Our Small Corner

BACK TO AFFINS

At Coombe Road School in Brighton there is a young lady teacher who thinks I’m daft – and I don’t blame her. I did my best to explain the thing away but I know I didn’t make a very good job of it. But really, I can hardly blame myself for that, because to explain to her what had happened a few moments before I had to go back in time 65 years or so … She and I were alone in the classroom as I spluttered out my story:

In the year 1923, (or maybe ’24) I had sat in that same classroom as a pupil of Mrs Funnel. But that good lady was not in charge of her class at the time but was away on a much-needed holiday. This meant that for Standard 4, “Stewpot” time had arrived. Once a year, young lady students – trainee teachers – stood in for our regular teachers at holiday times and in each class 45 or so perishers gave a poor gal a fortnight of pure hell.

We all looked forward to a fortnight of fun with our Stewpot – and none looked forward with more enthusiasm than “Savvo”. I am not quite sure of how he came by the name, I rather think it was because he was a bit savage by nature and the name got whittled down. But whether or not this was true, you could almost see him sprouting a pair of horns as Stewpot time came around … and one poor unsuspecting young lady from the Education Department had no idea what was in store for her.

The class had been reading a story entitled “The Runner to Athens” about the Ancient Greeks and throughout the reading, as at all other times, Savvo was giving the young student teacher a thoroughly rotten time of it. She stood up to it all quite bravely for a long time but in the end, unable to take anymore, she ordered him from the classroom – “Go”, she commanded in her sternest manner … “Will I? – I Won’t !” replied Savvo, and after much verbal defiance from him, the poor gal arose from her desk and charged towards him with a wooden ruler in her hand and eyes ablaze. What her intentions were we dared not think but Savvo didn’t wait to find out; he shot up and started to dash up and down between the desks with Stewpot and ruler in hot pursuit.

Defiant to the limit, as he ran, Savvo called out to the class ‘Look lads, – Runner to Affins’. The final outcome of this little episode was that the aid of the burly school caretaker was invoked and Savvo was conducted, via the scruff of his collar, to the Headmaster’s room for punishment and our nice little Stewpot was transferred to the (hope-fully) more pleasant pastures of another class. But Standard 4 came off worst – Mr Suckling the Headmaster as teacher for the rest of the week.

That was the story I told the young lady teacher on September 8th 1989. It is a story I find easy to tell because despite the embarrassment I was feeling on this occasion the little cameo “The Runner to Affins” has over the years, returned to my mind as a picture just as clear as it was on the day it happened.

I was enjoying the unique experience of visiting Coombe Road School for the first time since leaving 62 years ago. The occasion was the launching of my autobiography which I had entitled “Everything Seems Smaller” – and it was the excellent idea of the publisher, QueenSpark Books, to acquire the use of the Hall of my old school for the purpose. I arrived at the school in the early afternoon, having made a promise to talk to some of the pupils on the subject of Coombe Road School in the 1920’s. This done and with a short while to spare between events, I decided on a lone nostalgic tour of the classrooms. The two classrooms that look out onto the verandah have a communicating door. A few moments enjoyable reflection in the first of these rooms and I passed through the door into the next …It came to me in a flash – the room of Savvo and the Stewpot!! I couldn’t help it…I just found myself shouting “Runner to Affins”… quite unaware that just to my left and obscured from view, a young lady teacher sat marking her papers.

One more step into the classroom and I saw her – by this time wide-eyed and open-mouthed in alarm by the intrusion of a shouting madman. It took some explaining, I can tell you. I’m sure she still thinks I’m crazy – and I still don’t blame her.

It had been an exciting day – the sort of day I never dreamed I would ever experience. Two newspaper interviews were followed by a photo session, after which I was whisked away to the doorstep of my old home for more photographs and the morning concluded with a live broadcast on B.B.C. Radio Sussex. In the early afternoon I was at my old school where I met the Headmaster Mr Marshall and his staff. Between these introductions and my talk to the children I was asked to give an interview to a young lady reporter named Belinda, who represented a youth magazine called “Buzz”. Never having heard of “Buzz” before, and never having heard from Belinda since, I am forced to the conclusion that the young lady was merely using me to practise her reporting on. But her main purpose, I believe, was to defend her age-group against my assertion that they will have no worthwhile memories in later years. I stand by my assertion; but the future will have nothing to fear if the present is rearing the likes of bright-eyed Belinda – who will surely become a reporter for The Times – or such.

I was guilty of a serious error of judgement when I made my mental notes (and a few written ones) on what to say to the pupils. I was fully under the impression that I would be speaking to, and taking questions from a group of 13-14 year olds. I had not inquired deeply enough into this and I suppose I was influenced by the fact that I had left school at the age of 14. Imagine my surprise then, when upon entering the Hall, I was confronted by a large crescent of smiling-faced teenies sitting cross-legged on the floor. It was a charming, but a completely disarming sight which ‘flattened’ me for a while. I had to make on-the-spot improvisations to suit the age-group. To this day I do not remember all that I said but the few observers told me afterwards that all went well. I sincerely hope so.

In speaking to these children the realisation came to me of the great gulf between not just the education, but the lifestyle of kiddies in the 20’s and those of the 80’s. Despite minor changes, my old school was the same. But we ancient and these modern children lived in different worlds.

I do not think it possible that present-day schoolchildren can even imagine what life was like for their Grandparents or Great-Grandparents when they were young. Among the eagerly-asked questions were:- “What was your school uniform like?” “Did you like your school dinners?” “Where was the bicycle shed?” and “Did your Mum come and meet you from school?” Sincere questions from clear-eyed and well-cared for youngsters. How could I explain to them that in my day there were few parents who could afford school uniforms for their children – even though the “uniform” consisted of only a school cap which cost one shilling and threepence (8p). Or that a bicycle was a luxury enjoyed only by the better-off few? (so few in the case of our school, that a bike-shed was unnecessary and non-existent).

I realised too that these kiddies, sad to say, had never known an age when the streets were safe for old and young to walk unmolested. How then could they ever realise that there was once a time when Mum-escorts were not needed – that Mums waited with a home-cooked meal for their children to come home from school? It was with strangely-mixed feelings that I said goodbye to those children. A feeling of sadness that the age in which we live will not provide for them the kind of memories that were our inheritance but a feeling of immense relief that they will never know the hardship and humilia¬tion that poverty can bring.

Present day news tells us that the leaders of the world’s Superpowers are meeting with smiles and handshakes and it is now possible that the Cold War of the past 40 years will be ‘consigned to the history books’ – God let it be so. I think of those eager young faces and I am confident that, with Divine help, these kids and their friends of all nations will build a new world – a better world where men will rise above their hate, their greed, and their intolerance. I can wish them nothing more.

It was really such a small thing – such a modest little book- something that began its existence as an old chap’s plaything – a few scribbled notes on pieces of paper and yet it opened up for me doors that I thought were forever closed. We have, over the years, had small family gatherings. In fact thanks to brother Ronnie’s initiative and organising ability we enjoyed, in 1978, a large family gathering where nephews, nieces, cousins and all sorts of relatives sprung up from the past and for one joyous evening were reunited. But how could I ever think it possible that an occasion would arise whereby so many of my old friends, neighbours and acquaintances of my childhood would be gathered together at one time and under one roof? Yet there they were, the Collins brothers, three faces,on different bodies, but quite unmistakably belonging to old school pals of years gone by. Harold smiled, Percy grinned, and Ted beamed – just as they always did – a sight that warmed my heart, a meeting I never imagined possible.

A lovely lady stood beside me as I signed books – “I was Iris Webb”…Idy Webb!! – the toddler playmate of my youngest sister! Then came Lily Smith, the pretty little girl who made my 11 year old heart flutter whenever I met her in the street. Quite unashamedly I kissed the lovely Lily with a resounding plonker – something I had always wanted to do 65 years ago. But now a highly amused husband looked on……

Names that I knew belonging to people I could not recall. Faces that I knew but could not put a name to – so many were there in addition to the many relations I was seeing after so many years.

Such a happy and unusual gathering. And all thanks to a few jotted memories,- but thanks mostly to QueenSpark Books. In my ‘few words’ at the launch I expressed my gratitude for the support that I had received from so many people. But since that event I have been conscious of the inadequacy of those words. So perhaps I should now add this appreciation.

When I wrote “Everything Seems Smaller” in my early retirement years, it was with no knowledge or hope that it would ever he published as a book. After sending a copy to each of my brothers and sisters, the original manuscript was confined to a drawer at home in a bundle of typewritten sheets which might never have seen the light of day again – until I had ceased to – except for the fact that that my sister Sylvia knew of a Brighton community writing and publishing group called QueenSpark Books. Sylvia had read every one of the books published by QS. They were all written by people of humble origin about life in and around a Brighton of long ago. Wonderful stories that could never have reached a reading public except for the existence of QS Books and its hard working and dedicated workers. Sylvia sent my work to QS who read it, approved it, divided it into chapters, put it through all the necessary procedures and produced – a book! A kid of the 1920’s Brighton streets, who left school at the age of 14, had the joy of seeing his work in print – an impossibility but for the existence of QueenSpark Books.

I’m not sure which other towns in the country have a QS equivalent but I hope that the people of Brighton, especially those with an interest in writing, recognise their good fortune in having QS Books on their doorstep. Over the years the group has expanded its activities and now contains many writing groups.

The publication of the book, small and humble as it is, has brought me letters from as far afield as Australia and Canada. It has reunited me with old acquaintances and has introduced me to many who I have never met, but who, by reading my words have been inspired to write to me. Satisfaction indeed.

It is the often declared opinion of QueenSpark that everyone has a story within them, a life worth writing about and a past worth recording. Those Brighton people who have a desire to express and share their thoughts and memories will find within the QueenSpark group a wealth of encouragement and assistance.

The letters began to arrive a few days after we returned to our Devon home. The reviews, kind and flattering reviews, had appeared in the Brighton papers and for a long time each post brought letters – many letters and without exception letters of praise and congratulation. But to keep the thing in perspective I realised that there must have been many who read and were indifferent to the book. It is understandable that many of my old friends and neighbours who recognised in my pages people and events that they themselves could recall, would enjoy having these real life stories retold and seeing in print a little part of their own childhood. I am grateful for their kind letters.

But it was the letter from Canada that led me to a decision. It was written by a lady whilst on holiday in the Rockies, a lady whom I have never met, a friend of my Canadian sister-in-law. This lady had borrowed a copy of my manuscript for “Everything Seems Smaller”. This lady said she felt compelled to write to me to say how she had enjoyed reading it as a story and complimenting me on its style and manner of writing. She concluded her letter with an appeal to me to hurry with a sequel. Well now!!

I have always claimed to be rather a modest bloke; chiefly because I haven’t done a lot in life to be cocky about. So when my first literary effort was accepted for publication for local circulation, I thought the term that might apply would be ‘provincial’ – meaning of no interest outside its own locality. I made this point to the interviewer from the “Evening Argus” and was much pleased by his reply – “Provincial? Nonsense! This book could be enjoyed in Sheffield!” I knew what he meant, and having had letters from many people unconnected with Brighton, I realise that a working class childhood is much the same wherever it may be lived and memories are just as happy or as poignant from wherever they are beamed.

So I think I will be going back again. There are so many memories to be gathered and it seems there are many who like to be reminded of them. So once again I will return, for a while, with my memory and my pen. But I must confess that the most compelling reason for my journey is that I do so much enjoy being back home in the “old days”.

SEEKING THE TRUTH

I used to get on my poor old mother’s nerves with my questions – “You want to know too much you do – go and ask yer father” – but I couldn’t help it. There was so much I didn’t understand and it seemed that nobody wanted to tell me anything. And Sunday School was the worst. Mind you, I liked going to Sunday School, and Mum liked me going, – she liked all of us going; but for her I don’t think it was so much for our spiritual well being as it was for giving her a “bit o’ peace and quiet.”

