Write from the Beginning - Special childhood days

SPECIAL CHILDHOOD DAYS

This project was designed to expand QueenSpark Books’ activities to involve new and diverse audiences and writers, using a variety of methods and genres to explore childhood.

Our programme included:

Two ten-week creative writing courses; one entitled Are You Sitting Comfortably? focussing on writing for children and the other entitled Remember the First Time? focussing on autobiographical writing about childhood. These were facilitated by local writers Julie Everton and River Jones respectively.

Four introductory creative writing sessions; two entitled First Writes: Writing Creatively and two entitled Fact First: Writing from Life — facilitated by the project staff.

A Performance Poetry project with Akwaaba (black women & women of colour support group), facilitated by Malika Booker, a nationally acclaimed performance poet and writer.

A Reminiscence Writing project with the Valiance Memories Group and the Brunswick Older People’s Project, facilitated by internationally published children’s writer Saviour Pirotta.

This last project was very successful, eliciting many wonderful stories of special childhood days from the group members. These stories have been put together to form this fascinating book — a testament to the lasting impression childhood leaves on us all.

We showcased the performances and publications resulting from the project at ‘From Different Beginnings’, a final event hosted by the Duke of York’s cinema on Sunday 17th March 2002. Here, the participants of the groups and courses, shared their work with friends, families and the general public. The showcase was followed by a special film screening with childhood as its theme to provide a fitting culmination to an interesting and diverse project.

We would like to thank all those groups and individuals for their involvement and enthusiasm (and our funders, South East Arts and Brighton and Wove City Council, for enabling this project to take place) and we aim to build on this work in the future.

Jane Reid & Jackie Blackwell
Project Workers
QueenSpark Books

INTRODUCTION

by Saviour Pirotta

When Jane and Jackie at QueenSpark Books asked me to participate in the ‘Write from the Beginning’ project, I jumped at the chance of working with older people writing about their childhood. As a child growing up in Malta, I had always wondered what life was like for children in other countries. Malta was part of the Commonwealth then and looked up to England as the ‘mother country’, so I was especially intrigued by what kids did in England. Did they go to the beach like we did, I wondered? Did they have the same kind of ice-creams as us? Did they listen to the same stories at school?

In those days, my answers were supplied by Enid Blyton and her many books, which were all available from the school library. How jealous I was of the Happy House children who had a lawn and a stream in their back garden. Malta, being a semi-arid country with hot, dry summers and mild winters, had no streams. It didn’t have rivers on which you could paddle a raft either, nor cottages with thatched roofs or tea-rooms where you could get sticky buns just like the Famous Five. Maltese houses had no open fires against which you could toast strange, round biscuits called crumpets. Worst of all, it had no ginger beer. No one on my island even knew what ginger beer was. Maltese kids had plenty of treats: soft nougat, peanut brittle, lemon granita, roasted chickpeas, figs, watermelons and cakes for every occasion.

They had no ginger beer, though, and that’s what I, an avid Enid Blyton fan, desperately wanted. When I grew up and moved to England, I was to find out that English childhoods were much more rich and diverse than those portrayed in Enid Blyton’s books. Working in schools, I discovered the plethora of experiences all kinds of Britons had had in recent years. This year, working with the Vallance Memories Group and members of the Brunswick Older People’s Project I have also discovered what childhood was really like in, more or less, the times that Enid Blyton used to write about. What have I learnt from the experience? That life seems to be the same but different all over the world. Sure, the foods we eat, the languages we speak are different everywhere you go. But the staples of consciousness are the same everywhere: the fight against poverty, the resilience of kids in the face of unfair odds, the wish to be happy, the fear of war and violence, the search for parents’ approval, the warmth of distant memories, the hopes for a better future. It’s the fabric of life that binds us all together, that makes us a global community.

I feel honoured to have worked with so many wonderful people. And it is a thrill to see their work preserved for posterity. Life is changing fast on this little planet of ours but, I am sure, children of the future will be able to dip into this little book and say, ‘That’s just like us!’

HOW IS THE KING?

Three days in the life of Kathleen Wilson

On a cold and dreary day, I was walked home from St. Peter’s School in Norbiton, feeling happy to be out of its restrictive confines. I was cheerful because it was the day my comic, JINGLES, came out. I had waited a whole week for this moment. It was the only comic my brother and I were allowed to have. As I passed the paper shop, I noticed that today its door was closed. This was most unusual. It was always kept wide open to welcome in the customers.

A notice hung in the window but I did not bother to read it. Instead, I rattled the door handle vigorously. Not that it did me any good. The door remained firmly shut. I only attracted disapproving stares from people passing by. Unwillingly I raised my eyes to read the notice. It stated that, owing to King George V’s serious condition, this shop would remain closed out of respect to His Majesty.

I still did not believe it. I rattled the door handle again, even harder this time, before I turned away. This was not fair! It was a really mean thing to do to a child who wanted to buy a comic. No one had bothered about me when I was unwell.

I stomped home feeling very disgruntled. And it did not help that my mother appeared very unconcerned. Although in 1936 life was hard because we did not have much money, my childhood can only be summed up as happy and carefree. I cannot bring to mind any restrictions placed upon me by my mother, who was now looking at me so disapprovingly. ‘Always tell us where you’re going,’ is the only warning I can remember, although I am sure that there must have been a host of others.

The big oblong radio on standing on the cluttered dresser was playing a morbid dirge instead of spilling out the lively music it usually did. My mother sat by the kitchen range, her face serene in the glow thrown out by the burning coals as she bent over her sewing. She obviously did not think my JINGLES was at all important. Maybe if she read it, she would change her mind. Neither was my tea on the table. Usually my mother was bustling around the kitchen, and the aroma of toasted bread filled the air. The only thing that filled the air today was the depressing music. Every so often it would fade away and someone spoke with an equally morbid voice about the King’s worsening condition.

‘Can you not find something quiet to do?’ she asked patiently.

I was almost speechless. She had already forgotten my comic. My frustration built up inside me. Eventually I asked, in what I thought was the right tone of voice, ‘And how is the King?’

‘He is fading fast,’ came the answer.

‘Does that mean he is dying?’

My mother did not answer my question right away. Slowly, she folded up her sewing and said quietly, ‘The paper shop will not be opening today, so forget it.’

At ten years old, you soon learn that things, which are of vital importance to you, are trivial to adults. Trying to suppress my disappointment, I wondered instead, that if the King was dying, would we….would we… get a day. .. off…. school?

Thanks to the King, we had gotten a free day off school a few months before. So quickly had I forgotten that only eight months before, this very same monarch who lay dying, had given us so much pleasure when the whole nation had celebrated his and Queen Mary’s Silver Jubilee. Not only did all the schoolchildren in the country get presented with a medal, but also the school shut for the day and we were all given six free tickets for the fair.

The fair was great but, being only nine at the time, my trip there was supervised by my mother. The whole occasion was overwhelming. There was so much fun to choose from. You needed more than six tickets to do all that you wanted to do at the fair. Especially when you could not afford to pay for the rides yourself. I rather fancied the high-flying chair roundabout. It was a merry go round, which consisted of small individual chairs attached to the ends of four chains. My mother decided I was not old enough for it, although I could see that children younger than me were sitting on it, and thoroughly enjoying the ride. It beats me how she could possibly know what I would like or wouldn’t.

After the death of George V, his eldest son, Prince Edward, the Duke of Windsor, was proclaimed King. Events did not run smoothly for poor Edward VIII and, a short eleven months later, he abdicated. His younger brother, the Duke of York, became the new ruler of the United Kingdom. His Coronation, as George VI, was held on May 12th, 1937. All the children in our school were presented with a silver spoon, crested with the new monarch’s head. And best of all, we were given six more free tickets for the fair as well.

It was like the Silver Jubilee all over again.

I was now eleven and attending a different school, a big red building that housed boys on ground level and girls upstairs. The fair held a different type of excitement for me this time. I was allowed to go without my parents. My brother and his friends were considered suitable chaperones. As it happened, my brother’s friends were my friends as well, because where we lived there were only boys to play with.

Each day after school, we would make our way to the fair field and watch the colourful assortment of caravans begin to congregate. The fair field was an area of wasteland that lay alongside the town’s recreation ground. Everything from religious meetings in huge marquees to massive bonfires on Guy Fawke’s night were held there. But right now it was the fair.

In fascination, I watched the carousels and switchbacks being erected with speed and precision. I gazed entranced at the colourful wooden surrounds that were cut into the shapes of flowers and animals, all entwined with hundreds of lights. I wanted to touch the stately wooden horses that stood in rows of three. I longed to clamber into their red saddles, to clutch their manes and enjoy a ride as they went bobbing up and down, round and round around the carousel. In the very centre of this carousel, was the barrel organ, blaring out its distinctive type of music. To me it was magic.

