotton and others who didn’t have the celebrity of Cotton. Big Bill Campbell and his Rocky Mountaineers, they also had a show on the BBC light programme, Felix Mendleson and his Hawaiian Serenaders, Macari and his Dutch Accordion Band and although didn’t they top the bill Morton Fraser and the Harmonica Rascals, the name says it all. Those trips to the Regal in the summer of 1947 and following years were part of a British tradition now long gone, summer variety theatre, but I was lucky to have been able to enjoy it thanks to my father, and when I retired from fulltime business was privileged to read the narration behind a short film that recalled those halcyon days.
1947 however was not all football and variety shows, life went on as usual, in the school summer holiday period I continued to deliver milk for sixpence a week not knowing that progress was on hand to take that pleasure away from me, at the end of that summer and when I was back at school the little horse was pensioned off and Arnold was the proud possessor of a motorized delivery vehicle and for whatever reason my services would no longer be needed. This meant that I would no longer have to get up at 6.30 am in late July through August the following year and I was at first quite disappointed but being ten soon got over it, there were so many other pleasures to be sampled. Not least the radio or as we knew it the wireless.
You may recall I wrote about my wartime memories of the wireless programmes especially Children’s Hour. That programme was still a favourite and if you were in the house at 5pm you would listen to it, but with the end of the war the BBC relaxed somewhat, and much lighter weight programming started to take place. I think it is important to underline just how vital the wireless was to the listeners, TV was still a long way off for the general public and the internet even further away, the wireless ruled and there were three channels available to cater the needs of the listening public.
There were three channels the Light Programme, the old National Programme, the Home Service and the Third Programme. the first of these offered what was known as light entertainment, the second more serious and cerebral offerings, the last serious music and intellectual discourse. We rarely visited the last two,
There is an argument put forward that the heyday of radio was the 1930’s in which case it must have been exceptionally good to compete with leave alone beat the late 1940’s, 1950’s and 1960’s. ~These were glory days as far as I am concerned we listened to the Light programme much more than the other two for the simple reason that it had something for everyone in the family. During the day popular music programmes, predominantly records, and I can fondly recall my mother happily singing to the popular songs, people sang a lot in those days. Two programmes stand out Housewife’s Choice between 9 and 10 am Monday to Friday, which is exactly what it says, requests from women working at home, so popular that it continued with changes of presenter until the 1960’s. At 10.30 until l1am Music While you Work, which commenced during the war for the workers in factories, mostly women, this programme also was broadcast five days a week until the 1960’s and was full of songs you could sing along with.
I have to admit however the programmes I have highlighted were not intended for children especially for me my friends, we were out all day unless it rained and even then I don’t think we paid much attention to the daytime offerings, that is until five pm and Children’s Hour which had not substantially altered from the description I gave earlier but which still held our attention but better was to come. In 1946 the BBC produced the opening episode of a series that was to capture the attention of the younger listeners. Dick Barton, Special Agent, together with two sidekicks Jock and Snowy. It was the type of adventure usually seen on the screen on a Saturday morning transferred to the air waves and we loved it, tried not to miss an episode,15 minutes each five times a week at 6.45 in the evening, magic. we were heartbroken when it was taken off air in 1951 to be replaced by The Archers, an everyday story of country folks. The glory of Dick Barton was not just the story line but the sound effects, you hear him jumping out of a window, breaking down the door, the punches being thrown and landed, the grunts and groans of the fighters, they may have been acting, but it was flesh and blood to us and together with exciting music which opened closed each episode “The Devils Gallop” made it unmissable. At its peak it drew an audience of 11 million, for an early evening wireless programme, in 2018 most TV shows would be happy to have such figure at peak evening times.
Unlike TV the radio or wireless as we referred to it brought families together, you could listen and do some other task at the same time, until the News came on at which point we all sat down and listened, at least father listened and possibly mother, the three children kept quiet. One of my abiding memories of such evenings was the making of rugs or mats made from strips of cloth as a result of cutting up old clothes. Father would have bought a backing sheet and myself and my brother and sister but mostly me and my mother would cut the strips and by some miraculous process my mother would hand stitch them onto the backing cloth and gradually a mat would appear, you can’t do that watching TV or playing on computers. Those winter evenings working together are warm memories, in the summer I would not be in the house unless I was ill and that was a very rare event.
Most, no, all our listening would be to BBC programmes, there were other foreign English language stations, the most popular being Radio Luxembourg which was mostly music but whatever delights they may have offered they did not get a listening in our house. Most of our listening and I suspect most of the public came from the Light programme, the title indicated why, the predominant offerings were as the title suggested light. The mix was eclectic, Music, comedy and drama with emphasis on entertainment rather than educational or improving, that was the province of the Home Service and the Third Programme, if they were available on our wireless set then we didn’t know how to find them. One of the interesting aspects of the BBC Light programme was how through the light entertainment fare the offered is how many of the artists involved in secondary roles went on to stardom in their chosen field of entertainment far too many to list here but I will put together an appendix of the show titles, the headliners, secondary and up and coming under Appendix 1.
Chapter 25 - Football
One of the few pleasures my father had in his life was football and our move to Wellesley Road brought us together even more. Our house was opposite the main gate of the Wellesley Recreation Ground, the home of Great Yarmouth Football Club and after the wartime break football was getting back to normal. As a result, we began to go on a regular basis and as well as meeting his friends, began to learn about the club and about my father. Later in my life I became an ardent supporter of our nearest Football League Club, Norwich City, but in 1947 it was the team literally on our doorstep Great Yarmouth Town, nicknamed “The Bloaters” so called after a local culinary delicacy, but more of bloaters later. My father was a very reserved man but get him talking about football, pre-war of course he came alive. he talked of local players who went on to play professional football, Charley Bradrooke, and George Edwards were two I can recall, the former with Norwich City the latter with Aston Villa and better than that I was with my father when we met both at different times in the jobs they did when their football careers had come to an end. George ran a wet fish and shellfish shop and Charley a sports equipment store, I was starstruck.
With the return to normal of League and FA Cup football after the war our knowledge of players and teams increased, to an extent that we no longer relied solely on pre-war cigarette cards. ln 1946 England had played at Wembley against a Rest of Britain team, players from Scotland, Wales and Ireland and from reading the back pages of newspapers we began to get to know new and different players, this together with commentaries on the wireless, second halves only in those days, meant that we had a crop of new heroes to emulate, this was real fantasy football, we never had a chance to see them play, just hear and read about them, no wall to wall TV coverage, but what you have never had you don’t miss, but we did have more local heroes.
Until my father and I started to watch Yarmouth Town on a regular basis the only real match I had seen was the Stoke City v Newcastle United match during the war and I could remember that team and so it is with our local team in 1947. In goal Jimmy Marjoram, Fairchild and Green the full backs, half back line of Watts, Burrell and Sanderson and a forward line to be reckoned with Smith, Brown, Hollis, Hacking and Colley, all local men. Football was much simpler in 1947, no floodlights, no endless combinations of tactics to confuse, no substitutes whether injured or not playing well, just the pleasure of playing for your local team and if you won so much the better, everyone went home happy. Of course there was always the possibility that if you had a very good young player it was likely that a bigger club would be casting envious eyes upon him and so it was with Roy Hollis, tall and raw-boned, he was good, both in the air and with the ball at his feet and could score goals, to such an extent that at the end of the 1947/48 season he left for a professional career, initially with Norwich City and then with Tottenham Hotspur, but for that season when we played football on the road outside our house we all claimed to be Roy Hollis.
One major difference in 1947 against the time of writing was the lack of commercial activity surrounding the club and in fact all clubs whether it be the Eastern Counties League in which our team played or the clubs in the Football Leagues, you could purchase a scarf or have one knitted by mother in the team colours in this case yellow and black and that was it, the days of crowds all turning up in shirts of the team you favoured with sponsors names emblazoned on the chest were far off. Football was the sport of the working man and in those days the working man’s wages did not stretch that far even if they were available. An example of this was football boots. Until I started to play football on a regular basis for my school all our football was played in the shoes you wore every day, but playing in a team required proper football boots, and they were indeed boots, unlike the lightweight footwear for today’s players. Made or perhaps constructed is a more appropriate description, made of leather, over the ankles, hard toe caps and yards of white laces and six studs in the sole, and heavily covered in dubbin to keep the wet out, you had to be strong to play boys football in 1947.
Another area that has changed is the reporting and broadcasting of football at all levels. As far as Yarmouth was concerned there was a report on the game in the local Football paper “The Pink Un” on a Saturday night and a fuller report in the “Yarmouth Mercury” on the Friday following the game. The former was sold on the streets and in newspaper shops from 7pm onwards and the latter in a more prosaic manner six days later. With no TV and with radio commentary limited to second halves only for a First Division game or FA Cup. If you had a favourite team other than the local one you had to wait for the evening paper or listen to the BBC’s Sports Report on the Light Programme at 5pm, when the results would be read out and some reports on individual games but we had to wait until 1948 for that and you can still hear it on BBC Five Live Sport, good old BBC.
Yarmouth Town FC was not the only local club in the Eastern Counties League, there were two local derby’s which brought out the best and worst of the supporters. nine miles away was Lowestoft Town and closer to hand, in fact the other side of the River Yare, Gorleston FC, the former in Blue shirts and white shorts, the latter Green Shirts with white sleeves and white shorts, and how we disliked them both, and games were usually hard fought, both on the pitch and off, especially against Lowestoft.
Like Great Yarmouth, Lowestoft was a fishing town, but whereas Yarmouth was primarily inshore and drifters in season, Lowestoft boats were nearly all deep-sea trawlers, and their fishermen an entirely different breed, with a penchant for clothing, suits especially in very bright colours, nearly all with arms and bodies covered in tattoos, before it became fashionable. They could be out at sea for anything up to a month and ready for action when back on shore and because the sea front in Great Yarmouth was more enticing in every way, it was like a flame to the bright coloured tattooed moths. The rivalry that could be seen on the seafront and in the public houses was repeated when the local teams came up against one another, although we enjoyed beating our very local rivals to beat Lowestoft was akin to winning the FA Cup at Wembley and considered to be the result of the season.
Chapter 24 – A Special Year, 1947
I can’t recall much of our first Christmas at No.38 perhaps because it was like all our Christmas’s past but one memory sticks with me, I think it was the first time that I was involved with the preparations, but only in very minor manner. The paper decorations or as we knew them trimmings had appeared mysteriously overnight, covering the ceiling from corner to corner in the living room, this must and probably had been the case when we lived in Cheddleton, but I have no recall of it happening but what I remember most distinctly is walking up to the Market Place to get a chicken for Christmas lunch. My father waited until late in the afternoon of Christmas Eve then we set off, timing was all important, not too soon before the prices were reduced and not too late in case all the bargains had been snapped up.
My father’s timing was impeccable, and we bought our chicken and were as far as I was concerned ready to set off back home with the chicken fully feathered, legs tied together with a loop for ease of carrying, dead of course. Then came the big surprise, a Christmas tree, I hadn’t expected that at all, working on the same principle of timing we made the purchase and set off for home with a chicken and small but very welcome Christmas tree, I couldn’t wait to see the reaction of my brother and sister.
It was all that I could have hoped for, excitement reigned and after tea we set about decorating the tree, as a family, we didn’t do much in that vein, so it was the more enjoyable. Bed came next and trying to sleep and then the excitement that followed on Christmas morning followed by Christmas dinner, roast chicken, in 1946 an expensive luxury. I can’t recall if it was this Christmas, but I do know it wasn’t a Christmas in Cheddleton, but my main present was a bagatelle, a pin ball machine, but you didn’t need to put money in. The back drop was aircraft of various sorts and I loved that bagatelle, there were other smaller presents and the obligatory book but compared to the time of writing it was small beer.
At the time of writing the world of work comes to a halt in the week after Christmas until January 2nd unless of course you work in the retail sector, no such luxury in 1946, my father was back at work on 27th of December with no more breaks until Easter, and certainly no Bank holiday on New Year’s Day. We of course did not have to return to school until January, so we had ample time to relax with the spoils of Christmas at home or outside with friends, mostly the latter, being in the house all day was tantamount to being incarcerated in prison especially as I was expected to “play” with my younger siblings. It is perhaps time to bring them into the story, my brother was six years old and would be seven in April, my sister three and four in the following November. It grieves me but my brother and I were never friendly to each other throughout our lives, we were chalk and cheese even during the period presently being chronicled. The gap in our ages was only three years but as far as I was concerned it could have been twenty years. Thinking about it now I am not sure whether my animosity to him was justified or cruel, mother certainly had an opinion at the time, and it didn’t favour me.
Although we had the same parentage we could not have been more different, I was a typical boy of that age in that era, brought to life on the page by Richmal Crompton in the form of William Brown, living in a world of tree climbing, den building, playing football and cricket in season, sailing as close to wind as far as we could in defying the rules emanating from the world of adults. My brother did not or could not do any of those things, he always seemed to be grizzling, had a runny nose and unable to keep up or join the activities which were our meat and drink, but my mother insisted I take him with me if she was busy with some other tasks, much to the chagrin of my other gang members who if they had younger brothers were certainly not made to look after them as was my case. I am convinced that the mutual hostility that followed us for the rest of our lives until his death in his fifties stemmed from those early days.
With Christmas duly celebrated we looked forward to the New Year 1947, but nobody could have forecast what happened in January, and I use the word forecast without irony especially as forecasting the weather was not the science it is as I write. It started to snow, nothing unusual there you may think, I had experienced snow before, both Cheddleton and Great Yarmouth, but not on the scale of this assault. I don’t know if it because Great Yarmouth is a seaside town, but prior to this any snow that fell was relatively light and soon gone, but this was different, it continued and off through January into February and into March, not every day but enough that it didn’t clear from paths and gardens and it was cold, very cold. Great Yarmouth with the wind from the east is used to cold weather but this was different to anything I had experienced in my young life until then and not confined to the East Coast the country came to a virtual standstill, a country still recovering from the damage inflicted by the war, it couldn’t have come at a worse time.
The snow didn’t last forever, nor did it hinder our new life on Wellesley Road. As the year progressed and we settled into our new surroundings my relationship with my father began to take on a different aspect, up to then he had of course been my father, the man who went out to work every day and came back every evening but unlike my relationship with my mother it had not been very close. Probably because I was now ten years of age we could start doing more activities together, the things men do. One of the first of these changes was me being allowed to walk to the factory and meet him out of work, and then walk home with him, not much perhaps, but it was something I looked forward to and treasured especially as the year went into the months of September, October and November. Being allowed to go to meet him on those dark cold evenings made me feel grown up and I looked forward to them, although from my memory we didn’t do much talking, just being together was enough. Earlier I wrote that my father worked in the dye-house at Grouts Silk Factory. It was the bombing of this factory in 1942 that despatched the family to Staffordshire, then their product had been silk for parachutes but now the work produced goods for domestic use. I didn’t ask and he didn’t volunteer any information, but I do remember the smell of his raincoat which must have hung near his vat daily and the odours of the various acids and dyes permeated that garment, and the memory of that smell remained with me into my adult life.
Chapter 23 – Turning Point
Following the long dark years of war 1946 was really a turning point for the town to which we had returned. 1945 had been a half year of looking at the wounds and where possible putting on some bandages or ointment to heal them but 1946 was the year when the patient rose from the hospital bed and started to recover his or her strength and the will not just to live but to look forward to a good life. As far as we were concerned they were little things but they still stand out in my memory, remember I was nine years of age, I had never seen an orange or banana let alone eat either, they were talked about by my parents almost as if they were precious gem stones, not that I had any idea what gem stones were but I was old enough to know that I had never seen one, when if ever would I see either of these almost mythical fruits, well we had to wait a little longer but one thing that did start to become available on a regular basis was ice cream. If my grandchildren ever read this they will probably be surprised that there was a world without ice cream and chocolate bars readily available. Sweets and chocolate bars could be seen in large jars on shelves against the wall behind the counter of your local corner shop and if you were lucky enough to have some money and some sweet coupons, they were still rationed, whoopee, if not you just looked and looked. But to get back to ice cream, at the time of writing ice cream and seaside holiday towns go hand in hand but in 1946 there was still a shortage and if you were lucky to be around when they were on sale, bliss. Our move to Wellesley Road proved to be lucky in that respect, it took ten minutes to walk from home to the Britannia Pier and the Wall’s ice cream kiosk adjacent to the front gates. On Sundays from 2pm while stocks lasted it was open, it might have been every day, but Sunday was a day for treats and my father would give me a shilling for four blocks of ice cream together with the wafer biscuits that went with them. alongside the money I also took two or three sheets of newspaper to wrap them in to keep them cold, together with the admonition of getting back as quickly as I could, which I did, if the walk took ten minutes, I could run it quicker than that and I did, I didn’t time myself but the ice cream never melted and when I handed it over to my father, he first of all inspected it to ensure I had resisted the temptation to eat some on the return journey then cut one in half for himself and my mother and a whole one each for us children. Oh, how I looked forward to Sunday afternoon in 1946. It would be 1947 before I saw or tasted a banana or orange.
The long summer break from school continued, and we settled into our new home, we had a garden, compared to Woodlands Avenue it was small but unlike that garden it had a tree, which you could climb, an empty fish pond which doubled as a trench and the back wall overlooked the Great Yarmouth Beach Railway Station, the soundtrack to my life in 1946 was the wireless, my father’s records on his wind up gramophone and the hiss of steam and train whistles, I am sure that without my being aware, it started a lifelong interest in railways in the UK and dance music.
I am sure I am not the first nor will I be the last to say this, but back in the days I am describing it didn’t ever rain, it must have done but my memories are of endless sunny summer days and the pleasure that went with them, and even if rain did occasionally spoil a day I can’t recall it. Weekdays were ours, weekends less so, on weekends the wider family was involved but you can’t have everything. A typical day would be getting up around 6.45, a quick breakfast and wait at the end of the road for Arnold and the milk float, the deliveries would take until around 9am, the little horse was punctual, by now we would be on Euston Road at the southern end of Wellesley Road having gone in a square and at that juncture I would say good bye and run home, I seemed to run everywhere in those days. All this hard work had given me an appetite so my mother would fortify me with a substantial slice of bread and margarine covered in Jam or Golden Syrup, or as we knew it then treacle, and wait to see what was on the agenda, errands or meeting friends, there were generally some errands but as most of them were near it wasn’t too much of a chore. As was the case in Cheddleton we met on the road outside each other’s houses. You were not invited in nor did you expect to be, we knew from the previous day what time we would meet and where, no phones for deciding. The only occasion I can recall that we crossed a friends’ threshold was when Graham Worth had a birthday party. His parents kept a private hotel with large rooms and could deal with eight or nine boys in comfort, as far as the rest were concerned I can’t remember going into any of their homes and nor them into my own, in those early post war days, we lived our lives out of doors. That was the pattern of that long summer into Autumn and winter of 1947 as we settled down to life and our first Christmas at 38 Wellesley Road. Without my being aware of it the year 1946 was both a period of rehabilitation and reconstruction for the town. As far as I was concerned it was school, football, cricket, pictures on a Saturday morning, new friends and a new home, while around me the town was rebuilding a normal life as a major seaside holiday resort and also rebuilding the lives of townsfolk whose lives had been so savagely interrupted by six years of war, a classic example of this was the construction of the Shrublands Housing Estate, the largest development of pre-fabricated homes in the UK, and with one of those co-incidences that life occasionally throws up, the home of the Bowles family, the father being a close friend and workmate of my father and whose son Malcolm and I later worked together and became close friends before we found out about the connection of our fathers.
