Saturday, 14 July 2018

A Box At The Empire

Once my father came back from the war, from time to time, providing he and my mother were on speaking terms, he would propose a special treat, either just for him and myself and occasionally my young brother, like going to the Museums to look at Dinosaurs and Mummies or one that involved the whole family like the Pantomime at Chatham Empire. I must emphasise that these treats were few and far between, not only because they involved unplanned expenditure but also because as time went on he and my mother had a hard time communicating. I did not quite understand the reasons for this then but later came to realise that he was an adulterer and had more than one Fancy Woman. This behaviour caused my mother great distress and decades later she was to say that in many ways she blamed herself and that she had never been good at forgiveness. The only thing I was aware of at the time was that she seemed to spend a great deal of time crying.

The visits to various museums and art galleries were not an unmitigated success as far as I was concerned and my younger brother was definitely more taken with dinosaurs than I was. Neither of us found paintings terribly thrilling and our Grandmother was heard to say that in her opinion it was the war that had ruined him. Aunt Rose who was married to a Welshman who did a fair bit of gallery visiting himself said it was because at times The War turned perfectly ordinary men from normal to highbrow. In her opinion they returned to Civvy Street with ideas above their station and this was evidenced by the development of an admiration for foreign ideas. I was wont to agree with her there because my father seemed to have a preoccupation with something called spaghetti which he insisted was delicious, and I privately thought looked like worms in blood. To be fair the only spaghetti I had actually seen was the tinned variety courtesy of Heinz displayed on the outside wall of Penney, Son & Parkers’ shop adjacent to the Roman Catholic Church on The Hill. When I pointed out the similarity with worms my father told me that I was extremely foolish if I thought that Heinz canned spaghetti was anything like the real thing. I made no further response but decided that I would be most unlikely to ever sample the real thing and in fact would actively avoid it at all costs.

It was to be a long time before I was given the opportunity to try it when a boyfriend took me to an Italian restaurant in Bloomsbury on the occasion of his own birthday. I was sharply reminded of the worms at the first few surprisingly tasty mouthfuls. Unexpectedly I came to the realization that all things Italian were not necessarily as unpalatable as they had previously appeared to be. Some time later in discussion with a cousin whose father was also said to have been ruined by the war, far from enthusiastically agreeing she said that she didn’t think she could ever get used to foreign muck and would prefer a Wimpy hamburger with chips any day of the week.

But when I was still a child these discussions were not frequent because we rarely went in for what is now termed Eating Out and on those exceptional occasions when we did, it was generally in cafes serving Egg & Chips and Fish & Chips . Not especially inspiring.

It was some weeks before Christmas when I was told that our entire family would be going to the Theatre – the Proper Theatre, the Theatre Royal, Chatham. We were going to see a Pantomime, Jack & The Beanstalk. I was nine years old and beginning to become very taken with The Theatre and greatly influenced by the children’s books of Pamela Brown and Noel Streatfield.

We set off for Chatham a few days later, traveling by train from Gravesend and arriving at The Empire Box Office just after lunch. It was then that we found all tickets for the stalls and circle had been sold. In fact the only seats left in the house were four in a Box at the huge sum of four pounds. My mother said that had he thought ahead my father would have booked and that nobody could afford four pounds. Despite this my father, who had been paid only the day before, paid up and that is how we came to be seated like very important people in a box overlooking the stage. It was my first experience of traditional Pantomime other than what I had read in books and I was immediately very much taken with the Principal Boy and the Pantomime Dame and the tradition of heckling from the audience. All in all I was both thrilled and delighted with the day, more so than my young brother, and very keen to return. However, it was to be a long time before I would find myself in the building for a second time, when I would go with a songwriter called Bill Crompton to see a performance of his great friend and ally, Morgan Thunderclap Jones, pianist, who had thoughtfully provided us with complimentary seats in the front stalls.

My mother, definitely keener on visits to the cinema, was not nearly as taken as I was with the theatre trip and maintained that you could waste a fair amount of hard earned money if you spent it inadvisedly in theatres. However, this particular treat still remains with me as one of the most magical events of my childhood – the day when we saw Jack & The Beanstalk from the luxury of a Box overlooking the stage, exactly like a family in a book! What could be better?

Tuesday, 3 July 2018

Of Cleaning & Cats

Despite the fact that we never had very much that absolutely needed to be kept clean a lot of cleaning of one kind or another seemed to go on at our house. The kind of cleaning that doesn’t happen much these days. I remember a dark red polish with a picture of a funny looking man on the screw top, who called himself Cardinal and not having much of a clue about the hierarchy of the Church at the time I believed him to be the person who made the polish. I thought it was rather avant-garde of him to have his picture on every tin.

On Tuesday mornings unless it was raining the front step was spruced up with the help of Cardinal, followed by the flagstones in front of the kitchen stove. I was never allowed to help with these jobs although I was keen to do so, finding the smell of the gloopy red stuff almost intoxicating. I envied Jennifer Berryman whose grandmother always allowed her to polish their front step though it took her half the morning and even I could see that she used rather too much Cardinal and even then didn’t achieve much of a shine. I was told that Jennifer was only given the job to save her grandmother’s back because at her age to bend gave her gyp. It was a fact that the regular application of Cardinal to front steps was a matter of principle as far as most of the local housewives were concerned and those who avoided the task were thought to be slovenly.

Another time consuming and regular job for the woman whose work was never done was the black leading of the kitchen stove. I’m not sure that this was carried out on a weekly basis because it was a mission for which my mother covered her hair and clothes with her oldest scarf and overall and at times even wore rubber gloves before carefully removing the lid from the Zebo Blacking. I most definitely was not allowed to take part, and probably neither was Jennifer no matter how bad her grandmother’s back happened to be, but I could certainly watch the proceedings from a safe distance and bring fresh newspaper when asked. When I was little, long before I got what my cousin Margaret called highfaluting ideas about my own importance, I thought our stove was one of the best things about our house. That was way back when I didn’t long for an indoor lavatory, preferably situated inside an indoor bathroom. Back then I loved coming home to the warmth and security of the freshly black-leaded stove in winter when my mother might make toast on a long toasting fork for tea or bake potatoes in their jackets in the oven. The more modern gas stove in the scullery did not ever have quite the same appeal whatever might be cooked upon it or in it. In winter the kitchen stove was without doubt the most cost effective way to cook despite the heat being at times variable. Slow cooked vegetable stews enriched with the odd bit of bacon could simmer on the hob for hours and fill the house with a smell that promised a tasty supper and there was no anxiety that the gas might suddenly Go Out and have to be replenished with pennies in the meter. In those days at our end of the street we still had gas light because electricity had not quite reached us before the war interrupted the process of modernising. The lights going out never caused much drama as far as I was concerned as long as a fire still burned in the grate and in any event we seemed to always be able to find a candle. Later on when we boasted an electricity meter alongside the gas meter in the coal cupboard under the stairs, not only did it have to be fed with shillings rather than pennies, but when it suddenly went out it caused an instant shock. My friend Pearl said years later when sitting in the Banfield’s front room courting with her boyfriend, that she lived in fear of the embarrassment of the lights going out. It simply did not happen, she maintained, at his house and she wondered how she could be expected to live down the humiliation of the family scrabbling around and calling for a shilling.