In orderly rows there were the side-shows; the coconut shy and the fortune-teller. And the unforgettable freak shows. There were numerous other attractions too, including the boat swings, but on the day I watched the fair being prepared, my eyes fell on to the chair roundabout. It was here again and I drew nearer and nearer to it, mesmerised. I knew immediately where my tickets were going to be used when the fair opened the next day.

As I watched, I envied the shabby and barefooted children who dodged around the caravans. They did not have to go to school, or so it seemed to me. I wished that I lived in a house that moved on wheels, travelling from town to town. Just think, I told myself, I could ride on the chair roundabout every day of my life.

The day of the Coronation arrived at last and I was all eager to enjoy it. The fairground was packed with excited children holding on to their free tickets. My brother and I pushed our way through the multitude of people and, with his friends, we spent very happy afternoon. For me, it was four rides on the chair roundabout and two on the horses. It was a day I shall never forget. It ended much later in the evening with magnificent fireworks display and I was able to see the fairground all lit up. If only we could have a Coronation every year. Even to this day, I still love fairgrounds.

ON DALTON’S BEACH

A sunny day in the life of Kit Keay

In the morning, my mother would pack sandwiches, lemonade, crisps, buckets, spades and towels, and we would set off to the beach. I lived near St. Peter’s Church in Brighton, so it only took about ten minutes to reach Dalton’s Beach, just east of the Palace Pier.

The beach was always crowded, and it took some time to find a space, preferably close to the water’s edge. My mother would sit in a deckchair with an umbrella to keep the sun off, and I would go in the sea with my elastic-type costume, my bathing hat, a tyre round my waist, and float on the waves.

I did prefer it when the tide was out and I could build a sandcastle with a moat around it. Then the tide would come in and wash it away. People would have to move up the beach to avoid getting wet, which was quite a performance when you had deckchairs and bags to carry.

I did not learn to swim until I was forty-five years old but I was never afraid of the sea. We would hurl stones into it, to see who could throw them the furthest, and they would make a great ‘plop’ when they landed.

A man would come around selling ice-cream, which would often melt all over you by the time you bought it. You could always make friends with the other children on the beach but there was often a horrible child, usually a boy, who would splash you. The seawater would go up your nose and in your eyes. It was quite horrible. I can remember that quite a few children got lost on the beach, among the crowds. I did several times. It was quite frightening — and so lovely to be found! It was quite painful walking on the stones. I would go a few steps and then sit down until I was back in my patch. I used to collect coloured pebbles and shells. I would take them home to stick on to plates and vases and give them as presents.

Late in the afternoon we would pack our things and head for home. On the way, we would stop to get another ice cream from De Marco’s on St. James’s Street in Kemptown. We needed it to cool us down. Even after all these years, I still think it was the best ice cream I have ever tasted.

The sun seemed to shine all through my childhood in those days. The seasons were more predictable, I think. Summer was always summer.

BONFIRE NIGHT

A day in the life of Irene Andrew

As a child growing up in Blackheath, a village in the Black Country, I was blessed with the attentions of a quartet of kindly and interesting aunts, the eldest being my beloved Aunt Annie. An entrepreneur and a philanthropist, she possessed strong feelings of love and responsibility towards her kith and kin. Her marriage had left her more comfortably off than her sisters, so she rejoiced in providing treats for us all, young and old.

In the summer, she gathered us under her wing for Sunday outings in a sort of large wagon with wooden seats along the side and, in winter, for the celebration of any occasion. Of these I especially remember Bonfire Night in the piece of wasteland between Aunt Annie’s house and the village policeman’s, organised by her.

As the pyre grew bigger, so would mount our childish expectations and excitement. For days, we talked of little else and my two male cousins boasted of the delights to come, and issued invitations to all and sundry.

Home from school on the big day itself, we were supposed to have a short nap in view of the delayed bedtime, but I don’t think anybody ever slept.

At last the huge bonfire would be lit under the strict supervision of Uncle Noah, my Aunt’s husband. A lot of men in my childhood bore Biblical names. Our list of neighbours included a Solomon, a Reuben, a Joshua and a Joseph. We ran around the field, greeting friends we recognised by the glow of the fire, faces beaming, hands clasped round the biggest potatoes we could find for baking in the embers.

‘Oooh’ and ‘aah’ we shouted or sighed as the Catherine Wheels whirred around and the Golden Rain showered down. Fireworks did not seem to be dangerous then. Even the littlest ones were allowed to wave their sparklers around gleefully.

Besides the hot baked potatoes, we used to consume large quantities of a fizzy soft drink called ‘Pop’, which came in bottles with a marble in the neck.

After the bang and whoosh of the last rocket faded away, we would all troop into Auntie Annie’s commodious kitchen, where another bright fire burned in the range. Alongside it, hung a side of bacon; the remains of Uncle Noah’s lovingly reared pig, alas! On the hob an enormous black pot of Grouty Pudding stood waiting.

GROUTY PUDDING

Serves 6

2lbs stewing steak
2 onions, chopped
2 pints stock
1 cupful pearl barley
1 cup each of chopped potatoes, leeks, cabbage and carrots

Method: Fry the onions till they become opaque. Add the steak and fry till the juices are sealed in. Add the chopped vegetables, bring to the boil and simmer on a low heat for two hours. Add the barley cooked according to the instructions on the packet. Simmer for another ten minutes. Serve with slices of crusty bread and beer.

How I loved this porridge of pearl barley and onions, in which chunks of meat, usually shin of beef, were concealed like treasures!

‘This will warm your cockles,’ Aunt Annie would always say, as she thrust large bowlfuls of it into our eager hands. I always saved one of my gobbies, a chunk of meat, till last. The uncles, hungry from their labours, would be invited to cut a slice from the side of bacon, cook it in the Dutch oven in front of the range and wash it down — together with wedges of home made bread — with beer fetched from the pub over the road.

There was lots of harmless teasing; fun and laughter as we little ones were regaled with tales of the youthful exploits of our elders and betters. Though we had heard many of the stories before, they never failed to hold us spellbound and there were usually one or two special requests for particular favourites.

When our eyelids finally drooped with exhaustion, there was one last treat. Out would come Aunt Annie’s tin with pictures of beautiful ladies. Each of us would be allowed to dip into it. One of Aunt Annie’s special black and white Satin Humbugs would last us, drowsy and content, all the way home.

Afterwards, each bonfire night was always pronounced the best yet.

PRESTON MANOR

A day in the life of Dorothy Fuller

Today was a very special day for us all at Preston Manor. Princess Beatrice, Queen Victoria’s youngest daughter, was visiting the Stanfords. So a great deal of food had to be prepared for the meals.

It was just before six thirty in the morning. We were in a hurry because, even on an ordinary day, it was imperative for us to be downstairs in the kitchen on time. I was a scullery maid. My friend Winnie Harvey was a maid too. We shared an attic room in the impressive manor, aptly named ‘The Tops’ by the staff. The iron bedsteads and mattresses were covered by sheets and two thin blankets. The temperature in the room was hardly different inside or outside the covers on a cold night. Anyone visiting us would have noticed right away that Winnie and I did not stand still too long after getting up on chilly winter mornings. Once, the doctor came to our room to visit Winnie, who had a bad case of the flu. He only made one comment to us about our bedroom. ‘What a Godforsaken little hole,’ he said. Then he left.

In the summer, however, Winnie and I would climb out of the window in our room on to the flat roof and watch the weddings at St. Peter’s Church, Preston — if this coincided with our free time, of course. So there were some benefits to sleeping in ‘The Tops.’

As usual, my time to start work on the day of Princess Beatrice’s visit was seven o’clock. As the scullery maid, my duties were simple. First there were two grates to clean and lay, one in the servants’ hall, the other in the housekeeper’s room. Then it was back to the kitchen to cook breakfast for all the other members of staff.

My other friend, Kath Winter, who was the kitchen maid, had a much harder job than mine. Or at least so I thought at the time. She had to scrub the kitchen floor and take Cook a cup of tea, all before she started her other duties. This meant that she started her work much earlier than I did. There was no way Kath was ever going to be late getting to her duties, though. Cook had a bell pull in her room, which was connected to Kath’s bedroom, just in case. As long as I was at Preston Manor I never heard it used once.

Directly breakfast was eaten, the real hard work started for all the workers in the kitchen. Mrs Stanford declined the services of ‘Muttons’, the well-known and highly respected refreshment contractors of 83, King’s Road, Brighton. She considered her staff very capable for such an important guest as Princess Beatrice. It was wonderful to be thought of so highly.

I started to prepare the required vegetables. It was exacting work. All the chips had to be cut the same size. They were measured. Game chips, or crisps as they are more popularly known, were sliced so thin you could actually see through them.