Chapter 22 – Settling In
I don’t need to tell you that that summer holiday wasn’t just waterways, Britannia Pier and total freedom, family life went on as usual and part of that was the provision of meals. Although the war had ended a year ago other than we no longer had to worry about air attacks and the wireless didn’t carry bulletins about the latest battle success everyday living had not changed very much, most food, fuel and clothing was still rationed but we were used to it, so it didn’t bother us much if at all, that was something mother dealt with. Rationing was a system that was intended to ensure that each family had enough of essentials to meet their needs and mostly it worked and met people’s needs although there were some who wanted more and this could be obtained on the “black market” operated by “spivs” and was more expensive than the normal shops, as far as I can remember my parents did not buy anything on the black market, whether this was on principle or lack of money, I don’t know but I hope it was the latter.
One major difference between then and as I write was shopping patterns. Sainsbury’s was in 1946 an up market high street grocer and the nearest branch was in Norwich, which as far as we were concerned could have been on the moon, supermarkets were still at least twenty or more years into the future so shopping especially food shopping was done on a daily basis, the reasons were simple we didn’t have a refrigerator and we didn’t have enough money to enable my mother to stock up for a week let alone a month.
As a result of this another major difference between Great Yarmouth and Cheddleton was revealed. Each day I would be despatched to one or more of the various shops to buy and bring home the daily rations, Blakes, Chittleburgh or Cumby’s for meat, Edwards for bread and Weldons for greengrocery, of course not all of them every day. Bread is not referred to as the staff of life without reason, that was nearly every day, but luckily it was quite handy, there and back in ten minutes if I walked less if I ran, not including the time waiting in the shop, for those shops not only provided sustenance but also a verbal community notice board, everybody knew everyone else in that small area, and certainly everybody seemed to know my mother. “how’s your mother young Harbo” or if on really good terms “How’s May” and after assurance having been given and digested “get on home, and behave yourself” that final admonishment always delivered at the end of the enquiry, it’s odd but I didn’t ever wonder what would have been the reaction if my reply had been “She’s feeling ill” for the simple reason she was never ill, or at least never said so.
As is pointed out we didn’t have Sainsbury’s to brighten up or lives, but we did have the International Stores, the Home and Colonial and the Maypole Stores, all three what we would now refer to as multiples plus numerous private grocery shops most of whom offered a home delivery service, in most cases a boy on a bicycle. My mother, possibly on the recommendation of my Aunt Obe’ gave most of her business to a grocery shop on Northgate Street, Bells, I think the man who ran the business was a family friend, but it was a good shop, grocery and some fruit and veg when available and they delivered. We did not have a phone, so it meant quite a long walk to the shop, placing the order then arranging a delivery time, I liked Bells, they had a long counter in the front of which was a line of boxes of biscuits, there to encourage customers to try and of course buy if they liked them, as a boy I was happy to keep trying all the options and very occasionally my mother would give in to my entreaty and buy some, my favourites being chocolate creams, a rare treat. The other plus when using Bells was my mother would walk around the corner to my aunt’s house for tea and a chat, we were a close family.
I am not sure if it was unusual but although I had a group of friends and we spent a lot of our time together I also have memories of spending a lot of time with my mother in those early years and I can only assume that it was this that led to our bond as we both grew older. My father was not a man who said very much and because he worked long hours did not feature greatly in my childhood at this stage, he had gone to work before we children were up and about and we had eaten our evening meal or tea as it was called before he came in from work to eat his, and then we would be ready for bed and I cannot recall him ever reading us a bedtime story he was probably too tired.
It might be appropriate at this point to give you a pen portrait of my father. In terms of stature he was a small man, thin and wiry but strong. A man of few words but those words when spoken meant we as children listened, I cannot remember him ever physically chastising us for any transgressions he didn’t need to, he let you know what you had done wrong in his eyes and that he didn’t expect it to be repeated. If I was in trouble with neighbours or authorities at school my father would listen to my side of the argument and unless I had very strong case would almost always believe that I was deserving of any punishment I had received at their hands, or if not it compensated for other things I had done in the past for which I had not been punished. As I said he was small in stature and his wardrobe matched his stature, during the week his sole mode of dress was a collarless shirt, bib and brace overalls and work cap and stained raincoat, and I can still remember the smell of that raincoat, and of course a cap, he had two, one for work the other for Sunday, work was six days a week then. Sunday was the day when his only suit, colour navy, came out for a weekly airing, together with white shirt with detachable collar and tie plus the Sunday cap and a clean raincoat. That was his total wardrobe, I only must look at mine as I write to understand the enormous changes that have taken place in my life compared to his.
Each Sunday rain or shine my father would take his only relaxation, on would go his Sunday clothes and he would leave home at around 11.30 am to meet his father and younger brother Richard and the three would walk to a public house on the sea front, where each would in turn buy a round of 3 half pints of beer, no more no less and then walk back to their respective homes and in our case we would sit down as a family to Sunday lunch or as we called it Sunday dinner, that routine was observed for as long as we lived at Wellesley Road. As a boy of nine years of age I had little understanding of my father’s life and he was not a man who offered much information, the little I did know and that was gleaned much later in life was that at eighteen he was called up to join the Royal Flying Corps, the forerunner of the Royal Air Force, this was towards the end of World War One and he was sent out to what is now known as Pakistan, but then was at that time India, and that had an effect on him for the rest of his life, partly in his attitude to Asian people, which caused us to have a bitter political argument later in our lives, and also on his facial appearance, due to regular and large doses of quinine to combat malaria, his teeth rotted and he had them removed and either didn’t want or they were not available replace them with dentures, and for as long as I knew my father he had no teeth, but it didn’t stop him eating, but it did him look much older than he was. At the time of writing I don’t know how my father would have coped with the multi- racial society we enjoy now, but I suspect he would have come to terms with it in his quiet manner.
If my father was quiet and somewhat reserved my mother was a totally different cup of tea. My mother was very friendly and outgoing and always tried to see the very best in people and she knew a lot of people, everywhere we went she would know someone, often more than one and as I accompanied her quite a lot when we first moved to Wellesley Road, together with my younger siblings I was able to see this at first hand and in turn get to know these people. I don’t know if she had planned it but going with her on these outings introduced me to the various shops and shopkeepers that we used on an almost daily basis, as a result I was judged competent enough at age nine to be sent out with a shopping bag, list of requirements and names of shops from which to purchase the various foods plus the money and any “rationing points” that may have been required, this saved my mother having to get the younger children ready and to be able to deal with daily household chores. Luckily or perhaps she arranged it my assistance was not required every day and in that first long summer at 38 Wellesley Road I made the most of it.
It was one of the quirks of my boyhood at number 38 that although I lived opposite one recreation ground and just over a hundred yards from an even bigger one most of our cricket in that summer was played on the road outside the house. Cricket had become a bigger part of my sporting life since arriving back in Great Yarmouth, one reason was that Graham Worth had a proper bat of his own, up till then I had made do with one that my father had shaped from a solid piece of wood, in fact a length of old floorboard, ok it was crude but it was as near a real cricket bat as I was going to get, that and the tennis ball that doubled as a football in the appropriate season was enough for us to live our dreams of Larwood, Hutton, Hammond, Verity, Tate and others when we had bat or ball in our hand. Those names we had gleaned from that always reliable source of sporting information, Cigarette cards. If we were bowling we were probably not concerned if our hero was a spinner or pace man we bowled and the same with batting we hit out at the ball as hard as we could, distance more important than style. We didn’t have stumps, but we did have chalk The wall of the Wellesley Recreation ground was made from concrete panels divided up by brick pillars which were wide enough to enable us to chalk some stumps and we bowled from the edge of the pavement on the opposite of the road, a ball hit directly without bouncing into a garden or hoiked over the wall into the Wellesley was adjudged six and out, this was our version of Lords or the Oval, and of course with long summer evenings we made the most of it and unless called in played until it was nearly dark, and when in bed we slept well. From my memory most people who lived on the road were very tolerant towards us and our cricket.
We were of course lucky to be able to play on the road, there were very few of the residents who had cars so most of the time we had the road to ourselves. We were forbidden to play on the Wellesley Recreation Ground it was only for organised sports. In the summer athletics training if you were in a club, bowls if you were ancient, or so they seemed and tennis if you were wealthy. There were boys and girls who played tennis but not of our age, mostly what we now call teenagers and they had the correct clothing, when we played cricket we wore the same clothes that we wore every day, although by now I had left clogs behind and was in proper shoes or if you were lucky plimsoles, I wasn’t that lucky. The other recreation ground was the Beaconsfield, are you counting these military references? The Beaconsfield was really five or six football pitches for the winter months and a couple of cricket pitches in the summer, none of which were available for us to play on. In the football season you could put down coats on one or two of the pitches but not allowed to use the goalposts and nets, but again only on those pitches that were not used for local organised league football on Wednesday and Saturday or school football on Tuesday and Thursday and Saturday morning, no Sunday football in those days. If you did attempt to break any of these rules you came up against the wrath of the groundsmen, two on the Beaconsfield and one on the Wellesley, Mr Cubitt, an acquaintance of my father, and as for the two on the Beaconsfield, I didn’t know their names. Mr Cubitt, although he knew my father made no allowances for us boys, rules were rules and to all intents and purposes as far he was concerned we were persona non grata, I wonder if he had ever been young. Oh, lest I forget at the very far northern end of the Beaconsfield there was a play area, swings, slides roundabouts etc, we would very occasionally walk that far but as it was mostly peopled by girls our visits were infrequent.
Cricket was mostly played in the evenings after tea. During the day when not running errands, and I wasn’t the only one of our little group who carried out these nearly daily duties we enjoyed our usual games in the usual places, the waterways, the cemetery, the bombed buildings. By now the gang had enlarged, Johnny Ellis, Eddie Pestell, who, my father no doubt with Shakespeare in mind insisted to my annoyance to call Pistol and Frank George. I met John many years later but of all the others I have no knowledge at all, I wonder if they are doing as I am and putting as much down as they can recall for posterity. Among all the shopping duties that came my way one that didn’t was milk. Milk was delivered daily from Cotton’s Dairy by a little man called Arnold. Arnold had a milk float pulled by a small horse, which went on its own stopping at each house where Arnold delivered without any word at all from him. I was fascinated by this, so much so that in the summer months I was up early and with my parents’ permission joined the world of work, becoming his assistant. The milk came in bottles and in a churn, some houses like us took their milk by the bottle others left a glass or tin jug with a muslin cover on the doorstep to be filled. Arnold did that, I delivered the bottles and the horse moved on from house to house, teamwork. For this Arnold gave me the princely reward of sixpence on Saturday morning, from my memory I don’t recall Sunday deliveries. This was purely a summer holiday job, I was not allowed to enjoy my gainful employment on the dark winter mornings or on school days. I did this for two summers only, but without my being aware of it, it was the forerunner of my future school summer holidays, only not delivering milk. Arnold like my father was a man of very few words, with a horse like that he really had no need to say very much. I wonder what child safeguarding would say in the twenty first century.
Chapter 21 – Our New Life
As we settled in to our new life on Wellesley Road we began to find our lives changing, and mine being the eldest and with more freedom than my younger siblings probably changed more than theirs. I was nine years of age and looking back it is fascinating just how much freedom of movement I was given by my parents but to begin to understand it I ought to try and describe it more fully. We moved from Rainbow Corner just before the end of the Summer Term so almost immediately we were into a break of six weeks from school and that meant I had time to get used to my surroundings at leisure add to that we still had the luxury of double summertime. I referred to double summertime earlier in this writing, but perhaps it is time to offer a fuller explanation. During the war in order to give farmers the opportunity to take advantage of the longer daylight hours from March to September they were given an extra two hours of working time in the evening plus the extra labour provided by older school children during the summer break, a working holiday for town and city children. For us who were not old enough to go to work it meant in Great Yarmouth it was daylight at the height of summer until eleven pm and did we try to take advantage of it, we certainly did.
Not all of the houses on Wellesley Road had been requisitioned but in those that had several were occupied by families with children some of whom became friends some didn’t, one in particular was at the every far end close to the Beaconsfield Recreation Ground was a boy called Peter Cutting and we became firm friends together with a boy who lived on Sandown Road, Graham Worth, neither of whom had been at the Priory School with me, Peter and his family had moved in from a village outside the town and Graham went to a private prep school, add to these Gordon, Keith and Bobby from the Priory and it was a mixed little group.
One of the more interesting things about the move to Wellesley road was how it changed our living habits outside of the house. The first was going to school, the same school but from a different direction not only did it take a good ten minutes more of uninterrupted walking, but it was an entirely different landscape. From Rainbow Corner it was up the Row, cross over Northgate Street and Church Plain and you were at school. Done and dusted. From Wellesley Road something very different, first meeting up with friends at the corner of St. Nicholas and Nelson Roads, me from the east, Bobby King from the south, Keith and Gordon from the north. The first place to claim our interest was Edwards’s bakers’ shop, boys are always hungry, next was Spurgeon’s Newsagents, for an obvious reason, comics. Spurgeon’s was opposite the Garibaldi Hotel, now I had never heard of Garibaldi in 1946/7 but he turned out to be another military legend, albeit on this occasion from Italy. When we were walking past on our way to school it had been used as lodgings for soldiers during the recent war and not returned to its former glory, it’s current use being of no interest to us. Next on our right was Grouts Factory where my father had resumed work, now a mere five minutes’ walk from home. From the gates to the end of St Nicholas Road was a mixture of shops, houses and pubs, too numerous for me to recall with one exception, Doris Langton’s. At the time of writing I suppose you would call it a corner shop but to us it was a magnet. Mrs Langton sold bags of broken crisps. In those far off days shops bought their crisps in large boxes and then sold them by the bag including a little blue wrap containing salt, three pence a bag, however when the bottom of the box came in sight there was a layer of broken crisps which she put in smaller bags and sold for one penny per bag including salt, and were they popular, of course they were, we lapped them up. When I say broken it was a literal description and as you reached the bottom of the penny bag and not wishing to waste your money you wet your finger in your mouth dipped into the bottom layer of broken crisps and sucked the residue stuck to your finger, finally the bag was tipped at an angle for the dregs to go into the waiting mouth, nothing was wasted, after paying a penny you couldn’t afford that luxury.
Each morning we left our respective homes, met up outside Edwards and commenced our journey to school. You may recall that earlier in this memoire I referred to the rivalry between the Priory School and the Hospital School. Both schools claimed to be the oldest in the town and in the main drew from different catchments, The Priory from the east and north sides of town, our rivals from the south and west, and never the twain shall meet without mixing, and that mixing could be on the rough side. In order to reach our destination, we had to walk to almost the end of St. Nicholas Road and if you were unlucky be confronted by a group of our rivals.
Most of the time we would be subjected to verbal abuse but if snow was on the ground they would be ready, perhaps as many as twenty or more to show our small group just exactly who was the best. This however brought out the best in the Priory School boys, instead of going straight to school they would congregate on the Church Plain and battle would commence, a running battle that went back and forth with more boys from each school adding to the troops on the ground until teachers from both schools appeared and called a truce at which point we were marched back to our respective schools, to be given a lecture on behaviour and then sit for the rest of the morning in clothes wet from snow fights. But we were happy, we had defended our school and history with honour, well at least in our eyes. To be truthful I didn’t ever have the same attachment to my next school the Great Yarmouth Grammar School, but more of that later.
However, to go back to our change of house, we moved into 38 Wellesley Road just as school was breaking up for the summer holiday period and all the pleasures that it promised. My mother had not yet gone back to work, that would come later so for the summer the world was my oyster and for the next six weeks freedom beckoned. Looking back what is interesting is with the beach, now open for most of its length and certainly at the bottom of Albemarle Road how little it attracted us, the waterways certainly did, still not officially open to the public we fully took advantage. It had everything required for boys games, overgrown shrubs, five or six hundred yards of the artificial rivers which in normal times would have passenger carrying boats in a sedate manner, were in some case half or more filled with sand blown from the beach, in others still with water in the form of large puddles and the bridges connecting the islands around which the waterways flowed and in the middle a small lake again have filled with sand. Heaven, and less than five minutes from home.
Although the beach itself didn’t really thrill us the Britannia Pier did, luckily despite all the bombing the town received, the two piers and the jetty were untouched and of course open for exploration and games and the Britannia was the nearest for us. In 1946 holiday makers had not returned in great numbers and we had the beach and pier virtually to ourselves, together with other groups of children, mostly boys, this summer was to be cherished for the following year saw more and more normality returning, cutting off many of the avenues of free play we were able to enjoy during that particular summer, especially as the sun shone every day, or seemed to do so. I think one of the experiences I remember that was so different from my life in Cheddleton was walking on the pier over the beach and then over the sea, looking down through the cracks in the wooden planks that made up the floor and looking at and listening to the seawater washing against the metal legs the pier was built on. It is also interesting that many people have that same memory, it is very much a British memory as such piers are almost singularly confined to this country. They were initially erected to service the passenger steamers that carried passengers from south to north and vice versa, but with the coming of railways they were used less and less and to make them worthwhile other purposes had to be found, among them theatres that would provide summer entertainment for the growing numbers of holiday makers, as well as an excellent training ground for variety artistes as they were known. Seventy years later I had the pleasure of narrating the background to a short film about the demise of that entertainment. We could not have known that the total freedom we enjoyed in the summer of 1946 would not be repeated nor could we have anticipated the winter of 1947.
Chapter 20 – A New Beginning
But life in great Yarmouth in 1946 wasn’t just Saturday morning fun, everyday life continued in many ways, one of which was no longer sharing with my Grandmother in her tiny house. As I have mentioned earlier in this story Great Yarmouth had been on the front line during the war and suffered from continuous bombing raids by the Luftwaffe (German Air Force) resulting in many houses being destroyed or very badly damaged and while these properties were a play paradise for us children it also meant a severe shortage of houses to live in. One way of dealing with this problem was that large empty properties without any damage were requisitioned for use by the local council until a house building programme could be commenced. As a result of this policy we found ourselves moving from Rainbow Corner behind the Brewery in the town centre, to Wellesley Road, overlooking the home of Great Yarmouth Town Football Club and to the north one hundred yards from the Beaconsfield Recreation Ground and to the East a similar distance to the Beach, for a boy, heaven on earth. The naming of roads after military heroes continuing.