I liked it in the big hall of the Connaught Institute. All the children sat around in circles of about seven or eight bodies with a teacher to each circle (or class). I suppose there were about 10 circles spread out all over the hall and there was a general buzz when all the teachers were talking together. We kiddies had to lean forward in our seats so that we could hear what our teacher and not the one next door, was saying. We listened to stories about Jesus and Moses and people with names like Absolam and Abraham and they all wore long white robes. There were pictures on the walls showing these chaps and there were lambs and stars and stables and things. I suppose it was all nice and colourful but I just didn’t understand it all. I mean, there was one picture that was supposed to be Jesus, and he was a tall man with a long white shirt. He had white bobbed hair and all around his head there was a bright light with rays coming out of it; and underneath this picture it said “I am the light of the world”. But on the other side of the window there was another picture and Jesus had grey hair and there were lambs and a lot of other animals all around and under this one it said “Wash me in the blood of the lamb and I will be whiter than the snow”. Well now – first of all I didn’t like the idea of one of those little lambs being killed and I just did not believe that you could wash in blood and finish up white. So much, you see, that a kid like me could not understand and I felt frustrated and annoyed about it.

All down one of the walls of the big hall was a painted scroll-thing and reading from top to bottom it said:- ETERNITY – WHERE WILL YOU SPEND IT? Now I didn’t know what eternity was so I supposed it was something like a holiday. Anyway, looking at those words every time I went to Sunday School niggled at me so much that I plucked up the courage and spoke to one of the men teachers. I asked him outright – “What does that up there on the wall mean?”…He wasn’t very nice about it and he said, all grumpy-like, “Well it means d’ yer want to go to ‘eaven or ‘ell when yer die” “Well” said I “if that’s what it means why don’t it say so?” He told me not to get saucy or I’d likely get a clip round the ear; which I didn’t think was very Sunday School Teacher-like. But, to give him his due, he did finish up by saying “You’ll learn what it’s all about one day”. I was glad to hear this because I always thought that was what I was going to Sunday School for.

So you see, to sum the whole thing up, although the other kids could take it in their stride and not bother about it, I couldn’t help thinking that Sunday School was having the opposite effect on me that it should have. Because if I asked questions about things I didn’t understand I was either stupid or ‘saucy’ and if I said I did understand them when I didn’t that would be telling fibs. And they told us at Sunday School that telling fibs was sinful. So a right old tizzy I was in, I can tell you.

Anyway, I worked out that the best thing was to keep quiet and not to bother about trying to find out the truth of things. There was a lot to enjoy in Sunday School. I liked bawling my heart out singing the hymns and I liked earning enough points to go to Summer treat and if a simple mind like mine couldn’t understand it all, well, at least I tried.

Halfway through the afternoon, Mr Parker, the head man, would ring a handbell and that was the signal for classes to stop. Then came the bit I really liked. We would open our Hymn books – they were red books of Sankey and Moody hymns. Mr Parker would announce the number, the piano would open up with the introduction notes, and we would all let go full blast. It was all great stuff, none of your Holy-Holy dirges. It was as much as I could do to stop myself doing the rowing movements with my arms as we sang:

Pull for the shore sailor, Pull for the shore,
Heed not the rolling waves but bend to the oar,
Safe in the lifeboat sailor, cling to self no more,
Leave the poor old stranded wreck and pull for the shore

Talk about singing with feeling…It’s a wonder half the congregation were not sea-sick.

One of our teachers, one of the ‘circle’ teachers that is, was a blind lady, and I thought she was wonderful. She had an enormous Bible – not an ordinary one – they told us it was a Braille Bible. The pages had a lot of pimple things all over them and just by passing her hand over the page she could read all the Bible stories. When it came to Hymn singing she would wait for everyone else to start – perhaps just the first few words – and she would join in. She knew every word of every Hymn in the book. She was a heavily built lady and her wonderfully powerful and tuneful voice could always be heard above the rest.

There came a time when, for some reason, our blind lady had to leave Brighton and could attend the Connaught Institute no more. I shall never forget her last Sunday School with us. Mr Parker stood on his platform and said good-bye from all of us and we all sang to her. On that Sunday afternoon, a moment was recorded in my heart and memory which, over the years, has returned again and again:

God be with you we meet again
Till we mee-ee-eet, Till we mee-eet,
Till we meet at Jesu’s feet

There was this wonderful lady, denied the blessed gift of sight, singing in a firm voice, words of praise. She believed, she understood and standing beside her a small, doubting urchin, worried because he could not ‘understand’ it all. Why then the tears on my face as I sang? Surely there must be something in it?

Sometimes I used to think there must be something the matter with me but I didn’t know what it was.

Yes, it took me a very short while to decide that I did like Sunday School very much. I liked Bible stories. Most of all I liked Mr Parker. He was a jolly, smiling, friendly sort of chap. True, I only met him on Sundays but to my mind there was no way that he could he different on any other day of the week. But I doubt if there could have been a better Mr Parker anywhere than the Mr Parker who led the Connaught Institute Sunday School Treat.

The London, Brighton and South Coast Railway did not run trains from Lewes Road station to Burgess Hill as a regular service. So our treat train was what was called a ‘special’. This meant that the only passengers were fully paid-up members of the Connaught Institute Sunday School and no others, a circumstance for which, although they didn’t know it, the remainder of the British Travelling Public had cause to be eternally grateful because no normal human being could possibly have survived the journey in our train beyond Clayton Tunnel. But to begin at the beginning.

Each year on one sunny Thursday morning in the summer – it was always a Thursday and I never remember the weather being anything but sunny – we all gathered outside the Connaught Institute and, protected by Mr Parker’s outstretched arms with his bowler hat in one hand and umbrella in the other, a great human caterpillar wiggled its way across Lewes Road, turned up past the Pill Factory and wormed its way through a few streets and into the gates of the Lewes Road Railway Station where, as a mass of juvenile excitement, it lined the platform to await the arrival of its ‘special’ totally impervious to the pleas and warnings of the teachers and workers to “Stand back” “Don’t get too near” and “Wait ’til the train stops”. As the train drew to a halt, its carriage doors were assailed by a dozen or so rugby scrums, each scrummer intent on getting a corner seat. The lucky, or tougher ones, then settled down to the journey with a pair of kneecaps and a pair of toe caps in each corner, while the less fortunate spent the travelling time at the middle windows, winding ’em up and letting ’em down by means of the thick leather strap with holes in it.

We all liked tunnels best, which was just as well really because as soon as you get away from Preston Park station you run into Patcham Tunnel and very soon after that you are in Clayton Tunnel and between the two of them there is little to be seen in the way of countryside between Brighton and Burgess Hill. I liked tunnels too just as much as other kids but I was a bit disappointed on my first treat because I was looking for cows and I didn’t see many cows and I had a bag of cherry-pips in my pocket and the cows I did see were too far away so the pips were wasted. Perhaps I had better explain what this is all about. For a long time before our treat we had talked about it at home and Mum had told us that when she was a girl and went on her Sunday School treat she saved up all her cherry-pips to throw at cows and I thought that sounded like a lot of fun but as I say it didn’t take me long to find out you couldn’t reach the cows with cherry-pips and my Mum was telling fibs. When it came to pulling our legs I sometimes think she was just as bad as Dad.

I never try to make out that I remember things exactly right but I’m pretty sure the name was “The Victoria Gardens” – yes I’m sure it was. It was a little park-place in Burgess Hill about half a mile down the road from the Station and that was where we enjoyed all our fun and games. I expect someone will tell me it wasn’t called “The Victoria Gardens” but something else. But to me the name sounds so right that all I can say is that it ought to have been “The Victoria Gardens” even if it wasn’t. So I shall call it “The Victoria Gardens” anyway.

The rugby scrums that had fought their way aboard the train at Lewes Road Station, spilled out onto the platform at Burgess Hill as a much thinner mixture. There was no need to form a caterpillar and there was no need for Mr Parker to protect us with his bowler hat and umbrella because Burgess Hill in those days was not nearly so busy as Brighton. It was one of those places where two horses-and-carts within half a mile of each other would have been called a traffic jam. So, thinned out or not, for a place like Burgess Hill we were quite a crowd as we made our way from the station to The Victoria Gardens. A lot of ‘clever clogs’ and the ‘knowing ones’ who had been there before dashed on in front to get first go on the boats and bikes which were always the most popular.

In the Gardens there was a nice-sized lake, a bicycle track and a large pavilion where we could buy cakes and sweets and drinks and things and where later in the afternoon we had a sit down tea consisting mainly of buns and lemonade. There was a sports green where we had egg-and-spoon races and sack races and three-legged races and all sorts. It was great fun with prizes as well. Luckily too there was quite a number of swings and see-saws and whatnot which were free and a great boon to the many of us forced to watch our finances. I used to have about fourpence or fivepence to spend at the treat and that was mainly due to the generosity of dear old Mrs Knight who, for a few weeks before the big day (the date of which I constantly reminded her) would send me on quite unnecessary errands at a ha’penny a time – she was a lovely lady was Mrs Knight.

I was never keen on the boats. It seemed to me that all they could do was go around in circles. There were paddle-boats and rowing-boats and they were all a mile too wide so that the paddle-boat handles you had to turn to make ’em go were so far apart that the little ‘uns with average length arms had to try to turn them with arms at full stretch which was no easy thing. On top of all this all the handles had such a horrible squeak to them as though they had never felt a drop of oil. I remember thinking it was a bit much – we didn’t have a treat every day – you’d think they would get the old oil-can going once a year, wouldn’t you?

I think it cost a penny to hire a boat for half an hour and when your time was up the boss-man would shout through a megaphone trumpet-thing – “Time’ s up number so-and-so”. But number so-and-so seldom returned to base under its own power as it was always engaged along with most of the other boats in going round in small circles in the centre of the pond and had to be brought in by ‘Arty. ‘Arty was the boss-man’s assistant who, with the aid of a master boat and a length of rope, enjoyed the full employment of rowing out to the middle and bringing back the many number so-and-so’s who might otherwise have spent the remainder of their days performing watery circles.

It wasn’t a lot different with the rowing boats except that instead of circles they went in for zig-zags. Older people will know that rowing a boat with any degree of smoothness does require a certain amount of skill – a quality not generally found in Sunday School Treaters. Perhaps that was why there were not so many rowing boats and why the ‘cocky ones’ who did venture out in one of them seemed to spend more time with their bums on the floor and their legs in the air than in the recognised rowing position. Once again, the excessive width of the boat compared with the size of the occupant, allowed for only one oar to be grabbed at one time. So the drill seemed to be – pull on one oar-fall over-get up and pull on the other oar-fall over – and so on and so on causing the boat to pursue a ragged zig-zag pattern with the occasional collision with a paddle-boat doing its circling thing. No sir, no boats for me. There was no way that I was going to spend good money on half an hour of misery – no way that I was going to buy blisters at two handfuls for a penny. But the bikes – ah, that was different.

Over in one corner of the gardens there was a sort of enclosure place which looked like a dirt track with dusty bushes all around. Whether the bikes were holding the shed up or the shed was holding the bikes up it wasn’t easy to see from a distance but there were bikes, dust, shed and dirt all mixed up together. And moving around in the middle of this lot was a brown blob. As you got nearer the shed the blob seemed to take on human form and could, after a while, be recognised as a man in a boiler suit. There was a shock of bushy, dusty-brown hair, met by a bushy dusty-brown beard. These were joined at the collar by a brown, oily, dusty boiler suit and the entire mass tapered down to join, concertina fashion, a pair of enormous, brown or black dusty boots. The blob would glare at you through a pair of bottle lenses amidst the hair and inform you that “It’s free rah’ns a penny”. They told me his name was Mr Brown – but the name fitted his description so well that I thought someone might have made it up just to be funny hoping I would get a smack round the chops if I called him by it. So I didn’t. And free ra’hns a penny didn’t mean that anything was free – for nothing – but just that you could ride around the track on one of his bikes three times for a penny.

One of our Sunday School workers brought along with him a first-aid kit with bandages, plasters, iodine and all that. Mr Pate it was, and the bike track always assured him a busy day because hardly any of Mr Brown’s customers could ride, or indeed, had ever been on a bike before. So the track always closely resembled the field at Balaclava with its mass of casualties. Even the few kids who could manage a few yards in an upright position were unable to show their skill before being brought to earth by a fallen body or machine.