GAME CHIPS
Serves 6

6 egg sized potatoes
frying oil, preferably sunflower
rock salt

Method: Scrub and rinse the potatoes but do not peel unless the skins are tough or blemished. Slice very thinly with a sharp knife or put through a potato slicer. Drop the chips in cold water as they are cut. Drain, rinse and dry well on sheets of kitchen paper. Heat the oil and sprinkle in the chips. Fry till golden and crisp. Remove from the oil as they turn brown. Keep them hot while frying the rest. These chips can be kept in airtight containers until you need. Eat as snacks or serve with grilled chicken, fish or roast beef.

Then I had to cut other chips, these ones as thin as matchsticks. The pheasants would be placed on a bed of these to display the birds to their best advantage on the table. Then I made the sauces for the meal. Over the years I became quite an expert at sauce making; this became my speciality.

When cooking was really under way, I sprinkled cedar dust on the Eagle range to prevent cooking smells from reaching the upper floors where the guests were assembled. The burning dust created a pleasant smell, not so different from the aerosol air fresheners I was to use later in life. Of course, we did not have extractor fans then, which we take for granted now. This one insignificant act masked the odours of cooking that would no doubt cause offence to the important guests above.

It was also my job to make sure that the bowl under the icebox was emptied regularly. The icebox, where perishables were kept, was just exactly what it sounds like. A box filled with chipped ice that slowly melted as it kept the food cool. If you failed to remember to empty the bowl, then you had a flood to clear up. To clean after one flood was enough of a lesson.

All cooks in large houses were called ‘Mrs’, even if they were not married. One of my aunties, a cook at a country house called Owls Wick near Lewes, in Sussex, followed in this tradition. She was always, but always, addressed as Mrs Fuller, although she was single. Once Mrs Story, our cook at Preston Manor, started cooking, we all pulled together. How she managed to time each dish to be cooked to perfection and piping hot at the precise time, I will never know. For there were many courses in such a special meal, for this very distinguished guest.

Normally we would have two hours off in the afternoon, but not today. When the food started to be served, a parlour maid would ring for the next course, which was served at the right temperature, having been placed carefully in the range awaiting the right moment. We all knew the order of the courses. By now dirty plates were being returned, so I had to start washing up in earnest.

There was a huge sign in the room under the dining room.

SILENCE HERE
DURING DINING ROOM
LUNCHEONS & DINNERS

We all obeyed it. Well, except for the occasional whisper.

When we had a normal week and no one was visiting the manor, my friend Kath Winter would make us some cakes, three in all, one each for the three different sections of staff. One was to be shared by Mr Elphick, the butler, Mrs Story, the cook and Mrs Stanford’s personal maid, known to us as Mademoiselle. They all had tea on their own.

The second cake was for the kitchen staff. The third one, smaller than the other two, was for us, the maids. We all ate in separate places. This may seem very strange now but there was never any resentment about the arrangement. The other maids and I all got on extremely well, so well, in fact, that we never lost touch. From the moment I joined the staff of the manor in 1923 to the year 2000 when Kath died, the four of us, that’s Winnie Harvey, Eunice Ash, Kath Winter and I, kept in contact and stayed close friends. I was the only servant in the house that came from Brighton. Many different members of staff came to my mother’s house and I could always spend time at theirs. I’ve been as far as Fritham in the New Forest, which was Kath’s home as her father was a forester.

As the long day of Princess Beatrice’s visit progressed, we managed to fit in our own meals. But we all knew that ten o’clock would be the earliest many of us would finish work. This was our normal time anyway, so we were pleased to get to bed. I would always try to find some time to read before dropping off to sleep. A servants’ library was part of most large houses so, as a young person, my education still continued. I read Walter Scott and many other classic stories. When I moved from the Manor to improve my position, the plays of William Shakespeare became part of my reading. It is as well to point out now that television always depicts scullery maids as untidy, uneducated people. I can confirm that Mrs Stanford would not employ people who did not speak well and conduct themselves to her satisfaction. Our uniforms were special, and we were expected to keep very clean and tidy.

I very rarely met Mrs Stanford or her husband, for they were often out of the country, travelling. When this happened, we were put on what we called ‘Board Wages’.

A sum of money was allocated for each member of staff. This was pooled to buy food for us all. The residue from this after the food was bought was then shared between us all.

The one time I regularly met Mrs Stanford when she was in residence was on a Sunday, when the staff were invited into the drawing room to listen to the Sunday service on the wireless. The radio was a new invention that had arrived by 1923. I say ‘invited’, because it was not compulsory to listen to the service. The only thing we were required to do was to stand for God Save the King, the National Anthem sung at the end of the service.

With all these rules that seem so strict now, it is strange that a comradeship and a deep happiness, cultivated through pulling together and the satisfaction of a job well done, filled my head. Sleep has never been a problem for me. It is still not, now that I am aged ninety-four. Maybe the lessons of teamwork and commitment at sixteen helped. Who knows? At least I was paid for all my hard work. I am sure you would like to know what my salary was. £24 a year. Yes, just £2 per calendar month! But I did get my food and lodgings. I also found that selling rabbit skins that had been discarded by the kitchen staff augmented my salary. Some of the happiest times of my life were at Preston Manor.

On that day long ago, when Royalty paid us a visit, I went to bed, put down my book at last and settled down to sleep. Thoughts rushed through my head. Then I realised that I hadn’t even caught a glimpse of Princess Beatrice during her visit to Preston Manor.

THE LAST CLASS OF THE INFANT SCHOOL

A day in the life of Michael Wilson

I am standing poised at that moment in time that is only comparable to the first flight of each fledgling. With feet nervously resting on the edge of security, and looking down at the empty space below, I am about to leave school. I am not an academic and this is a particularly happy day for me, and my memory can only recall certain amusing incidents of this period in my life.

* * *

At the end of one day, our teacher explained that on Monday we would all be going on a trip to South Africa. To think of it. South Africa! The furthest north I had ever been to, to my knowledge, was Falmer Pond. One boy started to cry out loud, tears streaming down his face. For me the dilemma was simple. How long would I be away from home, and from my Mum and Dad? This thought petrified me, and I spent a very anxious weekend. Mum seemed totally unconcerned, assuring me that all would be explained on Monday. I just wished I could share her composure about this.

Strangely enough, the walk to school on Monday morning was not accompanied by a suitcase, but this in retrospective thinking, for it did not occur to me then. I did not even have a note to say that I could not, and did not, want to go on this trip to South Africa.

At last, the final lesson of the day started and I was almost sure that we had all escaped the journey. Then the teacher said the words that sent fear rippling through most, but not all, of the class.

“And now, we are ready to start our journey to South Africa.”

Instant tears from some of the class who did not want to go. Apprehension from most of the rest and, for the few left, it did not worry them too much. It would be far better than the misery they suffered at home from the end of a leather belt.

Picking up a large scrapbook, with pictures arranged in it by the teacher himself, he added, “This is a story of going to South Africa. Here is the type of liner we would go on.” And he pointed to the picture of a ship.

‘We are likely to see birds similar to these seagulls on the journey,’ continued the silly old fool, unaware that he had ruined the weekend for myself and many others in my class. Would I ever be able to trust him again?

* * *

The year ended at Christmas as far as my friends and I were concerned, which always seemed fun. For, even though it was wartime, my parents gave me presents that they had made. Of course, for many children, even this wonderful day could be spoilt by a clip round the ear from our teacher.

‘Has anyone anything they know about Christmas?’ asked our teacher. My friend Michael Castle could not contain himself. He knew a poem all about Christmas.

‘Come out and recite it for us all, Michael,’ said the teacher.

There was an instant hush as the boy moved forward. People folded their arms and rested their chins on them. Each child was listening intently, in anticipation of some wonderful Christmas verse.

There was utter silence as Michael began:

‘Father Christmas grew long whiskers Santa Claws grew long claws’.

Our teacher was furious. He told Michael not to be so stupid and to stop wasting our time. But I still remember this poem well.

So were the teaching methods of my day wrong, I wonder.

Father Christmas grew long whiskers…

* * *

Each and every day in school ended with prayers. What they were about I cannot remember and can only guess at now. All I knew was that this signified the end of the day. It was finally time to go home. To do the things I enjoyed most, almost all of which excluded school. To wander the nearby hills, or to play with friends. To sit and listen to Uncle Mac on Children’s Hour on the wireless, and to be carried away by him on some great adventure but not — I hasten to add — to South Africa.

‘Hello, children everywhere.’ These three simple words opened up another world for me. How different they were from the drone of the teacher’s voice.