Leaving Rainbow Corner meant the making of some minor adjustments in our life style, for one instead of a five-minute walk to school it was now fifteen minutes, and then only if no dawdling or meandering took place. For my father his journey to work meant no change at all in time as it was equidistant from both Rainbow Corner and Wellesley Road and he neither dawdled or meandered but as he normally set off to work before or as we were getting up we were able to set our own pace, collecting friends along the way, and also forming new alliances with boys who lived along the route to school. Bobby King, whose parents kept a Guest house, Keith Brightman who lived over a pub, the Elephant and Castle, opposite the Beach Station and Gordon Mitchell, his father was a Road Sweeper and lived on the corner opposite the pub, all of them on Nelson Road, yet another military hero. As a footnote to the future, of those three names only Keith failed to make the magical grade for the Grammar School with yours truly, although a boy who lived further down to the south on Nelson Road, Chris Scarles did pass that test, but he didn’t go to The Priory School. we met later in my story.
However, if I had a longer walk to school it was more than compensated for by the living accommodation. Unlike Rainbow Corner which was little more than a slum, Wellesley Road was paradise. Built during the reign of Queen Victoria it consisted of large detached houses for the wealthy middle class of Great Yarmouth, flanked at the northern end by Sandown Road with very similar houses and on the southern flank Albemarle Road, more militaria, which in turn backed onto Norfolk Square, a large green square just less than the size of a football pitch with grand Victorian houses on northern and southern flanks with the east end facing the North Parade and the sea and the west facing onto Wellesley Road, both ends protected by chest high walls and locked iron gates, the challenge for us of course, getting in to play without being caught and thrown out.
Between the two latter roads was the Wellesley Recreation Ground, what the Victorian residents thought when it was put there I can only imagine, but as an amenity for the town it was excellent. In addition to the football pitch with a seated and covered Grandstand on the eastern side and a covered standing area on the western side there was a running track, 440 yards long, I know that from later experience running in the school sports in that race plus tennis courts and bowling greens, I didn’t get around to using either of those. Important to recall that outside of organised athletics events or official training or paying to use the greens or courts this amenity was off limits to the children who took up residence on Wellesley Road, for we were not the only family to find ourselves in such a lucky situation.
When we received the news of our impending departure from Rainbow Corner the first task was to look over the property, probably to see how our furniture, still in store at Brett’s depository, would fit our new home. I may have misheard or perhaps not understood it correctly but we didn’t get the keys to the whole house just the ground floor and when we carried out our inspection and entered the front door our new home for the first time and as it turned out for the last time, your truly, ignoring any warnings from parents, ran in and straight up the stairs and into the first room I found only to be greeted with another family sitting at a table eating, I am not sure who was the more surprised, but I was quickly shown the way back down and Mr Bexfield followed me down the stairs to meet the rest of my family and probably to ensure I didn’t do it again. As a result of my actions my father pocketed our key to the front door and from then until the end of our residency we used the back door.
The house was large, and the rooms had high ceilings and electricity, after Rainbow Corner that was a blessing, we had been used to it on Woodlands Avenue, so the status quo had been restored, but it also meant watching what we spent, as a result we only had the lights on in the room or rooms being used. My father was nothing if not careful. I was not able, nor did I try to find out how many rooms were occupied by the Bexfield family, but I can recall how many we had use of. As we went in the rear entrance, sounds better than back door, the kitchen was on the left of the back stairs, on the right a larger room which we used as a parlour or sitting room from which the door opened onto the hall, the first room on the right was used by my parents as their bedroom, it was large enough to take a double bed, wardrobe and dressing table, I didn’t at the time stop to think what the room would have been used for in normal circumstances but now it intrigues me. Back into the hallway and on the right a large room with French windows, this was our room, again a double bed and furniture, we all slept in that bed with my brother and I at the top and my sister at the bottom, it was a larger room than the one my parents slept in but not as large as the room at the front of the house, which was to the right of the front door as you entered, not that we did after my first disastrous entrance. The front room was only used on very special occasions and there were not many of those, it was off a large hall with a wide staircase leading up to the first floor. The room seemed enormous, bigger than the whole ground floor dimensions of Rainbow Corner and of course looked out onto Wellesley Road, we had gone up in the world. Oh yes before I forget, all the rooms had a fireplace to keep the occupants warm, not that we used the ones in the bedrooms and the floor coverings were linoleum with rugs or mats, so you didn’t dilly dally in getting into bed in the winter.
There was one facility we didn’t have, a bathroom, that was a privilege given to our neighbours upstairs, but in truth it didn’t matter very much, Woodlands Avenue did have a bathroom but no hot water and Rainbow Corner no such facilities at all. We coped by having a bath which rested on the roof of the outdoor toilet and came in on Sunday evenings for the weekly ritual of bath and then a spoonful of syrup of figs and off to bed. The bath was filled by hot water from kettles and we bathed in order, first my sister then my brother and finally yours truly, so by the time I got in although it was still warm it was not entirely pristine, but I don’t remember making a fuss, it was the way it was and would have made no difference. The younger ones then sat on the kitchen table to be dried off and I, probably because of my seniority dried myself standing in front of the fire, then on with pyjamas, large spoonful of syrup of figs and off to bed. I don’t recall any of us having dressing gowns, probably a luxury too far, in fact I didn’t use a dressing gown until I married. The bath wasn’t big enough for an adult so where and when my parents bathed I have no idea, but they didn’t ever smell of body sweat and much later in life I did ask my father about this and he claimed and I have no reason to believe or doubt it that he and others took the opportunity to bathe in the large vats they used in the factory for soaking silks or bandages when they did overtime, which in my father’s case was virtually every day, his joining us for dinner or as we called it tea was a rare event. I am sure that is why he insisted all the family be there for Sunday lunch or as we knew it dinner, but more of that later.
One of the major differences between Rainbow Corner and No 38 was we had a garden and as we had the ground floor we had sole use of the garden. The house was a large one but the garden not so, but it was a garden and it was ours. A path ran alongside the house from the front to an arched gate which opened into the garden and first a large pear tree, then a fish pond, with some water but no fish then a lawn and finally a rockery running up to the garden wall beyond which was a coal yard and then a railway station Great Yarmouth Beach. Attached to the back of the house was the outside toilet and on the side of the house opposite the pond the back door up two steps with the kitchen on the left and living room on the right and the back stairs which we were forbidden to use lay between them, but best of all a cellar or basement, which was quite a size and eventually useable, I stress eventually as at first it stored the furniture we couldn’t fit in plus packing cases and suit cases etc.
So we were now established in No 38 Wellesley Road and would remain there for another five years and they were in the main very happy years, but it has to be said that all of my childhood years were happy ones, we were part of the working poor but we as children were not aware of that, all our friends were the same, but although we didn’t enjoy the luxuries of the present day, such as cars, television or foreign holidays, my parents never took a holiday together during their married lives, we were never hungry or without clothes on our back or shoes on our feet. We had a roof over our heads, food on the table and warm beds and that was all we needed, plus something that children in 2017 don’t have as much of, freedom without worry. Our lives were not governed by the internet, mobile phones or social media, our world may have been a small one, confined to our part of Great Yarmouth but it was a safe and secure one.
Chapter 19 – Going to the Pictures
By far the most important change in my life was the cinema, you may recall from my writing earlier that cinema visits in Cheddleton were rare, primarily because it required an organised trip into Hanley and for parents and three children apart from the expense it was a logistical nightmare of buses etc, but Great Yarmouth was entirely different. In 1946 there were four cinemas. The Regal, Regent, Royal Aquarium and The Empire to choose from if you were an adult, but for myself and friends there was in those early post war days only one The Aquarium, we didn’t bother with the Royal part of the name. They ran shows for kids on a Saturday morning which was the equivalent to a magnet and iron filings.
The formula was straightforward a “short” followed by the main feature, usually a western and then the serial, which finished with a “cliff hanger” in which the hero, heroine or both were left in a dangerous and impossible situation, which was of course overcome in the opening minutes of the next episode, for which you had to wait a week. The way they managed to escape from these situations was incredible and in real life would have been laughed at, but we were nine years old and for two and a half hours on a Saturday morning lived entirely in that world that only Hollywood could offer, and we believed everything that was put in front of us on the “silver screen”.
Who were these hero’s, who on a Saturday took us out of the world we lived in. A world of home and it’s restrictions, school with even more restrictions, food shortages, especially sweets, chocolate bars and ice cream, plus queueing for almost all the everyday staples of home life. On that screen was the chance to live in a different world, a world of make believe that seemed normal and natural. When we left the cinema to make our way home we rode imaginary horses, we all had imaginary pistols on our hips and spoke in the language that we presumed real cowboys spoke, that of the Hollywood “B” western film.
The formula which I identified earlier was the same almost every week but on rare occasions we were blessed with a showing of a major film but more of that later. the “short” film which kicked off our entertainment was about fifteen minutes long and usually a comedy of some description the simpler the better, then the main feature normally ran for an hour and would feature our heroes and we all had different favourites, the choices were wide and varied and the list long. Roy Rogers, Buck Jones and Gene Autrey, they were all singing cowboys. Hopalong Cassidy, the Durango Kid, the Cisco Kid these characters remained the same in all their films.
Then there were the films where the lead actor played a different character in each film examples were Rod Cameron, Bob Steele, Tim McCoy, Bob Baker, Ken Maynard and the aptly named Lash Larue using a whip as much as a pistol.
The plotting was simple and followed the same pattern whoever was in the film and they nearly all had a sidekick, providing some sort of comedy relief from the tension. These actors were not so well known but were able to switch from assisting one hero to another in one film after another prime examples were Smiley Burnett who worked mostly alongside Gene Autrey, George “Gabby” Hayes, so named because of fast speech pattern with Hopalong Cassidy, Andy Devine with Roy Rogers who was also supported by the country singing group The Sons of the Pioneers led by Bob Nolan and Fuzzy Knight who supported Bob Baker. What was missing were any female actors leading the films but plenty in supporting roles but apart from Dale Evans who not only worked with Roy Rogers she was his wife, their names escape me, but I was only ten years old and girls didn’t feature highly in my life.
Alongside these heroes and nearly as famous in some cases were their horses, Hopalong Cassidy and Topper, Roy Rogers and Trigger, Buck Jones and The Lone Ranger had horses named Silver, although The Lone Ranger was mostly in the serial section and finally and probably the most famous of them all Gene Autrey and Champion, a horse that in the end was as famous as it’s rider and had a major TV series “Champion the Wonder Horse”.
If the main features were mainly westerns the serials were varied indeed, all of them featuring heroic lead roles and a damsel in some sort of distress and villains that made your flesh creep and hide behind the seat in front of you, they knew how to give the audience villainy on a grand scale but somehow never came out on top, but that was the glory of the Saturday morning serial.
The listing could go on to fill a book on its own but a few remain in my mind the first and most memorable was “Riders of Death Valley”, a western, the opening shot every week was the five riders riding line abreast across the screen and then onto the meat of the plot, if I close my eyes I can still see it now.
Serials could be broken down into five main sections. Westerns, Spies and Cops, Jungle, Science Fiction and Super Heroes, a catch all where the lead role was more important than the story line. They would normally run to eight episodes about twenty-five minutes long and end with the cliff hanger, a tried and trusted formula and we loved them.
The first section was Westerns too many to try and deal with here. The second Dick Tracy, taken from the comic book series. Junior G-Men. Don Winslow US Coastguard adapted from a radio series in America. The Spider and Return of the Spider, The Phantom and The Green Hornet and Buck Rogers The third mostly Tarzan films but not featuring the only Tarzan that really counted Johnny Weissmuller, among the imposters were Herman Brix (later to take the name Bruce Bennett, I can see why) and Buster Crabbe of whom more later. Last but by no means least were the Super Heroes all taken from The Marvel Comics Series which as I said earlier in my story we were now able to buy if you had the money and read and exchange with your friends, so different to British Comics. Here they were on the screen Batman and Robin, Superman and my favourite Captain Marvel played by an actor who was also in many of the westerns Tom Tyler, although he didn’t look like the cartoon drawings we were familiar with we swallowed that and as with all the other serials lived them vicariously, once out of the cinema and back into the fresh air we were those heroes all the way home until you were brought back down to earth.
One of the very interesting differences between 1947 and 2018 is how long films stayed on the circuits. Now they are in the cinema for two or three weeks and then onto TV or Box Sets, not the case back then. All the films and serials I have highlighted were made in the 1930’s and early 1940’s and were recycled on a regular basis so although Hollywood and the much smaller British film makers were back in business after the war they couldn’t keep up with demand, so films from the 1930’s continued to do the rounds without seeming to date and people continued to pay money to see them. For the cinema goer or as it was called going to the pictures the formula was always the same a “B” picture, some adverts and then the main feature and it was a continuous showing starting at 1.30 pm until the National Anthem at 10.15pm, so if you weren’t caught out you could see the whole programme at least twice in one day or go in halfway through one or other of the films and watch until you reached the point you came in at, at which stage you got up and went out. There were occasions when mother would send me and my siblings to the pictures with strict instructions not to come out until a given time when she would be home to receive us. This meant an almost state of guerrilla warfare with the usherettes whose job was to make sure this didn’t happen. At a point in a film I would issue instructions to my brother and sister to drop onto their knees and we would crawl along the floor from one part of the cinema to another and resume watching from entirely different seats and hope our ruse had not been discovered. Success or failure in this exercise depended entirely on which usherettes were on duty, some knew what was going on and if the cinema was not full or expecting to be would ignore all this manoeuvring. One however seemed to have made it her aim in life to thwart all such efforts, on not just on our part but all others with similar instructions from their mothers and was never happier than when she would escort a group of children to the front door and out into the street, but as often as she succeeded so did we. At the interval, when most of the action took place and when dropped to our knees she would switch on her torch, and starting at the rear of the auditorium look along every row to identify any miscreants, it was much like the POW films we saw later in life with the German Guards looking for escapees, the difference being we were trying to avoid capture and ejection rather than further imprisonment. Looking back this only occurred at the Aquarium which must have been our cinema of choice, because it was the nearest one to where we lived.
You might remember that earlier I referred to the occasional treat of a major film, this usually happened but not every time when a serial came to the end and before the next one started the following week we might get the major treat of a full-length film. These were of course geared to appeal to the Saturday morning audience, no romances, action was the order of the day and especially those featuring Errol Flynn, whose heroic roles lived in the heads of boys for the rest of the following week. There were three films that stick in my memory still, The Sea Hawk, Captain Blood and The Adventures of Robin Hood. These films were made by Warner Bros in the late 1930’s but were still doing the rounds in the mid and late 1940’s and we loved them, especially Robin Hood. There have been many films about Robin Hood since then but none as memorable as the 1938 version with Errol Flynn, in glorious technicolour, and containing the shadow sword fight on the castle stairs with Basil Rathbone. As we went home, all of us in our heads Robin Hood, from somewhere we managed to find enough sticks to recreate this famous fight scene repeatedly.
Chapter 18 – Understanding Yarmouth
Although it took up a lot of our time, school was not the most important part of our young lives, it was what we did after school hours, at the weekends and during school holidays that were most important, and we couldn’t wait for those times to come around.
I think it is time for me to give you a detailed description of the enormous difference between my former life in Staffordshire and my new life in Great Yarmouth.
The most immediate difference was the comparative size of each, the whole of Cheddleton could be put in one small section of my home town without being noticed and it was this much larger canvas that both allowed and encouraged me to paint different pictures in my life, bear in mind I was still only nearly ten years old and learning just how different life was in many ways, my description of school being just one of them, but it was what opportunities that presented themselves outside school life that were more interesting.
Great Yarmouth had been what was termed “a front line” town during the war we had just endured, in addition to being a seaside holiday resort it was also an important port for mercantile trade and during the war a base for the Royal Navy thus a target for the Luftwaffe, their efforts had certainly made their mark and the evidence was all around us in the many bombed out buildings in the town but as far as we schoolboys were concerned it was a playground from heaven while it lasted and before the authorities were able to clear it away. Officially we were banned from playing in the bomb-damaged buildings but there were far more buildings than wardens to prevent small boys doing what they do best, enjoy themselves reliving the war in the debris left behind by the real thing.
It is hard to put into words the pleasure we were able to get from the ruins we played in, half a house still standing with the stairs still intact against one wall which meant you could reach the first floor where perhaps the flooring had been partially destroyed leaving cross beams and joists which could be jumped or crawled over while in our imagination we were commando’s or some hero from the films we saw, and that was another big difference, the cinema, but more of that later. Not all the damage done by German bombing was stairs to be climbed, cellars were there to be explored together with gardens overgrown after being ignored for years, it was an outdoor paradise for gangs of small boys to exploit and that was another thing “the gang”. It was almost exactly the same as Cheddleton, no phones with which to arrange meeting up, you called for each other, or agreed the day before the time and place to meet and turned up, waited to make sure everyone who was going to be present was present and then off we would go to enjoy the day, and we did enjoy the day, it was an outdoor life in a post war paradise, where the authorities were thin on the ground or just too busy to worry about the activities of gangs of boys, out doing what boys did best in those days, play games they made up daily, from their imagination, imaginations that ranged far and wide, fuelled by what we saw on the silver screen on a Saturday morning, or from our comics which we read assiduously and exchanged back and forth between the gang, somehow without any planning we all seemed to have comics different one from another, and we relived the adventures we had seen or read about every day. If you want to get a flavour of our life back then get the DVD of the film “Hope and Glory”. sections of that film could have been drawn from our lives in those post war days.
If the excitement of games played in the buildings ruined by bombing palled or was curtailed by the authorities there were plenty of other delights on offer, it may seem funny now, but another popular “playground” was the Churchyard and the adjoining cemetery. You would think the word churchyard would be self- explanatory, but this was different from the average. The Churchyard surrounded the Parish Church, dedicated to Saint Nicholas, declared the largest church which wasn’t either a Cathedral or Minster under the auspices of the Church of England, and accordingly the churchyard matched it in size therefore offering opportunities for adventure for gangs of small boys. The western end was surrounded by the remains of the old town wall, part of which was a tower, known as the Bone Tower which was forbidding even in daylight and terrifying in the gloom of a late afternoon in winter, it was indeed a brave soul who ventured in alone after dark. The name I learned much later in life was based upon truth., It was a Charnel Tower where during the plague of the middle age bodies were burned, and the residue contained bones, hence the name.
Notices warned that climbing on the wall was forbidden, this of course only made it the more attractive, so it was not uncommon to see bands of small boys running jumping and sword fighting along the top of the wall, which ran for some fifty yards from Northgate Street to the Bone Tower attached to which was a gate that let pedestrians out of the Churchyard to Maygrove, a small estate of pre-war houses, where some of my friends lived. As with all our games the theme was taken from comics or films the most popular of which was Robin Hood but more of that later.