Very few school aged children ever owned a bike. Work it out for yourself – at about £5 each in the shops, that was somewhere around 2 weeks wages for the average working man, and the A.W.M. having about 4 kids of the can’t-give-it-to-one-and-not-the-other age – it is easy to see that new bikes were just not on. But by saving their paper round and errand money some boys were able to acquire an ancient relic of a second-hand bike to become the envy of all the others. Always a snag though – ancient relics were deficient in many particulars and Brighton being as Brighton is – all steep hills and valleys – it was necessary that a bike should have a good pair of brakes – which ancient relics usually didn’t.

We were lucky. Close by to us was the Race Hill Road, they call it Tenantry Down Road now, or something like that. It was a gritty road running from the top of Elm Grove to Bear Road and it was flat. It was somewhere you could ride a bike (if you could ride a bike) without hurtling to disaster.

Percy Collins got hold of a bike and I latched on to Percy and together we went to Race Hill Road to practise riding. I don’t know where Percy got it but it was a lady’s bike with no cross-bar. This made it easier to mount but just to be cussed it was a back-peddler. A back-peddler, in case you don’t know, did not have a brake-lever on the handle bars but to stop the wretched thing you had to press hard on the pedals. Me – I couldn’t tell the difference between free-wheeling and back-peddling so I spent more time sprawled out hands and knees on the gritty road than I did in the saddle. In the end I couldn’t have ridden even if I could ride – if you know what I mean. My hands were too sore to hold the handle-bars. Percy rode it alright though. He would glide off along the road as sweet as a nut. That made me mad. I hate people who show off.

So there you are then, perhaps you can understand why bikes were so popular at our treat. Of course Mr Brown’s bikes were boneshakers but he did try to match the bike to the kid and vice-versa. And this gave all the riders on the track a chance to show off another skill. After you’d had your full ration of three ‘rah’ ns’ you timed it so that old Brown’s back was turned and flash by the hut and start another ‘ra’ hn’ . Loud were the boasts of some of the ‘clever cocks’ – “I ‘ad ten rounds for me penny” – going on to ridiculous claims running into treble figures. I don’t know what the workers thought of this kind of dishonesty in their little Christians but they didn’t say anything.

In the early afternoon came the sports event. Races for boys; races for girls; sack races; egg and spoon races; three-legged races and all sorts. Mr Parker always believed in handicaps and he would take the little ‘uns so far forward to give them a start that you would think they could never lose. But they did. I don’t know why but it always seemed to be the snotty-nosed yobs who I didn’t like that won the prizes. I don’t mean our Teddy, he always came away with a prize or two, but that was because he could run fast.

Then there was tea and prize-giving. Nice prizes they were – usually books. Our Sunday School workers were not silly when they chose prizes because they knew that most youngsters lived on a reading diet of “Weary Willy and Tired Tim” and all the Penny Comic characters. But because of those book prizes there were hundreds of boys who would never otherwise have heard of Long John Silver and Squire Trelawney and there were just as many girls who would never have known “What Katie Did”. We were a cultured lot in our district – thanks to those prizes.

Time for going home now. A rather weary traipse back to the station and a not-quite-so-rough scramble for the corner seats because you didn’t need to be sitting near a corner seat to be able to sing. A couple of hundred yards out of Burgess Hill station it began. The voices were lusty and the repertoire was small, consisting entirely of:

We’re on our journey ho-me,
We’re on our journey ho-me,
God Bless the railwaymen,
For bringing us safely home.

My mate George said it was a load of bosh. He said it wouldn’t be much of a railwayman who couldn’t get you to Burgess Hill and back without a bang-up. I told him not to be so sour. I told him to shut up and enjoy what was left of the treat. He could get like that sometimes could George.

Back to Lewes Road station and the Grand Finale. The bridge across the lines was iron with sort of lattice-work walls and into two of the diamond-shaped holes Mr Parker would stick his feet and haul himself up a foot or so and waving his bowler hat would call for three cheers. I don’t know what we were cheering – we’d just blessed the railwaymen all the way back from Burgess Hill – but we had a jolly good day so whatever it was we were cheering we cheered it.

I suppose we just felt like cheering.

“ALL THE STREET’S A STAGE”

Our streets were friendly places in the 1920’s. You could seldom take two steps outside your front door before being greeted with some-thing like “Wot oh, where yer goin?” It was never a serious enquiry because you were either going up the street or down. No it was just a natural greeting and the opening for a chat. There was always some sort of game going on that you could join in or someone with a horse and cart or push-barrow offering to swap you a paper windmill or a coloured balloon in exchange for a jam-jar…Alive! that’s what they were – our streets were always alive! – even going down to Ashdown’s the grocers for twopenn’orth of mixed fruit jam in a basin could turn into an adventure. I always remember the day when Bob the Whippet pinched a string of old Harry White’s sausages.

I had hardly got to the bottom of our steps when – Whoosh ! – right past me flashed Bob the Whippet with a couple of pounds of prime pork bangers firmly gripped in his jaws and flying behind him like a broken necklace. 25 yards in the rear a hotly-flushed Harry gave chase brandishing his butcher’s steel. But it was an unequal race. Whippets are skinny little dogs as we all know but although Bob was carrying half his own body weight in best bangers there was no way that a 13 stone Harry, albeit in the same prime condition as his sausages, was going to catch Bob the Whippet up an incline like Bear Road. I cannot honestly say what the outcome of this little incident was but Harry knew that Bob the Whippet was Freddie Newton’s dog so I expect there was a bit of a set-to with Freddie’s Dad. One thing I do know though if Bob the Whippet got through a couple of pounds of Harry’s sausages in one sitting he must have been well punished for his sins. Where else I ask you, where else apart from Comic Papers, could you have such a show played out before you at any time for nothing? Not only for Bear Road kids but for kids in streets all round. Our streets were alive!

“Down the pub to get the right time” That was the frequent answer to “Wot Oh – Where yer goin?” Every so often one of us had to go down the Newmarket Arms and climb onto the window-sill to see the time by the public bar clock. We had two clocks at home, one of them was a hefty grand affair, black with gold pillar-things each side of the face. It was second-hand when Dad bought it from an old huffle-shop in Lewes Road and that was when he came home on leave in the First World War and I was about two years old. You opened the glass and wound it up from the front with a key that was kept in a little cupboard place at the back where you could see the works and a pendulum. This clock, in deference to its grandeur, had pride of place on the front room mantelpiece and nobody – just nobody – wound it except Dad. the rest of the family being given firmly to understand that to even touch that key – just to lay a finger on it – would result in the clock being overwound and the whole thing would go bust. But Dad left home for work and got home from work at such unearthly hours that for weeks on end he forgot to wind it up. So the old clock lived out its days telling lies on our front room mantelpiece but making a noble contribution to the Victorian Parlour atmosphere of the place.

The other clock, the one on the kitchen mantelpiece, was one of the old alarm clocks with a bell on top. This clock was deficient in two particulars. The alarm wouldn’t work and it never told the right time. So a frequent cry from Mum was “That bloody clock’s stopped again – ‘ere pop over the pub and find out the right time or we’ll have yer father in before I know where I am and you know wot ‘es like if ‘is tea ain’t ready”. It was little use pointing out that you couldn’t very well spoil a lump of bread and cheese or a corned beef sandwich. So it was “over th’pub for the right time”.

When the messenger returned the “right time” still had to be worked out. Mum would say “Now that pub clock’s always five minutes fast for chucking out and you’ve been two minutes down and two minutes back and Gawd knows how long jawing – so if you say it was ten past when you looked that’s what we’ll make it now”. A wonderful bit of calculation that only Mum understood. You could bet your boots that after all the palaver the first thing Dad would say when he stepped inside the kitchen would be “What’s a matter with that clock? Ten to four? It was that when I passed Cox’s pill factory”. Whereupon Dad would alter the clock again, making allowance for the walking-time from Cox’s to home and we still didn’t know the time.

In these days of digital watches, quartz clocks, time signal pips on the telly, and even the tiniest child with its posh wrist watch, I would like it to be understood that even a simple thing like finding out the time took some effort when I was young. I wouldn’t wish it on ’em but I have a sly feeling it wouldn’t hurt some of todays kids to have to “Pop over the pub for the right time”. Come to think of it though I expect most of them would stay for a couple of lagers. But I mustn’t get cynical must I?

Father bought himself a watch. He was fed up with messing about and so he bought himself a “Postman’s Own Pocket Watch” as advertised in his Union Magazine – a moribund kind of journal which he brought home every month and only read the adverts. This ‘reliable instru¬ment’ ,as it was lauded, was available to all postmen for 7/6d on easy terms – and they must have been easy for Dad to afford ’em.

From the moment he took possession of his “Postman’s Own Pocket Watch” it became the master timepiece of the district. Every other clock or watch, unless it told a time which exactly agreed with the POPW was wrong and that was that – Big Ben included.

The Webb family, who lived at 115, acquired a wireless set at about the same time as Dad got his watch and the Webbs, being a good-natured lot, always placed their wireless set at an open upstairs window (in the summer) so that it could be enjoyed by the near neighbourhood. The booming tones of Big Ben rang out across our backyard announcing to the world that the time in the British Isles was precisely 6pm. Dad slid his POPW out of his waistcoat pocket and announced to the present company that if that’s what Big Ben said then Big Ben was a liar. He jerked his thumb towards Webb’s wireless and said “Yer can’t always trust them new-fangled things yer know”. And so to the world at large the time was six o’clock but to Dad and his POPW it was five past. Webb’s wireless and Big Ben could say what they bloody well liked!

Alfie who I suspect always liked to ‘take it out’ of Dad, said to him one day “Here Dad if your old turnip is so good (I don’t know why Alfie always called Dad’s watch a turnip) – why don’t you get one for Mum so she’ll know the right time when you ain’t here?” – A kind of logic which cut no ice with Father who, for the millionth time, informed us that he ain’t made of so-and-so money.

Dad’s watch resided on the end of a chain which he was proud to call an ‘Albert’. This chain (which was unearthed from one of the many junk-tins that adorned every mantelpiece in our house) consisted of a heavy, ugly, silver set of links with a dog-lead attachment at one end and a cross-bar arrangement at the other. The cross-bar was secured through a waistcoat button hole and with the watch in his pocket, the chain formed a delicate loop on Dad’s belly. And Dad walked the streets of Brighton simply bursting for someone to enquire of him ‘the right time’. On the all too rare occasions that this did happen the watch was squeezed from the pocket like a pip from an orange and the inquirer was informed of the ‘right time’. Plus or minus five minutes.

Due to the success of his pocket-watch and because of the satisfaction it had given him Dad kept an even keener eye on the adverts in his Union magazine and upon payment of the last instalment of the POPW he fell for the POAC and within a few weeks a monstrosity in the form of a pendulum-and-weight operated “Postman’s Own Alarm Clock” adorned the north wall of our kitchen. It was supplied in a box as a “Hang it yourself kit, with instructions inside” and Dad lugged this devilish-heavy box home in his postman’s bag. Merci¬fully the instructions were simple enough, consisting mainly of “fix hook (A) to wall at about 7ft from the floor and hang clock by hole (B) to hook (A)”.

I think it best to draw a veil over the process of securing hook (A) to wall except to say that by the delicate manipulation of a 21b hammer and accompanied by some fearful language by Papa the clock was finally secured through hole (B) to hook (A).

Imagine, if you can, something that looks like a cuckoo-clock, but twice the size of a normal cuckoo-clock and without a cuckoo, with a foot-long pendulum holding a three-inch diameter round bit and a confusion of chain holding two brass weights as it’s hangings. Imagine too, a white clock-face with inch high Roman numerals in brown, set on a pink – yes (Lord help us) – pink band and finally imagine a shockingly over-ornate pair of hands, and there you have it as it hung on our wall. The “Postman’s Own Alarm Clock”. Except for a “tut-tut” and a “My Gawd” here and there Mum kept a dignified detachment from all the goings-on concerning the POAC but she did point out to Father that “You’ve been getting up early for donkey’s years, – I don’t know what you want that thing for”. To which he replied that this will make sure that he carried on getting up early and in any case “it’s a nice ornament”. To which I don’t think Mum agreed.