‘Pray for the King and the Commonwealth, all the servicemen at war, mothers and fathers everywhere, brothers and sisters, and all our relations…’

‘Oh for God’s sake, and mine,’ I used to think. ‘Get on with it. I will miss Toy Town if you go on much longer. There can’t be anything left to pray for.’

In the corner of the classroom stood a large cardboard jar, big as a cauldron. It was a disused advertisement for Bovril.

‘…and all the sick people in the world,’ droned on the teacher.

That was the final straw. Your hands clasped together in the praying position, your eyes tightly shut… or so they should have been. It had been so long ‘with eyes tightly shut’ that you just had to open them a little to see what was going on. After all, God gave you eyes to see with, or so I reckoned.

One little peep, one eye open for an instant, was enough to make the world go dark around you. Down on your head, came the upturned Bovril jar, big as a cauldron, and you were plunged into darkness.

The first time this happened to me, I panicked but managed to stand still. I was very frightened. I wondered then, and still wonder now: Would God recognise me with my head inside a large, upturned cardboard jar advertising Bovril?

Since leaving school, I have learnt that, in my days, your educational abilities at eleven were classified as gold, silver and iron. I would have added a fourth. Pig Iron. For this is what I, and many others I am sure, were classed as. But we each have our moment of glory. Mine was this:

I was in Senior School and it was Sports Day, which took place on the large field next to the barracks in Lewes Road, Brighton. I had been entered by my House in two events: putting the shot and throwing the javelin. The contestants were divided into two groups, by age. I fell into the younger group and, as on many occasions, my age was queried against my size. I was big for my age.

The strict rule in these events was that nobody, but nobody, stood in front of a person throwing these lethal weapons.

I remember it was a warm summer’s day with the whole of the boys’ school in attendance. I had won the ‘shot’ in my age group earlier and, now, the competition for throwing the javelin began. The older group went first and the result was confirmed by the judges.

It was now time for the younger section. Me.

The two judges moved forward, thinking that no one in my group would throw the distance. Also, they were standing to one side when my first time to throw arrived.

I ran as fast as I could towards the line and launched the javelin, with all my might, into the air. The trajectory was perfect, the distance much greater than most had expected. The only failure was its angle of flight. It was heading too far to the left and directly at the two teachers acting as judges. One moved sideways to safety. But Mr. Knight, a tall, thin teacher I remember, started to run backwards — for what seemed an eternity to me. My javelin, true as an arrow, was heading straight for him.

The cheers from the school children increased as the time and distance between Mr Knight and certain death decreased. My heart pounded. I had no wish to kill the teacher. In fact I quite liked the chap. For some reason I couldn’t fathom, he still refused to move to one side. Perhaps he was mesmerised by this sharp, silvery spear fast approaching his retreating body. If he had stood still, it might have gone over his head. But then again he might have ended up like King Harold in the famous battle of Hastings.

Luckily gravity took hold of the javelin and the situation at the same time. With the volume from the cheering of the pupils ever increasing, I could see the headlines in the morning papers.

TEACHER KILLED BY PUPIL

The javelin pierced the earth a short distance in front of the master’s shoe, and a pale faced Mr Knight confirmed the result. I had won the event of throwing the javelin, and the hearts of many schoolboys that day.

I could not apologise enough to the teacher, who kindly told me not to lose sleep over it. The consequences of this incident were simple. Nobody in my school ever stood in front of a person throwing the javelin again. And in my head, a new equation was created for this event:

Time + distance — [divided] gravity = volume of cheering crowds²

* * *

I am standing poised at that moment in time that is only comparable to the first flight of each fledgling. With feet nervously resting on the edge of security, and looking down at the empty space below, I am about to leave school.

I look down, open my wings, step forward and launch myself into life. I find that I can FLY.

WAR IS OVER

A day in the life of Wendy Jones

VE Day in 1945 promised to be the best day of the entire ten years of my life. ‘Will I win the fancy dress contest in this costume?’ I asked my mother. ‘Britannia is very patriotic,’ she replied.

I wasn’t so sure. ‘Brenda has a real cowgirl outfit complete with a toy gun,’ I moaned. ‘You should be thankful you’ve got a costume at all,’ said my mother. ‘I really haven’t time to make anything now.’

My mother was always busy trying to supplement my father’s meagre salary, which was not enough to pay the mortgage or, as I was always being reminded, my schooling.

Sulkily I finished off the cardboard Union Jack shield my father had constructed. He was always making toys for me and furniture for the home. I think he would have rather been a carpenter than a teacher.

The long awaited VE Day party was to be held in Farmer Jackson’s field below the barn where we collected our milk. I liked the land girl who was allocated to the farm to help with the work while so many farm workers were away with the forces. She wore jodhpurs and a green pullover. My friends and I used to watch her separating the milk on the machine — and she would be going to the party.

The barn always smelled of the cows, which munched grass in the field. I used to love it when sometimes they hiccupped loudly, but I always preferred the horses, and I was looking forward to the pony rides at the party more than anything else.

My three-year-old friend Gillian Rogers was going too. Her tall, handsome father, who always wore a blue RAF officer’s uniform, was away at the war. Her mother had let me look after her pretty curly-headed daughter for her. I used to climb on to the Anderson shelter that my father had made into a rockery at the bottom of our garden. From there I used to wave to Gillian so that she would ask her mother if she could come and play with me.

We were all so happy that the war in Europe was finally over. Mrs Rogers, Gillian’s mum, longed for her husband to come home. My school friend Brenda, the girl with the real cowgirl outfit complete with toy gun, hoped her father would soon be back from the army. And my own father was relieved not to have to cycle to the Home Guard station at night. In a reserved occupation, he had not been called up.

Everyone in Reading was thankful there would be no more nightly wailing sirens to herald the drone of German bombers on their way to London. They occasionally dropped the odd bomb on us, devastating the town. They were invariably followed by the sounding of the All Clear, and our planes wearingly coming back, their engine noises reassuringly different from the enemy planes’.

At last the day of the party dawned fine. Farmer Jackson’s field was filled with bands, stalls and lots of delicious foods. Jellies, which were very scarce during the war, had been promised. By then we had become very tired of Spam sandwiches. And we had not yet had the infinite pleasure of tasting our first banana. At school we did enjoy the little bags of chocolate powder the American soldiers from Greenham Camp gave to the school children. When they were handed out, we thought of every excuse to open our noisy wooden desks, to dip our graphite pencils in the chocolate and suck the delicious powder greedily.

At the party, I wandered through the sweet smelling, bruised long grass and mud in my costume: a white sheet draped around me and my cardboard shield held in front. There were lots of other children around and I thought their costumes were beautiful. Some were expensive dresses showing characters from famous nursery rhymes. Others were animal suits. I felt stupid in my sheet. And, of course, I did not win the fancy dress competition. At least, Gillian and her mother did not arrived until the competition was over and they did not see my humiliation.

By then I was just looking forward to the pony rides. Disappointingly, Mrs Rogers would not let Gillian ride, as she was so young. So I waited on my own, longing to show off my riding skills, though I had never had a riding lesson in my life. I dreamed of galloping down the field as some other girls were already doing. When, at long last, it was my turn, I leapt up in the saddle, in my white sheet, and away I went. The next thing I knew, I was hanging underneath the donkey, most of me dangling in a large, distinctively smelling, cow pat. Someone had not tightened the donkey’s girth strap properly. I was dragged through the mud, my pristine white sheet now brown and torn, until a grown up rescued me. Mortified, I ran home in tears, and was too ashamed to go back, even though that meant I would miss all the special food.

As I sat home alone, I promised myself that, one day, I would ride properly.

Despite the humiliation of that day, I still kept on dreaming of learning to ride. But I was forty before I saw an advert offering cheap riding lessons. I got on to my second-hand Honda motorcycle that I had bought off a colleague at work. Riding it had already resulted in some hairy exploits such as when I was stung by a bee while in motion. I drove into the depths of the country around London, arriving at a place of the Cold Comfort Farm variety. No doubt I was the oldest pupil the owner had seen, and she just said, ‘Tack up Nancy in the last stall on the left and bring her out. And don’t let her mess about with her water bucket.’

In the shabby stable, Nancy head butted me round her stall and triumphantly kicked her water bucket about. The smell of straw and manure ominously reminded me of my previous riding attempts, during the VE Day party. I reminded myself that I was older now, a grown up myself. I adjusted her girth straps before leading her out of the stable. I got on her back and, to my surprise, we trotted happily to the field where we cantered around. I felt the saddle and Nancy’s wiry hair beneath me. I viewed the world between her pricked-up ears, and on we went.

My thirty-year-old dream had, at last, come true!