At some stage in the early 1950s we joined the neighbourhood trend and rid ourselves of the old fashioned cast iron stove that needed to be pampered with Zebo on a regular basis. It was replaced with what was described as a Modern Tiled Surround which turned out to be an open fireplace edged with anaemic looking pale pink tiles. My mother was very keen to make this transition once the Bennetts of Buckingham Road installed one and Grace Bennett had extolled its many virtues over several cups of tea a day or two later, maintaining that it had been worth every penny. Her daughter Joan whispered to me that she couldn’t say she agreed at all because the one thing it wasn’t was cosy and for her part she greatly appreciated the cosiness of its predecessor. She added that it was impossible to make proper toast with a tiled surround. Her mother said she didn’t need to make toast on a fork anymore because they now owned an electric toaster and Joan said it didn’t taste the same. Later my mother pointed out that Joan Bennett was still being Spoilt Rotten. You could tell by the way she wouldn’t stop whining on and on about toast not to mention the way she demanded to have her weekly bath in the kitchen rather than the scullery just so she could watch their new TV set at the same time. Privately I agreed with Joan but I didn’t say so because I could see there was no stopping a tiled surround invading our kitchen.

I was right and within a week the change had been organised with Porter, Putt & Fletcher in Gravesend and our cast iron stove was wrenched from the place where it had sat for more than a hundred years and deposited at the end of the garden awaiting the scrap metal merchant. In no time at all we were sporting a tiled surround and were never again to make proper toast or jacket potatoes or simmer soups for hours in winter time.

A word or two should be mentioned regarding the regular cleaning job that seemed, and undoubtedly was, quite a reckless undertaking in those years after the war. The cleaning of upper floor windows was not for the faint hearted but despite the risk involved every house proud woman was able to balance precariously on the narrow window sills whilst vigorously applying pink viscous Windolene to panes of glass with scrunched up sheets of newspaper. Strangely I was never fearful that my mother was going to fall into the street below, because no-one ever did and quite apart from that I saw her as potently powerful where cleaning was concerned. The cleanliness of windows was just as significant as applying Cardinal to a front step, almost a duty to the community. Only your nearest and dearest were likely to observe how often Zebo had been used on the kitchen stove simply because only relatives, and close friends were invited to step inside houses but every passer-by could see the state of windows and door steps. For that reason when new curtains were made, the patterned side was invariably hung to face the street so all and sundry could witness that the front room at your place had been freshly adorned and no expense had been spared. At least, that was the idea. Meanwhile those who sat inside the room experienced the back side of the drapes. This probably didn’t matter nearly as much as it might have done as we very rarely sat in our front room, using it only at Christmas or when very special visitors came calling.

Our lavatory was cleaned every week with Lavvo which I was told ensured it was spotless. It was attacked briskly with an ancient lavatory brush and my mother was not at all averse to pushing her hand around the S bend as far as it would go because what she could not abide was a filthy lavvy. Her older sister Mag diminished considerably in her estimation when she let that lovely new lavvy in that lovely new bathroom get into the kind of state that would have shocked the drawers off a duchess. It was a crying shame, I was told, and all for the want of a bit of bleach. Every time we went to visit I could tell she was itching to take to my oblivious aunt’s offending S bend. When the move had been made into the newly allocated council house in Iron Mill Lane, for a while my cousins had been told they should start calling their new lavvy the bathroom because after all it was in the bathroom. Our grandmother who lived conveniently across the road with several of the younger aunts observed that nobody was going to tell her what to call the khazi and added that when she was a girl in Bethnal Green it had been called the privy. Little Violet said that at school everybody called it the toilet and to use it you had to put your hand up and ask to be excused. Apparently it had taken quite a degree of school attendance before she realised that rule only applied when you were in the classroom and so had spent a lot of time during breaks trying to find a staff member who could excuse her.

The transition from Victorian terraced housing with inconveniently placed outside conveniences to ultra-modern council housing was challenging for some people and although Old Nan seemed, rather surprisingly, to take it in her stride, most of her daughters did not. At the houses of Aunts Mag, Maud and Martha, despite the bathroom now being adjacent to the bedrooms, for several years chamber pots remained under beds. Our chamber pot was known as a Po but my aunts usually referred to theirs as a Jerry and Uncle Harold called his a Gozunder. Old Nan, rather horrifyingly to me when I was small, referred to hers as a Piss Pot. Even when I was four years old that sounded rather vulgar to me because I was never allowed to use the word Piss.

It wasn’t just cleaning and toilet arrangements that made life more complicated back then. We seemed to live alongside a great many more pests than we do now. These days the sight of a marauding rodent causes a stir but then there was a tacit acceptance that vermin were just a part of life. I’m not suggesting that anyone thought they were amusing or added an entertaining dimension to life but on the other hand nobody complained too much. In summer time hundreds of flies invaded our kitchen and scullery and fly papers were hung from the ceiling and within days were spotted with black mini corpses. Spiders lurked in the corners of every room, especially so in the lavatory where they grew bigger and more menacing than elsewhere and earwigs that were supposed to stick to the backyard, often crept into the house where I was told they would crawl into my ears if I wasn’t careful and that was why they were called earwigs. I couldn’t really tell the difference between bees and wasps but I have a feeling that the airborne striped offender that stung me so painfully in the very centre of my right hand when I was three years old and busy purloining sugar from the kitchen cupboard, was in fact a wasp. I have been wary of wasps ever since and never made raids on the sugar again. Bees did not seem to come inside and only visited the gardens of those who grew flowers like Old Mrs Eves and Old Mrs Freeman and largely avoided those of us whose backyards were devoid of plant life.

We were plagued with mice at times and they could be heard scampering behind the walls late at night so my mother then laid traps baited with bits of dry bread. Old Nan said bugger feeding the bastards and placed mothballs in the kitchen corners instead because she said if there was one thing mice could not abide it was mothballs. In those days they were not considered dangerous items. The best deterrent as far as mice were concerned was most definitely acquiring a cat and so at various times we did so and then became free of mice almost overnight. When our irksome household mice were replaced by decidedly more irksome household rats one year, our cat Tom the Mouse Hunter became overnight a Rat Hunter Supreme and grew ever stronger and more intimidating on a diet of rodents. Tom was not a cat one could easily forge a loving relationship with being possessed of a decidedly unpleasant nature but he was infinitely preferable to Smudge next door who seemed terrified of the very pests he had been procured to purge.

In essence, like everyone else, we were not unduly alarmed by the wildlife around us and learned to cope with the various bugs, parasites and rodents intent upon sharing our cramped quarters. There were no enticing insect sprays on supermarket shelves to tempt us to wholesale slaughter because there were of course no supermarkets. None of us quite knew what to ask for at the hardware shop apart from mouse traps and fly papers and so the elimination progress was decidedly slow.

At our house we didn’t come across Flit Guns until crickets invaded the underside of the cast iron kitchen stove. Then the chirping was so intrusive that after three or four days my mother headed to Mrs Bodycombe’s Hardware Store in the High Street where she had been assured she would find the miracle of Flit. And it was indeed a miracle and thus the Crickets on our Hearth met a speedy death, as did almost anything else that could creep, crawl, or fly for the next week or so until the gun was exhausted. I often wonder what the long term consequences might have been. But of course back then we didn’t give a thought to consequences either to the environment or ourselves. You could say we were just not Green enough!

Thursday, 31 May 2018

Wash Day Reminiscences

Monday was, without fail, always Wash Day even when it was raining, not just for us but for everyone around us as well. It wasn’t easy to opt out of Wash Day even if you wanted to, and not many would have wanted to. Even if the bedsheets were only changed on a fortnightly basis, and not many housewives would have admitted to such a housekeeping slip-up, it remained a fact that a family needed two changes of underclothing per person, per week. A regular wash day, therefore, was essential.
Along with the rest of England, Northfleet housewives were expected to wash on Monday and the neighbours might even enter into gossip if that didn’t happen. My mother would have definitely considered anyone avoiding the expectations of Monday to be slovenly which was a word she took to using a good deal. She might have described such a miscreant, as slummocky which had more of a ring to it and definitely conjured up the right picture in the mind’s eye. Either way, Wash Day was never missed in our house at least not as far as I can recall. And it started early both summer and winter before six with a fire lit under the scullery copper for the basic and necessary heating of water. Whites were churned vigorously in the copper, sheets, pillow cases and anything made from cotton. Little by little the modest terraced houses began to fill with the steam that would only begin to diminish by Thursday.