I imagine I don’t need to tell you, but our activities in the Churchyard and the adjoining cemetery were not allowed, but as with most other public spaces where such fun was forbidden it made it more attractive and add in the fact that the attendants were either too old or in most cases non-existent, our games went unhampered most of the time. Due to the war the trees, bushes and vegetation in both Churchyard and Cemetery were overgrown, so even if an attendant did try and catch one of us the hiding places were so many that the chances of being caught and punished was slim and even if you were caught the admonishment was probably a clip around the ear, which of course was a badge of honour. The retribution you didn’t enjoy was being reported to mother or father, my father held such authorities in high regard and dealt out suitable punishment to fit the crime. But we rarely got caught so my father did not have much cause to worry about the family reputation.
A further major difference in our new home compared to our previous location was the beach. As I pointed out earlier when we first arrived back from our wartime home the beach in most part was out of bounds due to the wartime laying of land mines but gradually the beach was being cleared and was open to public use again especially on the central promenade, the further north you walked it was less likely to be available for use by the public, but it was all clearly identified so there was no excuse for going onto the wrong section of the beach and I cannot recall anyone making that mistake and paying the inevitable price. Looking back now it seems strange but in those early days after the war I don’t recall much time being spent on the beach it was mostly in those playgrounds already identified.
Chapter 17 – Outside the Classroom
The other teacher was Mr E.C Thompson, known affectionately as “Ernie” he taught the Junior Four class, my last year at the school, he also picked the school Junior football team. Sports were encouraged as part of the curriculum but taking part was not easy as the school had no sport facilities on the premises. In season we had football, cricket and swimming, the first two were relatively painless but not the latter.
Football and cricket were played on the Beaconsfield Recreation Ground, another heroic name, but to get there we had a twenty-minute walk, well twenty for adults but think about supervising forty or more boys and it becomes a different proposition, but usually we arrived there with no significant losses of personnel or major injuries.
Swimming was even more of a trek. The only swimming pool in Great Yarmouth was on the seafront and again a long walk, in fact a thirty-minute swim took up a whole morning, the walk taking up at least twenty-five minutes each way and then changing and swimming and then getting dry and the walk back it is easy to see where the time went. Swimming was not a pleasure at all, it commenced in May until end of term in July. The water in the pool was drawn from the North Sea, and the North Sea is not the Mediterranean and in May and June in particular, COLD. On arrival we would look at the board outside the front entrance, on the board was chalked the water temperature, of course in those days Fahrenheit and that information raised or lowered our spirits, mostly the latter, but whatever the temperature there was no escape. The swimming instructor was an ex professional boxer “Bandsman” Blake, we didn’t know his first name, no need he was Mr Blake.
As we were forced into the very cold water and turned blue, Mr Blake joined us, he however was clothed in thick shirt and trousers, heavy white woollen sweater and chest high waders, looking back it was my first encounter with sadism although at the time I had not ever heard the word spoken.
The next half an hour was sheer purgatory, Mr Blake was merciless, you were in and you stayed in, no half measures. It didn’t matter how hard you swam back and forth you could not get warm, you could hear teeth chattering all around you, it was the longest half hour of our short lifetimes, the only small comfort was the warm drink at the end of the torture, that is you had been given money to buy it, if not it was the sight of the next class waiting in trepidation at the side of the pool for their turn. Since then the pool has been modernised it is indoor and the water heated, softies.
If swimming wasn’t an activity I looked forward to then football certainly was, and the weekly excursion to the Beaconsfield Recreation Ground from September to April was a highlight of our school existence, especially for me as I found out I could play well enough to be selected for the school team and pull on the yellow and black striped jersey, the school colours. In those days inter school matches were played Saturday mornings, no skipping classes for midweek matches, but it made no difference we would have played whatever the day or time, we just loved playing football. We had a fairly good team and were in the running to be top of the league but our nemesis then and it seemed the rest of my school football life, was North Denes School which contained the Huggins brothers, when I was at the Priory it was the twins and when I was at the Grammar School they joined their elder brother, they were big, strong and very intimidating, both on the pitch and off. It is funny but when I met them again socially later in life they didn’t appear so intimidating, probably because by then they didn’t go around in threes all the time.
Our form master was also in charge of the football team and that mix of success in classroom and the football pitch was a heady brew and something you worked hard for, although looking back you didn’t exactly know why. I had no ambition to go to the Grammar School, in fact I don’t think most of us did, we did the lessons that were put in front of us and accordingly sat where we were put in the classroom pecking order but getting into the school football team was an entirely different matter and once there you guarded your place jealously. One instance springs to mind, for some reason or another I was off school, which in itself was unusual, I was not a sickly child, and on my return found my place in the team had been usurped and I was upset to say the least when I wasn’t immediately reinstated on my return, Mr Thompson took me to one side and told me that in my absence the team and my replacement had done well and I would have to work to get my place back, if he had told me my school work had slipped a notch or two and my prospect of the Grammar School had diminished I would not have been concerned in the slightest, but being left out of the football team was different, I did work hard, but luck was also on my side, another of my team mates was off with some illness or other and I was back in the team, not at outside left as before but behind him at left half where I found myself to be more suited and stayed there as first choice( I was good enough to be chosen for a trial for the Town boys team but just not good enough to achieve a place), until I left the Priory to go the Grammar School, life can play funny tricks.
Chapter 16 – Early School Life
Earlier in this memoir I wrote about cigarette cards and how they opened new worlds of football, cricket, films, history and many other areas of life for myself and my friends and how because pocket money was unknown in the circles I moved they became a form of currency. This was underlined at school. At this point I think I should explain the playground structure at The Priory School. You approached the school from Priory Gardens, through the Main Gate, turning left you passed the Headmasters Office building on the left and arrived in the lower playground or quad as it was fancifully called, imitating the public schools we read about in our comics, in the far corner was the main entrance, once inside you turned left to the Junior Years classrooms and right for the Senior Years, classes numbered J1 to J4to the left S1 to S4 on the right and never the twain should meet.
Ball games were not allowed in the Junior Playground, I have no idea why, in 1946 it wasn’t considered necessary to explain school rules, you were expected to do as you were told, and most boys did. This rule however did enable other games to flourish in a relatively calmer atmosphere than that of the Senior Playground, I have alr eady written about marbles but that was just one of several that were enjoyed throughout the school year, one or two seasonal, some all year round. The main seasonal game was “conkers” played with horse chestnuts, with a hole drilled through the nut and a string inserted and knotted at one end to stop the nut falling or flying off, I say flying for the object of the game was to smash your opponent’s nut, also on a string, if you achieved that goal your successes were noted as a 1er,2er, 3er etc in order to be more successful some boys would get their fathers to pickle their conkers making them like iron and thus more likely to be winners. Winning was important and having an unbeaten conker gave great kudos to the owner.
Among the more sedentary games that flourished two stand out in my memory. The first was played with the treasured cigarette cards, and I don’t use the word treasured lightly, conkers came and went, but your collection of cigarette cards were an important part of your life, the more sets you had in your collection especially those connected to sports, aeroplanes, cars and films and film stars the more envied you became, wild flowers and animals didn’t carry so much weight with nine year old boys. The individual sets within your overall collection could be built three ways, by purchasing, swapping or winning in a game. The first was very unlikely as money was an even rarer commodity and if you did have any it would be kept buying a new comic or if you were flush a visit to the cinema on a Saturday morning.
Swapping or bartering was also prevalent, if you had repeats of any cards in your collection you would look out for someone who was looking for that card and hope he had a repeat he was willing to exchange in a set where you had gaps, once the set was complete it was secured with an elastic band for safety and into one of the numerous tobacco tins that lay around our home.
The whole point of the game was to be able win cards that would fill the gaps if you couldn’t find anyone able or willing to swap with, or to build up a stock of repeat cards in as many sets as possible for the bartering process. The game itself was simple, a card was stood up against the wall and from about three feet away you took turns flicking cards at the standing card with the aim of knocking it down, if you did you claimed not only that card but also those laying around that had failed to do so, a successful knock down in a long game with three of four contestants could add considerably to your stock of repeats and sometimes set you off on collecting a new set, even wild flowers. Oh, happy days.
A very similar game, but one which did not involve bartering was instead of cigarette cards, milk bottle tops. This was really for those who hadn’t made the big time in the cigarette card arena. It seems funny looking back but we could make a game out of virtually anything and everything you could find, pick up and carry, in this case tops off a bottle of milk.
You may recall that I wrote of receiving a small bottle of milk at Wetley Rocks School as part of a plan to make sure children had a nutritional diet at school, the bottles contained one third of a pint, but the important part was the cardboard top, which had a hole in the middle to take a straw. At the end of the war this was continued, in fact until the nineteen seventies when it was stopped by a politician whose name would become famous for more than that meanspirited act on her part. With boys’ ever being inventive the possibilities of making a game from them was soon realised and they were used in a game the same as with cigarette cards but without the need to swap to make up sets.
Who can remember snake belts, every boy had one, normally red and black cloth with a snake buckle? Your collection of cardboard tops was strung together and the string plus tops looped through your belt, the more you had looped on your belt the higher up the pecking order you were, the interesting thing was that by the very nature of the importance of your cigarette card collections and the fact that you didn’t carry them around all the time added to the importance of your belt full of bottle tops, boys are funny creatures, I wonder what has replaced cigarette cards and bottle tops in 2018.
But school life was not just being in the playground, there was a more serious side, education, although I don’t think that was the thought uppermost in our minds, although it consumed most of our day at school, the classroom was only a hindrance to be endured between breaks and going home time.
Classrooms then are not at all like those of 2018, much more regimented, seating determined by a pecking order and mostly clothed in silence. Although not at all to be likened to the Yorkshire Schools exemplified by Dotheboys Hall in Charles Dickens wonderful work Nicholas Nickleby, they certainly did not possess the more relaxed atmosphere of classrooms in 2018. The first major difference was the seating, the desks were two seaters, the top divided in half allowing each pupil his own storage space, where all the necessary material for your work could be stored and more important left overnight, day after day, week after week, in fact the only time you needed to clear your desk was at the end of term, prior to any seating rearrangements, which were determined by testing and results.
As I said earlier the seating was in a strict pecking order, determined as follows. The teacher looking at the class of boys, yes all boys, with the blackboard behind him would survey up to five rows of five two seater desks, at the top left at the back sat the boy who had come out in the pre term end tests as the most successful pupil and next to him the second and in the row in front third and fourth and so on up and down the ranks until at the very front of Row Five would be the very least able or the laziest, a world where everyone knew their place, This could and would vary each term depending on results, and did, although there was little or no movement in Row Five, competition in Row One was totally different, number one David Sell was an immovable object, but the next three or four places were open to change, however yours truly was not lucky enough to be in that little group although I did achieve seventh and one year I slipped to ninth .The group received rather more attention from our teacher than the far side of the room, the reason for this was simple, we were being groomed to take the eleven plus and thus the Grammar School beckoned and although league tables as such were not in place, the number of boys you sent on to Grammar School gave the school kudos in the eyes of prospective parents, it was a pernicious and divisive system although I wasn’t aware of it at the time.
However, the one thing you can celebrate is that boys didn’t worry about who sat where when the bell rang, and we were released from classroom to playground. Where you sat wasn’t an issue for most of us, although there were cliques of course, they were known as gangs in my less erudite days, and I can promise you I was not in any group that welcomed David Sell into their midst. It is difficult to try after such a long time to say why there was so much antipathy on my part to David, but I can remember him always saying in a manner that irritated me that his parents were thinking of calling him Christopher William but had they done so his initials would have been CWS and his father didn’t want him to have those initials for fear people thought that they shopped at the Co-op, well we did and got the divvy, it may have been a joke but not one I could understand. Oddly enough in the end I don’t recall whether he passed for the Grammar School, I have two school photographs but cannot see him on either, perhaps my memory is going but I don’t think so.
It is interesting but I find I cannot recall many of my teachers’ names from those early days, two spring to mind, the first Mr Holdsworth was the woodwork teacher. The woodwork room was at the northern end of the larger playground and of course subject to a constant battering from balls used in the numerous games of football that took place daily and that leads me on to football outside the playground.
Chapter 15 – Don’t Look Back It is advised that in life you should never look back and make comparison with life as it is at present, but when writing about your “life” you have no choice and perhaps rose-tinted spectacles are on the end of my nose as I write this piece, but it was different then.
The sun seemed to shine all the time, the days were endless, and freedom to come and go was a given to a small boy without the fear that exists in the 21st century. We did go out early in the day, take a sandwich or if you were near enough go home for lunch, but we didn’t use that word and then back out again until tea time beckoned, it was the Cheddleton routine all over again, but with different friends and writ large.
Writ large because the canvas on which we painted was so much bigger. Great Yarmouth in 1946 was trying to recover from the war, it had been a frontline town, and this was evident wherever you walked. At first being introduced to our new surroundings was carried out in the company of adults, usually parents or grandparents, but after a short while having made friends at school with boys who knew their way around a new freedom was established and I saw the town through the eyes of a boy.
Our playgrounds were numerous, the streets immediately around where we lived, a little further away the St Nicholas Church Grave Yard, then expanding to the Town Cemetery, so far none of the green fields I had been used to.
Let me take you on a little journey. We will walk up the Row, across White Horse Plain and Northgate Street, into the Cemetery via the Churchyard, out onto Nelson or Kitchener Road, depending on the game being played, and the gate we used, note the heroic names our roads were given. Our route then took us under the level crossing, it was a subway which echoed, and on down the road to the beach, this route avoided too many main roads, these cut down on the opportunity for imaginative games. All I have just described was entirely new to me for although we had paid the occasional visit to Great Yarmouth from Cheddleton I had no memory of anything outside of the immediate vicinity of my grandmothers’ house and that was very sketchy, so the first time I saw the seafront was an experience as clear as if it were yesterday.
After crossing Nelson Road, you came to Wellesley Road, another hero from the past, and the Wellesley Recreation Ground, then the seafront, North Parade, and The Waterways. The Waterways was a self-contained winding canal several hundred yards’ long with little islands connected by wooden and brick bridges, which should have been filled with water and with boats carrying passengers back and forth. When I saw it for the first time it had been neglected during the war years and was filled with sand blown from the beach with occasional lagoons of shallow water, it was a playground paradise for gangs of small boys, until of course you were chased out by some official, who obviously had never been a boy himself. The beach which ran parallel to the Waterways was off limits to all but the bravest of souls, rolls of barbed wire and large signs with Danger Mines above a skull and cross bones were more than enough to deter us. As the year progressed more and more of the beach was cleared of mines and our horizons expanded, one part of that expansion was Britannia Pier, the sand had blown up the north side of the pier to such an extent you could walk up and climb onto the pier without let or hindrance, and many games could be enjoyed in and out of the run down and abandoned wooden buildings and of course to walk out over the sea peering through the gaps in the wooden boarded floor at the water below. I was nine years old and life was good.
But Great Yarmouth wasn’t just waterway and beaches, it was a world that I couldn’t have imagined while living in Cheddleton, first the numbers of people, one example to think about, there were probably more in my class at The Priory than in the whole of Wetley Rocks school put together or so it seemed. The playground bounded on one side by remains of the medieval town wall and other three by houses. The school buildings were in three parts, a square at either end joined by a walkway in the middle of which was the school gate exiting onto Priory gardens and then onto Priory Plain dominated at the eastern end by the enormous Methodist chapel fronted by two large Doric columns, it looked like something from Ancient Rome or at least as I imagined Ancient Rome to be. The lower quadrangle was for the younger boys and the upper for the older pupils, I have worked it out and there would have been over two hundred boys in the playground at dinner break, we were not so sophisticated in those days to understand the nuances of lunch and dinner when it came to satisfying hunger in boys. If we had even thought about it our parents paid for school dinners, so it was dinner time at 12pm each day.
Although parents and teachers probably lived in the dream world where boys looked forward to going into the classroom bursting with enthusiasm for a day of education my memory is of something entirely different, we lived for break time, to be out of the classroom, looking forward to the playground games, renewing friendships that had been cruelly interrupted by lessons and often settling old scores with an adversary from a rival gang, for even then turf wars were evident, although they didn’t have that sophisticated description. Different groups of boys took over different sections of the playground in which to carry out whatever activity was popular that day or week and with so many pupils on the school roll space was at a premium, and if needed would be defended stoutly. The games we played were varied from almost sedentary to the extremely vigorous, the latter being more prevalent in the upper playground, the older and bigger boys being more aware of the gang culture that existed and conscious of not losing face.
With so many bodies in such a small space football was not easy, especially if played between rival groups as it often was, using a tennis ball rather than the large leather ball I had become used to in Cheddleton. The goals were either coats laid on the floor or chalked on the wall depending whether the game was being played from north to south or east to west, and sometimes both at the same time which in itself normally presaged major or minor chaos as the ball from each game got mixed up and even more when disputes as to whether the ball had been between the chalked posts on one hand or the piled coats on the other often led to arguments being settled in a physical manner.
Chapter 15 - Not All Knocks and Bruises
Not all the games required such physicality, there were others less demanding on the seemingly boundless energy we all seemed to possess in those days, games that possibly required a more studied approach. One of these was marbles, a simple game, chalk a circle on the floor, chalk was a much sought after commodity in those days, determine who would be going first, the toss of a coin if anyone had one, or guessing which hand held the stone or far more sophisticated, stone, paper, scissors, the competing boys would hide one hand behind their back and produce them together, either clenched-stone, flat and open – paper or two fingers in a vee -scissors, arriving at a result was somewhat complicated, paper could wrap around stone to win, scissors could cut paper and stone could break scissors, needless to say it was not unusual for arguments to break out over a contested result over the best of three to see who would start, the losers alley being placed in the chalk circle, the winner would then propel his alley at the first alley to try and remove it from the circle, each player took it in turns to try and knock the opponents alley out with their other glass marbles and the winner would collect all the marbles left in the circle together with the losers alley, You probably don’t need me to tell you that arguments were numerous and disputes settled in the time honoured manner, a wrestling contest. Unless of course an attempt at settlement was interrupted by a teacher, who in turn took the opportunity to mete out his own brand of justice.
Chapter 14– Getting to Know Great Yarmouth
The Rows in Great Yarmouth were unique, and perhaps if still around in the 21st Century would have been declared a World Heritage Site, but most them were pulled down at the end of World War II, and possibly without anyone realising at the time exactly what they were doing. When I first returned I had no idea of how important the rows were in the history of the town. There were 145 in total and ran from the East to the West from the main roads that ran through the centre of the town to the various quays alongside the river. Their origin came from medieval times when it was forbidden to build outside the Town walls, so they were crammed in to meet the need of the growing population, and eventually ended up as slums.
My maternal grandmother lived no more than a quarter of a mile from my paternal grandparents, number five Row three, which ran from Northgate Street to North Quay and was if anything smaller than the house we were then sharing, or so it seemed to me at the time. The living room was very small and crowded with ornaments and tobacco tins. The ornaments got a passing glance, but the tobacco tins, well they could be useful, for a start storing buttons, remember them. It was only later as I grew older that I realised that Grandad Newark’s house was different, I learned that the living room had once been a shop and the room behind it, always concealed by a very heavy blue curtain, and now a large kitchen had been part of the bake house, for that had been the family business making bread and cakes.