OUR REVEREND MOTHER

A day in the life of Kathleen Malenczak

Reverend Mother’s Feastday at the Sacred Heart School in Brighton was to us the most important day of the school year. We enjoyed it even more that the Christmas party. It was held in July and the previous week would be spent praying for a fine weather as most of the events of the day took place outdoors.

We were allowed to wear our party frocks and the one I wore in 1939 was a Snow White dress. Disney’s film version of Snow White and The Seven Dwarves had just come to our cinemas that summer. I remember the dress had a royal blue velvet top with a pale lemon silk skirt. And, of course, it also had the high stiff collar, which made it distinctive of Snow White.

We also took with us a bouquet of flowers. Mine was usually a mixture of roses and little pink carnations from the garden, set off with gypsopholia. I was always aware of the lovely scent that made them so special.

On Reverend Mother’s Feastday we always set off early for school, as we had to walk carefully with our flowers. I would then meet my friend, Sheila Crowe who lived on Sackville Road. She was a very popular girl because her mother owned a shop called ‘Eileen’s’ that sold hand-made chocolates. It was located on Palmeira Square. Sheila often brought bags of Mishapes for everyone to share at school.

On our way we would then meet two more girls, sisters, who lived in a big house at the end of Clarendon Road. The house was later to be demolished; to make way for a huge block of flats which stands there to this very day.

All of us would then proceed carefully over the bridge at Hove railway station and then on to Wilbury Avenue. Then it was on to the Upper Drive and our school where Cardinal Newman Catholic School stands today.

On arrival we would all be gathered in one room and then Rev. Mother with our own dear Mother Munster who we all loved and a few other nuns would enter. Mother Munster was sent to the Jersey convent in 1939 and had a terrible time there. When the Germans attacked the island, a schoolgirl sitting next to her at school was hit in the head and she died in Mother’s arms. Mother Munster managed to escape in a fishing trawler just before the Germans occupied Jersey.

But back to Reverend Mother’s Feastday. After prayers, we would each present our flowers. ‘Happy Feastday, Reverend Mother,’ we would say. Then the door to the room was opened and we would be free to play. Only on this joyous occasion were we allowed to sit in the nuns’ wonderful rose garden. One year a girl fell in the lily pond. We all thought it was funny but the nuns took a dim view of the incident.

At twelve noon we were seated on the lawn for a picnic lunch. The nuns would appear with large wicker hampers, and we were served with sandwiches, slices of cake, a banana and a Lyons Buzzy Bee bar of chocolate. We were very careful to only bite off one Z at a time. There were also large jugs of lemonade, made by the nuns with fresh lemons and lots of sugar.

LEMONADE – HOME-MADE!

1/2 dozen lemons
1 1/2 cups castor sugar
1 1/2 cups water
optional – shredded fresh ginger to taste

Method: Put sugar and water in small saucepan. Cut the zest off a couple of the lemons and add to the saucepan and bring to the boil. If using ginger, add now. Stir until the sugar is dissolved and simmer for 5 minutes. Add the juice of all the lemons, stir and cool. Strain into a container and keep in the fridge. This will keep up to a week if stored properly.

Serving suggestion: To serve: fill a glass with ice cubes, pour in a little concentrate and top with soda/mineral or plain water.

In the afternoon, races and games were organised. Everyone always won a prize. Then one of the teachers played an accordion and we would do country dancing. Our favourites were Ruffty Tuffty and Gathering Peapods. I don’t know if this kind of dancing is performed any more. After a while we were taken into Chapel, which is still on the Cardinal Newman grounds to this very day, to see the altar steps completely covered with our flowers. We always thought the nuns must have used every vase and jam jar they possessed.

We then trooped back into school for what we called ‘convent buns’ and, of course, more lemonade. We called the little pastries ‘convent buns’ because, on ordinary days, they had white icing sugar on the top. On feast days, however, they were covered in hundreds and thousands.

Reverend Mother then gave a little speech of thanks and we all chorused ‘Thank you for a lovely day.’ At 4.30pm, we reluctantly began to drift off home.

Alas, our happy days came to an abrupt end in 1939. No one feasting on convent buns or sipping the nun’s excellent lemonade could have foreseen that, by the summer of 1940, there would be dogfights overhead and we would all be huddled in an air-raid shelter out of the sun.

THE BIG SCREEN

Some days in the life of Dave Huggins

Although Logie Baird was well into inventing television in the 1930s, it was still some twenty years away for the masses. In 1938 a very flickering, early model was installed at the Devil Dyke’s Hotel, about five miles out of Brighton. From what I had heard, the programmes were even worse than today’s.

I walked with Neville, my best pal, to the Dyke to see their new wonder. We asked the manager if we could take a look. The second word of his answer was ‘off’. Never mind the lack of television, my family couldn’t even afford a wireless. It can be gathered from this why going to the pictures was so important to us.

All us kids used to read about the forthcoming attractions in the Argus, our local paper. Every cinema had still photographs of the film displayed outside. It took us a long time to make up our minds which films to see. Our pocket money was too hard fought for us to be wasted on boring films.

I am sure that, in those days, we got more value for our money than people do now. In the best cinemas, such as the Astoria, Regent and Savoy, it all started with ten minutes of organ music. The organ was situated at the front of the auditorium and built into the stage. Brightly lit, it used to move up into view at the touch of a button and back down again just before the film started.

I can’t say I ever really enjoyed it. I was impatient and wanted to get on with the film. The house lights would begin to lower, the large curtains swish apart, and the adrenaline would start to pump as the screen lit up with the viewing category. It was followed by the sweating, half-naked figure of Bombardier Billy Wells knocking hell out of a giant gong. The programme began with a B feature film, a crime, cowboy or comedy. This lasted about an hour and was followed by the newsreel — Pathe Gazette or Movietone. Then there was an interval so that the ice-cream girl could sell treats.

Nearly every adult used to smoke in those days. The rising cigarette smoke could be seen as a huge blanket in the light from the projection box. There never seemed to be a moment when someone was not coughing their lungs up.

After the interval a trailer was shown, advertising forthcoming attractions. If it showed a love scene, us lads would cross it off for the next week. Then sometimes, joy of joys, they showed a cartoon. I wonder, does a buzz still go around a cinema at the sight of Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck’s face? After that it was time for the big film we had all been waiting for.

The cinema darkened again. The sweet wrappers and crisp packets rustled. Where was that little blue packet of salt? Then the magic began. By now I was an abject slave of the silver screen or, as it was commonly known during my childhood, ‘the flicks’.

Part time work, including paper rounds and helping the greengrocer, fuelled the delight of those hours spent in semi-darkness with that huge coned beam of light overhead weaving adventures that delighted my young eyes. The Western sagas, such as Drums along the Mohawk, and tales of the empire — Gunga Din, The Drum and Lives of Bengal Lancers, were my favourites.

I remember sitting in the Curzon cinema, Brighton, for over seven hours, watching Errol Flynn lead the Light Brigade to glory. In those days, films were shown continuously and you could stay as long as you liked, or dared. One day a worried usherette flashed her torch on me and said, ‘Look, son we have to either feed you or send you home as we haven’t the facilities for the former. You had better bugger off home. Your mum is probably getting worried.’

As I slid past her, she muttered something to another woman. ‘Kids, these days.’ I’m sure I have heard that expression since.

My mum only applied a few rules when it came to the cinema: never dishonestly slip in the side door, and never on the pain of death ask a man to take you in to an ‘A’ film. Films in those days were categorised ‘H’ for Horror, over 18s only; ‘A’ was for over 16s or accompanied by an adult; ‘U’ for Universal viewing, which meant everyone could see it.

One film that stands in my mind depicted God as a black man. He had a wonderful voice and certainly got my vote for God. During the film a man in the audience jumped up and shouted, ‘Blasphemy.’ Somebody else told him to ‘go forth and urinate’, but not in those exact words. I was fascinated.

At the Academy in West Street an attendant used to come around squirting disinfectant from a huge syringe. Hard luck if you happened to get the full blast — they were never careful. The cheap seats at this cinema were at the front of the auditorium, and so was the entrance to the men’s toilets. Every time that brass-railed door swung open, the smell that wafted in made your hair stand on end.

One day a wonderful opportunity presented itself to us youngsters at the Lido Cinema in Hove. The Saturday morning Mickey Mouse Club. Membership was free and we were all presented with a card and a badge. The performance began with the club song, shown on me screen with a little ball bouncing over the words to remind us:

Hi-de-hi, ho-de-ho, take your breath and sing
Hi-de-hi, ho-de-ho, let the password ring.
We will do for Mickey Mouse our good deeds in Mickey’s house
Mick gives us lots of fun. Cheer, for the party’s begun.

The song was followed by a cowboy film or similar — a couple of cartoons and part of a serial depicting heroes like Buck Rogers, or Flash Gordon defeating creatures from another galaxy. He was always left dangling on by the skin of his teeth as a voice boomed:

‘IS THIS THE END OF FLASH GORDON?’