The big weight worked the time and kept the pendulum swinging and the small weight operated the alarm. Somewhere on the top, or in its innards, the clock concealed a huge bell and a hammer. You set the alarm by setting the pointer thing in the middle of the face to whatever o’clock you wanted it to go off. And on one dark winter night in the early-to mid-twenties as the Manville clan retired to bed, the weights hung, the pendulum swung and the pointer pointed. The Postman’s Own Alarm Clock was poised to do its duty.

Teddy Leuty said next day he heard it but I’m sure he must have been fibbing because he lived 75 yards down the road. But whether Teddy was fibbing or not the truth is that at 4 o’clock in the morning the most atrocious banging and clanging assaulted the night air of Bear Road and I knew for certain that lights appeared in the windows of three houses each side of us. Dear old Addie Leachy, who lived in the flat above, fell out of bed as windows were thrown open, voices chattered and eyes peered through the darkness looking for the Fire Brigade. But in a short while Dad, who had shot out of bed with the aid of Mum’s foot, dashed into the kitchen, removed the weight and peace was restored.

Bear Road in those dear old days was not the sort of place where you kept a secret for long and the news of “Wot it was and who dun it” soon got around to Mum’s deep embarrassment and her opinion of the “Postman’s Own Alarm Clock” rang in Dad’s ears long after its bell had been silenced. And Father’s pride and joy was reduced in status to “The Postman’s Own Clock”.

HEAVEN GETS JEALOUS

I do not hold the slightest doubt that if Radio and T.V. had been available to us as children in the same way it is to youngsters today we would have behaved in exactly the same way as they and during evening times our streets would have been empty of play-gangs and houses would have been full of chin-in-hand, ogling, sit-around-and-say-nothing, peanut-pooching individuals. I have been accused by some people of being anti-modern child and perhaps my words add power to this charge. But it is not true. Children are basically the same in whatever age they live, and will respond naturally to the circum¬stances that fate provides. So I make no claim to our generation being in any way superior to those that followed, but I shall never cease to be grateful that modem ‘blessings’ were not within our reach.

One of our most earnest preoccupations throughout each week was the effort to gather unto ourselves the sum of twopence-ha’ penny to get us into the Arcadia Cinema in Lewes Road on the following Saturday afternoon. Pictures – that’s what we liked – pictures and in the same way that children of today regale themselves with the activities of their soap-opera and Pop-concert heroes, so we revelled in the adventures of “The Riddle Rider” – so we doubled up with laughter at the antics of Charlie Chaplin, Chester Conklin, Buster Keaton and Ben Turpin. The difference being, of course, that we couldn’t sit at home and press a button for our pictures – we had to do errands at a ha’ penny or a penny a time during the week and with luck could usually raise the admission fee plus the price of a toffee-apple from a house in Newmarket Road where a woman used to sell them for a ha’ penny and they tasted awful. Cousin Jack used to say that the toffee was so rotten-tasting that he was glad when he had finished his. No, we didn’t have to sit indoors pressing buttons, but there were some pictures we could see from the street and they cost nothing. There was a change of programme every three weeks or so, and the man who did the change came along with a ladder, an oval-shaped bucket of paste and a long-handled brush. On the side of the wall of Harry Gardner’s green-grocery shop – the wall leading down Newmarket Place – there was a bill-posting board and after the pasting man had been he always, well nearly always, left behind the picture of a jolly-looking chap who grinned and beamed down on us from above. My favourite was the old chappie dressed in pyjamas who sat with arms and legs clutching a floating bottle and the words said “BOVRIL – prevents that sinking feeling”. I thought that was clever and the jolly-looking chap made you feel happy even if you wasn’t. Then came the ladder-paste-brush and the old chap on the bottle gave way to another jolly-looking old chap, standing right on the top point of a brick wall which he was demolishing with a pick-axe and on the bit of remaining wall a gas-bracket stuck out, and there was a lamp, and the mantle was bright and burning like billy-ho, and the jolly old chap was saying “Golly, it must be a VERITAS” which I expect it was, because everyone used gas-mantles in those days and Mum said “Course it was a Veritas – yer cant buy nuthink else” Ladder-paste-brush – This time a cheery young chappie held up a bottle of “Daddie’s Sauce” and he was saying “The only sauce I dare give Father”. Then came yet another cheery old chap – running along a railway line beside a train and the caption read “Grandpa beats the train to Ealing prompted by the KRUSCHEN feeling”. Ladder-paste-brush and another energetic old feller. A funny looking gink this one. His hair went up to a point at the back of his head and he was called “Sunny Jim”. The words he said “Over the fence goes Sunny Jim, ‘Force’ is the food that raises him”. Mum said “I wouldn’t give you kids muck like that”. I don’t really believe she thought it was muck – I think it was a bit too dear for us. Ladder-paste-brush – I really liked this one – Two puss-cats sitting on a wall, one black and one white and one of them was saying:

Friend I was ill, but truth to tell,
‘Twas Nestle’s Milk that made me well
I feel so fit and full of vim
That ne’er again will I touch the skim.

What about that then! Tinned milk for pussies. Try that on some of today’s pampered pets and most of ’em would leave home. They were not all funnies left behind by the ladder-paste-brush man. They were all sorts – “Cheery Blossom Boot Polish” – “Grasso” – “Monkey Brand Soap” – “Blue Cross Matches” – and oh yes, “Keatings Kills” a powder which claimed to kill off bugs, fleas, moths and beetles. I was interested in this one because I found a box of “Keating Kills” in a bottom cupboard at home and when I asked my Mum what it was for she said “Mawths – I aint havin’ them mawths eating my curtains” – that’s what she said but I think she was fibbing again – I don’t think it was moths she was after, I think it was fleas.

I loved the smell of grocery shops. Most of all I liked the smell of Mr Ashdown’s grocery shop at the corner of Ewhurst Road. Funny thing though, if you asked me to describe the smell I couldn’t – only that it smelt like a grocer’s shop. I suppose it was the fragrance of tea and the pungency of cheese all mixed up with a whiff of coffee, cocoa, bacon on the slicer, mixed fruit jam and the strange but smashing smell that jumped out of the biscuit tins as Mr Ashdown opened them and pulled out the spare crinkly paper that the biscuits were separated with. You might think the crinkly paper was in the tins to prevent the biscuits getting broken – but I’m not so sure that’s all it was. The tins full of biscuits were always stacked against the counter on the customer’s side and the top row of tins were at just the right height for the youthful hands to reach and some kids (not me, honest) used to wait until Mr Ashdown was busy serving someone else and they would edge the lid of the tin up to nick some biscuits – or they would have done except that crinkly paper would rustle and give the game away. So I reckon that’s what the crinkly paper was there for.

Housewives did not buy their foodstuffs in bulk. They had no freezers or fridges and they didn’t have a lot of money. So the normal budget for food in a street such as ours was calculated very much on a day-to-day or hand-to-mouth method and a half-pound of this or that was the most frequent order (not tea-that was a quarter or two ounces). The serving of a half-pound of sugar or currants or the like was an entertainment in itself. The twiddle twist and tuck-in operation was performed like this: A square of thick, blue paper was held firmly in one corner by Mr A’s forefinger and thumb; then one edge of paper was twiddled around and outside the other edge to form a cone; the thumb and forefinger were then given a sharp twist to lock the whole thing together and the sugar or whatever was poured and weighed in the cone. The top flaps were tucked in and there you had it – as neat and firm a package as you could wish for. Mr Ashdown and his fellow-grocers were artists. I’m sure there must have been night-school courses for Twiddle, Twist and Tuck-in.

Four enormous tea-caddies stood on the top shelf of Mr Ashdown’s shop. If there had been thirty-six more I would have sworn they belonged to Ali-Baba. As it was I always imagined in my childish ignorance that there was a robber inside each one – because they never came down and the loose tea was always scooped out of smaller caddies on a lower shelf. Pre-packaging was almost unknown; a fact which, although we always moaned at being sent to the shops, did add a bit of interest to the chore. The bacon-slicer was a fairly new innovation and I liked it when one of the more affluent customers (there were not a lot of ’em) was buying a lot of bacon and the rashers went whizzing across the wheel. I know it became a popular joke later on, but we really did when that-bacon slicer was new, used to stand at the shop window for ages just to see it work. Even watching old Ashdown cutting the cheese with a bit of wire on a board or dobbing out mixed-fruit jam from a big stone jar into your own basin – it was all great fun. He used to get quite ratty when the “‘tide was low’ and his wooden spoon got sticky he got jammed ‘up to the nines’ as Mum would say.

In addition to the entertainment from behind the counter Mr Ashdown contributed to the Bear Road Picture Show. He did not have a bill-poster board like Harry Gardner but he did have a son who was an excellent artist; and on a large blackboard standing outside the shop Mr A junior would write adverts in chalk and illustrate them with pictures. For instance: a new delivery of dates would be advertised with a wonderful picture of Pyramids, camels and general desert scenes, a delivery of tinned salmon bringing forth a picture of leaping fish and waterfalls; each week something new. Yes I liked the smell of our grocers shops. Such things make me realise that memories are not only in the mind but also in sounds and smells. It gets me so I hate the sight of supermarkets.

The first thing you saw when you went into Harry Gardner’s greengrocers shop was a little notice. It was propped up on the counter facing the door so that you couldn’t miss it- not much more than a ticket really – dark green with posh gold letters and it read:

PLEASE DO NOT ASK FOR CREDIT
AS A REFUSAL OFTEN OFFENDS

– that’s what it said and bold as brass I would walk right past it and say to Mr Gardner “Mum says can she have four pounds of spuds ’til the end of the week?” You see I didn’t really know what credit was – at one time I thought it was something you put in the taters as you boiled ’em – like mint. I had heard the women ask old Gardner to “shove in a bit o’ mint” when they bought taters and I knew jolly well they didn’t expect to pay for it. So I thought the notice meant “Don’t ask for something for nothing – like mint”. Although why anyone should be offended at not getting a bit of buckshee mint I don’t know. Now if that notice had said “Don’t ask for tick, cos you won’t get it” I would have understood. I knew what tick was because most of the women in the street had it and Mr Gardner had one of those long skinny ledger books where he kept a note of everyone’s tick. I heard a woman say one day “Old Gardner don’t know ‘is arse from ‘is elbow, ‘es got a notice on one counter saying ‘e don’t do tick and a book on the other counter saying ‘e does.” But you have to be fair, never mind what that notice said you could always get your taters ’til the end of the week, although in my case not before Mr G had licked his finger, flicked over the book to Mum’s page and said “Tell your mother she still owes me fourpence from last week” – When I got home and told Mum she would give one of her crafty looks and say “Yes I know I accidentally for the purpose forgot about it.”

He was a good old stick was Mr Gardner. On his head, for all the years I knew him, he wore the same old battered trilby and on his face he wore the same old’ why-does-the-world-treat-me-so-badly’ look. On his body he wore a blue and white striped apron and on the huge pocket of the apron the stripes ran down the other way. He always wore a tough looking pair of jodhpurs and shiny leather leggings and the boots that the leggings joined onto wore a liberal coating of tater-dust. Much of his time he devoted to humping great crates of cabbage and stuff from his back-yard in Newmarket Place to the front of his shop in Bear Road in the morning and back again last thing before closing, the time in between being devoted to serving provender to his customers, mainly by the system of credit (or tick) which, despite what the green-and-gold notice said, he never refused.

Mrs Gardner acted as relief in the shop when Harry took the occasional break – this was the time all the kids waited for. Mrs G was a no-nonsense type who, by her general demeanour, let it be known to the world at large that she was really above such things as serving fruit and veg to the common herd; and we kids took great delight in asking her for “A penn’orth of specked fruit please and not too many pineapples.” Poor Harry seldom rested for long before being called upon by his better half to “come out here to this lot.”