My grandparents were very kind and gentle people I can’t remember either of them ever raising their voices and there were always toffees on offer on visits, I think by the time the war ended Grandad must have retired or nearing it for I don’t recall ever seeing him in working clothes. My father wore navy bib and brace dungarees every day except Sunday, whereas Grandad sported jacket, trousers, waistcoat and cap, even in the house always a cap, although when it was removed he had a fine head of thick white hair, he was a man of few words, leaving most of the talking to my grandmother who if admonishment was ever required would quietly say, that’s enough for now John Willy, her pet name for him, and lest I forget, a cigarette, he like my father smoked roll ups, do it yourself cigarettes, the difference being my father used his fingers and Grandad a small machine about the size of one of the numerous tobacco tins, into which was put a cigarette paper, some tobacco and by a miracle out the other end came a cigarette. My father preferred his fingers, my mother later told me it was because they used less tobacco than the machine, that didn’t help him, he smoked all his life and it more than likely ended his life prematurely.
Perhaps it is time to give you some idea of how different I found Great Yarmouth to Cheddleton. First it was a town, not a hamlet, and it had all the amenities a town could offer in 1946, and of course being a seaside town a beach, but the biggest difference was that I was a foreigner in my own home town, I didn’t know where anywhere was, didn’t have a school to go to, and didn’t have any friends, just my family but it very quickly changed and the second stage of my early life soon took shape.
Perhaps the major difference other than those recorded was the effects of the war. Great Yarmouth had been on the front line and subject to many German bombing raids and the evidence was all around in the form of bombed buildings, looking back considering the number of bombing raids the town had endured and how near some bombs landed both my grandparents were lucky to have survived the war without damage to their houses or themselves.
As soon as we were settled in to our new home the first thing required of my parents was to find me a school, I had just turned eight years old, my brother five and my sister three, it is funny that as you grow up into adulthood those age differences mean nothing, but at eight they are enormous and if my siblings have not featured much in this account it is very simple, I had very little to do with them during that early part of my life, but once back in Yarmouth they began to play a larger role. So where to put me for the next stage of my education, and here we ran up against history, both my parents went to different schools in their childhood, my father to the Nelson Boys School and my mother to the Edward Worledge School for girls, I can guess who the first was named for but not the second, but both these establishments were at the other end of the town so whatever their feelings for their alma maters they had to find an alternative.
The nearest school to our temporary home was The Priory School for Boys and next door the girl’s school, both adjacent to the Parish Church of St Nicholas, itself the largest Parish Church in England but fire bombed during the conflict we had just endured. The Priory from which the schools took their names was in the church grounds and less than a short walk of perhaps five minutes if they would accept me. Luckily for me my Uncle Percy was friends with the headmaster Mr Sillis, oh what would Charles Dickens made of him, but we will never know. In the event I was accepted, it might have been my academic prowess brought from Wetley Rocks, but more than likely my uncles influence and as it was a Church School the fact that I had been baptised into the Church of England Faith at that very church could have been in my favour. Whatever the reason in late February my education re-commenced at The Priory Junior School for Boys, I was on my way in a new life.
At this point I feel I should give you a brief explanation of how the school system worked in my new hometown. The Priory was one of twelve junior schools who in turn were fed by infant schools, they also had senior secondary modern schools attached, plus if you passed the scholarship The Great Yarmouth Boys Grammar School and the Great Yarmouth High School for Girls beckoned, if you were of a more practical nature there was a Technical College providing for both genders. The Priory School engaged in fierce rivalry with The Hospital School which was not only located three hundred yards away but laid claim to be the oldest surviving school in the town, a claim that was strenuously contested both on and off the sports field, especially if it had been snowing overnight.
Once at school my years away from my home town became obvious and somewhat of a handicap, I didn’t sound like my new classmates, I was as far as they were concerned with my Staffordshire accent, a foreigner, and one to be made fun of, but it was also a lesson in life, children can be both cruel and kind for it wasn’t everybody who made fun of the newcomer and soon I had been accepted into a small group who remained my friends until I left the school three years later to go to The Grammar School, I had passed the scholarship, but more of that later.
The difference between our home in Staffordshire and Great Yarmouth was striking, the former was a hamlet in the countryside between Leek and Stoke, now I was living in a town of some 50,000 people and open country was hard to find, but it had something for a small boy that Cheddleton didn’t have, excitement.
One small example, the Row which started just outside our front door emerged onto White Horse Plain, so called because of the Public House on one end of the square, which in turn was part of Northgate street, one of the main roads through the town.
On that street were a row of shops and another public house The Crystal which was on the corner of Fullers Hill and Northgate Street, but it was the row of shops that were of most interest to me, from the Plain the first shop was Doughty’s a Gentleman’s outfitters, then Cox the Jeweller and after that the shop which was the one that changed my young reading life Anni’s newspaper shop. In addition to newspapers, cigarettes, tobacco, sweets, such as were available on ration, were comics and not just those which up to now had been my staple diet, American comics. How he managed to get hold of them I don’t know but he did and they introduced me to Superman, Captain Marvel, The Hulk, Batman and Robin, all in colour, a whole new and to an eight year old boy wonderful world, these were graphic comics, then came the funnies sold in the USA as part of a Sunday newspaper, but we just got them as standalone comics featuring Dick Tracy, Popeye, The Katzenjammer Kids and many more fascinating and different characters, I loved going in that shop as long as I had some money.
Chapter 13 – Getting to know my family
I don’t remember what I expected on our return to Great Yarmouth or for that matter, whether I thought about it but whatever the answer to that is, it came as a very severe shock. We had been living in Staffordshire for more than five years and those years were part of my early growing up, the life we had was the one I knew and loved, the one we came back to was entirely different. The house we had lived in prior to our evacuation had been rented to someone else, and until we were found somewhere to live we shared a house with my Grandmother and her third husband Fred Duffield, I think it worth giving a bit of background to my maternal grandmother. When her first husband, my mother’s father died at the age of thirty-one she was left with five children and no means of supporting them, no welfare state to fall back on in in the 1920’s. As a result of this and because she had no work and no money they were made homeless, and the children were split up and sent into care. But Grandma, or Nanny as she was known, was nothing if not resourceful and within a short space of time she met and married her second husband and was able to get the family back together again.
Her second husband was a Welshman, a Captain in the Merchant Navy, widowed with one son Alfred, who had an accent so thick he was mistakenly thought to come from Holland and acquired the nickname “Dutchy”, in some senses he was a cuckoo in their nest and my mother took him under her wing and in later life I became the child he and his wife were unable to have. But back to my grandmother, in due course the Sea Captain passed away and just before the outbreak of war she married again.
You might wonder why I have given you so much detail about my Grandmother, well she was a major part of my early life and we were very close until her death, add to this she offered us a home when we returned from Staffordshire and thus you can see the reason.
The house we shared with her and Fred, we didn’t call him Grandad or Grandpa or other affectionate name, in fact I can’t remember what we called him, was one of eight around a courtyard, with four shared outside toilets and a washhouse with two big coal fired boilers, almost communal living. The house itself was small, one room and a scullery on the ground floor, two rooms on the first floor and then an attic room above that. It was a bit of a shock after Woodlands Avenue and may have been one of the reasons my Grandmother spent so much of the war living with us, as well as getting away from the German bombs.
Amenities were few. A cold water tap in the scullery, no electricity, gas mantles provided the lighting, but on the ground floor only. When you went upstairs in the dark you took a candle and the stairs were in the wall, you opened a door and there they were, we didn’t think about it then, but we three children were in the attic with only a candle for lighting, a tiny window and stairs in the walls, it doesn’t bear thinking about even now.
After all these years’ I can still remember that courtyard behind the eight houses, our house was one of two fronting onto Laughing Image Corner, four more onto Rainbow Corner and the last two onto Brewery Row, it was a slum, but we didn’t know and of course didn’t care, we were all together.
To help keep warm in the downstairs room was a Kitchen Range, a forerunner of the modern AGA, coal fired, and on all day and night three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. It was used for cooking, heating, provided hot water, you boiled kettles on it and warmed flat irons on it, it was certainly multi- purpose, but in the summer months it made the room unbearably hot. Ironing was done on the large table which stood in the middle of the room together with two armchairs, one of which was the sole property of Fred and the other my father when he was there, the rest of us perched on dining chairs or on the floor on cushions, a bit different to Woodlands Avenue. That was not the only difference, the major one was outdoor space, I had been used to walking out of the front gate into green fields, now it was closely built housing, the Yarmouth Rows, more of that in a moment.
Chapter 12 – Going Home, at Last
Although I said we could think about returning to Great Yarmouth, that is all we could do, think about it, but to be honest, I don’t think I did, it was something for my parents to worry about, my life carried on as before, back to school and another Staffordshire winter looming up. Christmas came and went and suddenly our stay in Woodlands Avenue was over, in February 1946 we made the journey back to our home town, and as a boy aged nine totally unprepared for what we would find.
I have to admit, I have no recall of how we prepared for and carried out our leaving of Woodlands Avenue, of any farewells fond or otherwise but our arrival back in Great Yarmouth was different entirely, we were back in the bosom of our families and myself, Peter and Christine would meet our paternal grandparents again, to my knowledge they did not make the journey to Staffordshire and any meetings we may have had on our rare wartime visits were forgotten. This was just one of many adjustments which would have to be made.
Chapter 11 – Will the War Never End?
As the war rumbled on so life in rural Staffordshire continued at the same easy pace, spring, summer, autumn, winter, we enjoyed or endured them in turn, for us children spring and summer were the prime months, long days, sunshine if you were lucky and freedom, and different experiences. One experience that you probably would not see on a regular basis in a town environment, the birth of a calf. I have already indicated that the field opposite our houses which separated us from Folly Lane served two purposes, football pitch and grazing for the farm cattle, and on one occasion providing a spectacle we had not witnessed, a calf being born, how long the birthing took I am hazy about but it seemed to go on for ever, first the hooves, then the bottom of the legs then the shoulders then the head then the trunk and finally more legs, and all the time the cow was making a loud crying noise, but suddenly it was all over and there on the grass was the calf, covered in a kind of transparent envelope which the cow commenced to lick away, after a period of time the calf was on it’s very unsteady legs and nuzzling the cow for food, it was amazing then and still is, the start of life, watched by six or seven small children.
But life on Woodlands Avenue was not all sylvan bliss, although we had long days in the summer holidays there was always school to go back to when those days came to an end. As far as I can recall not one of our friends or neighbours was the owner of a car, and even now as I wrack my brain nor can I recall seeing a car visiting anyone who lived on the road, the coal was delivered by horse and cart as was the daily milk, only the milk float was much smaller as was the pony. We would fight to be the one who during the long summer breaks was chosen to be the assistant to the milkman and run up the path with the daily delivery, there wasn’t such a clamour to help on the dark, cold mornings of the Staffordshire winter. But dark and cold didn’t mean no school, we set off whatever the weather with Joan Colclough leading the charge. Down Woodlands Avenue onto Folly Lane, over the first style, across fields, via more styles, if you were a girl, over the black dry stone walls, peculiar to that part of Great Britain if you were a boy, to the top of the rocky outcrop that loomed over the village of Wetley Rocks, scaling down the face and onto the main road from Leek, in front was the ruin of a Roman villa, we ignored it, walk along the road, sharp right turn over the little bridge and the school yard awaited us. I have just measured it on a detailed map and the total distance as the crow might have flown was a mile and a half, small beer for an adult but for a gang of children all under the age of ten, it was some journey each morning and afternoon, no surprise we were hungry all the time.
I was bright in school, I have my last report in an album and there I was top of the class, the first in a group of eleven pupils and for that I received a prize, a reading book, it hung around the house for years, but where is it now, I don’t know. The comments were pretty encouraging as well, but somehow at some time over the subsequent years I managed to undo all the good work I achieved under the tutelage of Miss Alcock. My memories of school are nowhere near as vivid as those of time spent outside in the fields, I can only think it means that I must have been well behaved if only I could have maintained it in my later years at senior school. There is however one memory that stands out from my days at Wetley rocks School. You may remember that we had to cross a small bridge to get to the school gate, that bridge was over a bright, shallow but fast flowing stream and was out of bounds to all pupils and therefore a temptation especially to the boys, but not me, I don’t know if I was afraid but I was never inclined to follow the lead set by others, until one day and I can’t recall if it was a result of a dare and taunting, but I removed shoes and socks and went in to the stream. It was a mistake, it was on a day when Mr Machin, the Headmaster chose to leave the school building to see what offences were being committed. I was given a good warning and was out of the water before he could see me, but then the problems kicked in, I had no towel to dry feet and legs and if you have ever tried you will know how difficult it is to get woollen socks back on to wet legs and feet. the school bell rang, and I still had not completed the task so returned to class with bare feet inside my clogs and was taken to meet Mr Machin in his office, although he made it clear that I should not under any circumstances do it again, I received no further punishment, and I breathed again.
One of the major differences from today is the lack of traffic on the roads, you could play all day on the field on Woodlands Avenue and apart from the milkman and very occasional trades vehicles you had the road to yourself, bliss. Even the main road from Leek to Hanley was empty for the most part, workmen used a cycle or the bus, if we took a journey into Leek, primarily for the market on a Saturday, it was the bus, and it seemed as if the whole of Woodlands Avenue would be waiting at the bus stop.
As my father worked on a Saturday morning, we would go in with mother , grandmother and one or other of the aunts in the morning for fresh vegetables, season by season, no imported strawberries from Spain in the middle of winter, my father would catch a bus from the Leekbrook factory and meet up, and enjoy the luxury of a half pint of beer in a local hostelry, just one, we children waited outside, yours truly in sole charge of younger brother, sister left at home with another aunt or cousin Jean, depending on who was there at the time, I have no idea where they all slept. I have been back to Leek in the recent past, and the centre hasn’t changed that much that I couldn’t recognise it, not in detail of which shop was where but an overwhelming feeling of familiarity.
Of course, looking back at those early days, my happy life seemed to go on for ever, we had no responsibilities other than to enjoy ourselves, which we certainly did, but of course time doesn’t stand still and before I knew where I was it was 1944 and the news broke on June 6th that the Allied Armies had landed in France. We were in school and Mr Machin called us all into the playground to tell us of the event. I have to admit that I cannot recall how I reacted, or anyone else for that matter, but I do recall him standing there his face solemn, nothing new there, informing us that the tide had turned, did we cheer, I don’t think so, but I do know that my father was really pleased and my mother talked of going back to Great Yarmouth, but that was a long way off. I can remember the front page of the newspaper the next day but that is because on the 50th anniversary those issues were reprinted as souvenirs, but at the time I don’t think we children were aware of how important that day was.
The summer of 1944 was much like those that preceded them from 1940, I can’t recall whether the weather was sunny and warm, but I do know that everything else remained the same, rationing of food was still in place, and it might be interesting to look at our daily diet. As I said earlier the day started with porridge, at the midmorning break we were given a small bottle of milk and then school lunch, this was introduced early in the war to ensure children got a least one good meal each school day and of course another piece of bread and jam or perhaps condensed milk when we arrived home after school to stave off starvation until the evening meal or tea as we referred to it, was on the table. I could not remember exactly what the lunch would have consisted of, but research revealed a sample menu Spam or Cheese and Potato pie with mashed potato and baked beans, or beetroot followed by Jam Roly Poly and Custard, food fit for a king, perhaps not, but we enjoyed it and it kept us going through the long afternoon and walk home. Our school day in summer was 9am- 12pm and 1.30 pm until 3.30pm and in winter 9.30am until 4pm, with a one-and-a-half-hour lunch break, this because the extra summertime hours were not removed in the winter, therefore we could walk to school and back home again in daylight.
Although I and the other refugee children from Great Yarmouth may not have been aware of it, that autumn and summer of 1944 was the beginning of the end of our stay in Staffordshire. The D Day landings in Normandy had been successful and the Allied Forces drove on through France, Belgium and Holland from the south and the Russians through Poland from the east, until in Spring 1945 they were almost at the stage of joining up in the final push on Berlin. What I am about to chronicle is a result of what I remember from then and what I have learned since. The description of what they discovered in the concentration camps in Germany and Poland will be with me forever. The inhumanity of those camps and the people who built and ran them was difficult to believe and certainly impossible to understand and it had a lasting effect upon me and I still after nearly seventy years find I cannot look at pictures of those camps without a mixture of anger and sorrow, even more so in that my maternal grandfather was a Jew and if Hitler had been successful in invading our island that could have been my family.
But he didn’t and on May 8th, 1945 the German High Command signed the surrender documents and the war in Europe was over and Church Bells rang out again for the first time in nearly six years and we had a party, and did we have a party.
If we were going to have a party we would need food and somehow from somewhere food materialised, luckily it was summer, and we were able to hold the party outside. Everyone on our road was involved together with Folly Lane. Tables and chairs ran down Woodlands Avenue, strings of bunting were put up, my father fixed up a loudspeaker system and music was played all afternoon, songs were sung and people danced it was something we had never seen before our parents enjoying themselves, the war was over, in Europe that is, and for one afternoon at least people let their hair down, rationing could be forgotten, there would be another day tomorrow, but just for once we lived for today.
Tomorrow came however and normal service was resumed, we went back to the routine of school and my parents to work, rationing was still on and the war in the far east continued and going back to Great Yarmouth was still a distant dream. We had of course no idea what would happen next, the Atomic bomb meant nothing to the children of Woodlands Avenue and Folly Lane, but it hastened the end of the that part of the war.
Wakes weeks will mean little or nothing to people reading this, but they were in the days I am chronicling the annual holidays for the working man in the North of England. The first Atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, a city in Japan, on the sixth of August 1945 and although we were not and could not be aware of it, changed our lives forever, a second bomb was delivered on the city of Nagasaki on August the ninth 1945 and this was enough for the Japanese nation and on August 15th Emperor Hirohito surrendered, the war was finally over.
We were in Longton Park on that day near the end of the holiday period, we were there for a day out, there were stalls and a fair, things had relaxed since May and I can remember the newspapers with the headline “Japanese Surrender” being sold and everybody buying them, cheering, shaking hands and buying tea and cakes and ice cream as if there were no tomorrow, it was a sunny day and one to remember. Now we could really think about going back to our proper home by the sea.