All that wonderful excitement for three pence.

I think the ‘good’ referred to was: no fighting, no shooting air pistols at the screen to help Flash, and no peeing under the seat rather than miss the crucial bit of the serial. If the film broke down, we used to go crazy, shouting, booing, throwing apple cores and orange peel and chanting the old favourite, ‘why are we waiting?’ We wouldn’t stop until the film had come back on.

It all went off the boil for me when it came to the Children’s Party of Christmas 1938. Admission was by club card only. Following a Saturday morning roughhouse, Mum had boiled my bloodstained shirt with the club card in the breast pocket. I went to the Lido manager and explained what had happened, leaving out the bit about the fight.

He looked at me and said, ‘You are a naughty Mickey.’

‘What a tosser,’ I thought, and I didn’t go again.

Soon after wonderful news spread through our area like wild fire. ‘Have you heard about Dave Huggins? His mother has got a job as a cook at the Lido cafe. She gets a complimentary ticket for Dave every week, the lucky bugger.’

I shall never forget my first visit. My mum’s shift started at 6.00pm. We went by bus, getting off at Hove Station. The Lido was huge, reputed to be the biggest single storey cinema in the country. I was introduced to a gorgeous little usherette who took me to the best seat in the house. The film started. Then another lovely girl approached me with a display case hanging by a strap from her shoulder. It contained sweets and chocolates.

She came straight to me and passed me a bar of chocolate. She patted me on the cheek and disappeared like heavenly visions do. This can’t get any better, I thought. But it did. During the interval, another lovely woman appeared and thrust a huge tub of ice-cream into my sticky paws. I had obviously died and gone to heaven. At the end of the film, I was shown through a door into the Lido’s kitchen. My mum had a big plate of egg and chips waiting for me. My cup runneth over! Well, certainly my stomach did. I felt very seedy on my way home.

Was my future in the free cinema assured? No, I was never taken again. Had I transgressed in some way? Had I broken some important rule? No, nothing like that, my mother explained. The chocolate and ice-cream girls worked at the Lido for very small wages plus commission. It took a long time to earn the money back on stock given away. They wouldn’t listen to Mum when she asked them not to do it. So she did the only other thing possible — kept the freeloader away. I was horrified and bitterly disappointed at the time but, later in life, realised how caring for other people my mother was.

Seeing films was not the end of the enjoyment we used to experience because of cinema. We would base our games on the adventures we had seen on the screen. I remember swinging on bits of clothesline from trees in the park, trying to imitate Tarzan’s call. We would dress up in Dad’s trilby with a black stocking over our face, making the Z, the mark of Zorro with a wooden sword over anything that showed scratches. Sometimes we rushed about, slapping our own backsides as if we were horses, with out hands in the shape of guns. ‘Bang, bang. You’re dead,’ we shouted at one another. And we would get most annoyed if the person we shot wouldn’t die.

One pal of mine acted out a death scene so well, grasping his chest, he fell from the branch of a tree on to a pile of grass cuttings. Unfortunately, they were covering up the roller. He broke his collarbone. Pictures were said to be ‘make believe’. We certainly added to this.

I haven’t been to the pictures for some time. You can tell how long it’s been. The last film I saw was Gandhi, in 1982. The changes I noticed were many. As the films were not run continuously any more, we didn’t have to keep getting up and down as people shuffled past on their way out, muttering ‘This is where I came in.’

There were no big queues. I remember the Commissioner in his grand uniform, striding up and down. ‘Two single sixpence seats and two one shilling seats together,’ he used to shout. As we waited to be let in to a cinema, no one inside wanted to leave. I even miss that part of it.

Soon my childhood had passed. Dancing, and lovely ladies became much more important to me than pictures. To try and pay back for the gift of cinema that had made my childhood special, I was lucky enough to take many usherettes for an evening out. They had a special place in my heart. And I hoped they had a special place for me.

HAVING FUN IN 1921

Some sunny days in the life of Gilbert Grover

In the early 1920s there was no such thing as home radio or television but, for two very small children, my sister and I aged four, Hove seemed to be a much more entertaining place than it is now.

One morning we awoke to the rumble of what sounded like distant thunder, non-stop. It got louder, louder, LOUDER! Nearer and nearer it came. Leaping out of our beds, my sister and I raced downstairs excitedly, to peer through our large front bay window. What did we see?

A great, long procession of huge, tough shire horses, bedecked with tufts of bright coloured ribbons and gleaming horse brasses. Each drew a great two-wheeled dustcart. We had seen and heard them before, many times, as they ambled through the whole length of sleeping Shakespeare Street to turn the corner in front our house. On and on they came, an incessant, lumbering line on its way to collect household refuse from all the homes in Hove.

With our noses tight-pressed to the windowpane, we never tired of watching the proud work-a-day parade as it passed. Little did we realise that this would be no ordinary day, unfraught by danger. Oblivious to all else, we were enrapt in happy reverie.

Swift as a flash, our dreamy joy was dashed as one great horse, screaming in fright, reared high in the air not many yards before us. Eyes lit wide with terror, he hurled his great bulk towards the very spot where we stood. Petrified with fear, we stood rooted to the floor as we saw our cast iron railings crumple like tinsel. Part of our front garden wall and sturdy brick pillar shattered under his weight, checking his mad rush before he reached our window. Our paralysing fear changed to concern and horror as the poor beast, mortally wounded, reared and fell back on to the public pavement, gasping and gurgling with each great, agonising breath.

Within minutes, the Council vet arrived to put a quick end to the poor animal’s suffering with a single, skilful shot. My sister and I were gathered up and led tearfully away to recover from the shock. Eighty years on, I revisited the site to see faint scars in the stone to prove my story.

Sundays witnessed quite a different procession, which announced its presence long before we saw it: sounding brass, clashing cymbal and jiggling tambourine. From around the corner, where Dickenson’s sold our favourite gob-stoppers and liquorice sticks, marched the Salvation Army, resplendent in braided uniforms, poke bonnets and peaked caps. They too made a beeline for our house where they formed a huge circle from one side of the road to the other, singing

‘Come and join us!
Come and join us!
Come and join our happy band!’

Then we were told that Sister Nellie would lead us in prayer and they would call on Captain George to favour us with an address. In between times, they dutifully reminded us of our Sunday obligations by singing ‘What a friend we have in Jesus’ and ‘There is room in my heart for Thee.’

The Salvation Army Commandant was an agile little man. I often wondered how many of me he could see when he looked at me, because his eyeballs met under the bridge of his nose. I knew that, when I put out my tongue and made boss-eyes at my sister, I always saw double. I was fascinated by eyes. My mother called them ‘windows of the soul’. Then there was ‘Old Wobbly Eyes’ who delivered milk in the mornings and fish in the afternoons. His eyes were always wobbling like lottery balls. We also had a master at school who had one eye looking east while the other looked west. Whenever he asked a question of a boy in class, a boy two seats away gave the answer!

There was a good half-mile of agricultural land and cemetery between Hove and the boundaries of Portslade, with Hove’s northern population being mainly kept well within the area bounded by the Old Shoreham Road. Traffic pollution was unknown, while farmland and the Downs were within easy walking distance.

In the town also, walking was quite pleasurable. All footpaths were paved with smooth slabs or bricks, a far cry from the lumpy, bumpy puddley-patched ones of today. Litterbins carried warning notices, and to drop the tiniest bit of litter was considered a crime subject to a fine.

There were no school dinners, no money for bus fares and junk food was unheard of. Hurrying to school on foot twice a day, a total of nearly four miles, I often fell down badly and scoured my knees. To be late for school could mean, at best, detention. At worst, without an adequate excuse, it meant 50 lines or the cane. My injuries, usually badly infected, were expertly attended to and cured by the staff in the accident department of our Hove General Hospital. It was built through generous philanthropic donation, the first from Penny Burton in memory of her husband Carr Burton with an additional south wing built in 1926 with funds from Bernhard Baron. Further additions came in 1934, paid for by the Sussex Freemasons.

Today Hove, despite its increased population, has no General Hospital, and no accident and emergency facilities.

My Sunday mornings were occupied in cleaning eight pairs of boots and shoes and, weather permitting, helping in the allotment garden. For such chores and good behaviour, I was awarded a penny a week, which I sometimes saved to purchase Christmas and birthday presents.

My sister and I were strictly forbidden to go to a cinema as it was considered to be spelled with a capital S instead of a C. However, I did manage to save an occasional threepence to visit the so-called den of iniquity, the Empire Cinema in Haddington Street. There I revelled in the antics of Gloria Swanson, Norma Talmadge, Mary Pickford, Charlie Chaplin, Jackie Coogan, Rin-tin-tin, Buster Keaton and Tom Mix in such films as Broken Blossoms and The Gold Rush. One famous actor I nearly forgot was Ben Turpin who had eyeballs hiding under his nose like those of the Salvation Army Commandant.