Gardner’s only competition came twice a week from Jim’s horse and cart. Jim Goodrich lived with his elderly mother halfway up Bear Road and he did a small local fruit and veg round. Twice a week Jim made an early-morning visit to the wholesale market in town and came back to serve it in our district. If ever Man and Beast earned their daily bread Jim and his old nag did. Zig-zagging their way up our steep hills – a straight pull would have been impossible – all horses and carts had to zig-zag. Luckily, because of the frequent serving stops, the old horse had plenty of rest intervals. Jim and his horse-and-cart brought not only foodstuffs but many a ray of sunshine into the drab lives of his house-tied customers. There was always a laugh and a joke with Jim. Saucy but never offensive, he was always a great favourite and his visits always welcomed. Anything between seven and fourteen steps divided Jim from most of his customers. The lady would stand above and with Jim standing below the sales procedure went something like this:

“wot’s yer cabbage like Jim?” Jim would sort out a cabbage and hold it up:-“Ow abaht this one?” Lady:- “Ow much?” Jim:- “Fourpence” Lady:-“That’ll do.” Jim would then fling the cabbage from the bottom step calling upon the lady to “Catch it” but his words were unmistakably “Cat’s shit” – whereupon the lady would wrap fourpence in a bit of paper and sling it down to Jim calling out “Dog’s shit”. Serving taters and carrots had to be done at ground level. But a bit of harmless ribaldry was always enjoyed by all and a series of laughing screams and cackles followed Jim on his merry round. Nobody knew the name of Jim’s horse, I don’t know if he really had one, so the poor old thing must have lived a life of perpetual puzzlement being called by a different name by every different bunch of kids at every stop.

Yes Jim was a lovely chap. Well-built and good-looking and in his early thirties, Jim had a lovely smile and a cheery word for everyone. But the joy that Jim brought to Bear Road came to a sudden and unexpected end. Well-loved Jim was stricken with a serious illness and passed away with almost brutal suddenness. And Bear Road mourned the loss of a good man.

I used to think sometimes Heaven gets jealous – that must be it – in my childish confused and worried mind I remember thinking that some great unknown spirit which has command over Life and Death must, at times, look down into our small corner of the world, and find a well-loved one to claim as Heaven’s own. Why else can it be that relatives, neighbours and friends must so often suffer heartache and grief over the loss of a loved one? I did not realise at the time that I, a kid of the streets, was worrying because I could not solve the great Mystery of Life and Death – the great question that wise and learned men pondered through out the ages – and found no answer.

I found some comfort in this knowledge when, in later years, I read Shakespeare’s Hamlet soliloquising over:- “The undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns” – and in the writings of Omar Khayyam:

Myself, when young, did eagerly frequent,
Doctor and Saint and heard great argument,
About it, and about, but evermore
Came out by the same door as in I went

We know no answer- there is none and we are left to cling to a faith in an unknown Almighty. I have respect for, and a certain affinity with, those who earnestly wish they could embrace this faith with more sincerity. I have respect for, and a great envy of those whose faith is deep and undying. Such a faith is a precious gift indeed.

SOMETHING TO EAT, – FOR SOME

In the 1920s – 1930s there were six shops and a pub in Bear Road. In later years someone converted one of the big houses between Riley and Ewhurst Roads into a fish and chip shop but in my childhood most of the houses in that row were what they called “Hand Laun¬dries’ – which meant that they took in washing and employed local housewives to do the washing and ironing by hand. I don’t really know what else they could have been but hand laundries, we had never heard of washing-machines in those days and even if there had been such things they would have had to be gas-driven because electricity had not reached many houses in our street at that time.

Dear old Mrs Field used to look after Teddy and me while Mum was working in one of the hand-laundries to make an extra bob or two. We used to like being taken along to wave at her as she stood ironing at one of the upstairs windows. It was accepted as normal that some housewives – perhaps with a family of five or six of their own to wash and cook for, should have to go out and do the washing for better-off people. But that’s the way the world was in those days and I suppose it worked out alright – a few had too much money and many didn’t have enough. But even to my young mind it seemed that if there had been any justice the positions would have been reversed now and again.

My old Mum worked too hard and so did all Mums like her. I can remember a time when what they called a ‘G.S. Waggon’ would call at our house and a few others nearby. The wagon came from the local barracks and it contained dirty khaki fatigue uniforms. Certain numbers of the uniforms were unloaded at the front door to be washed and ironed and the wagon would call again in a few days to collect. We kids loved to go through the pockets before Mum started on them. Once we found a full packet of Woodbines, five fags in a paper pack. Dad had those but we didn’t find much else. For years later I used to get a choking feeling just to think about it – on top of looking after us lot – on top of her own massive weekly wash – there was our old Mum scrubbing filthy khaki uniforms for a few extra shillings. She worked too hard – a lot of Mums worked too hard. There was nothing we could do about it but it wasn’t fair was it? But I started off telling you about the shops in Bear Road and allowed myself to wander. Sorry about that. Six shops and a Pub; and so far as shopping was concerned the higher up the hill you lived the worse off you were. In “Everything Seems Smaller” I explained that Harry White’s butchers shop was at No. 43 and all the houses leaned against it and went up and over the hill at No. 335.! 1 suppose it is about a mile – perhaps a bit more – from Lewes Road at the bottom to where the houses finish at the top. Which was all a bit of bad luck for those folks living high up the hill because all the shops were concentrated in the bottom 150 yards or so. Which I think was a bit of bad planning.

No trams or buses up the road, nobody owned a car – not even one of those shopping-trolley things; and so for all the Bear Road housewives it was a trudge to the shops with shopping-bags and a worse trudge back. This was just another example of the value of large families where there were many kids to share the shopping which, in the absence of fridges and freezers, was a daily chore.

Most of the Mums went ‘into town’ for the week-end joint because the prices in Lewes Road were cheaper than in the locals. Sometimes they would have a penn’orth on the tram to London Road where there was a “Sainsbury’s” and a “Maypole” and a “Home and Colonial” – big stores which smelt almost as good as the small ones and where there was more to choose from. Most Saturdays Mum would send one of us to Sainsburys in London Road for a pound of corned beef (8d) and a pound of beef sausages (6d). We didn’t have pork sausages, they were 8d. A usual Saturday dinner was Corned Beef with mashed spuds and Mustard Pickle (Luvvly). We always had a roast on Sundays – Beef one week and Mutton the next. We were poor – all the families in our street were poor – but the Sunday roast was a tradition and even in the really bad times we never went hungry. I don’t know how Mums and Dads did it but I can say quite honestly that we never went hungry. There was a time when one of the kids in our street ‘let it slip’ that his family had a stew for Sunday dinner. In no time at all it was the talk of the neighbourhood….Mrs X gave her family a stew for Sunday dinner!! That was almost sacreligious – Such was working-class pride.

Oh yes, not only a roast, but ‘afters’ as well. And not only on Sundays mind you, but on most days through the week. ‘Afters’ or ‘Seconds’ we called them and we used to enjoy asking ‘What’s for afters Mum?” just to hear the answer “Nothink, for a change”… but we all knew it was never “Nothink”. In fact there was quite a variety of ‘afters’ that fell within the family price-range and Mums could (somehow) manage to dish up something different each day of the week. Pineapple chunks in syrup – a huge tin for a few pence would serve all the kids (thinking back it is remarkable how many times Mum used to say she ‘didn’t feel like any’)…Boiled rice with a spoon ‘o jam – Stewed prunes or rhubarb with custard – they were cheap and they ‘made yer go’ as well. But the big favourite was the good old Jam Roly Poly Suet Pud.

I bet you’ve never heard of Precision Suet Puddens. Our Mum used to make ’em. Once a week regular she would wrap a long, sausage-shaped roll of dough into a bit of cloth and boil it. Something like a foot and a quarter in length and as thick as a man’s arm at the elbow, every roly-poly pudden she made was a carbon-copy of the last one. We had a long, oval dish, and when the pudden was unveiled and put onto it it’s ends matched up exactly with the ends of the dish – not an eighth of an inch more nor an eighth less. After a lot of hoo-hah about who was having the ‘ends’ the monster was chopped into equal rounds, lathered with mixed-fruit jam and devoured. A bloody good Sergeant Major’s dinner, Dad would declare. Father didn’t really approve of ‘afters’ – “When you’ve ‘ad a bloody good ‘first’ yer didn’t ought ter want no ‘second’ – and he would always proceed with the washing-up while we were still spoon-polishing our ‘seconds’ plates; his theory being that you could always make a better job of it if you tackled the plates while the grease was still hot on ’em. Dad always maintained that we kids ate too much – said he’d be a rich man if it wasn’t for us lot. Dad? – Rich? – that was a joke, if you like. But although he was always telling us that it would do us good to “go ‘ungry for a bit” and although he could never provide luxuries for us, it would have broken his heart if he ever thought we were not having enough to eat. Perhaps it is not quite true to say that I don’t know how our parents did it. Most of them did it by denying themselves all but the dire essentials. That is why I can honestly say that we never went hungry.

But, sadly, I cannot say the same for all the children of our streets in the ’20s. Our Father was never an emotional man; he was constant, steady and calm. But he came home from work one day, and Mum, who could ‘read him like a book’ knew something was amiss, and he told Mum “I’ve just met Charlie” – Uncle Charlie was Mum’s brother-in-law who lived with his large family in Kemp Street and, like so many others at the time, suffered long periods of unemployment. “He was standing at the door of the baker’s shop on the corner,” said Dad, “and when I asked him if he was alright, he said to me – ‘Alf, I’m just waiting for that bloke to turn his back and I’m having one of those loaves”. He said he didn’t have a penny for food, and his kids were hungry. So our Dad, with so little money of his own, bought a loaf of bread for Uncle Charlie’s children. “God knows where the next one is coming from” said our Dad. And Father wept.

A piano stood in the middle of the playground at Coombe Road School and a teacher sat at the keyboard. A few hundred small knees lifted and a few hundred scruffy boots stamped down as we marched around in a large circle and sang:

“LAND OF HOPE AND GLORY, MOTHER OF THE FREE,
HOW SHALL WE EXTOL THEE? WHO ARE BORN OF THEE..”

They had taught us the words and had given us each a paper Union Jack on a stick; They told us how England held “Dominion over Palm and Pine” and they told us about an “Empire on which the sun never sets” – few of us could understand a word of it, but they said that we should be proud. So I, for one, held my flag aloft, and as I marched, wondered what I had to do to “be proud” :

“WIDER STILL AND WIDER, SHALL THY BOUNDS BE SET GOD WHO MADE THEE MIGHTY, MAKE THEE MIGHTIER YET…”

It was Empire Day, May 23rd, that we marched and sang. I cannot rightly remember the year. But it was around the time that Uncle Charlie stood at the door of the baker’s shop to steal bread.

Because his children were hungry.

SHOPS SWEETS AND STRIKES

Mr Bartup’s shop was next door to Mr Bartup’s house and the front room of Mr Bartup’s house served as a workshop for his boot-repairing bench and machines. A connecting door to the shop allowed Mr Bartup to glide from his workplace to the back of the counter. So that, as customers, no-one saw more than half of Mr Bartup at a time. Perhaps I was an exception because I can recall seeing the bottom half of Mr Bartup (as well as the top, of course) on one of the few occasions that he swung open the end bit of his counter to serve someone with a pair of bootlaces from a card in the window. The reason that this incident sticks so firmly in my mind is that I was able to see that Mr B. was wearing the most decrepit and ancient footwear you ever saw – which, for a shoe-repairer bloke, seemed, to my childish mind, a bit of a disgrace. There again I never saw a barber in Brighton who didn’t look as though he needed a haircut….but that’s beside the point.

Whenever we took a pair of boots in to be mended, they really were in need of it, I can tell you. The top half of Mr Bartup would glower from his side of the counter, “Tell yer mother not to wait they’ve got ‘oles in ’em before sending ’em in – I can’t put a sole on nuthink”. Fat lot of good telling Mum that. With a sole-and-heel costing half-a-crown, Mum said she wanted to make sure they needed repairing first “Let ‘im earn ‘es money”, she used to say. I would just grin back at the top half of Mr Bartup and think – You don’t know it mate, but I’ve seen the state of your boots ‘an all.

It was not that a shoe-repairer shop was very important to us kids, except that it was one of a pair of shops just across the road from Ashdown’s the grocer; and its companion shop was, to us, the most important shop of all: B. Herriot, Newsagent, Stationer and Confec¬tioner, The local sweet shop ! While I was still very young, Mr Herriot moved on (Heavenwards, I fancy) and the shop was taken over by Harry and Mrs Potter and daughter Doris. All I remember of Mr Herriot was he used to wear a straw boater hat, which, with a name like that, I suppose he ought to have done.