Chapter 10 – Family Life
But it wasn’t all about being with the gang, there was always family life, I had a younger brother Peter and an even younger sister Christine. When you are adult four year’s difference in age isn’t an enormous gap, but at seven it is, so outside the house I had little or no contact with my brother, he wasn’t old enough to join in our daily games and showed little desire to do so, it is sad to say that my brother and I were never close and as we grew up we didn’t really like each other. I have found photographs of he and I together on the steps leading up to our kitchen on Woodlands Avenue, why it had that name I have not worked out, there was no woodland in sight, and we seemed happy enough, me in school cap and raincoat or mac as we referred to it, and he in a balaclava and boots, he had a thing about wearing boots all his life, as an adult he preferred them to shoes, although when he was an usher at my wedding, at my mothers’ insistence, he did relent and buy some shoes, but as a child unless he had his boots he would be wailing, from my memory he was always crying about one thing or another. If my sister ever reads this she will give a wry smile, I can remember very little about my sister’s involvement in my early life, she was six years younger and a baby, but I can remember that she and Peter contracted measles, and both were very ill, to such an extent that my sister’s life was in danger, for some reason I missed it, but I do recall for two or three weeks I slept on the floor in my parents’ bedroom, on a small mattress, sleeping bag, I don’t think so.
One of the big regrets of my life was that I didn’t ever really get to know my father well. My early life developed within a matriarchal group, my mother, with whom I had a lifelong mutually loving relationship, her sisters, Niobe and Lily and of course my maternal grandmother Georgiana, always known to us as Nanny, I was the apple of her eye, her little Herbo, pronounced in her Great Yarmouth accent “Harbo” and the feeling was mutual, I adored my grandmother, she helped raise me from babyhood.
My grandmother had had an interesting life, but of course I wasn’t aware of it then.
On the 1901 census, she was 15 and in service in a house in Middlegate Street in Great Yarmouth, Georgiana Crickmore. I have built up a little story which I retail whenever I can, I love it. It relates to how and why I was given the name of Herbert.
Picture the following scenario, Georgiana Crickmore in service and morally sound meets up with an itinerant Jewish pedlar who had worked his way from London to Great Yarmouth. My mother’s telling of the story is that he had a box attached to the rear wheel of a bicycle which he peddled and sold pots, pans and sharpened knives. He met my grandmother and sharpened his knife on her and as a result along came my mother’s elder brother Albert, born out of wedlock and given my grandmothers family name Crickmore, the next sharpening saw mother on the scene and it wasn’t until the third sharpening and Aunt Obe was on the way that he determined to make an honest woman of Georgiana, who by now must have been all of twenty years of age. Other than Albert all the rest of the family, my mother Jessie May, Niobe Amelia (Obe), Lily Maud, Leslie, he died in infancy and finally Herbert Spencer all took his family name Chaplin. By now he had given up peddling and worked where he could as a casual labourer, including work as a lumper unloading ship’s cargo and this caused his early death, he slipped from the quayside into the river in the month of February, was partially crushed and died of pneumonia, aged 31, and my mother always said he had never had occasion to shave in his life and did not have a beard, it must be in the genes, I didn’t have to shave regularly until my early twenties and can still go two or three days without a noticeable facial growth.
There was no contact with his London family, he had married out of his faith and was cut loose. In order to try and establish links his youngest son was given the name Herbert, the same name as a wealthy uncle and in turn as the first grandson born in the family so was I, but all contact was refused, and I got stuck with the name, which as I grew up I hated.
But that is to drift away from my mother and her sisters, her brothers Albert, Herbert and step brother Alfie were all in various parts of the world with the British Army and were completely unknown to me until much later in life, but her mother and sisters were very much in evidence, a group not to be trifled with.
My mother was the elder, then Obe and then Lily, who was unquestionably the beauty of the family, and according to my mother was aware of it.
They appeared together, with my grandmother at irregular intervals during our stay away from our home town, and those stays were not just weekends, but a month or more at a time and as one left another appeared, or so it seemed. Of course it was a great help to my mother, meaning that after the birth and weaning of my sister she could take work in the same factory as my father and bring some much needed money into our domestic economy, leaving one or other of Nanny and Obe or Lily to look after the three of us children, in reality my brother and sister, I at six or seven years of age was totally able to look after myself, or so I thought, well as long as food was on the table at the correct time and clothes ready to wear, although I wasn’t much concerned about how often they were washed or laundered.
The fact that they were in loco parentis was taken seriously, and any misdemeanours were dealt with as swiftly and effectively as if it were either of my parents and probably more severely if truth be known, spare the rod and spoil the child seemed to be the family motto, but in truth I probably more than deserved it, that must have been the case for I held no long or short term grudges against any or all of them. My grandmother was probably the easiest to convince of my innocence, which my mother later told me surprised her, for when they were growing up she ruled with a rod of iron and allowed no room for manoeuvre. It was probably because I was the first grandson born into the family and if given the chance I took advantage. This matriarchal ring of power continued when we eventually returned to Great Yarmouth as initially we found ourselves all living next door and opposite each other in the same Row, more of that later when I will explain the word Row.
My Father was an entirely different cup of tea, it is to my everlasting regret that I didn’t really begin to get to know my father until near the end of his life, which was sudden in 1964, on a Sunday, two heart attacks and it was all over, it was twenty years after that before I was able to grieve for my father.
I am sure that one of the reasons for my distance from my father as opposed to the females in the family was the fact that he was hardly ever there, not absent from the family but from family life. My father was a member of the labouring class, no white collar worker he, and that was the problem, he went to work early and came home late, by bicycle or bus or in the bitter Staffordshire winters by foot, and all day heavy manual labour, by the weekend he was exhausted and of course Saturday was a working day until 12.30 or 1pm so his weekend was Saturday afternoon and all day Sunday after a forty four hour working week, no wonder he was tired, I can recall one occasion when we were back in Great Yarmouth, I would have been in my teens, he fell asleep over his evening meal his face ending up in his plate after having been at work from 6.30 am to 7.30 pm it was such occasions that shaped my future political opinions.
In Staffordshire during world war two my father did his bit for King and Country and if he didn’t have too much time for yours truly I didn’t really notice it then and didn’t hold it against him in later life, just regrets when he had gone that I should have tried to know him better. My father was brought up in a world where men were men, they worked for their family but didn’t reveal their emotions, he was strict, he never gave me the benefit of the doubt, his word was law, I don’t recall sitting on his knee, his reading a story or making things together, but he protected me. If I was bullied and I was from time to time, no hesitation, once I had convinced him and he had checked that I was telling the truth, because small boys sometimes do elaborate, he would deal with it, straight to the house of the bully, it was never revealed what took place but it always stopped straight away and not just to me, others of the gang who may have may have suffered at the hands of the bully found their lives a lot easier for a time. I can recall later in life my mother told of an occasion when they were courting, isn’t that a lovely expression, courting, they were at a dance on the Britannia Pier, and as they whirled around the floor, my father was a bit of a fancy dancer by all accounts, a local man nicknamed Tarzan, kept flicking his hand out and touching my mother whenever they passed each other, when that particular dance had ended my father left my mother strolled over to where Tarzan and his friends were gathered, bear in mind my father was about five feet seven or eight, slight of build ,but strong, he warned Tarzan about his behaviour, he must have laughed and made some comment because my father got his nose between two of his fingers and twisted until Tarzan was on his knees in pain, he didn’t touch my mother again. Much later in life, by now I was serving Queen and Country doing my National Service, my sister complained to my father that a young man in his early twenties, who lived a few doors away from us kept touching her on the crowded bus home. My father left off work early caught the same bus but kept away from my sister and the young man, he touched her, probably on the bottom, she told my father as they got off the bus, from the bus stop to our road you had to walk down a lane, my father caught him up, tapped him on shoulder, grabbed him by the nose, and twisted, the man was head and shoulders taller and thirty or more years younger, and my sister said he went down nearly to his knees, “touch my daughter again and I will break your neck”, he didn’t even get on the same bus again, let alone pester my sister, my father was a hero.
Chapter 9 – Our War Time Lives
The gang - I wonder where they are now. Our games continued season by season, with no real understanding of what happy days they were. In 1945 the war in Europe ended, followed soon after by the war in the Far East. But before those momentous occasions I began to see a wider world than the fields around Woodlands Avenue.
As I indicated earlier we regularly played host to my maternal grandmother and aunts, but we also made occasional trips to Great Yarmouth. In retrospect it might be thought that with the bombing continuing we were safer in Cheddleton and I suppose that was true, but the call of home was stronger and for all our new life Great Yarmouth was still our home. My father’s family were all there.
I have vivid memories of one early visit, on the train of course. Travel by rail during the war seemed endless and what would now be a journey of four or five hours took all day and this occasion all night as well. I have no memory of the early part of the journey but can remember that we were due to arrive in Great Yarmouth in the evening and it was dark, so it must have been winter. The train left Norwich on the final stage of the journey but by the time we arrived in Reedham, the last stop before Great Yarmouth the nightly bombing raid had started. I can remember as if it were yesterday sitting in a blacked-out railway carriage looking toward our Home Town and seeing the sky lit by searchlights and explosions. We remained there for several hours, it would have been very cold, but we children must have gone to sleep for we woke up in Lowestoft. The journey then took us to our destination via Southtown Station rather than Vauxhall. By now in daylight, my next memory is walking over the Haven Bridge from the station with our luggage, in bright sunlight with smoke still in the air from the bombing raid of the previous night. Welcome home.
The only other memory of that visit was being put into a cupboard under the stairs during one of the nightly bombing raids that took place while we were on that visit. The children were in the cupboard, my mother and grandmother under the kitchen table and my father who must have been a fatalist remained in an armchair, he was fond of quoting “if your number is due to come up, there is nothing you can do about it”. He died suddenly in June 1964 following two heart attacks in a few hours. That was the day his number came up.
Trips “home” were rare, but visits from family less so, my maternal grandmother and aunts were regular visitors to Woodlands Avenue together with my cousin Jean. She was about three years older than me and of course made me aware of that difference, children do, but when and if I could I would try to assert the authority I enjoyed over my younger brother and sister, not always successfully, on one occasion my failure to do so must have boiled over. We had walked across the field outside our house to meet her mother from the bus but whether we were late or the bus early she was walking towards us down the lane when we saw her. When she met us, she reached into her shopping bag and drew out something small wrapped in newspaper, which she gave to Jean. It was a small block of ice cream, children today with all the choice available would probably not be at all impressed but in the dark days of war it was a treat you could only dream of. There wasn’t one for me or so I thought, and my frantic demands were met with denial, which I later found were meant to be a joke. By then it was too late, my anger at being left out and I suppose my inability to beat my cousin at anything caused me to lash out and I kicked her in the leg. Normally that would have been enough to get punishment, but I was wearing clogs and the gash that was left in her leg meant I didn’t get the other ice cream but also had to face the wrath of my father when he arrived home from work. That was something I didn’t look forward to, and with good reason, he was a small man but not to be trifled with. My father didn’t believe in giving me the benefit of the doubt under any circumstances, my protestations of innocence, which were sometimes justified were always dealt with in the same manner. He was convinced that any misdemeanours on my part which he couldn’t prove were balanced out by punishments issued when not guilty, what he defined as swings and roundabouts.
Life in wartime Cheddleton continued, and as children we were in the main blissfully unaware of it. As we had grown up with rationing and shortages we didn’t feel in any way deprived it was normal and nobody in the house was hungry and as far as I was aware nor any of my friends.
If our lives were not blessed with riches we were not hampered by their lack. If it wasn’t raining we were outside, and away from the watchful eyes of mother. When school holidays came around we were free, free as the air we breathed, free from the daily restriction of school and once out of sight of home free from any boundaries which parents may have imposed.
We were lucky, the open country of Staffordshire was our playground and we made the most of it, out of sight and hearing distance of home but near enough to go back for lunch and tea and in the summer back out again. If my mother worried about not being in constant touch with us it wasn’t apparent. We were given our instructions about the time to be home for lunch or tea and we followed them, we were not burdened with mobile phones nor were we worried about our safety. It was a simple system the older children looked after the younger ones. After all we were used to walking to school every day, whatever the weather without parental accompaniment, so going out all day to play well away from the houses came naturally, in fact we would have bridled at the thought of an adult having to keep an eye on us.
Our only enemy was rain, and Staffordshire was not short of it. Rain kept you in the house, it was like being in prison, and this is where the buttons my mother brought home came in useful. Although we had no luxuries we were not hungry but toys as such were hard to come by, so I made up games with the buttons. Although I can’t recall from this stage of my life what the games were my mother told me later that the button kept me amused for hours on end. I know I had a younger brother and sister, but they were little more that toddlers so if it rained I played on my own, I can’t recall many occasions when friends came around to play or going to their homes, I didn’t ever get past the doorstep of Chinky’s house. If you called for each other you or he or they would be waiting at the garden gate or you would knock on the door and shout, we didn’t have telephones to enable us to make prior arrangements.
There was no TV in those far off days and the wireless wasn’t geared up for children until 5pm each afternoon. At that time, seven days a week on the BBC Home Service we could listen to Children’s Hour and listen we did. Looking back at it now it was probably middle class and a bit patronising, but we were not aware of that, this was a programme on the wireless for us, for children, and we lapped it up.
The main presenter was Uncle Mac who together with Aunty Kathleen held the programme together. As with most BBC programmes on the wireless in those days it had to have substance, it wasn’t there just to entertain but to educate and it did. But it did entertain and if you were to ask people my age to identify what they remember from Children’s Hour it would be more likely Toy Town than any of the nature or more improving items. It surprises me now or on reflection perhaps not that this programme caught our imagination as much as it did. It was a puppet show on the wireless, you couldn’t see the various characters, but we all thought we knew what they looked like. Larry the Lamb and his pal Dennis the Dachshund were as familiar to us as our families as were. The Mayor, Ernest the Policeman and of course Mr Growser the grocer. His name said it all, the forerunner of Victor Meldrew. By the same token the reading of stories was obligatory, Enid Blyton’s Just so Stories, Winnie the Pooh and Worzel Gummidge stand out in my memory. Naturally detective stories were popular, Sherlock Holmes and his loyal number two Doctor Watson, these came in abridged form, although we were not aware of that and perhaps even more popular Norman and Henry Bones, the Boy Detectives. They were brothers who week after week got themselves into and out of tight corners that we could only fantasise about, solving mysterious crimes was second nature to them. On the radio the elder brother was played by Charles Hawtrey who later found fame as a member of the “Carry On” Film company. The obsession with Public Schools which was prevalent in our comics was also evident on the BBC. Jennings at School a series of books by Anthony Buckeridge were dramatised for Children’s Hour. These schools so unlike our own seemed so natural to us that I think we believed we attended such establishments. But we didn’t. At that time Grange Hill and Byker Grove were not even in the embryo stage, and I suspect that the BBC would have recoiled at such programming, they had problems dealing with the uproar following Wilfred Pickles reading the News in a northern accent.
Children’s Hour was our escape, it fed our imagination, widened our horizons and kept us quiet for at least one hour a day, especially in the long dark days of winter.
In the summer months we made every hour of daylight count, and due to double summer time the evenings were long. Our games meant that we roamed far and wide out of sight but within earshot of our parents. When time for bed came Fathers would come to the front gate and call your name. If you were lucky you could ignore the first two but after the third woe betide the tardy. With no school during late July and early September parents were a bit more forgiving regarding the time but when the call came you took heed.
It seems quite odd when looking back to my early childhood to see how confined our lives were. For although we had a freedom that the children of today would love, our world was very limited. A circle about a quarter of a mile in circumference was our world for much of our daily lives, except for our daily journey to school and back during term time and very occasional family jaunts. Although jaunt was not a word I would associate with our family trips. There was always a purpose to these events, we didn’t have a car, nor any of our neighbours, so a day out just to see the local area was not possible. If our destination was not within walking distance it meant catching a bus and the restrictions of the timetable and meals. I cannot recall going into a café to eat until I was much older.
Despite these limitations our world was not dull. The differing seasons brought different opportunities for play and pleasure. Nearly every household grew some sort of vegetables to supplement the meagre wartime rations of meat. Next door Mr Colclough had a passion for beans and peas, and when the growing season was at its height we would lay alongside the fence that separated our garden and pull the pea and bean pods from their stems and eat them. You wouldn’t offer them to mother, she would have asked awkward questions. My father planted potatoes at the far end of our garden, and it was these that gave me, and I am sure my friends our first taste of potatoes cooked over an open fire. The potatoes were black on the outside, and just better than raw on the inside, but to us they tasted wonderful
I don’t remember much fruit being grown but on the way to Consall Steps blackberries grew in abundance and when the season came around we gorged on them and of course returned home with fingers giving the appearance of being printed at a police station.
As mentioned earlier Christmas and birthdays were always highlights of those wartime days and with football being my passion, even though we knew very little of the game outside of our games with a tennis ball. Who taught us the rules?. If you can conjure up the scene a dozen small boys in grey shirts and trousers, socks around their ankles chasing a ball around a field where the length of the grass was probably higher than the ball, jackets laid down as goal posts, constant arguments as to whether the ball was inside or outside the posts/jackets, this was the essence of the beautiful game. No Match of The Day, no Sky Sport, if there were live commentaries on the wireless I don’t remember them, but we knew who we were when we were playing, Stanley Matthews, Raich Carter, Eddie Hapgood, Len Goulden, Vic Woodley, Tommy Lawton and many others we all had our favourites, of course we all wanted to be Tommy Lawton, a centre forward, a goal scorer and no one wanted to be in goal, so the wrestling would commence to determine who played where, not that positioning meant anything once the ball was in play, at that point it took on a magnetic effect, with everyone chasing and kicking at it, happy days.
Back to Christmas and the excitement of a present or two, and it was a present or two, not the cornucopia you see nowadays. Toward the end of the war, although we didn’t know it then, so it must have been 1944, my Christmas present was a real leather football, size 4, a real leather football, it was unknown for one of our gang to have such a gift, I was the very first boy in the gang to have a real football and as far as I can recall the only one, and was I popular, well I was when the jealousy faded away, I can remember very clearly gang members wrestling each other for the privilege of just carrying it down to the field, of course we played in our school shoes in fact our clogs, so the ball took a battering, no fancy coloured boots, club replica shirts and shorts, just a ball, clogs and a gang of little boys, truly a beautiful game. To this day I don’t know where my father found the money for such a luxury, but if in his lifetime he had not given me anything else at least on Christmas Day 1944 he made me the happiest boy in the world
As we had no football on TV or the wireless and no football magazines how we knew who our favourites were, obvious, cigarette cards. In the 21st century cigarettes have a bad reputation and justifiably so, but in those far off days they were our window on the world, well the little picture cards that came in the packets certainly were. Aeroplanes, motor cars, ships, animals, wild flowers, film stars, literary characters, scenes from films and theatre productions, cricketers and the most desirable of all footballers, and that is where we found our favourites, and of course in our own eyes were able to reproduce their skills on our rough football pitch. Cigarette cards also had another facet, like comics they could be used as currency, to be bartered or swopped or won in a game, they were multipurpose objects before the word had been invented.