Each terraced dwelling had a copper in the scullery, every one brick-built with a small fireplace beneath and each came supplied with a wooden lid and a sturdy copper stick to aid the twenty minutes or so of churning. When I was small I was warned to keep well away from the copper when it was in use because it was considered a hazardous space. Dark stories were told of children who did not heed such warnings and reaped the terrible consequences. The only one I remember was the cautionary tale of the four year old boy who, when dismounting his tricycle, managed to lower his leg into the boiling water and thereafter walked with a limp. His name was Brian and I was told he had very nearly died of shock and so, for different reasons did his long suffering mother who had given him many a warning so when all was said and done, it wasn’t her fault poor soul; he should have listened.
While the whites were agitating, pans of water would be heated on top of the gas cooker for the dolly tub to be filled and the remainder of the wash to begin. Nightdresses, knickers, shirts and socks would now be rubbed against the washboard with the aid of Sunlight soap, bright yellow and looking fit for the job. My mother attired in a print overall, her hair covered in a bright checked scarf, sweat pouring down her face, would pause from time to time to sip from an enamel mug of tea. I would be sitting like a Good Girl on the scullery step and if the day was cold and the door to the backyard was closed, a great deal of the washday steam would have magically transformed itself into water that ran liberally over the walls but the scullery itself would be oddly, snugly, tropically balmy. So memorable was this Monday morning ambiance that on my first visit to Singapore decades later I was instantly, sharply reminded of York Road washdays past.

With luck on our side the arduous task of rinsing the soap from the piles of washing could begin by eight am when the Reckitt’s Blue Bag was added to the final rinsing water. It was a long time before I realized that the object of the Blue Bag was to make Whites appear as white as humanly possible before they were manhandled, piece by piece, into the terrifying jaws of the Mangle. Our Mangle, huge and made of wrought iron with wooden rollers, lived just outside the back door against the wall of the lavatory. In fact you had to pass it on every lavatory visit you made and it could be strangely comforting to bump into its solid hulk on moonless winter nights but on Wash Day it became a disturbing beast. It was a slightly complicated piece of technology in that the space between the rollers could be adjusted if you knew how. Nobody in our family had ever been initiated into the mysteries of fine-tuning its performance and I was constantly reminded of unfortunate children like Brian whose fate has already been detailed, wayward children whose fingers had been wrenched from their hands or flattened beyond recognition on account of foolish meddling with mangles. I lived in fear of joining their ranks and though I was a curious and often disobedient child, I curbed my enthusiasm for exploration of Mangles.

By noon, with a degree of sunshine and a modicum of luck the week’s wash would be tidily pegged to the line with pegs made by my grandmother from slim offcuts of willow that between washes I was allowed to play with as long as I put them all back in the peg basket when I had finished. As I grew a little older and was persuaded by my father to attempt to read difficult books like Little Women I learned that Meg had used a clothes peg nightly pinned to her nose in order to improve the shape. I found it strangely painful when I tried it myself and abandoned the idea when there was no perceptible change in shape on the third morning. Mostly I did not experiment much with the pegs and they were usually merely students in my School For Pegs or patients in my Hospital For Pegs. Later, as my brother grew older they at times became soldiers defending Kent from Roman invaders. We were not possessed of many toys.

Usually on Mondays, unless the day had been excellent for drying, we ate our tea of toast and dripping amidst still damp sheets and shirts hung from cords that criss-crossed the kitchen and forced us to duck and dive in order to avoid them. By morning with a degree of luck the Monday wash would be ready for ironing and by the time I was seven years old our family had become the very proud owners of an electric iron. As far as I can remember this enviable and convenient aid to modern housekeeping was proudly purchased from Frost’s in Northfleet High Street by my father to mark the birth of my baby brother in April 1947. It was definitely a step up from the flat irons of my earlier childhood. Nevertheless, rather inconveniently it had to be plugged into the light socket above the kitchen table which entailed mounting a chair and first removing the light bulb. This in turn meant that ironing could only take place in daylight hours and so it usually took place on Tuesday mornings. It was a hazardous process and sturdy shoes needed to be worn because somehow or other my mother had come to believe that shoes would protect her from death by electrocution. My cousin Margaret, ironing a school blouse was once thrown across the kitchen in Iron Mill Lane, Crayford simply because her feet were clad only in cotton socks. She could very well have been killed, at least that is what I was told and from that moment on, I also had a healthy respect for electric irons and to this day wonder if I should change my footwear before beginning the task.

Even though by Tuesday evening the week’s ironing was completed, the regular washday ritual was not totally concluded because the sheets and shirts still had to be aired and so they once again hung above us on the improvised indoor lines until they were safe to use. My mother believed that the consequences of wearing a damp liberty bodice would be dire and pneumonia would most likely result. Thankfully I have not inherited this particular conviction and my own children happily donned damp garments without noticeable health problems throughout their childhood.

In the 1940s, Wash Day and its aftermath was an exhaustive undertaking and considering this it was not entirely unreasonable that our clean clothes were rationed. Until I reached the age of not quite sixteen and was about to leave school I was never allocated more than two clean pairs of knickers and socks weekly and it simply did not occur to me to protest. One pink floral wynceyette nightdress was donned after each Saturday evening bath and not discarded until the following Saturday and when I grew older and attended Colyer Road Secondary School and Wombwell Hall, I was granted just one clean blouse weekly. This latter garment was decidedly grimy and slightly smelly by Thursday each week which was understandable as not much mid-week washing of necks and underarms took place. On the other hand back then most of us smelt the same, even those boasting brand new bathrooms on spanking new housing estates because old habits die hard as far as general cleanliness is concerned, at least that’s how it was then. And if this appears just a little distasteful from a modern viewpoint it helps to consider that a hundred years earlier the situation would have been even more dire and two or three hundred years ago simply doesn’t bear thinking about.
In 1952 at Colyer Road Secondary School during a history lesson that these days would more likely be called Social Studies, the enthusiastic young Supply Teacher urged us to speak with our grandparents about how life had changed over decades, ask our grandmothers what household tasks had been like when she was a young mother herself. I wasn’t all that keen so rather half- heartedly enquired of Old Nan what her own Wash Day had been like in those years before the first World War when she already had half a dozen small children. She said it had been not much trouble to her on account of The Bagwash. I never found out exactly what The Bagwash entailed and lacked the confidence to enquire how many clean underclothes she doled out weekly to her brood. I strongly suspected changes of clothing were few and far between.

There’s no doubt at all that the emergence of modern washing facilities in the form of modern bathrooms and automatic washing machines and dryers in every home has transformed the ease with which we can now monitor bodily odours and how many clean pairs of knickers we allow ourselves each week.

Saturday, 21 April 2018

Reflecting Upon Down Syndrome Decades On

I had not given Brian Philpott a thought for years, not until a neighbour recently spoke of her young brother, a Down Syndrome sufferer. We discussed the need for inclusion and how over decades society’s attitude toward children with disabilities has inexorably changed for the better. Later I found myself thinking about Brian and wondering about our attitude toward him as he grew up in Shepherd Street.