Mr and Mrs Potter were very nice – so was Doris really except that she used to look at you suspicious-like over the scales as she was weighing up your ha’porth of broken or whatever. She used to look at us under her eyebrows kind of thing as if we were going to nick some sweets or something – which we were not, because the shop was so arranged that we couldn’t even if we wanted to (which I won’t say some wouldn’t if they had the chance). Another thing, Doris Potter wouldn’t serve us with a hap’orth of Blue Bird toffees. I liked Blue Birds, but they were rather posh sweets, and they worked out at five for a penny, and Doris said there was no way she was going to cut them in halves – so there! It was not unknown for two kids to club together for a penn’orth and toss for the odd one. I wouldn’t do that – pocket money was too precious to gamble with. And they told us at Band of Hope that gambling was the Devil’s pastime.

Ginger Jones got caught with his mouth full in class and received the full Dicky Turner treatment. The Evil Eye glared and the rifle-finger pointed – ‘BOY..EE, COME YOU OUT ‘ERE…” As Ginger shuffled forward, the arm swung around, and the rifle pointed at the wastepaper basket – “EMPTY YOUR MOWTH BOY..EE..” “Empty your mouth” was the usual command to any boy found eating in class and as the culprit stood over the wastepaper basket, a half-sucked Aniseed Ball or Acid Tablet, or Raspberry Shape or whatever, was heard to land with a soft click onto the waste paper. Or it might be the dull thud of a wad of Chewing Gum. But not today….. What happened was something different; and it shook poor Dicky Turner rigid.

Ginger stood before the WPB, inserted a thumb and forefinger into his mouth and drew forth a great, golf-ball sized, wet, glistening glob of highly-coloured crystallised matter which he allowed to drop, almost ceremoniously, and with a crashing sound, into the basket. The next “BOY..EE…” stuck in Dickey’s throat and after a while, he gasped, “Jones – what on EARTH were you eating..?” “Please Sir, Broken Sir ” grinned Ginger. “Don’t dally with me boy..ee” yelled Dicky – “I could see full well it was broken but what the Dickens was it?” You know I’ve noticed that about teachers – with all their book-learning and know-it-all attitude, when it comes to down-to-earth mundane things like sweets, they knew nothing about them. Now, take a man like Dicky Turner – just think of it – he must have gone right from childhood into boyhood and into grumpy old manhood and never known the joy of a ha’porth of broken – didn’t even know what broken was. It was sad really. You could almost feel sorry for him. ‘Broken’ was the favourite. It is no rash claim to say that no other form of sweetmeat was devoured in such quantities by so many schoolboys in the ’20s, as ‘Broken’. Nothing to do with its succu¬lence or appeal to the youthful palate – nothing like that. Its popularity owed itself to the fact that there was more bulk to a hap’orth of broken than a ha’porth of anything else. Your ha’penny Sherbet Dab, with its toffee stick, or your Sherbert Fountain with its tube of liquorice, these could be sucked or licked into obscurity in no time at all. Your ha’porth of aniseed Balls would last just as long as you could resist the temptation to crunch ’em. But ‘Broken’ was the favourite. ‘Broken’ lasted longest. I suppose you couldn’t expect teachers to know these little things – as I’ve said before – when it comes to important things, teachers are a bit daft. I remember sitting in class and thinking; when I grow up I’m going to write a book, and tell teachers what I think of ’em.

‘Broken’ had its origin in Billet’s Wholesale Confectioners, some-where in town. Not the grand Billet’s shop opposite St Peters Church – that was the ‘prize’ shop where they could sell the posh stuff. You needed twopence at least before you could cross the portals of that snooty shop. No – ‘Broken’ was created in Billet’s nearby factory, and sent out to the ha’porth and penn’orth shops all over Brighton. If you went into Billet’s big shop and asked for a ha’porth of broken, you would be out on your ear in no time. They must have been a careless lot in that sweet factory – how they managed to break so much into tiny fragments, I don’t know. But the fact is that hundreds of half-bucket sized tins left that place every week to attack the teeth of the entire juvenile population of Brighton. And the contents of each tin settled so tightly that tin and contents formed a solid mass.

Doris Potter held the tin of ‘Broken’ in the crook of her arm and set about it with a tool which was something between a cold chisel and a burglar’s jemmy. A ‘dig and lever’ action dislodged the stuff and it was shaken into the scalepan, dobbed onto a bit of paper and whammed down on the counter. Your ha’penny was scooped up by Doris to the business side of the shop and disappeared into a drawer-till. The entire sell-and-buy transaction having been conducted in a spirit of sheer animosity.

Two string lines, about a foot below the ceiling, ran the length of Mr Potter’s shop above the “News” counter. Rather like Mum’s indoor washing lines; but unlike these, the “Potter” lines bore not the delicate items of human under-wear but Song Sheets. For a penny we could acquaint ourselves with the words of all the latest songs. We had to learn the tune from the ‘grapevine’ – and by some miraculous chance – bear in mind there was no ‘wireless’ and very few gramophones around – one or other of the family always had an inkling of the tune, so with the words of a song sheet, we were soon bawling out the latest song all over the kitchen. The song sheet never printed the music, so there was no way we could learn the tune from that – even if we had been able to read music, which we couldn’t.

They were artful devils, song sheet printers. You only got one of the latest at a time for your penny. With great headlines like – “Ramona” – you got that one alright, but you had to wait another week and bob up another penny if you wanted “Babette” or “Shepherd of the Hills” or another of the latest. Each week you got one main song, and they filled the rest of the sheet with all the old ‘uns going back to the year dot. I knew “The Bam Barn Bammy Shore” backwards, because we went right through each sheet we bought; Gawd knows how many renditions of “Keep The Home Fires Burning” – and “Pack Up Your Troubles” the locality had to suffer, but we looked at it this way – we’ d paid our penny for a song sheet, and we were not going to be swindled by a lot of repeats – so there. Mum used to say next thing we’ll have the neighbours at the door.

At one end of Mr Potter’s news counter was either a great pile of the “Evening Argus” or a blank space waiting for the next edition to come in. There was always a quick turnover of the “Argus” but the London evening papers, the “News” “Star” and “Standard” were only supplied by order – we used to think the people who had those were a bit funny. But Mr P’s news counter was at its best at week-ends with its array of gay colours from our comic papers. “Funny Wonder” was green, “Chips” was pink, “Comic Cuts” was only plain white but the “Rainbow” and “Chick’s Own” were a mass of colour in themselves, and were the expensive ones – tuppence each. The Manville Clan went mad on Sundays and into our home came the “Funny Wonder” the “Rainbow” “News of the World” and the “Sunday Pictorial ” – yes we were a well read lot, we were. Sixpence on papers!

There were things about our Mum I could never understand, and one of them was “Nuts and Wine” – No, she didn’t have expensive eating and drinking habits, – “Nuts and Wine” was the heading of a weekly article in the “Sunday Pictorial” and our Mum devoured it with relish. I could have understood if it had been a scandal column with juicy bits like the “Brighton Bench” in the “Argus” – but no, nothing like that. “Nuts and Wine” was the society page telling all about the goings-on of the big nobs – Dukes, Dames and Society Balls, and Garden Parties, and Galas and Gymkhanas and all that expensive rubbish. Can you imagine it? – our old Mum who never had two ha’pennies to rub together, and there she was, bum on hard chair, and her feet up on two hard chairs, lapping up the antics of Viscounts and Marchion¬esses and posh people who spend money like there was no tomorrow, – Well it beat me! Perhaps there was an answer to it all – an answer that brought a little sunshine into her hard life. When the kids were out playing and there was a bit ‘o quiet to be had, I believe she read herself to sleep – “Lost meself’ – and for a brief while I think she dressed herself in a silken gown, donned a tiara and waltzed in glittering ballrooms; or strolled among the lakes and flowers in the gardens of a world from which, in her waking hours, she was so far removed.

A little further down the road and on the other side at the corner of Riley, was the last of the small shops in Bear Road. It was called Kempshalls as I first remember it – later on it became Giggins the bakers, and then Pikes, and after that I know not what. But it is as Kempshalls that the shop remains dear to memory, because it sold lemonade powder and raspberry powder by the ha’porth. What you had to do was to spoon some of this delightful stuff into a beer-bottle full of water, cork it up, give it a thundering good shake, and there you had it – the ideal beverage for washing down your hunk of bread-and-marge on your day out over the hills. Mind you, it used to get a bit warmed up on the journey, and that brought out the tang of stale beer that usually hung around the bottle – but never mind – a bread-and ¬marge doorstep washed down with warm rasberryade is something everyone ought to have at least once in a lifetime.

Mrs Kempshall was a dear old thing – the shape of a cottage loaf and she always wore a bib-apron kind of thing, spotless white, and she looked a real “Mumsy” kind of lady if there ever was one. Funny thing that, lovely, cosy “Mumsy” kind of ladies were quite common-place in those days. There were two of them in Edward’s shop in Ewhurst Road and they were sisters. At the time there was a packet stuff called Edward’s Dessicated Soup on sale and the picture on the packet showed one of the “Cottage loaf” ladies. And what with the name being the same, I was sure it was a picture of one of the sisters in the shop. It wasn’t of course. Mum used to say there wasn’t many kids about with an imagination like mine. “Thank Gawd”, she used to say.

I rather fancy that before it became Kempshall’s the shop must have been a family bakers, because adjoining the shop and extending some way along Riley Road, was the bakehouse with many ovens. Even when Giggins took over they did not use these ovens. But what a wonderful job the ovens were destined to perform. I’ll tell you about that in a minute.

Gigins was a wholesale bakery with a central depot, and the bread and cakes were delivered to its chain of shops by a fleet of vans; a process which was a blessing to us, because you can’t hump cakes and things around without some of ’em getting broken. And no self-respecting shop would sell broken cakes, so these were all humped together with yesterday’s stale ‘tins and sold to us herberts under the general heading of “Duds”.

A penn’orth of duds provided not only a bellyful of cake, but also the excitement of the search. Sometimes we’d find a near-perfect custard-tart, or a jam-tart or doughnut with only a slight jam loss – oh the excitement was there alright. Sometimes Mum would send us down for twopenn’orth and “not to dig into ’em before you get home”. I used to feel sorry for the well-to-do folk who never had to buy “Duds”.

I don’t know how long those ovens stood cold, and I cannot give the date of the wonderful day it happened, but there came a time when the Riley Road ovens sprang to life and Brighton was invaded by an aroma and succulence that it had never before known. Miller’s pies were born. At twopence a time their popularity spread like wildfire and in no time at all there was scarcely a Pub or Cafe in town that did not list them as “Our Speciality”. About as round as the top of a breakfast cup, a dome of highly-polished, golden brown set in a crinkled pastry-tray and enclosing a mass of delicious gravy-laden meat. That was your Miller’s pie for you. For any drinking-man in the late twenties who was wealthy enough to possess sixpence all at one time, a pint of Kemp Town ale and a Miller’s pie was surely the best tannersworth in Brighton.

In some ways our teachers at school didn’t show a lot of imagination when they set us our compositions. They chose subjects like – “The Life of Someone-or Other” or, “A Walk through the Sussex Country-side” and things like that. I remember Dicky Thomas set us a composition once on – “A Journey in a Tumbril”. We had to imagine that we were members of the French aristocracy during the revolution and were being taken to the guillotine. Well now, – for any of us to imagine ourselves as any sort of aristocracy was asking a bit, but for poor Bumble Ruston it was the limit. He wrote: “They put me in a Tumble cart and took me to the gilly-tin and chopped me head off’. Dicky just wouldn’t have this. Apart from the fact that it was a bit light on literary merit, Dicky wanted to know how Bumble, having had his head chopped off, was alive to tell the tale. Which put poor old Bumble in a bit of a tizzy. I managed to arrange a wheel to come off my tumbril and I got shot off into the crowd and away – Dicky couldn’t argue with that one, but Bumble felt aggrieved and was later heard declaring to a playground audience that “Dicky Thomas must be bloody mad – first ‘e gets us in the Tumble-cart, then ‘e wants us out of it – don’t know what ‘e does want – bloody old fool” And Bumble, deeming the whole thing to be unworthy of his further attention was prepared to leave it at that. The reason I am telling you all this, is that if Dicky Thomas had used a bit of imagination and gave us as a subject:- “My impressions upon sinking my teeth into the first Miller’s Pie” – we could all have written poetry about that – let alone a composition.