The nearest I got to ever owning a car was to steer a Tate Sugar Box on wheels. The owner was a young chap with a wooden leg who had a small brother called Stanley. A wooden plank screwed on to the underneath of the wooden box was ‘the bonnet’ with a manoeuvrable small plank, a couple of wheels and a loop of rope being the steering. I steered, while the other two were passengers. Whizzing down a hill, I saw the one and only car in the neighbourhood about to cross our path. With no brakes, I slammed my feet down on each side of the main plank, thus sending the whole contraption forward in a complete somersault over my head, passengers as well. My friend’s wooden leg was not fractured but my own legs very nearly were! What a good job we still had a hospital, and were not expected to travel to one some three miles away, as we are now.

At that time, Hove boasted two fine bandstands, one at St. Ann’s Well Gardens where fairy lights were threaded through the trees, and another at the Western Lawns sunken gardens, now the site of the Babylon Lounge Night Club. For a particular weekend treat we would be taken to a band concert, which cost 3d. The Horwich R.M.I. Band was one of our favourites, and we enjoyed goggling at their smart scarlet uniforms almost as much as drowsily listening to Ketelby’s ‘In a Monastery Garden’ or ‘In a Persian Market’. I remember slumping contentedly in the assembled deck chairs. Today, of course, with its diminished entertainment facilities, the loss of its fine Visitors’ Centre, and robbed of essential services, Hove is much less attractive than before.

Empire Day, the 24th of May, was always a day of great celebration at school. The whole school would assemble and be marched into the playground, there to stand before the Union flag and to sing Rudyard Kipling’s ‘Recessional’, the words of which may still be found in the Songs of Praise 1931 edition, number 317, or in the Oxford Book of English Verse.

In the later 1920s swimming was introduced to the Hove schools as an optional extra. Those who wished to take part were marched to the Medina Baths for training. These baths are almost totally demolished now but were superseded by those of the King Alfred leisure centre. That too seems to be going the same way.

During the First World War, German Officer Prisoners of War were housed in Brooker Hall, and must have been there still in 1921, for I clearly remember seeing them being marched along New Church Road, double file during that time. They had great round coloured patches on their clothes to distinguish them as P. O . W . s

1921 commenced with what appeared to be a strange new epidemic, affecting women more than men. The main symptoms exhibited were a restless excitability and an inability to settle. Some days later my bogus Aunt Alice, who had connections with the Upper Crust in The Drive, also must have caught the germ, for she appeared all-of-a-dither on our doorstep, brandishing a copy of the Brighton Gazette.

‘Did you see him?’ she almost shouted.

‘No,’ replied Mother, ‘and we couldn’t’ hang about; it was too darned cold.’

Apparently what they were all suffering from was what I would call ‘Prince Of Wales fever’, which happened whenever Edward, Prince of Wales, called upon his friend Sir Sydney Granville at Hove Manor, and might be seen in slippers and dressing gown walking down the seafront for a surreptitious dip in the sea. However, nothing much more happened until Tuesday, February the 1st. Aunt Alice appeared again and excitedly said, ‘you are going to see the Prince of Wales. We are taking you to see the Prince!’

That afternoon, he was due to unveil the Indian Chattri at Patcham, the war memorial to commemorate the Indian troops who died for us in the 1914 to 1918 Great War.

Alter a hasty lunch of suet dumplings and Irish stew, which Aunt Alice was too excited to swallow, she and Mother took much longer than usual over their toiletries. I can remember how my childish anxiety boiled up within me as minute after minute ticked relentlessly by.

When, at last, they were ready, we rushed out of the house and to the bus stop. In those days, all buses had hard wooden seats and solid tyres. We waited twenty minutes for the first bus and only just managed to squeeze on to seats on the upper deck. The bus took us as far as the Imperial Arcade but could proceed no further because of the dense crowds milling around the Brighton Clock Tower.

On the bus we met another friend who had caught the ‘Prince of Wales bug’ very badly indeed. She was convinced that she was the product-in-line of a former Prince’s wayward indiscretion. She needed repeated reassurance and, although the poor woman had a face like the back end of a tram-smash, she would turn her face sideways and say, ‘don’t I look like Princess Mary?’

Clambering off the bus, we then got stuck by Soper’s Emporium on the corner of what is now Churchill Square where the American Express office is. Amid deafening cheers, the only view I got was of the posterior of an enormous woman in front of me. Promises and hopes were dashed. Before I could see the Prince of Wales, I was dragged off to the bus heading for home, screaming and protesting my frustration. I was only mollified when my Aunt said, ‘we must hurry. The Prince is coming to tea.’

Her assurances were reinforced by the appearance of our best tea service and the unaccustomed luxuries of fairy cake and celery. I couldn’t start to eat because Father’s army belt had taught me that it was bad manners to do so before all were assembled. I waited and waited, but this time I was thrashed for not eating at all…

The Prince of Wales never came to tea. He must have forgotten all about his invitation!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Some happy days in the life of Dave Huggins taken from his autobiography

Looking back, I remember many Christmases from my childhood. One in particular really stands out. It was 1938, and I was twelve.

The planning of it began as the bonfires were dying and the last penny rocket hurtled skyward on November 5th. This might sound early but times were hard and Christmas was a bright spot on the horizon to look forward to. The first item on the list was how early dare carol singing start. All our plans depended on the success of this. Money was needed for decorations, a Christmas tree and presents for the family.

I think about the earliest we ever started was the 10th of December. We had serious discussions at school about start dates and heard many boasts of huge successes on the 1st of December. I never believed this, especially after starting very early one year and getting a clip around the ear from a policeman who was trying to get some sleep before going on night duty.

My friends and I used to go around in pairs and my pal Neville and I always picked a district of big houses. We thought the people there would be more likely to have a little money to spare. At each house we would sing a carol and we wouldn’t miss a verse. If the light came on in the hall, we knew they were listening to us, so we sang a second one. Then we knock on the door politely and wait. If the door was answered by a woman, we thought we might be lucky, as they were far friendlier and generous to children than men. Most people were generous and kind, and would give us money and mince pies and, if it was very cold, a hot drink.

As soon as we had some money, it was all systems go. First, the paper chains had to be made, to decorate our front room and kitchen. We couldn’t afford made up decorations, so we bought packets of strips of coloured paper. Paste was made from flour and water, and the job began. Each short strip of paper was pasted at one end and formed into a loop. The next strip was threaded through this loop and the ends stuck together. We carried on until we had a long chain of multicoloured loops long enough to go right across the ceiling. This was fixed into position with drawing pins. Other garlands were made by cutting crepe paper into strips that we twisted on itself.

Nearer Christmas would be the time to collect holly. The place we got ours from was a well-kept secret. Imagine what it was like the weekend before the big day itself with hundreds of boys and girls scouring the neighbourhood. Neville and I had found a huge holly tree in the grounds of a deserted mansion, said to be haunted. All large houses, as far as we kids were concerned, had to be haunted. To keep the other children away, we told of terrible moans we had heard emanating from the house when we had ventured near. I was so convincing, I nearly frightened myself.

We struggled through the overgrown grass and bushes until we reached the tree. Then we took turns standing on each other’s shoulders to reach the desired branch. Why is the best holly, smothered in berries, always at the top of the tree and protected all the way up by those hideous thorns? Now and again, whoever was at the bottom would lose his balance and we would fall against the tree. Yelps of pain would fill the air. It was probably this that convinced other children the house was haunted. Finally, with a huge bunch each, we would creep away like ex-ghosts and head for home.

A few days before Christmas carol singing became frenzied. Present buying was upon us all. Deciding what to get for my parents, it was easy: Black Magic chocolates for Mum, Digger Flake tobacco for Dad. My brother too was easily satisfied. Anything he was given, he seemed to like. My two sisters were sixteen and eighteen years old. For the younger one, who was more boy-conscious, I bought a tiny bottle of Evening in Paris perfume. For the older one I got a box of scented soap. For the few pennies I paid for the soap, it’s a wonder she didn’t break out in a rash every time she washed her face.

On the last day of school before Christmas we had our school party. We were told to come in our best clothes. For me and most of the others this meant the same clothes we wore the rest of the week.

We were sat round tables in the hall, given a paper hat and served by the teachers. They gave us a glass of lemonade, a sticky bun and a couple of biscuits. This might not sound a lot but we thought it was magic. It wasn’t till years later that I found out the teachers supplied the money for this and their wages were not high. The food was followed by games and it all finished with the caretaker press ganged into dressing as Father Christmas to give each of us an orange or an apple.