As in all societies our group had a hierarchical structure, the older you were the more likely it was that your ideas would be the ones that determined play for the day, I was never the gang leader, that privilege lay with young Jack Hillyard, he being at least two years older, and almost able to challenge Joan Colclough when it came to the school walk each day, but he didn’t, but out of term time it was different, Joan rarely joined in the daily games so young Jack was king, and we courtiers, Jack decided what the game of the day would be and we followed, sometimes offering up an alternative strategy which he accepted if it remained within his basic premise, because I lived next door, I was slightly favoured but only slightly, and if I wasn’t exactly frightened by him, I was intimidated. My time in the sun came when I received the present of the football, suddenly my star was in the ascendant, Jack took me under his wing, I was almost his lieutenant but only almost. I met him again years on, I would be about sixteen and by then he was working back in Great Yarmouth at the same factory as my father and he was just an ordinary young man in dungarees and not at all the god like creature of my childhood, we spoke briefly, and I haven’t seen him since. He will be an old man now.
Chapter 8 – It’s Not All About Comics
But life wasn’t all comic books, we spent most of our time outside of the house. If the weather was anything less than rain you were despatched out so as not to get under mothers’ feet, but we didn’t mind it meant freedom, freedom to roam the surrounding lanes and fields with their trees, bushes and ponds. As I got older I was introduced to and read voraciously the Just William books by Richmal Crompton, why were they so popular? Well it is clear, his life and adventures mirrored ours, although we were never as bold as that heroic figure. But we had a den, cut bows and arrows, made swords with cardboard protection for our hands, rode imaginary horses, and fought imaginary enemies, and all without the “protection” of a mobile telephone. We would go out straight after breakfast, collect up the gang, we didn’t knock on doors, but just stood at the end of the front path, outside the front gate and waited. Out they came one after another until all the gang were accounted for unless of course family commitments got in the way in which case you went on your way leaving behind a pal with a doleful countenance. On our road and in the bungalows across the field lived a few girls, although the boys outnumbered them, and they were allowed to follow along, and follow along was the operative word, boys were in charge or so they thought, they could run faster, climb higher, and were stronger in the inevitable wrestling matches that took place almost every day, although the girls always seemed to come up with placatory answers to settle any arguments and nearly always seemed to get their own way without having to boast or fight, there is a lesson there somewhere. So straight after breakfast we were out of the house, returning for lunch, how we knew when to go back I don’t know, nobody had a wristwatch, perhaps our stomachs were our clock, get your sandwiches, usually jam, down as quickly as possible and then out once more, with the collection process starting all over again, all of these activities aided by double summer time, done to give farmers longer days it was like living in Scandinavia to us, virtually permanent daylight. And so, our days went on, looking back it was a blissful time.
But of course these were summertime activities, the winters in Cheddleton were of a different nature, they were bleak, bitterly cold and an abundance of snow, later when recalling these winters my father told of how because of the ice and snow on the roads between our village and the factory at Leekbrook the buses came to a standstill and so the men walked the three miles from home to work and we walked to school about three quarters of a mile, if the schools closed then I don’t remember it but of course in those days teachers lived close to the school and walked or cycled in to bless us with their knowledge. Keeping warm was upper most in our minds, no central heating so what did we have? Certainly, as far as 13 Woodlands Avenue was concerned a fireplace in all the downstairs rooms, but I can’t be sure about the bedrooms, I can remember when the cold weather arrived our bedrooms were very cold and waking in the morning to find your breath had frozen on the inside of the window pane making beautiful plant like frost patterns. We didn’t have carpet on the floor upstairs or down, linoleum or sale as it was referred to by my parents with rugs or mats to stop your feet from freezing, so how did we keep warm? The open fires in the downstairs rooms helped although I think today they would not be considered fuel or heat efficient and the feather mattresses and heavy eiderdowns ensured you were warm in bed and once in you were very reluctant to get out again, so calls of nature were ignored for as long as possible and as we didn’t have an upstairs toilet a chamber pot was under the bed, looking back it is difficult to see why, if a bathroom had been installed, why no hot water connection to bath or basin and why no toilet when the plumbing was there, but as least we had electricity upstairs and down, the older houses at the top of the road were not so lucky. One other thing springs into my mind, how my mother did the washing, in addition to the electric cooker, we had another modern device, a boiler to do the weekly wash with, next door Mrs Colclough had a dolly tub which compared to the boiler was very labour intensive but having done the wash then a mangle was require to squeeze the water out prior to it being hung on the linen line to dry. My memory regarding the next step, the ironing is vague as far as Cheddleton is concerned but much sharper when we get back to Great Yarmouth.
However, cold or not, we spent as much time as possible outside, running around warmed you up and if it didn’t rain we were out and about, all year round. Snow of course meant snowmen and snowballs and a longer journey to school but best of all the ice slides. Health and safety as I write would frown on it, but where ever possible an ice slide would appear, in the school yard, on the road, wherever there was frost on the ground and room to run at it. Some seemed to go on for thirty yards, but I suspect not, much as Wetley Rocks seemed to touch the sky, but I was much smaller then.
All of these activities were carried out with your friends, but sometimes you had to go out with your family, and what a cloud descended on those occasions, looking out of the window and seeing the collection process taking place and not being able to stroll out and take your rightful place was akin to being shut in prison especially as you could see no good reason for it. I don’t remember taking what we now know as a holiday, there was a war on, this became a familiar litany from my father, it was a great help to him, a reason for refusing any reasonable request which was outside the usual requirements of day to day living, “sorry, there is a war on” and to be truthful I don’t think he was sorry, just pleased to have an excuse. We did however go on “Days Out”, excursions into the what was then the great unknown, not just to me as a six or seven-year-old, but also my parents, to whom what the various delights Staffordshire and Derbyshire had to offer were a big a mystery. There was no car so all our travelling was done by bus or train, or on very special trips a Motor Coach and I think it fair to say now with hindsight, those people who moan about the huge number of cars on the modern roads, should have a taste of getting a family of two adults and three small children around for just a day on public transport, you needed a Sherpa to carry everything and if you were in any way tardy you could your miss your bus/train/coach at the beginning or end of your day out and the whole thing would be ruined.
The days out, unwelcome as they may have been when looking out of the window, were in the main very enjoyable. Our first visit to Belle-Vue Zoo stands out in my memory. For those of you who don’t know, the Zoo was in Manchester, almost opposite Manchester City’s old ground at Maine Road. It was the first time I had seen an elephant other than a picture in a book, and to be truthful I am not sure I had even seen a picture of one, or giraffes, lions, tigers, apes etc. Belle Vue is no longer there it is now a business park and was until someone sensibly turned it down due to be the home of a Super Casino, I can’t think of anything more likely to desecrate the wonderful memories I have of the Zoo. Now I realise the distance was at least fifty miles, with a car nothing, but in those dark wartime days, an epic, not be taken lightly and nor was it, but we made it there and back and as far as I can remember no tantrums from anyone
Trips to the cinema or theatre were rare, I can remember seeing a film called Thunderhead, Son of Flicka, starring Roddy McDowell, then a boy actor, later to star in the original Planet of the Apes. A visit to the pantomime at the Theatre Royal in Stoke to see Cinderella, where they brought a coach with real horses onto the stage still stands out in my memory, but we didn’t do that sort of thing very often, and not only because of the expense. The journey to Stoke to the cinema or theatre was an exercise that needed planning and was accompanied by a familiar warning from my father “no wants”, in other words don’t ask for extra treats, if there were any treats, a bag of sweets perhaps, they were doled out with the advice ” there is another day tomorrow” which made you accept they would be few and far between, however I can’t recall that it made me unhappy, because tomorrow I would be back with the gang.
Chapter 7 – The Love of the Comic
The main source of entertainment for us as children in wartime was the comic, and in its way our first form of currency, a desirable comic could be swapped for two or more publications that were less so. There were comics for all age groups starting with Tiny Tots, Rainbow, Play Box and Tiger Tim’s Weekly for the very young, for the relatively grown up among us, Dandy, Beano, Knockout, Film Fun and Radio Fun, all of these were predominantly made up of pictures with bubble speech and then for the older statesman, Wizard, Hotspur, Rover, Champion and Adventure which had proper stories with perhaps one drawn picture at the start of the story, and you needed to be able read properly to get the best out of them. As I grew older, when the war had ended, and we returned to Great Yarmouth American comic books started to become available which opened a whole new world.
I can’t recall much of the comic papers, as they were grandly called, for the very young except that they were very colourful, but the Beano and Dandy remain firmly in my memory. During the period of the war, due to a paper shortage, they were published on alternate weeks, by DC Thomson in Dundee, the schoolboy’s friend. The front cover of The Dandy featured Korky the Kat and in the Beano Eggo the Ostrich, but it was the inside features where the favourites could be found. Among others in the Dandy you met Desperate Dan, a cowboy of gigantic proportion especially his chin, who appeared to live on enormous cow pies, cooked in oversized dishes with horns sticking out, by his long suffering Aunt Aggie, Hungry Horace, whose name says it all, Keyhole Kate a schoolgirl with an insatiable curiosity about other people’s business and my favourites Our Gang, a cartoon strip taken from a Hollywood short film series of the same name, and later Black Bob the Wonder dog, however for all those delights my preference was for the Beano, Lord Snooty and his Gang were in direct opposition to Our Gang, Tom Thumb, Pansy Potter the Strong Mans Daughter, and from that all boys in our school with the surname Potter were given the nickname “Pansy”, The Shipwrecked Circus and my favourite Jimmy’s Magic Patch, this was about a boy whose trousers were patched on the seat with a piece of Ali Baba’s Magic Carpet, and if he wished for something it whisked him off to another adventure. These comics were treasured and read again and again and swapped, you didn’t get every copy on the week they were published, after all they cost 3d- that’s 1.25p in today’s money and it wasn’t always available to be spent on such luxuries. Film Fun and Radio Fun were exactly as the titles suggest comics featuring stars of the silver screen and the wireless, I recall that Laurel and Hardy featured on the front and back page of the former and Arthur Askey on the front of the latter. With Film Fun it was interesting that although Laurel and Hardy, a Hollywood pairing graced the front cover, the characters inside, Old Mother Riley, George Formby, Frank Randle, apart from Joe. E. Brown were all British.
Radio Fun however was totally home grown, featuring Max Miller, Revnell and West, a female “schoolgirl” comedy duo, Jack Warner, Vic Oliver and a relatively new comedian Charlie Chester, they also ran a printed story with Inspector Stanley of the Yard and his nemesis The Falcon. Oh, happy days.
I was also lucky that my uncle, in The Fire Brigade in Great Yarmouth also liked comics, and he regularly sent The Wizard for me to read, but not to swap. The Wizard was different to the comics already described, together with several others the stories were on the page not in cartoon picture format, however the content was remarkably similar, rather like Television is now, if one Channel finds a successful formula another will copy it, so it was with comics, stories featured either athletes, football, a detective, wartime hero or an up-market boarding school. The Wizard had the inimitable William Wilson, ageless, he was born in 1795 his adventures covered so many years he must have been an old man, but he didn’t change, always wearing the same outfit a black one-piece costume, like a leotard. In his adventures he ran the first mile under four minutes, climbed Mount Everest single-handedly without cold weather clothing or oxygen, fought the Germans, he was a heroic figure. The Wizard was one of five similar comics published by DC Thompson the others being The Rover, Hotspur, Adventure and Champion and I started to read them at about age seven. All them pursued similar themes but with differing hero’s, in the Wizard as well as Wilson, there was, and a particular favourite, Limp along Leslie, a football yarn about a lad who lived on a farm with his widowed mother and his trusty sheepdog, the title tells all, he was injured early in life and made up for his limp by teaching himself skills that in football today would not be regarded out of the ordinary but back then were exceptional, bending the ball etc. In the Rover the football story revolved around player manager Nick Smith supported by his tough wing half Arnold Tabbs, he of the toothy grin, The Adventure’s hero of the panelled ball was Baldy Hogan another player manager, the Hotspur kept us up to date with the exploits of Cannonball Kidd, but as far as the Champion is concerned I can’t remember a football yarn, but I do recall a cricket story featuring Kangaroo Kennedy, the Demon bowler.
Another very popular series of story lines were those featuring Public Schools and Detectives, the former had Red Circle, with boys from all over the world, in the Hotspur, Jimmy Keane of Greycliffe Fourth in the Champion, Smith of the Lower Third in the Wizard, the Iron Teacher in the Rover and Professor Potter in the Adventure, as for the Detectives the ones I remember best are Dixon Hawke in the Adventure and Colwyn Dane in the Champion, there were probably others but then it was a long time ago, almost seventy years ago, so together with all the other stories these comics made up for the lack of play stations, TV and cinema visits for children.
Chapter 6 – The School Years
But all good things had to come to an end and in 1943 at the age of six it was time to go to school, Wetley Rocks Church of England School, I have been back to see where I commenced my full-time education, and apart from the scale of size it is exactly as I remembered it. As I said we walked to school, down the lane, over a stile, through two or three fields, up and over The Rocks that gave the village its name, across the road, down a lane and school was on the right, behind ran a stream, where on sunny days in the summer term if you were brave or foolhardy you could sneak out, remove clogs and socks and paddle in the crystal clear water, there was a small stone bridge for racing sticks, the stream was populated with tiny fish, newts, dragon flies and if you were not caught, shared with small boys. Being caught was a constant risk, this was a very small village school, our class was only eleven pupils, I still have an old school report, and although my memory is vague I know there were other classes but not that many children that a few heading off to the stream would not be missed, and on the one occasion I plucked up enough courage to join the paddlers the headmaster Mr Machin, decided to have a round up and although we had enough warning to get away before he arrived I had no time to dry my feet and learned one of life’s lessons,
long woollen socks do not pull easily onto wet feet and legs, and because I wasn’t prepared to walk barefoot over the stony ground back to the school yard, I slipped my bare feet into the clogs, in those day’s small boys wore short trousers and my misdemeanour was quickly evident and together with two more were lined up in front of the other pupils and given a dressing down, I didn’t do it again.
Clogs, what a memory, we didn’t have shoes for school, we wore clogs, unlike the wooden ones favoured by the Dutch, these were made of leather, laced, and to prolong wear had a V shape metal strip on the sole, looking back it is hard to believe but we did everything in them, football, cricket, walking, running, climbing and especially kicking, for if you were set upon, they were a very handy form of defence, they were of course used by all the pitmen but not by our fathers, it was a very quick way of sorting out who was local and who not, but for reasons of economy nearly all the boys I knew were clog wearers.
To a boy of six The Rocks, which we climbed down in the morning and up in the evening seemed like Mount Everest, there were of course well-worn paths to follow, which most girls took, but of course the boys, had to climb up and down the cliff face still continuing some imaginary attack on a German Fort or Red Indian Camp, often arriving at school as Miss Alcock was ringing the bell, hair awry, clothes dusty at best and clogs scuffed, ready and eager for another day of learning.
As I cast my mind back, nearly all the children from Folly Lane or Woodlands Avenue were at the same school and names have come drifting back to me, Young Jack Hillyard, his father was blessed with the same name, Maureen Warner, Jean Yarham, they were cousins, my own cousin Jean who came to live with us for a while to get away from the bombs at home, all from Great Yarmouth and locals, Joan Colclough, who led us all to school, Mildred Capewell, my particular pal Trevor Curbishley known to all as ‘Chinky’, I don’t know why, and one of the early loves of my life Barbara Bunting, dark hair and eyes and plaits , I am sure there are more but it is a long time ago. We were lucky we had miles of countryside to explore and use, behind the first houses in the avenue, there was a large field with a pond shaded by trees on one side, it was really a water hole for the cattle, but proved to be a magnet for us, further afield through what I remember as Parkland we would walk to Consall Steps, the steps leading into a gorge with a river running through it and had at one time been used for some sort of quarrying, there were caves in the side of the gorge, ideal for games involving smugglers and pirates, of course we were not supposed to be there on our own, and it was important not to give the game away when questioned by mother “what have you been doing?”
Life was not all peaches and cream however, not that we knew what peaches were or cream, although one highlight came in 1943 when we had a new baby sister Christine, for late starters my parents were making great efforts to catch up, three children in six years, at a time when bringing children into a world at war was either very brave or foolish, I prefer to think the former.
With school came all the things that go with it, mumps, measles, chicken pox, and of course whooping cough and the ordinary common cold, of course I went one better, scarlet fever, then a disease that required separation. As a result of this I was despatched to The Isolation Hospital for three weeks, I remember that a school friend, Mildred Capewell, “Mindy” was there at the same time. The Boys ward had high ceilings and long windows. There was a common room, where everybody met containing puzzles and games. The Hospital was built in large grounds and if the weather was fine we could go outside in our pyjamas and dressing gowns, the latter supplied by the hospital. I was an adult before I bought another one. Later, during our stay in Cheddleton I contracted diphtheria, which was a very serious illness. I still have the memory of being wrapped in my father’s raincoat and taken by Ambulance to the hospital, it was late at night and dark, I can even recall the Doctor examining my throat and observing that it looked as if there was a large piece of apple lodged in my throat.
The war of course had another effect on children, with no sweets readily available and few if any of the families possessing cars and “junk food” not yet invented most children were lean and fit, due in no small measure to our walking to school and the games we played, always on foot and mostly running. Clothing was straight forward, boys wore short trousers, long socks with elastic garters, the latter charged with the almost impossible task of keeping them up just under the wearers knee and offering some air of tidiness, but mostly down around the ankles, the elastic garter being recycled into something much more useful, like a catapult. Above the waist a shirt mostly grey, short sleeve in the summer, and a woollen jumper, again grey or possibly navy and over that a jacket again grey and to finish the ensemble clogs, girls wore dresses or skirts and blouses, cardigans, shoes and white ankle socks, and in the colder weather long coats, we all looked alike, probably because we all had our clothes from the same place The Co-op in Stoke or Leek, if denim jeans had been invented they certainly hadn’t made an appearance in Cheddleton, and without the battery of advertising which is aimed at children today we didn’t have to ask for the numerous items of apparel necessary to be cool, in any case asking would have been a waste of time, life was much simpler then.
There was another good reason for the simplicity of our lives, lack of money. Men worked long hours for low wages and the cost of providing a roof over the family’s heads, food in their mouths, coal for the fire and electricity for cooking and lighting took up most of the money coming into the house leaving very little for frivolous living, although birthdays and Christmas were always observed. The state of war however, had one beneficial effect, with men away in the Armed Forces the work they would have done for the war effort was handed over to women one of whom was my mother, enabled to do so by my grandmother and the aunts moving in with us at various times and sharing the burden of looking after myself, my brother and my new sister, although where they slept is still a mystery. Mothers work, as well as adding much needed money to the family income also brought into the house hundreds of buttons of all shapes and sizes, my mother’s job was to cut them from old clothes which were then, by some miracle beyond my understanding then and now, turned into uniforms, the buttons were not required and ended up in tins in our house and were a source of endless indoor play for me over the next few years, for as we moved around so did the buttons although their number diminished as the years rolled on.