You may never have heard of “The Battle of Lewes Road”. It was fought in 1926 so perhaps it was a bit too late for our history books. I witnessed a vital part of the fighting as I stood – a boy of 13 – outside the shop that used to be Kempshalls (and Pikes and Gigins). As I stood there, I could see across to Saunders Park, a recently opened play-park on the other side of Lewes Road; and what I saw on that day has probably never been seen in a children’s playground since. A figure on horseback charged into a group of men, and lashing out right and left with a hefty stick, or it might have been a long truncheon. I was a bit young to understand the politics of the General Strike, but the Brighton Tramways seemed to be solidly behind it and the local issue was that the Tramways Management, together with a few hired ‘blacklegs’ (we were learning all the words) were deter-mined to have Trams running, and the strikers were equally deter-mined that they wouldn’t. There was a great build-up in the local press that on “X” day in defiance of the strike, a tram would leave the local depot, driven by the Chief Engineer bloke Mr Marsh. So it did; and so it was – but I doubt if there has been a tram anywhere or anywhen before or after that day, that was more difficult for a passenger to board in as much as it was entirely bound in barbed wire. It must have been that dear Mr Marsh was placed in the driver’s position while the barbed wire embalming job was done. And no doubt it was a proud Mr Marsh who later, back in the safety of the depot, was released by an army of wire-cutters from his spiky prison. What a victory! – In defiance of the General Strike, a Brighton Tramcar – albeit a wired-bound Tramcar, had been driven from the Depot, a few hundred yards along the Lewes Road, and back to the Depot. That showed ’em.

Later in the week, the Tramway workers assembled at the Level and marched to the Depot where they collected their strike pay. All along the Lewes Road they marched behind their Band. And the Band played “Colonel Bogey” and the men sang rude words. That is all I remember about the General strike. It is not much but I might have known even less about it except for the fact that when the trouble started at the tramway, our teachers at school warned us all to “Keep away from the Lewes Road”. And nothing could have been better designed to ensure that we were down there as often as we could be.

BEAR ROAD CHARACTERS

When I think back at what we did to old Daddy Colman I must admit I do feel a bit ashamed. It’s true he was a miserable old sod, and he shouldn’t have done what he did to our Ronnie. All the same he was an old ‘un and a sloshing over the napper with pig’s bladders might have done him a nasty mischief. We kids didn’t know anything about heart attacks and things like that but later on I realised we were lucky he didn’t roll over on his back for ever. But he was a tough old bird, and lived through the experience – which was a bit of luck for us, and I suppose, more than a bit of luck for him.

Our Ronnie was playing marbles and doing no harm to anyone. I must explain here that the paving-stones in Bear Road at that time were five feet square and as smooth as a baby’s – – -, just right for rolling our marbles which were made of clay and painted bright colours. I believe that the game of marbles was played to different rules in various parts of the country, according to the kind of ‘pitch’ that was available. Anyway, we played marbles like this. The glass marbles with the lovely twisted colours were called ‘alleys’ and were valued as so many ‘spacers’ according to their size and condition. There were some glass marbles which were perfectly plain with no colours at all. These had come from the old style mineral-water bottles and had acted as a sort of valve to keep the ‘fizzy’ in. These were known as ‘bottleys’ and had a standard value of two spaces. When the argument about the number of spaces a particular alley should be was all settled, the ‘prize’ was set down and the game started.

The ‘vendor’ kid placed his alley on a dividing line, and sat down behind it to gather all the ‘misers’ which became his. The ‘pitcher’ stood the agreed number of paving-stones away, and rolled up his ‘tolleys’ hoping to hit the alley. If he succeeded, the prize was his. So there’s the scene.

There was our Ronnie – legs apart, marble between thumb and forefinger, bent right over, and bum pointing due west. There was Daddy Colman – white hair, white beard, – with the empty sleeve of his missing arm tucked into his jacket pocket, shuffling up from the Newmarket Arms, beer jug firmly gripped in his only hand, and swearing like a Trooper at very step. Onward and upward as straight as a die, bang in the middle of the pavement. So it had to happen. And it did. That wicked old devil ‘kneed’ our Ronnie up the bum – and made his eyes water.

Well now, we made a lot of allowances for the old crow, but that was a bit much. When we saw Ronnie’s eyes watering we thought he had suffered a permanent damage. But he hadn’t. All the same, we made up our minds that the old so-and-so had to be punished – and the pig’s bladders were Bertie McNeil’s idea. They were repulsive things, pigs bladders. A man who lived in Newmarket Road and worked at the local abbatoir sold them for a penny each when the pig had no further use for them. You blew them up through a horrible little tube, (most boys used a pea-shooter stuck in the tube) then you tied it up with a piece of string on the end of a stick. They were like a rubber balloon but heavier and if you whammed someone over the napper with one of these, it would give ’em a nasty shock but no real damage.

Four of us there were – each with a pig’s bladder at the ready and the evening after Daddy Colman had kneed our Ronnie up the bum and made his eyes water, we laid in wait behind Webb’s doorpost for the old bugger to shuffle by. Bertie McNeil, our Teddy, me and Cousin Jack. we jumped out in line, and Wham ! Wham ! Wham ! – right on the old boy’s bonce. And do you know what? – he stood firm as a rock and never spilled a drop. But the language was something dreadful to listen to. As I have said, it was a wrong and foolish thing to do to an old boy. But Daddy Colman was as strong as an ox, and anyway, it served him right for kneeing our Ronnie up the bum and making his eyes water.

I have told you this story of Daddy Colman because he was one of the Bear Road characters. There were Bear Road characters and Else¬where-in-Brighton characters and one by one they made their entrances and their exits onto and from the stage of our young lives. Some of them were happy characters, some were sad and some appeared more frequently than others. Some brought us fear and fright, some brought us joy, but they were all flesh-and-blood beings who made up life’s story for a gang of kids as we gathered each evening in the light of the street lamps.

Some fifty yards or so above Daddy Colman’s house, there lived another of Bear Road’s characters. So near to ‘old grumpy’ in person, and yet so distant in personality, jolly, happy Mr Chick was all the things the other old chap wasn’t. He worked as a welder at the local engineering works, (Allen West, in Lewes Road) where his day started at 7.30 am. Attired in his brown protective clothing, which included a jacket with voluminous pockets, he made his way with a jolly, jerky step through the streets which were, at that time of the day, mainly deserted. But his homeward journey each evening was always a long-winded affair because he was greeted, each few yards, by one of the local ‘teenies’ with the cry:- “Give us a swish Mr Chick” And this wonderful old gent, at the risk of self-inflicted vertigo, would grab each child by the arms, and with little legs-a-flying, ‘swish’ them around on a ride of joy.

He might well have had more, but so far as we could tell, the two most-loved hobbies of jolly Mr Chick were his pigeons, and a tanner-each-way, up-and-down on the horses. “Chick’s pigeons” were well known in the street as they winged and wheeled in graceful flight above the houses. It was always a source of wonderment to me how they all knew when to turn exactly at the same time. Bertie Mellors said he reckoned the one in front was shouting out the orders which made Gordon Harrington point his finger at his forehead and do a ‘screwing’ movement. We knew what he meant.

Mr Chick had a home-to-dinner-and-back break at mid-day and the beginning of the return journey often featured a ‘launching’. For the first ten or twenty yards he would hold a pigeon aloft and then set it free – maybe encouragement for a young bird to fly – we didn’t know. Then, after a while, the mystery of the voluminous pockets was revealed. They contained most of the racing papers known to the sporting world and at intervals. Mr Chick would stop, lean on a wall, lick his pencil, and write on a piece of paper, so that by the time he reached Ewhurst Road he had concocted the most elaborate and complicated bet which involved almost every horse engaged in the day’s programme. Jack Chick, his son and my friend over many years, always had a good chuckle over his Dad’s racing antics and Jack used to say it cost the bookie more to work out his Old Man’s bets than they ever collected from him in stake money.

Yes Mr Chick was everybody’s friend, and he knew the populace for miles around by its Christian name. His chief talent was the ability to greet everyone he met with a rhyme. His favourite for me was “Hello Sid, lend us a quid” – (some hopes) or it might be “Hello Sid what am I bid?” – So long as it rhymed nothing else mattered. Every Bill was asked if he was feeling ill, and John was easy – “Hello John, how yer getting on?” It was a good chuckle for everyone except that once Nellie Giles got a bit narky.

I shall always recall with amusement a little story that Jack Chick once told me. Jack was walking in Lewes Road about ten yards behind his father and coming towards them was a young lady who the old chap knew. The greeting was bellowed forth “Hello Dolly, you feeling jolly?” Just after she passed him and right in Jack’s earshot Dolly exclaimed “Silly old sod” – which amused my mate Jack a lot. There are few Mr Chicks left among us. His kind are being replaced by the ambitious, prosperous, dignified and ‘important’ men and the world is a poorer place. If I was a praying man, (which to my sinful sorrow I am not) my constant prayer would be…”Please Lord, return to this world more Silly old Sods the like of jolly Mr Chick.”

A stout, brown, authoritative-looking walking stick swung its way down Bear Road every morning and prodded its way back as the day was ending. Alongside the stout brown stick on all its journeys strode Bear Road ‘character’ No. 3, in the person of Frank Ingham, School-master, Town Councillor, and Gentleman. Mr Ingham did not teach at our school (Coombe Road) but at another school in the town, Hanover Terrace I believe it was (or it could have been St Lukes). He served as a Brighton Councillor and it seemed that his mission in life was to defend the rights of the working people of Brighton and to ensure that the rest of the Council didn’t mess ’em about.

There was a time when a proposal was put before the Council to enclose a part of the racecourse on race days and to charge an admission fee. Brighton has always been what is called a ‘free’ course. Which means that apart from the Stand and Tattersalls Ring plus a small area known as the Silver Ring, the remainder of the course was open along the rails for the general public to enjoy a picnic ‘day at the races’. And from the Silver Ring up to the half-mile post was, on race days, the domain of Bob-each-way punters and the ‘tanner’ bookies. It was a frequent happening for some of the local housewives to hang up their tuckaprons for the day, club together for a tanner win bet, and for a while, enjoy the thrill of a ‘flutter’. It was amusing to listen to the betting plan being whispered, – “Ere y’ are gal, I’ll put my thruppence to your thruppence and we’ll have a tanner on “Hairylegs”. Let me say here and now that the “Gal’s” favourite jockeys were Steve Donaghue and Gordon Richards. But these two always rode the favourites and you couldn’t win much on them. No, a long price and a funny name were the features that always carried the “Gals’ tanner so that a horse called “Hairylegs” at a price of 20-1 was a sure-fire thing. And they would boost the confidence of each other with the indisputable truth – “Well, they’ve all got four legs M’ dear”.

These were the people, and this was the happy atmosphere that was about to come under attack from some of the money-mads on the Council in order to swell the County coffers. But facing the ‘enemy’ was the stout, brown walking-stick and Frank. Mr Ingham told the Brighton Council, and let it be known to the world at large that if anyone erected a fence on the People’s Race Hill, he, Frank Ingham, with a squad of worthy helpers, would knock the bloody thing down again. Although the argument went on for a long time, it was, from the very beginning a one-horse race. Frank Ingham was broad, stolid, upright and determined, with a bushy moustache and eyebrows to match and this magnificent figure of a man was sustained by a spirit of determination to defend the rights of his fellow-beings. What chance – I ask you – what chance had the few money grabbers on the Council against such odds? Sufficient to say that no fence ever enclosed the ‘people’s part’ of the Brighton Racecourse, which is, I believe to this day, a ‘free’ course.