Back then we knew nothing of chromosome abnormalities and had of course never heard of John Langden Down who apparently had first described the condition in 1862. Because of the features of the affected children he called them Mongoloid and in 1949, some ninety years later so did we. My mother said Brian was a Poor Little Bugger and wouldn’t live long because children like him never did and that all them Mongols were slow. It wasn’t until 1961, long after I had left the district and pushed all memory of him from my consciousness that scientists began to suggest that the term Mongolism had misleading connotations and had become an embarrassing term. It was dropped completely in 1965 and those with a connection to children with the condition had to learn overnight to describe them as having Down Syndrome. To be fair it probably wasn’t nearly as hard for those with an afflicted family member as it was for the rest of us. Most of us, with the exception of course of the medical profession and those training to be social workers, continued to describe children like Brian as Mongols. This meant that we were treated to hostile and superior looks or as time went on, the error of our terminology was pointed out to us.

But when we were children it was still perfectly acceptable for Brian to be referred to as a Mongol. He was supremely unaware of all this and a more cheerful and chirpy child would have been hard to find. He lived at number 60 Shepherd Street with his grandparents, Annie and Albert Philpott. He called Them Mum and Dad and for a long time I thought they were indeed his parents until I overheard Old Nan saying that his actual mother had Scarpered and who could blame her. This may or may or not have been true because Old Nan was well known for jumping to conclusions and as my mother was wont to point out, getting the wrong end of the stick.
What Brian may have lacked in intelligence he made up for in enthusiasm and was always more than anxious to join in any group game being played and happy to take on roles that the rest of us discarded on account of them being monotonous. Brian never tired of the tedious and the repetitive and was simply delighted to be accepted as part of the crowd, guarding camps, searching for lost balls and inexpertly keeping scores without argument and with a cheerful countenance. He loved being with each and every one of us and did not seem to attempt to analyse why it was that although he was willingly included in group games, singly it was harder for him to find a playmate, especially among the boys. The only one of us always agreeable to playing with Brian on a one to one basis was Kathleen Draper who lived a few doors away from him. He called her My Kath and loved her dearly, following a step or two behind her and obeying her every instruction. And Kathleen looked after him like a mother although she was only a year or so his senior, ensuring that from time to time he got Proper Turns in games and prepared to put up a fight on his behalf if anyone argued about it. Even in more complex games like What’s The Time Mr Wolf when nobody ever really wanted Brian to be the wolf, Kathleen would take his hand when he got muddled and tirelessly explain that it couldn’t always be Time to Eat you Up which was his favourite part of the ritual. And with her beside him, holding on to him tightly, he rose to the occasion and managed to remember.

I can’t remember Brian going to school with us so perhaps he went to a special class somewhere in the neighbourhood along with Elsie Coppins from Buckingham Road who was in a wheelchair because she couldn’t walk, or maybe he wasn’t required to attend at all. My mother said there was no point anyway because if you were like him you’d never learn to read and write because you simply wouldn’t have what it took. It stood to reason and it was his poor grandmother she felt sorry for. Nevertheless Kathleen was making firm attempts to teach Brian to read and he could already recognize B for Brian and K for Kath. She said she didn’t mind how long it took because it had to be done. Brian wanted to be a train driver and he would need to be able to read at the very least the names of the local stations. Even as a ten year old I understood why he loved her so devotedly.

Thursday, 12 April 2018

St Botolph's School Remembered

I recall the staff at St Botolph’s School in the late nineteen forties with a certain amount of affection. I greatly admired Miss Honour who I saw as unbelievably glamorous when I was five especially after I overheard her comment that she thought I must be adopted because I was quite unlike my mother. I regarded Mrs Johnson a little more cautiously because she was not as easily fooled by the BBC accent I was trying to cultivate when I was six but on the other hand she gave me Enid Blyton stories to read. I was not quite as keen on Mrs Allen who threatened me with physical punishment when my father complained to her about my behaviour at home (despite the fact that she was heard to say I was as Good as Gold at school) but felt secure with Miss Biggs who helped me complete the doll’s bonnet I was trying to knit. Each of them were sound teachers and basically kind. All were eclipsed, however, by Mr Clarke in whose class we found ourselves for two wonderful years and whose teaching was at times inspiring and whose pupils without exception loved him dearly. The boys were particularly intrigued by his war record. He had been a fighter pilot during the war and was shot down and became a POW. This information did not emotionally move the girls nearly as much of course but Will Clarke was able to enthuse and motivate each one of us in a way that eludes most who decide to enter the teaching profession.

Friday afternoons were in particular an exciting time devoted to ideas and to books. Mr Clarke discussed with us all manner of interesting ideas such as the rights and wrongs of cannibalism and what human flesh might taste like. John Dyke wanted to know if he meant when it was raw or when it was cooked and Mr Clarke paused momentarily before assuring him that he meant when it was cooked. Even quiet and good Wendy Maxted who rarely said much raised her head at once and wanted to know exactly how it would have been cooked. A few of the more assertive and popular girls began to laugh but stopped when Mr Clarke treated that question seriously also and explained that he thought it might have been simmered in a cauldron with roots and vegetables and perhaps a few herbs. This cooking method and the resulting taste was then hotly debated until Mr Clarke said that he had heard that human flesh when cooked with care tasted a little bit like lamb. With that we were silenced although I found myself contemplating this interesting morsel of information on every future occasion when the Sunday roast happened to be lamb.

On one occasion he led us into a discussion as to whether or not children would ever be allowed to vote and if it was a good thing and if so which political paths we might pursue. He listened carefully to the reasons why our families were Labour or Conservative without passing comment. A substantial number of us surprisingly perhaps supported the Conservatives though one boy admitted to having a father who was decidedly Communist and believed in Communal Farms. The rest of us did not understand how that particular form of agriculture worked and Mr Clarke enthusiastically explained and the following Friday told us something of Russian History and how and why the 1918 revolution happened. Those of us who lost interest and became bored by these Friday afternoon debates were allowed to doodle or fall asleep without comment.

It was also a time when we were introduced to poetry – The Lady of Shallot, Daffodils, The Destruction of Sennacherib and were urged to read the Myths of Ancient Greece and Rome. And occasionally he would encourage us to write our own poetry if we felt so inclined. For these reasons though time passed I was never quite able to relinquish memory of Mr Clarke.

Six decades later Molly Freeman, then determinedly beginning to master the use of email, sent me an excited message because she had by an odd accident of fate involving an article about football in a local paper, rediscovered Will Clarke, by then in his nineties and living in The Midlands. We were ecstatic to make contact once again with the man who had deftly turned what might have been two completely ordinary primary school years into a time during which learning became distinctive and exceptional. And he, more than at ease with the intricacies of electronic messaging, communicated with each of us with enthusiasm and deliberated all aspects of those St Botolph’s days. We learned that his time at the school had not always been as uncomplicated as our own and that the loss of his teenage son in a road accident had all but paralysed him emotionally. We also began to understand that the demands placed upon him and the rest of the school staff by the most unpopular headmaster, Mr Cook,had made life anything but enjoyable and had caused him to examine frequently the reasons why he stayed.

This latter sentiment we certainly understood because if we found Will Clarke hard to forget, few of us who attended St Botolph’s School during those years have found it easy to forget the tyrannical Mr Cook. How this disturbing head teacher ever became involved in the business of educating the young is a mystery because he was truly a man as sadistic as Mr Clarke was compassionate and as terrifying as he was gentle, as poor an educator as he was inspirational . Now I find myself seriously wondering how and why he made the choice he did, what caused his alarming rages, and if he actually realized the degree of terror he instilled in us. And did he ever ask himself why it was that his pupils feared him as fervently as they loved Will Clarke?