Our life in Cheddleton carried on without much incident, being in the middle of England and away from centres which the Germans thought important enough to bomb, we were, as children hardly aware of the war, although as a family we listened to the BBC news every evening, the bulletins giving news of events which to children were well beyond our understanding. My father being over forty was lucky to be in a reserved occupation, war work, and not required to “join up”, but he had two brothers and a brother-in-law in the army and a brother in the navy, my mother had three brothers, all in the army, and a brother-in-law in the RAF and another in the Fire Service in Great Yarmouth, so the family certainly “did their bit”, and by good fortune all came back unscathed, at least physically, my mother’s step brother Alfie was in the army, serving in the Middle Eastern Campaign with the Long Range Desert Group, fighting mostly behind German lines, my mother said he was never the same man again after his return, although he was my favourite uncle and I loved him which was reciprocated, after his funeral many years later, my mother revealed the mystery of his change from a carefree young man to the taciturn returnee, he was closer to my mother than any other of his step siblings, and told her that he had had to shoot one of his own comrades, the reason was never revealed, but he lived with it for the rest of his life.
Home life was simple, you woke in the morning, had breakfast, porridge, homemade, overnight, with sugar if you were lucky and the ration hadn’t run out, and if it had, broken biscuits or the occasional luxury of golden syrup to add a sweet flavour to the stodgy start to the day. Walk to school, across the fields, sandwiches in your pocket, no fancy lunch boxes with Disney characters to cheer you up, a hard day in school, walk home again and depending on the contrary Staffordshire weather, played outside until you were called in for tea. Because of rationing certain foods were unheard of, I can’t remember eating an orange or banana until well after the war ended, ice cream at home was unheard of, we were lucky to live near the Blakeman Farm, he provided local people with a regular if small supply of fresh eggs, milk, potatoes and very occasionally home cured bacon. Home grown produce from the shops was seasonal, but plentiful at the appropriate time of the year, no strawberries from Egypt or southern Spain in December, lettuces were available in the summer only and from January onwards you lived on root vegetables, Swede, Turnip, parsnip all going into stews, the word casserole wasn’t used in our house, together with the tiny meat ration.
Looking back there were favourites then which are still in our cupboards, condensed and evaporated milk, Camp bottled coffee, Spam or pork luncheon meat as it is grandly titled now, baked beans, jam, split peas, homemade thick pea soup with the addition of a ham hock and Norfolk Dumplings, was not only food fit for kings, it was cheap and lasted two days, my mother or grandmother or one of the aunts, whoever was on duty, shopped and cooked every day and the memory of coming in hungry from school into a kitchen filled with smell of good plain wholesome cooking will remain with me for ever, especially as the walk up the lane took you past about twelve or more houses with similar activities taking place, so that you were ravenous by the time you opened the back door, and had to be consoled with a doorstep sandwich of jam or condensed milk, and the out again to play, bliss.
Chapter 5 – War Time Entertainment
With television having been invented in the late 1930’s and the preserve of the rich within a twenty mile radius of Alexandra Palace on the edge of inner London, and then switched off for the duration it meant that the radio or wireless as it was called in those days was our main source of news and entertainment, the nearest cinemas were in Leek or Stoke and ‘going to the pictures’ was a treat indeed. Before the war started Britain could receive broadcasts in English from Europe, mainly light entertainment interspersed with advertising, Radio Luxembourg and Radio Normandy from France, Hilversum from Holland and Athlone from the Irish Free State, but with the occupation of Europe by the Germans and falling out with the Irish over neutrality the BBC was the only service available, unless you had access to a shortwave radio and could pick up Voice of America or ‘Lord Haw Haw ‘ with his propaganda broadcasts from Berlin. The BBC had two services The National Programme which offered although offered is not the best description, gave you music and light entertainment and The Home Service for the more serious provision, the BBC were fastidious in sticking to the requirement of education as well as entertainment but as that was all there was we lapped it up.
The comparison between scheduling now and then is interesting, during that period of my life the emphasis was on programmes that offered improvement, entertainment being secondary although as the war progressed it dawned on the Government and the hierarchy at the BBC that the spirits of the nation needed lifting, and programmes were put on that aimed to do that, Music While You Work and Workers Playtime, were two examples, the former thirty minutes of “popular music” being broadcast at 10.30 am and 15.30 pm into factories and the latter a half hour slot at 12.30 transmitted from a factory “Somewhere in Britain” featuring comedians and singers, accompanied by a piano, it being too expensive to take a band around. These two programmes proved to be popular both to those working and at home to such an extent that they lasted until the 1960’s. These were primarily aimed at an adult audience, but of course as children were not at school all day and every day you became familiar with them as you grew up, remember father controlled the wireless and there was only one in the house.
Of course, the wireless was more than just entertainment, it was also the main means of getting over information and propaganda. Although we didn’t like that word, it was linked too closely with Herr Goebbels in Germany. The news highlighted the progress the Allies were making, or more truthfully how it wasn’t going as badly as it could have been etc and of course for stirring speeches notably from Prime minister Winston Churchill and occasionally The King. However, most of my memories are of the entertainers and the shows they were in. The most popular “ITMA” starring Tommy Handley, Jack Warner, who in later TV life played the role of Dixon of Dock Green, his sisters Elsie and Doris Waters with a cross talk act as two Char Ladies “Gert and Daisy, The Western Brothers, Kenneth and George, I still don’t know if they were brothers, Max Miller, Arthur Askey, Tommy Trinder and Northern comedians Rob Wilton, Sandy Powell, Jimmy James, Norman Evans and Albert Modley, I must have heard them only occasionally because their transmissions would have been in the evening and I was in bed by eight weekdays, but before that happened there was Children’s Hour but more of that later.
Chapter 4 – Moving to Staffordshire
This move was one of those happy accidents of life I referred to at the beginning of this piece, we were safe
from the endless night time bombing which reduced many areas of the town to rubble and although the house we had lived in remained untouched that is no guarantee that we would have escaped injury or worse going to or taking refuge in the Bomb Shelters, in contrast Cheddleton was a haven of peace, with nearest bombing taking place in Manchester over fifty miles away.
Our refuge was very different from Great Yarmouth our new home was on the very outskirts of a medium sized village. I suppose it could have been described as a hamlet, if a lane off the main road with a few houses and a small shop fitted even that description. A good mile from the main village it was probably nearer to Wetley Rocks where I would eventually go to school than Cheddleton and it was here we commenced the next phase of our lives at 13 Woodlands Avenue, Folly Lane, Cheddleton, Staffs, no postal codes in those days.
We were not the only refugees from our home town, several other families made that move, and I can still remember some of the names, Hillyard, Tripp, Swann, Warner, Fish, Yarham, Simmons and more whose names may come back to me in time, all these families were housed in the same road, today it would be described as an enclave, but they very soon settled in and in the main found acceptance from their new neighbours, I recall that we had a Yarmouth family, the Tripps’ on one side and the Colcloughs local to the area on the other, they had one daughter Joan, older than me, but it couldn’t have been a great difference for when I reached school age, we walked there together. My father and his colleagues were sent to work at Joshua Wardle, a textile factory in Leekbrook, three or four miles away towards Leek, making the ubiquitous silk for parachutes; eventually my mother and several of the women would also take up employment for the same company, one of the by-products being the appearance in our home of quantities of buttons of all colours and sizes, but more of that later. I can remember the house clearly, semi-detached, redbrick, the front fence and gate made of wooden rails, just inside the gate a large rock, three steps led up to the front door which opened into a small hall with the staircase to the upper floor, and two doors one to the living room, and the second to the kitchen, each room warmed by a coal fire, and as far as my mother was concerned a wonderful modern item, an electric cooker, or stove as it was called by my parents, this being just one of the differences in language we were to experience, occasioned by this move. The kitchen ran along the rear of the house with a door to the garden in the side of the property, a fair sized
back garden with a drystone boundary wall at the far end and dividing fences made up of three strands of wire, easy for a small boy to crawl through. Upstairs there were three bedrooms and a bathroom, which had cold but not hot water connected, to take a bath the hot water had to be taken up by hand, one up from the zinc bath most people would bring in on a Friday, Saturday or Sunday for the family bath session. We were to be here for the next five years, broken by very occasional visits to Great Yarmouth, but enlivened by more than occasional visits by my maternal grandmother and the aunts.
As far as I was concerned those years were very happy, Woodlands Avenue had houses on one side only, the other being a large field owned by a local farmer, bounded on the far side by the bungalows on Folly Lane, as I grew older this field when not being grazed by cows, was in turn according to the season a football or cricket pitch, or failing that a meeting ground for the children both local and incomers, who as children universally do, treated each other at first with suspicion and then with familiarity, and that is where the question of differing speech patterns became obvious, we sounded very different to the local children and were made aware of it by the taunting and attempted copying of our east of England accents, and I can remember retreating home in tears because I had been humiliated for my non Staffordshire dialect, but we learned quickly and soon began to use local words in our everyday speech and by the time we eventually returned to Great Yarmouth, I was so immersed in our adopted tongue, I received the same treatment all over again from new found friends in my home town.
Chapter 3 – Evacuation Times
Of course, being only four years old when we embarked upon life in Cheddleton my horizons were somewhat limited. I had to remain within the range of my mother’s vision, and as the kitchen was at the rear of the house, this meant being confined to the back garden together with our neighbour’s children. As I grew older the garden became, in my imagination, the unseen football stadia I had heard of or read about, peopled by players I had not seen play, but who were familiar from cigarette cards. At the age of six I made the great leap from fantasy to reality and was taken by my father to see Stoke City play against Newcastle Utd at the Victoria Ground. As far as the visiting team was concerned, I can remember one name only, Albert Stubbins. A red headed centre forward, who was creating a stir at that time and being touted as a future England player. It was not to be, but he did eventually move to Liverpool and enjoyed moderate success. The Stoke side remain in my memory as if it was yesterday. In goal Denis Herod, full backs Mould and McUre, a half back line of Frank Mountford, Neil Franklin and Jock Kirton, and a forward line to be reckoned with, the incomparable Stanley Matthews, Frank Bowyer, Freddie Steele, who had as little hair as Stubbins was blessed, Tommy Sale, and the second Mountford brother George, unless you are of a certain age and live in or around Stoke many of these names will be unknown to you, Matthews of course everybody knows, being in that group of English players who are legendary, Dixie Dean, Tommy Lawton, Tom Finney, Bobby Moore, Bobby Charlton, Jimmy Greaves, there may be modern players who will one day qualify to join them, but just at present I can’t think of any.
The football was still ahead however, and our lives settled into a routine, play for the children and work for the parents, I can remember walking with my mother into Cheddleton village passing The Copse on the left and Beresford’s Bus Garage on the right, it is still there, my mother pushing my newly born brother in the pram, down a quite steep hill, Cronny Bank, to the small cluster of shops that supplied our everyday needs, our major fuel was coal, which of course was delivered as was the milk and bread, but in the village there was a greengrocer, butcher and general store/post office, and I am sure there would have been a couple of pubs, but I was too young to go out in the evening to find out. One thing I do remember quite distinctly is the snow in the winter, lots of it, and the buses, or buzzes as the local pronunciation dictated, would have a struggle to maintain schedules on the frozen roads,
Woodlands avenue was a long road, consisting of two separate communities, the newer houses, and the original properties which always seemed smaller and darker in colour, and whose occupants almost a different breed, I recall my father saying they were mostly miners from a local pit, that they didn’t mix and kept their coal in the bath, they received the coal free, no doubt as part of their wages, which seemed to upset my father, whether it was the coal being free or where they allegedly stored it, I am not sure to this day; one thing of which I am certain is that the children from those houses and ours and those from the bungalows across the field did not mix, no hostility, just didn’t meet or play together.
Although we didn’t play with the children from the original houses, we were aware of them, our games were not dissimilar to those played by infants and juniors today, skipping, more popular with girls than boys was a cheap and easy game to take part in, and they went in for singing games where one by one they would be removed until the last girl remained, I do know that these games were a mystery to me then and remained so for the rest of my boyhood, boys however went in for less complicated activities, Cowboys and Indians, English and Germans, and as we grew older, football, with a tennis ball, try playing that on a field where the grass was kept short by grazing, and of course the obligatory wrestling matches, as boys tried to establish and then maintain superiority within the group, now as I watch on TV; groups of pack animals going through the same ritual , it brings it all back. Our biggest enemy was rain, we hated it, you had to stay in the house, and as far as I can remember alone with mother, I cannot recall groups of friends coming around to play and “sleepovers” were out of the question, we didn’t have the room and we didn’t have the food to give away to other people’s children.
Possessions were few and treasured, if one of the gang had a new toy it was envied, but there was little peer pressure in those days and absolutely nothing to be gained from asking Mother or Father to supply the same as your friend, you had what you had and made the most of it, one treasure I do recall was a toy pistol, metallic blue, and even then it was not the whole of the pistol, it was made in two sections and I had the right hand side, I never found out who had the left, but it served its purpose, it looked like the real thing, others among my friends had rifles and pistols fashioned from wood either crudely carved from the solid or even more crudely joined together with nails, how we knew how to conduct our games I don’t know, we had no cinema to be our guide and television was unknown, but we kept ourselves occupied all our waking hours in that wonderful world of children’s imagination.
Chapter 2 – The Coronation
The year nineteen thirty-seven was quite a significant one in Great Britain, but my birth had no impact on events at all, however it was Coronation Year. In 1936, Edward the Eighth had abdicated the throne and a younger brother took on the task of being king. At that time Europe was in ferment, with Hitler and his Nazi party, by now in complete control in Germany and looking around for territory to claim or reclaim, but in Great Yarmouth things went on as usual. It seems I was not an easy child, my mother told tales of visits to the Hippodrome Circus, during one of which my misbehaviour was such, that we, my mother, her mother, her sisters, my cousin and I were asked to leave, on another occasion while attending a Bible Class, I chose to discuss at length differences I apparently had with the Church Leader, Captain Tippler, but really, with a name like that who could take him seriously, I was not yet three and I was evidently spoiled but being the only boy, surrounded by my mother, grandmother and the aunts that was going to happen. On a brighter side the news was not all bad, I have memories taken from snapshots of sunny days on the beach, although even then I was able to spoil the party, one such occasion was a visit to Sandy Hook, an area of beach on the river bank just inside the Harbours Mouth, we had enjoyed a pleasant day until it was time to leave at which point I chose to “put my parts on” in other words refusing to go quietly and throwing a monumental tantrum until my Father who had less patience with my bad behaviour than Mother dealt with the situation in a summary manner and order was restored. I can recall visits to the Pleasure Beach, a permanent Fun Fair at the southern end of the main promenade, where I remember looking at what seemed then to be a gigantic figure not unlike the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, and being the possessor of a Lucky Jim Doll, he was the logo on Force Flakes, competitors to Kellogg’s.
We were not long in Morley’s Alley, and our next move was to a dwelling over Curry’s Radio Shop on The Market Place, this was a major step up as there were more rooms than we could use, so some of the bedrooms were used for lodgers and of course contained several modern amenities one of which was a bathroom, luxury. I don’t have any recall of our life there but as a boy of seven or eight I can remember it being pointed out to me, by then of course there had been a war and Great Yarmouth had been subject to heavy bombing by the Luftwaffe, but somehow the building had escaped damage of any sort, but new tenants had been installed and we had to live elsewhere.
The period between that move and the Declaration of War was, according to my Mother, both happy and rewarding, with my Father’s work, including overtime, making silk for parachutes for the ensuing conflict, together with the income from the lodgers, making life a good deal easier than it would be for a long time to come. It came to an end in 1940, by then the nightly bombing had commenced and the Factory where my Father worked, was destroyed and the decision was taken to move the works and workers to the North Midlands, between Leek and Stoke on Trent where the prospect of bombing and the resultant damage would be considerably less, Father was forty years of age and in a reserved occupation so not called upon to serve in the Armed Forces, and so with Mother heavily pregnant we set off to Cheddleton in Staffordshire where we were to stay until early in 1946.
Chapter 1 – In The Beginning
Over the years my wife has urged me to write an account of my life as part of a family history, to be passed on to grandchildren. And with all the interest in genealogy stirred up by the BBC programme ‘Who Do You Think You Are’ especially that of Zoe Wanamaker, her grandfather did just that, I agreed to try to put as much as I can remember on to paper. And now that I have started I realise that it is what I can remember and only that which will be on these pages, recently I have been part of a mentoring programme at King Alfred’s School and find that because I have chosen to use examples of my own school experience to help in my discussions with the boys I mentor, I can now remember many things that I had forgotten, therefore what I propose to do is to take my time, look at photographs, talk with contemporaries if they are still alive and build up the story.
Over the time I will be trying to recall there has been the rise of Hitler, the Second World War, the demise of Hitler, the birth of what we now know as the Welfare State, the break-up of the British Empire and it being reassembled as the Commonwealth, the formation of the United Nations, the Cold War and in the end the breakup of the Soviet Block, England winning the World Football Cup, TV taking over from Radio as the major home entertainment, and the automobile taking over everything. Quite a lot there, so here we go. Just one thing, as I write we still have a war taking placing somewhere in the world, no lesson learned there then.
I know people, both male and female who have told me their lives have been mapped out for them or that they knew from an early age what they wanted from life and how they had followed the paths to success, my life hasn’t been like that, but a series of accidents some unfortunate, but mostly lucky that have brought me to today, in my old age healthy and happy, for me it isn’t what you have done in life that makes you the person you are, but what you have learned and how you use it.
I was born on Sunday, January 24, 1937, at five o’clock in the afternoon, weighing 11lb 3oz, at No 3 Morley’s Alley, off Howard Street, Great Yarmouth in the County of Norfolk, how can I be so sure of this detail? Well, I heard my mother say it on so many occasions it was as if it was written on a piece of paper and given to me to keep in case of emergencies.
I know where the house was, but I haven’t seen it, together with many other similar dwellings it was either destroyed in the Second World War, or pulled down in the aftermath, but I am aware that it was a typical working man’s home of the pre-war period, lacking in all the facilities that we now take for granted, but it was our home at the time of my birth, and for a short period after that.
My father was a factory worker, a silk dyer, and I have many memories associated with that, my mother a waitress and barmaid. I later realised that in a sense his job was a comedown in life, his Grandfather and Father had both been owners of small businesses, the former a Whitesmith, the latter a Baker with a shop, my father, together with his younger brother had been trained in Baking possibly with a view to continuing the business but in the 1920’s the business was bought out by a larger bread and cake manufacturer, Grandfather went to work for that company, the boys were left to find other employment. My mother, had a varied working life, starting at age fourteen in service, then becoming a Beatster, making and repairing Fishing Nets, before following her younger sister into the hotel trade. So, it was at ages of thirty-seven and thirty-three respectively and living in Morley’s Alley next door to another of my mothers’ sisters, I was brought into the world.
The family particularly on the maternal side was very close, my mother being one of six and from my earliest memories all the girls lived near each other and were in constant contact, my paternal Grandparents lived some distance away or so it seemed to me as a child, of course now as an adult retracing those childhood steps it was perhaps no more than three quarters of a mile, but that distance must have been significant for it was not until I was eight or nine years of age that I can recall meeting my Fathers family