Christmas Eve arrived and that was the day for buying the meat we would eat for our Christmas dinner. Turkey in those days was for the rich only. Chicken, which we all take for granted now, were beyond the pockets of the working classes then. It was a choice of beef, pork or lamb.

In those days, Mums who had little money to spend were very canny. Late on Christmas Eve, they would go to the market knowing full well that the later it got, the more desperate the butcher would be to sell off the meat. These were the days before freezers and cold stores. The meat just hung in the shops on hooks. As it got later, the meat would drop in price. The butcher would hold up a piece of pork at a low price. If his offer wasn’t taken, he would place a couple of pounds of sausages on top. If it still didn’t go, then a big piece of suet was added, all for the original price he had offered the pork. The trick with the women was to know when to shout ‘YES!

I used to go with my mum and stand under the gas flares, getting more and more desperate as she appeared to miss bargain after bargain. she knew exactly when to shout. She would get a lot for her money — so much we would have a job struggling home with it.

Then it was off to the stall that sold Christmas trees. Quite often we got one for nothing. Then there was the trudge home with our load. The first thing we did was set up the tree in a bucket of soil wrapped round with coloured paper. Out would come last year’s tree decorations and on they went. In those days we had no Christmas tree lights. We used to clip on little candles and light them. Imagine the fire hazard!

By the time we kids got to bed, it was very late. We were too excited to sleep, wondering what presents we would get. Finally, my brother and I would falls asleep, but not for long. Our presents would arrive at the bottom of the bed in separate cardboard boxes. The first of us to wake up would let out a shout and wake the other. It was absolute magic. We got wind-up toys, flashlights, mouth organs, a game of snakes and ladders, Ludo and jigsaw puzzles. My special present this year was two Western six-guns in a leather belt, replicas of those used by Wild Bill Hickock. For my brother, a Frog aluminium fighter plane powered by a thick black elastic band. It flew very well, so well in fact, that it finally crashed into a chimneystack and left half a wing on the roof.

How my mother provided all this I shall never know. It must have required twelve months’ planning on the money she was earning with, sadly, enough but very little help from Dad. Poor Mum! She didn’t go to bed until the early hours of Christmas morning, only to have a mouth organ blasting in her ear at 4.00am.

Christmas day was a real family day. In the morning, we went out and flew my brother’s plane. Then home to a huge dinner. In the afternoon, we played cards and board games. What my sisters did I cannot quite remember. Young women were a mystery to me. How anybody could prefer silk stockings to a Frog aircraft or real guns I couldn’t understand. It was a very happy day, with the joy of Boxing Day to follow.

Sadly enough, there wouldn’t be many more like this. War was approaching fast. Before it was over, my brother would have changed his Frog aeroplane for the real thing — a Pathfinder Mosquito fighter-bomber. And I would swap my Hickock specials for a 17 pound gun mounted on the turret of a Sherman tank.

SIMPLE PLEASURES OF A POOR BOY

from the childhood of Lee Lacy, born 1934

I was born of a mother who came from a family of ten children, of Bedfordshire farming stock. Her choices on leaving school were to go on the land or work as a servant. She chose the latter.

She met my father, who suffered from consumption after being gassed in the Great War, probably on the rebound from her first fiance. He’d been an airman who went down in the R101 Airship disaster, leaving her with child.

Her husband was a successful gardener, working in some of the larger houses in Bedfordshire. Although there was a thirty-year difference in their ages, he was a good looking man who did not show his years. They, therefore, passed off as a team without too much comment.

Our country cottage also housed the two children and a cat that ‘took care’ of father as he stumbled home from his evening at the local pub. The cat always followed father the half mile to the drinking house and sat on the windowsill until he came out and ‘saw him home’. My memories of these baby days are practically nil, but one story that was told with glee by my mother explained how I had obtained the nickname of ‘Pie’.

It appears that I was slow to find my feet as a child, and shuffled on my bottom along to the neighbours’ house. When they had had enough of me, they wound send me home with a chocolate confection that was made in the shape of a pie. I always smothered the chocolate coating all over my face. It probably accounts for my sweet tooth of today?

Some time before the outbreak of World War II, we had moved to the town of Luton in Bedfordshire, to a larger house that was once a corner shop. My memories of this are few, but I distinctly remember the horror on my mother’s face as a man came down our road, shouting loudly, ‘War declared.’

We were a very poor family, partly due — I fear — to my father’s drinking and gambling habits. Isn’t it strange how the gambler always thinks the big win is going to solve all his problems? Maybe this is why I never entered a public house or had a gamble till my late twenties.

My father constantly came home from the pub late, and I remember the Sunday lunch spoiling in the oven as Mother got more and more angry, resulting in the usual Sunday row.

Outings were rare, but I remember one occasion when Father took us out on one of his ‘treats’, a ride on a green bus into the country — to a pub! While he went inside, I would be deposited on the doorstep or in the garden with a glass of lemonade. On one such journey, my father pointed out of the bus window to a two very long rows of trees going so far that they came to a point in the distance.

‘I planted those,’ he said. It was not until that time I had known he was a top gardener. The war years had meant he had to go into munitions work, as he was not of an age to go to war again or, indeed, fit enough. The money being better in a factory, he had chosen to stay in this occupation for the rest of his life, working as a labourer until his retirement.

To say we were poor was an understatement. Mother used to wait at the factory gates at lunchtime on Fridays, to collect her housekeeping money before it went into the landlord’s or bookies’ pockets. How she managed I do not know. I have every respect for her, as we always had food on the table. Her one pleasure was a rented radio that she would sit close to while listening to the latest play or serial, all the while knitting from old articles of clothing undone and re-knitted. Or she would cut old garments into rag strips make peg rugs by pushing the strips through a hessian backing. It was a long and laborious job that actually produced warm, patterned floor coverings to go on the cold linoleum flooring.

She rarely, if ever, went out of the house and I was sent to the corner shop to obtain groceries often, if nearly always, bought ‘on tick’ and paid for a bit at a time when money was available.

As for myself, pocket money was non-existent but I used to go a couple of miles into the country and chop up fallen tree branches, which I made into firewood and sold door to door. Also, at Christmas time, I would take black and white postcard photographs of film stars of the day and hand colour them. Then I would mount them on board with a calendar. These I sold to supplement the earnings from my paper round and any other odd jobs I could get from the better-off neighbours.

My clothes were hand-me-downs, or given by charities, and my boots were supplied from the ‘poor fund’ of the local police service. Yes, I had the backside hanging out of my trousers and, often, cardboard would be inserted in the soles of my shoes to stop the cold and wet getting in.

A miserable existence, you might think, but no — I remember my childhood as a happy one. I was never at a loss to make my own toys out of scraps or old cardboard boxes, turning them into toy theatres or some other childish plaything.

In the country were a wood and a copse that, in the spring, was a carpet of bluebells. My friends and I would go and collect armfuls of these. Yes, it was allowed in those far-off days. We would sell the flowers to make a bit of pocket money. Cash made went on the great pleasure of the day, the cinema, which I managed by honest — and sometimes dishonest — means to visit at least two, and sometimes three, times a week.

At one time, my mother had a part time job as an usherette at the local Variety theatre. My love of the dramatic arts was started by getting complimentary tickets, seeing some of the big stars of the day. I was sometimes allowed backstage, and I well remember the kindness of some of those great people. I have fond memories of being entertained, along with three or four other kids, on the dressing room steps of comedian Jimmy Wheeler. I remember treading on Bela Lugosi’s toe as he signed my autograph book, and asking Richard Tauber if he could get me Mr Tauber’s autograph. At least I got a big smile from this one.

Later, I developed an interest in performing myself, and did a conjuring act, starting in working men’s clubs and doing children’s parties. Later I entered a talent competition and was taken on by the producer as his assistant, doing my act professionally. My first professional date was at my local Number Three Theatre [just a coincidence], the show a talent contest half done by professionals and half ‘star spotted’. At least sixty percent of the acts were appalling. I also remember the producer saying, ‘You’re good looking enough to please the girls, but not enough to upset their boyfriends! Happy days, yes, but — on this occasion — the producer of the fiasco ran off with the week’s takings and we were left penniless.

After my first weeks of professional work, my father congratulated me by telling me that I was wasting my time and conning the public. Other derogatory remarks followed and I wonder if his telling me I would never make anything of myself gave me the incentive to strive to be better than his opinion of me. In the future I was to travel the world and obtain fame, though not necessarily as a conjurer.

What did those early days teach me? To survive and to enjoy the pleasures of life as they come. That one does not have to be rich, or even famous, to enjoy the little one has. Above all, they taught me to try and be kind and sharing with my fellow man.