Thursday, 29 March 2018

The Implication & Significance of Names

It was quite recently that I learned from a television news item of a young girl called Burgundy Rose who had met with a tragic accident. A sad end to a young life but I couldn’t help noting that sixteen years previously someone had decided to give her a name that was never going to be easily overlooked. Burgundy Rose will live on not only in the hearts and minds of those who loved her but she also has a vague reality for others like me who never met her, those with a fondness for unusual names. Hours later I met the young man proudly in charge of the current painting project in this city fringe complex, who with excellent English gave me a great deal of information about undercoats and sealants together with his business card from which I learned that his name was Raphael. Had I but been sixteen years old again I would undoubtedly have become immediately enchanted because with such a name how could I possibly resist him? On the other hand it did not seem appropriate to debate the matter with him so I did not do so.

It would be true to say that in general Antipodean parents are more inclined to take chances as far as names are concerned than their Northern Hemisphere counterparts. Where in London would you find a Delwyn or Selwyn other than in that little enclave around Earls Court underground station where elderly waitresses called Ngaire and Hinemoa are still said to linger in the shadows? And only in South Auckland did I ever come across two Miracles, a Blessing and a Destiny. It is uncommon for British parents to follow the example of Paula Yates and Bob Geldoff and succumb completely to such flights of fancy. When my daughter was nine or ten she hankered after being called Fifi-Trixibelle with a longing that kept her awake at night before hitting on the idea of renaming one of her collection of stuffed animals. A few months later she was also the proud owner of a monkey called Peaches and a lamb called Little Pixie. When Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily came along she had long outgrown this particular naming lust and the once greatly loved collection of animals languished under beds, squashed into plastic bags.
In the late 1940s most of us growing up in the Thameside towns of North Kent were given names that were solid and sensible and presumably to some extent in vogue at the time. Our class at St Botolph’s was a hotbed of Margarets and Maureens, Pamelas and Paulines with just a few emerging Shirleys and one Suzanne whose mother was half French. The only girl I envied name-wise was Wendy Selves and that was because I had been taken to see Peter Pan at The Chatham Empire. The boys were largely Colins, Brians and Georges and just one or two Barrys and Franks.

By the mid 1950s local girls giving birth to infants in their teens, like Ann Davis of Tooley Street and my cousin Pat from Crayford, struck out for independence, proudly naming their daughters Cheryl-Ann and Sharon-Marie and embroidering their choice on the frilled pillows the infants lay on for all to see and admire. I clearly recall the clutch of Pams and Pats and Paulines who had shared my class at Colyer Road Secondary Modern School and transferred as I did to the lofty heights of Wombwell Hall, chattering excitedly when our erstwhile friend Marjorie Bullen stunned us by dropping out of education at just sixteen in order to be married and produce a daughter strikingly christened Natalia-Kym. How we longed to throw aside typing classes and join Marjorie in the ranks of the newly-wed mothers of 1956, pushing prams along Hall Road and having passers-by admire our pink bonneted offspring and its exotic name.

When, in my teenage years, I constructed newly invented families one after another to replace the one that life had bestowed upon me, I gave myself a new name every time and for a year or two greatly favoured Toni, short for Antoinette and carefully considered what my several brothers might be called. At one stage the Toni of the Moment had a trio of brothers called Quentin, Tarquin and Errol, in an act which I felt successfully liberated the uninspiringly named boys of St Botolph’s. I found this enormously satisfying and felt that each Colin, Brian and George of Northfleet might feel likewise had I but been able to tell them. Many years later I was to realise that I was not entirely alone in the echelons of those who desired what they felt should have been awarded them in the first place – a more agreeable and pleasing name.
My classmates at Wombwell Hall of course largely sported the same names as the girls of St Botolph’s. Those I remember are a Mary, a Kathleen, two Florences, a Julia, a Shirley, a Pauline, a Pamela, a Patricia, a Norma, an Anne with an E, a Marilyn, a Priscilla, two Margarets, a Valerie, an Yvonne and a Joyce who I later persuaded to become a Lynn. There were others because we were a class of twenty four but memory of them is lost.

At least one Ann without an E had also been a student at Wombwell Hall, though in the year ahead of me and at one stage a Form Captain to boot. Ann Gollop, slender and golden-haired with cornflower blue eyes leading her form class from each morning assembly passing directly in front of me and daily making me fervently wish I looked more like her. Even her name was, in my view more acceptable than my own, though had I been in her shoes I would definitely have added an E to the spelling. Somewhat surprisingly I was to meet her again a decade later when we both found ourselves working at The Latin Quarter nightclub in Gerrard Street, Soho. That very same Ann, still enviably willowy, her golden hair now a beehive halo about her head, her cornflower eyes enhanced with expertly applied make-up, dressed in a gold lame cocktail dress. And when I acquainted her with the fact that we two had been at school together she looked at me uncomprehendingly because of course back in those days she had been dazzling and I had been completely insignificant and therefore there was no reason at all why she should recall me. The very first thing she said was that her name was no longer Ann and she would be appreciative if I didn’t call her that, with or without an E. She had long left Ann behind and she was now Kimberley. I could simply call her Kim if I wanted to. The second thing she said was that in her opinion Wombwell Hall must have been a school with a bad influence because neither of us had lasted long in the typing pool had we?

And just as in our schooldays she demonstrated definite leadership ability when Mitzi, the girl I was detailed to sit beside, advised me in a low voice to mind my Ps and Qs with Kim because she was the Head Hostess! So I minded them.

Thursday, 15 March 2018

Greta Thilthorpe, A Friend From The Past

There are definite positive aspects to having a Facebook account, although at times I agree that the negatives can be weighty. Without FB I would never have known of the recent passing of Greta Thilthorpe that erstwhile best friend of my early teenage years. It was Dawn who told me, a friend I have never actually met but I feel as if I know. Without FB I would not now be starting this Friday with a rather heavy heart full of sombre thoughts about the Meaning of Life. Does it have any meaning? I was rather hoping Stephen Hawking would finally reveal the answer to this exasperating question but alas he too is now recently beyond recall.

Greta was the remarkably sensible Only Girl in a large family featuring a clutch of moodily handsome boys and a rather exotic mother with a penchant for red chiffon and heavy jewellery. Well so it seemed to me at the time but then you have to bear in mind that when I first became Greta’s friend I had only very recently celebrated my thirteenth birthday. She on the other hand was seventeen and in her final year at Wombwell Hall as I was about to start my first. I think our slightly unusual friendship came about in the first place because my mother had just started to work for Peggy and Vic Troke at their shop in Shepherd Street where Greta’s mother had been employed for several years. I was to inherit Greta’s outgrown school uniforms though for me they were uncomfortably tight around the waist and chest because I was fast becoming what my Uncle Harold described as a Fine Specimen of English Womanhood and Young Harold, his elder son, described as Fat. My mother claimed that I was not fat at all, but merely Stout. I could not decide which of the trio I hated most. In any event, as we certainly did not have Money to Burn on trivialities like school uniforms I was required to wear the cast off skirts and blouses whether I liked the idea or not. At the same time I became Greta’s friend though being several years my senior my mother did wonder if it was a good idea. The one thing she did not want was me being corrupted by an older girl because a few months before the advent of Greta into my life I had become friendly with yet another seventeen year old, this time one called Shirley who worked for Ripleys the greengrocers. Shirley had permed hair and pierced ears and a boyfriend who was doing his National Service. She introduced me to cigarettes and gin and so a halt was called to the friendship quite rapidly.