I quote this one incident as just one example of his defence of the ordinary man against the forces of power. Local records will show it to be one of the many to which this Champion of the People devoted his efforts.

Everyone admired Mr Ingham, and none more than I. So it is to my deep sorrow that one day I got in his bad books. It happened like this: the stout brown stick arrived upon the scene at the precise moment that I was fetching Freda Rudkin a severe smack round the chops. Mr I. went back on his heels, opened his mouth and roared, – “BOY, WHAT ON EARTH IS THIS – STRIKING A GEL? YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF SIR-R-R! DON’T YOU EVER LET ME SEE YOU DOING THAT AGEN! !” I felt the size of a peanut – a peanut that slowly roasted under the heat of those glaring eyes. Frank Ingham, Schoolmaster, Councillor, and Gentleman, was the epitome of Olde Worlde Chivalry and it seems that Olde Worlde Chivalry demands that no Gentleman ever swipes a lady round the kisser – no matter what. So it made not the slightest difference that had the brown stick arrived on the scene a few moments before, it would have observed Freda landing me one heck of a doughboy round the ‘ear’ ‘ole and it would have made not the slightest difference if Mr Ingham had known that in a straight fight, Freda could have wiped the floor with me any day.

I have received recently a letter from an address in Ingham drive, Brighton, and learn, to my delight, that this thoroughfare has been named after our Bear Road Celebrity No. 3. It is doubtful if any of the young residents of Ingham Drive could have known the man whose memory the name of their road perpetuates. I hope they will read and learn of him, and endeavour to live by his standards. for there are few left of us who are privileged to have known him in person. Frank Ingham: Schoolmaster, Socialist, Councillor and Gentleman.

BRIGHTON CHARACTERS

Charlie was one of the Brighton characters. By that I mean he was not exclusive to our road. How wide an area Charlie covered on his wanderings we did not know. Neither did we know his real name was Charlie – nor from whence he came, nor, when he had passed by, where he went. Nor did these things really matter, because to all the kids he was known as “Cherry Ripe”.

The joy that he brought us on the many occasions that he smoothly dragged a lame leg up our road, was reflected in his whole being. That dignified old face with the built-in smile, illuminated by a set of perfect teeth could only have been fashioned by a lifetime of contentment and peace. His shock of thick grey hair, bearing evidence of a one-time curly form, was now slightly dishevelled, and at the back, rolled lightly around his collar.

His clothing was scruffy, but never dirty, and gave notice of having known better times. If they could have spoken I am sure they would have protested that their poor appearance was because of the malformation of poor Cherry’s frame and no fault of their own. We did not know of such things when we were children, but of course, it is now clear, that Cherry was afflicted with a form of paralysis down one side. His right forearm seemed to be permanently held across his body and as if to make the most use of his affliction, this right arm cradled an old battered trilby hat containing Cherry’s pet – a white rat. Whether anyone ever saw him in the daytime, I do not know. I remember asking him why he only came to see us at evening times and he said: “I like the end of the day when the air seems to be more fresh and clear and when life seems more peaceful”. At my age I had never thought of that.

I never knew children to be so well behaved as when Cherry held the floor and recited to us in a beautifully modulated voice some of his favourite poems. But the unanimous request was always for a song – and only one song would do. Even today, I experience a little choking feeling as my mind recalls that fine old voice:

Cherry Ripe, Cherry Ripe,
Ripe, I cry –
Good and Fair ones,
Come and buy

There were times when, in our youthful ignorance, some of our mates who were sufficiently affluent, would offer the old chap pennies or ha’pence – sometimes even apples or oranges. Even his refusal came like music – “No thank you, you are very kind, but I really cannot”.

Further up the road, and on into the next street, other groups of youngsters would greet the arrival of old Cherry, and other sessions would begin; and so on and so on limped this fine old man, spreading a ration of joy, carrying with him the little rodent, one of God’s meanest creatures, that he had chosen as a companion and pet. Thank you, Thank you dear old Cherry. Little did you realise that your song would re-echo down the years, to bring to ‘your kids’ a little sweetness at times when the world seems so sour.

Cherry Ripe, cherry ripe
Ripe, I cry

Everyone called him “Shylock”. He was, at one and the same time, an object of fear and ridicule. But those who knew him sufficiently well knew also that at his rational times he was gentle, sincere and hard-working and he was rational most of the time. Tragically, however, within the mind of this gentle person lurked an evil power which at times, without warning, possessed him, and took command of his complete being. In those days of ignorance they – we – called him mad, crazy, looney and such names, mindless of the fact that we, his detractors, were the stupid ones.

Shylock – I must to my shame refer to him so (knowing no other name) was a would-be salesman and made a meagre living buying fruit from the local market and selling it from a push-barrow in the streets and at local events.

It was in Elm Grove, near the top, on one of Brighton’s Race Days that I saw Shylock pushing a barrow load of oranges to sell at the Races It must have been a hard task because Elm Grove, like Bear Road, is a long steep incline from the Lewes Road to the racecourse. Fifty yards or so from the top, without warning, and to a loud shout o “Bugger yer – I’ve pushed yer so far, now push yer bloody selves.’ Up went the wheelbarrow handles and a cascade of oranges rain between the tram-lines and in gutters in a rolling mass. Wild-eye and shouting curses, Shylock ran to and fro scattering a terrified public. I scattered with them and did not stay to see the end of this sorry affair.

Although the street-lamps in our road had a distinct Victorian appearance, I do not believe they were ever gas-lit. If they were it must have been well before my time. In the 1920 era, the base was hexagon-shaped and a foot thick to a height of three feet or so, when the long post reduced in thickness to four or five inches. Near the top a stout arm protruded to accommodate a ladder when one was needed, and the lantern part consisted of a four-sided, glass-framed tapered box with a sloping roof and an acorn-like knob on the top. A lever-type switch which the Lamplighter’s pole engaged with 1 “Ker-lunk” sat high up just below the box. Lighting was by a not-too bright bulb with a zig-zag filament, set in a white-painted reflector the shape of an upside-down roof gable.

I have gone into all this technical stuff in the hope you can visualise Bear Road – cemetery wall all down one side, and these Victorian looking lamp-posts staggered into the distance, and realise what an eerie backdrop such a scene would set on a night that was misty, cold and dark – like the night Shylock came ………

“Shylock’s coming….” It was a remarkable thing, but notice of his approach always preceded him at his ‘bad’ times when the night were dark and dismal “Shylock’s coming” and as the sound of shouting was heard in the distance, Bear Road became deserted am its inhabitants peered out from behind front-room curtains. “Murder – Murder!” the shout became louder as he staggered in a drunken manner down the road – stopping at each lamp-post to engage in a bout of fisticuffs; “Murder! – Murder! – that’s what I intend to do!…” as he passed our house we could see the wild, staring eyes and a chin moist with saliva…”Murder! – Murder!…” When he reached the last lamp-post on the cemetery wall side, this sad, demented being pounded the ironwork with such ferocity as to reduce his hands and fists to a mass of blood. He screamed and punched until he reached a state of complete exhaustion, whereupon he lay in a pathetic heap until the evil, apparently driven from him by its own force, he recovered sufficiently to limp weakly away to – I know not where. Much of what I write is inspired by nostalgia for days gone by, but recalling some of the events of the ‘old days’ and being mindful of the ignorant and careless attitudes of society in the past, I am grateful that today “Shylock” would not exist. But in a comfortable Hospital or Home, a poor, sick patient would be receiving the care and treatment that a sad condition requires.

What eventually became of “Shylock” I don’t know, but I am grateful to whatever God there is that no civilised country will ever see his like again.

My last “character” has been known to local people since time began. Since long before Brighton became known by its present name – or by the name of Brighthelmstone – or by any other name. This character has been known to those who have inhabited the area throughout the years as “The Lady of the Valley”.

I can only tell the story as my Grandfather told it to me – and as his Grandfather told it to him. The story of Whitehawk valley and the Lady who, it is said, has been seen to walk its depths, in Spirit form, when the nights are dark and wild.

Whitehawk Valley is cut deeply into the Downs on the eastern limits of Brighton; and excavations in recent years prove that the district has been peopled since the Iron Age. But the Lady – they say – is arrayed in medieval style dress and as she treads her ghostly path, she carries aloft on a gloved hand, a white hawk.

None among those who have told the story down the ages, can suggest who the Lady is or was. Nor do they know why, from time to time, she chooses or is compelled by some mystic force, to return to haunt the valley, but from time immemorial the valley has borne the name “White Hawk”.

Grandfather said he did not believe in ghosts. Nor did he ever know any person who had seen one. But then – people who know the story always take great care to be well away from Whitehawk Valley when the nights are dark and wild – because you never know…

GARDEN OF MEMORIES

I am ever so glad that the Connaught Institute is still there because not so long ago I was quite sure it wasn’t. Bad men with bulldozer machines had come along and razed it to the ground and in place of my beloved old Sunday School there was a bare open space. I had travelled along Lewes Road during one of my infrequent visits to my home town and to my horror this open space appeared before me. I was shocked and deeply saddened. Not only was the Connaught gone – but also The Arches – part of that wonderful viaduct that spanned the district from Brighton Station to Kemp Town, and so well known to everyone. “ARCHES!!” How many times the name has rung out from the throats of Tram Conductors down the years “ARCHES!!” Fare stage, bus stop, meeting place for old chums and young lovers. The wonderful old Arches – no more – Cox’s Pill factory with its master clock – no more – and an elaborate set of traffic lights control a heavy flow of lorries and cars where once, in a bygone age, Mr Parker, umbrella and hat, controlled a happy gang of kiddies on their Sunday School treat. Time must take its toll and ‘progress’ must not be halted. Weep you old ‘uns if you will – it can make no difference now.

When the time came that I decided to write more about ‘my’ old Brighton, I sought further information from my sister Sylvia. I asked her if she knew what plans there were for the old Connaught site. Brighton has, surely, its full share of Supermarkets, Hypermarkets, office blocks, and all the other modem monstrosities; what then, was to replace the old Connaught? Sylvia’s reply had the effect of delighting and embarrassing me at the same time. What the heck was I talking about she asked, and declared that I must be (very rude word) daft! The old Connaught, she said, was still standing as firm and steady as it ever was. What is more, she went to the trouble of taking a photograph – and here I have it before me – a picture of the good old Connaught with a new lick of blue paint, and looking much posher than it ever did in Mr Parker’s day.

So it was all a bad dream. Not quite all – the Pill factory and the Arches are gone, but the Connaught Institute still stands and I suppose, I hope, the classes of kiddies still stand every Sunday afternoon calling upon the sailor to pull for the shore and perhaps singing one of my old old favourites:

Jesus bids us shine with a pure clear light,
Like a little candle burning in the night,
In this world of darkness to see us shine
You in your small corner, and I in mine

All a dream, thank God – and the dear old Sunday School remains to delight children of today as it served and delighted we children of a bygone age. But the vision of the open space remained in my mind and gave birth to further thoughts. Supposing – just supposing – I should ever know the day when the Connaught Institute was no more. What, I wondered, would I like to see in that open space?

I see, in my mind, a wonderful shrubbery-enclosed garden, set out with lawns, trees and flower-beds. rose and laburnum bowers span¬ning wide paths lined with comfortable seats where elderly folk could rest in peace and contentment. I see, in a corner nook, surrounded by flowers, a statue of the wonderful Blind lady reading from her braille bible; and in another secluded spot, an image of jolly Mr Parker, bowler hat in one hand and umbrella in the other, shepherding a group of children. In the centre of this peaceful garden of my dreams, a marble scroll would spell out the question “Eternity – where will you spend it?”

“The Connaught Institute Memorial Garden” – that would be my dream for future years. A refuge of peace and contentment, free from all worry and pain. A haven for all good folk in their closing years where they may feel a closeness to Heaven, and know the peace of its nearness.

I believe that each of us has a vision in heart and mind of a Divine Presence whom we call “God”. Many hold a faith which is deep and unshakeable others devoutly wish for a faith untinged by doubt. I am sure that the Divine Blessing – if such there is, will be upon all who seek it – in belief or only in sincere hope.

For if there is a God among us on Earth. It is in such a place as our beautiful Garden of Memories that we will surely find him.