Greta was an entirely different kettle of fish who wore no make-up and her school shoes at weekends and there was little danger of me becoming corrupted which I could not help thinking was a pity but nevertheless there were definite advantages in the friendship. Shirley had been more than willing to talk about sex and How Far she had Gone with her absent boyfriend whereas Greta had not yet developed an interest in the opposite sex and her attitudes were closer to those greatly applauded by my mother who commented that you could say what you like about Greta but you couldn’t say she was Fast. She may not have been Fast but Greta was canny and had a knack of saying rude things to older women (like Peggy Troke) with a guileless expression in both voice and face that led them to believe she was just being refreshingly truthful. She was also exceptionally generous and my cousin Connie who was not known for her own generosity, said that’s simply what happened within large families and it was an experience I was unlikely to encounter in my own because I was only blessed with one brother. Both Connie and Greta had been blessed with a large number of brothers and of Greta’s I remember Michael clearer than the rest of them because he was dazzlingly good looking and fifteen. For his part he failed to notice me at all even when I wore Evening In Paris to his parents’ twenty fifth wedding anniversary.

I remember Greta as having an extraordinarily good work ethic and during the years of our friendship she seemed able to locate all the local farms that largely and quite illegally employed child labour for harvesting work that the adults in the area were beginning to avoid and paid what my grandmother said was a Pittance. Greta was unconcerned with pay rates and simply lined us up for work that usually began at five am each morning of the school holidays. This meant that unlike many of our acquaintances she and I for a time had money to spend on sweets, ice-creams, Smiths Crisps and bottles of Tizer. My brother, who already spoke longingly of owning a pair of binoculars was, at the age of seven, considered even by Greta as being just a bit too young. Old Nan, not known for having a good word to say about teenage girls was wont to shake her head and admit albeit in a low voice that when all was said and done, Greta was a Grafter and no Mistake!

She was also something of an adventurer and that was an attitude that greatly appealed to me. Although I was quite unable to persuade Molly Freeman to embark upon a train trip in the general direction of London, and when I suggested the idea to Joan Bennett she simply looked dazed and said she’d have to ask her Mum, it did not occur to Greta that mothers should ever be asked for permission to do something as ordinary as get on a train. Mothers were busy people, she said, and had more on their minds than train trips especially when their youngest two, like their Stephen and Christopher both had Mumps. She had an idea, she told me, for getting to London without paying a proper fare, simply with the aid of a platform ticket. In the end we got as far as Woolwich Dockyard where even Greta began to doubt the practical aspects of the plan and she deftly led the way to the correct platform that pointed us back towards Gravesend where we nonchalantly handed in our crumpled, sticky platform tickets and exited the station. And over the next month she and I embarked upon a number of similar outings to Maidstone, Gillingham and even Whitstable. These were adventures unfamiliar to most of my Wombwell Hall classmates and because of Greta I managed to gain a certain amount of kudos among the girls of 1SC.

Following Dawn’s message today I’ve thought a lot about the time when Greta Thilthorpe was my friend and have come to the conclusion that she may not have been a particularly sophisticated seventeen year old but she was never simply Run of the Mill or Ordinary. It’s a pity we seem destined to lose touch with the friends that populated our past.

Saturday, 3 March 2018

The Cobbler of Shepherd Street

Throughout my childhood and teenage years Mr Hammond was the person we took our shoes to when they needed mending. Later on I learned that he was proficient in a wide range of repair services including watches and jewellery but our relationship with him only concerned footwear. He was an old fashioned cobbler and at times was heard to claim that theoretically he should not be called a cobbler at all, but a cordwainer because he was a skilled artisan. Not so very long ago he said, he had on a daily basis constructed luxury footwear and back in those days the cobbler was simply the person who repaired the shoes that men like him had made. And warming to his theme he was heard to add that back then the cobbler was actually forbidden from working with new leather and even had to use old leather for repairs. The difference between these two trades had once been considerable to the extent that to call a cordwainer a cobbler was to greatly insult him. In Mr Hammond’s opinion the long and proud British tradition of shoe-making was slowly Going To The Dogs. None of this was of any interest to my mother or grandmother when they handed in items to be mended, the latter remarking that in her opinion he talked a lot of Twaddle which was probably on account of him being Chapel rather than Roman Catholic.

When I was a pre-schooler my extra special black patent round toed shoes with traditional ankle straps were handed over to this Cordwainer-turned-Cobbler simply to see if he was able to stretch them a little. I had outgrown them long before my mother considered it to be Normal and as they had cost a Pretty Penny and the soles showed evidence of plenty of remaining wear, stretching might solve the problem. Mr Hammond was not enthusiastic and said that in any event he was not a fan of stretching children’s shoes because in the long run it did their feet no good at all. My mother’s neck bristled with annoyance as she thanked him for his advice and later told Mrs Bassant next door that not everybody was Made of Money and new shoes for kiddies of my age not only involved expense but were hard to come by in wartime even if you had the required coupons. A few days later I inherited ankle strapped footwear that had once been red but were now a strange sludge colour, from my cousin Connie who lived in Waterdales.

No one could say that Mr Hammond was not obliging and on occasions he went above and beyond the call of duty in service of the public. When my father came back from the war, later than his compatriots because of the debilitating illness he contracted in North Africa but by mid 1946 looking hale and hearty once more, the first local shop he visited was Mr Hammond’s. His black Sunday shoes needed attention if he was to attend Mass the next day at the Church of Our Lady of the Assumption looking his best. Cognizant of the importance of the situation, Mr Hammond did not allow his own religious affinity to stand in the way of his obligations and my father’s shoes were attended to in record time causing him to remark to my mother that the Shepherd Street Cobbler was a decent chap. My mother did not respond except to sniff a bit but the good thing was that at eleven am Mass my father looked very dapper indeed in his pin-striped demob suit, white silk scarf and the newly mended shoes that had been shone to perfection. Mrs Judd whose husband had been Lost at Dunkirk, two of the Campbell girls and Sister Camilla all commented upon the fact that he was a Very Pleasant Chap and it was good to welcome him back into the Roman Catholic community.

There was no doubt that Mr Hammond was a committed Christian despite his unfortunate association with Chapel. On a number of occasions when delivering footwear to him as we grew up, he would talk to me and my friend Molly about the life of Jesus, a topic which clearly absorbed him – and to a lesser extent also interested us. He was convinced that Jesus had visited Great Britain and probably even spoke English, perhaps almost as well as we did ourselves. When we exchanged glances and wondered how The Reverend Gunner at St Botolph’s might view this information, he warmed to his theme and asked us if we agreed that Jesus would have been a strong and adventurous young lad. Molly nodded a little doubtfully and Mr Hammond turned to me and wanted to know if I believed that Jesus was the nephew of Joseph of Arimathea. I nodded enthusiastically anxious not to display my ignorance about who this particular Joseph might be. Mr Hammond became more animated because didn’t this Joseph trade with the Tin Islands? Were not the Tin Islands the very land on which we stood? Wasn’t it plain common sense to accept that a healthy and adventurous twelve year old lad would have been desperate to accompany his uncle? Yes, yes, yes we agreed! But later it turned out that The Reverend Gunner was less enthralled with the information and so I chose not to mention it to Father O`Connor or even to my own father.

The last time I remember calling upon the services of Mr Hammond was when I was twenty years old and had returned from a somewhat illicit period in Amsterdam in the company of a man who had assured me that he thought extremely highly of me but turned out to have a wife he was even more fond of in a suburb of The Hague. Although I had been forced to reluctantly relinquish him and the future we were going to have together, I was not required to surrender the very expensive shoes and matching shoulder bag he had bought for me in a pleasingly upmarket Amsterdam store. The Cobbler of Shepherd Street was on my To Do list upon my return and I was more than pleased to be told that mine were the finest shoes Mr Hammond had seen in many a long year. Fashioned from the very best leather, superbly crafted, they had been a joy to repair. He recognised their excellence he told me because of course he had begun his working life as a cordwainer rather than a cobbler and he carefully and at some length explained the difference between those two terms. Not that there was shame in simply being a cobbler of course he added, but over time the profession had diminished and leant itself to less than perfect work. Standards had fallen everywhere. Which of course, he said, half shaking his head as he handed the shoes back to me had led to that ungenerous term – Cobbling Something Together.

Tuesday, 13 February 2018

BERNARD HENDY....A Memory of a Life

I wrote MORE THAN JUST SKELETONS largely as a tribute to my brother who died in April 2016. We had always planned to write the book about our early lives in and around Northfleet & Gravesend together but fate intervened as it invariably does.
Bernard was never a straightforward human being and his life became ever more complicated as he aged. Like so many of those who loved and admired him I think I simply wanted the echoes of that life to continue to resonate.
The book is available in both print and ebook versions and can be found on Amazon or Smashwords.

Friday, 9 February 2018

The Trokes' Shop In Shepherd Street

The Trokes lived above the shop on the corner of Tooley and Shepherd Streets. None of us were aware at the time that Peggy Troke’s real name was Marguerite because she was always known as Peggy, and sometimes just Peg. If we had known my mother would undoubtedly have thought her pretentious which is not exactly fair as none of us are able to choose our given names. As it was she labelled her as no better than she ought to have been because it was rumoured that she spent too much time up in the flat with certain travelling salesmen.

Victor Troke, known simply as Vic, seemed not to concern himself with idle gossip and described his wife as An Angel and even gave her a beaver jacket for her thirtieth birthday making my mother snort and toss her head back in a strange gesture of general disapproval that was clearly supported by some of our neighbours. One of the reasons for this reaction was that apparently Peg was forty five if she was a day. Quite apart from that back in those days it wasn’t a good thing to dress flamboyantly and be no better than you ought to be and furthermore Peg should really have had more sense than to court gossip by courting salesmen.

She was not popular with local children and did not have the patience of Aunt Elsie as far as her youngest customers were concerned. If we did not smartly make up our minds when comparing the attributes of Sherbert Dabs as opposed to Liquorice Wheels, she would tap her long red nails sharply on the glass counter top, purse her matching red lips and advise us to Get a Shuffle On. Generally speaking we only patronized the Trokes when Aunt Elsie was closed or when sent there on other errands by our mothers. On one occasion my occasional friend Greta Tilthorpe who was three years older than me and considered odd for wanting friendships with younger girls, reminded Peggy that as she was about to spend more than one shilling she would appreciate being accorded more courtesy. She made that statement in order to impress me, which indeed it did, standing at her side and hoping that the sweets would be shared – which they were. Furthermore Mrs Tilthorpe, always known as Tilly actually worked part time in the shop which gave Greta a definite edge over any other youthful customer with an intention to be rude to adults. Peggy Troke said nothing in response but gave us both long and hostile looks when she placed the Polo Mints and Spangles on the counter with just a fraction too much force. As we wandered up Dover Road and into the grounds of the library, Greta told me that in her opinion Peggy Troke was just a bit too Big for her Boots and clearly thought she was a Cut Above the rest of us. Peg needed taking down a peg or two in her opinion - and sucking hard on shared confectionery I nodded enthusiastically.

Shortly after this exciting exchange my mother announced she was going to work for the Trokes one morning each week, not serving in the shop but doing Peg’s housework to release her for more important tasks. Despite her reservations regarding the general values held by her new employer, she seemed quite excited at the prospect and within a short space of time the relationship with the Trokes and their staff resulted in me becoming even more friendly with Greta. It also occasioned the making of a red chiffon blouse for Greta’s mother. I am uncertain about Tilly’s satisfaction with the blouse since my mother’s dress-making ability had not improved over the years but she was far too polite to complain and wore the blouse to her twenty fifth wedding anniversary party to which we were invited. If you didn’t examine it too closely it looked reasonably presentable worn with a great deal of chunky jewelry. Peggy and Vic were also at the event of course, arriving by car which Greta told me was an MG and Peggy very smartly attired in a pink tweed two piece costume.

Becoming more friendly with Greta, the only girl in the Tilthorpe family, meant becoming acquainted with her six good looking brothers, two of whom were of an age that interested me, particularly one called Michael who was sixteen and moody-looking in a manner that would have made even James Dean envious. At the time, as I was yet to stumble across James Dean who had in turn not yet embarked upon his short but stellar film career, Michael Tilthorpe emerged as a younger and more accessible version of Emily Bronte’s Heathcliff and therefore highly desirable. Unfortunately for me he failed to notice my presence at all and the somewhat forced friendship with Greta began to pall despite her astonishing rudeness to adults, her sweet tooth and willingness to share.

It would be fair to say that my mother enjoyed the time she spent cleaning for the Trokes because the job seemed to provide a constant stream of minor scandal resulting in endless rumour and gossip in the neighbourhood, which could be commented upon and spread with ultimate efficiency. Peggy Troke bought far too many pairs of shoes apparently, and occasionally even drove down to Maidstone, where the shopping was legendary, in order to do so. She also went in for what she called Afternoon Dresses acquired from the newly opened Chiesmans Department Store in Gravesend and when the travelers called, she wore them in the morning if necessary. If she and Vic went out for their tea, which they certainly did from time to time, they drove into Gravesend to the Clarendon Hotel and ordered steak and chips. When the Berni Inn chain opened they became regular once a month customers. Peggy once even persuaded Vic to take her to the new Pakistani restaurant near the bottom of Harmer Street but my mother failed to be impressed because nothing would have persuaded her to eat the kind of food foreigners seemed fond of. Vic said that he hadn’t found it to his liking either if he was to be honest. Peggy ignored him and said she always had a gin and dubonnet with her tea when dining out but Vic, bless his heart, always stuck to pints of mild.

The Trokes had a bob or two, there was no doubt about it because during those early years of the 1950s the shop did very well, hosting a constant stream of customers six days a week and they were quite adept at anticipating the buying needs of all, from the very poor to those who worked extra shifts at Bevans and were not doing badly at all. Grace Bennett from Buckingham Road, however, declared that one of the reasons for their success was that Peg was not beyond putting two fingers on the scale when weighing confectionery, especially when serving children who hadn’t got the nous to notice. Her Joan, she said, was told to buy from elsewhere but of course when Aunt Elsie’s was closed her Joan did what the rest of us did.

The majority of the customer base, living right on the doorstep in Shepherd Street were very poor indeed and to their credit both Vic and Peg were capable of extending a friendly and helpful hand towards many of them. In fact Peg herself seemed particularly fond of the Reads, Les and Elsie who lived at 55 with their large mostly male family and when Elsie gave birth to yet another son expressed concern towards the only daughter, Jill, commiserating with her that a baby sister had not yet eventuated and handing over a few humbugs by way of consolation. She also showed unusual patience towards Brian Philpott from number 60 when he appeared with a collection of fast disappearing farthings in his hand enquiring the price of gobstoppers. This was, my mother said, because he was a Mongol and therefore lacking in understanding. The term Down’s Syndrome had not yet infiltrated among us. For some reason the Vandepeers at number 90 and the Baldwins at 122 did not inspire the same care and concern within either of the Troke breasts.

Quite the most sensational piece of gossip my mother was able to come up with during her time of employment was the confirmation that Peg was undoubtedly Carrying On! It had not escaped her notice that Derek, the traveler in stationery invariably made a monthly visit, as regular as clockwork and it almost always co-incided with Vic’s monthly visit to the wholesaler in Gillingham. Other travelers were scheduled in for quarterly visits, but although the shop sold far more confectionery and biscuits than birthday cards, for some reason the traveler in stationery called with unusual frequency. And what was more, decisions about writing pads were so complicated they demanded an unusual degree of discussion in the flat upstairs during which more than one glass of sherry and gin was drunk, never mind that it was only eleven in the morning. You couldn’t pull the wool over my mother’s eyes because she wasn’t Born Yesterday.

It was shortly after the dissemination of this piece of information around the neighbourhood that Marguerite Troke, known simply as Peggy, came to the decision that she no longer needed a cleaner. My mother sniffed a lot and said she didn’t really care because she’d been considering handing in her notice for a long time.

Tuesday, 30 January 2018

Aunt Elsie's Shop In Tooley Street

Aunt Elsie ran the sweet shop on the corner of Tooley Street and The Old Green throughout the 1940s and early 1950s. She wasn’t really anyone’s aunt as far as I know but we all referred to her as such. Her full name was Elsie Bull and she lived with Her George at number 17, the front parlour of which had been turned into a shop at some stage and the window fitted with a smart wooden Venetian Blind that grew decidedly less smart as the years went by. One of our York Road neighbours maintained that there had not been a shop at all on that corner back in the 1920s and that the business had emerged with the coming of the Bulls to the neighbourood, from Margate or Ramsgate and why they had chosen to uproot and settle in Northfleet she had no idea. The Bulls did not appear to have a family but for a number of years a lodger called Joe lived with them and was said to be George’s nephew though he looked too old to be entirely comfortable as a nephew. At times, particularly on Bank Holiday weekends visitors crammed themselves into the back kitchen and the two upstairs bedrooms and on summer evenings drank beer in the back yard, sitting on planks supported by wooden fruit boxes. On these occasions there was a certain amount of jollity emanating from number 17 but other than that it was a quiet household with Aunt Elsie doing all the work because Her George only rarely appeared in the shop and my grandmother noted that he must have been a Lazy Bugger.

It’s possible that Aunt Elsie sold tobacco products as well as sweets because she would have needed a varied stock to Get By On during the many years of sugar rationing but I only recall the tall glass jars of Sherbet Lemons, Aniseed Balls, Bulls Eyes, Butterscotch and Hard Gums and I have no recollection of male customers requesting Hearts of Oak and Rizla Papers. By 1952, excitingly for her child clientele, the jars shared the shelf space with coils of Liquorice, Sherbet Dabs and Barratts Sweet Cigarettes and a little later with the newfangled packets of Spangles and Polo Mints. She was our most preferred source of all those products that were going to rot our teeth and generally we made our glass jar purchases two ounces at any one time and after a great deal of indecision. The sweets would be weighed with precision on the little brass scales and tipped into small white paper bags.

Aunt Elsie herself was a small dumpy woman of indeterminate age with red-brown hair, often half hidden under a hair-net. She invariably wore flowered smocks that hung loosely to her hips and fur trimmed slippers with slightly elevated heels that made her appear to topple forward as she walked. By the time we were twelve years old most of us were the same height as she was, the boys often towering over her. She always waited patiently behind the counter for us to make our important decisions, staring at us unsmilingly from behind rimless spectacles, her bosom, ample for her small frame, often heaving and her breathing laboured. My mother said she might well be harbouring the TB germ though Molly Freeman’s mother said it was probably only a touch of asthma and nothing to get too alarmed about. I have a sneaking suspicion that my own mother quite enjoyed alarm over illness but in any case I chose to believe Mrs Freeman. You could say that Aunt Elsie didn’t go out of her way to be all that friendly but overall she had been bequeathed with a certain amount of patience which she definitely needed with her youngest customers.

My eight year old brother was capable of standing lost in thought for ten minutes at any one time before he could be persuaded to hand over the hot two pence clutched tightly in his hand, in exchange for a long rope of liquorice. On one momentous occasion, however, quite uncharacteristically, he bought two Mars bars at fourpence each without much prior thought and even gave one to Hedley Davis who lived a few doors along from the shop. I knew at once that he had come by the money by foul means rather than fair and it had most likely been uplifted from my mother’s purse. Whatever lay behind the purchase it was a significant one because it wasn’t very often those under twelve or thirteen years of age could be persuaded to spend up large on chocolate items. Chocolate of any kind we usually left to the discretionary spending of the adults around us.

When Aunt Elsie was on shop duty between the hours of nine and five, with a break at lunch time, we were all at liberty to use the long expanse of her side wall that bordered the Old Green for hand stand practice and improving our dexterity for the ball games that required a hard surface. To do so once the shop closed, however, was to invite the wrath of Her George who would appear promptly, red in the face and shouting at us to Clear Off, which we usually did.
By the time I was fourteen Aunt Elsie had died quite suddenly of a stroke and after a while the shop closed because Her George was disinclined to carry on the tradition of service to the public that she had initiated. It turned out that if she had not presented the warmest side of her personality to local children, he positively disliked every single one of us. We were strangely dejected when the slatted wooden blind came down for the final time and we wondered what might have become of the many jars of sweets. Molly said that it was always possible Her George had a reasonably sweet tooth himself.

Thursday, 18 January 2018

Northfleet Pubs & Little Links to Social History

Apparently The Black Eagle in Galley Hill Road first opened in 1866 but had definitely closed by the end of 1968 when I decided to visit one evening with my brother and his first wife Janice. A little disheartened, because there is nothing more disheartening than a pub that is definitely closed, ultimately we ended up in the nearby Ingress Tavern which luckily had stood the test of time. I vaguely knew both places from my childhood when on summer evenings my parents once or twice visited on my father’s motorbike, me and Bernard in the side-car. I certainly hadn’t given either much thought in the intervening years though which is perhaps not surprising as each was somewhat devoid of character. Many pubs of that vintage are apt to be so no matter how much we eulogise them later. The nearby Plough in Stonebridge Road and of a similar vintage where a boy in my brother’s class at St Joseph’s had celebrated his twenty first birthday earlier that year in fact underwent several rapid changes to celebrate the new century that unnerved those who knew it well. It became The Cosmopolitan in 2010 and was The Golden Grill by 2012. Perhaps predictably, despite our complaints of drinking venues being dull and dreary none of us are ever terribly enthusiastic about those we remember from our youth changing too much. My friend Margaret had a grandmother who lived in Stonebridge road and said she clearly recalled The Plough at the beginning of the First War, as a place where a group of local lads met up for pints to send them on their way to The Front. They all looked so handsome and so brave, she told us – and yet despite their courage not all of them had survived – the likes of young Freddie Holt and Arthur Deadman for instance and she could she said, name at least a dozen more if she had all her wits about her but at her age memory was fading. She’d only been a slip of a girl herself back then and helped out in the bar at weekends when called upon to do so

Another nearby Northfleet hostelry much favoured by some of our aunts was The Railway Tavern at 69 The High Street that had opened in 1858 and met its demise in 1967 along with a number of similar establishments. Little Nanny from Hamerton Road always found it an acceptable place to visit for half a pint of Milk Stout. She said it had in general been a more genteel place than most. She could never be persuaded to enter The Edinburgh Castle also in The High Street or The Rose in Wood Street, both of which were still thriving a few years ago. Old Nan, our grandmother once was reputed to have descended upon The Edinburgh Castle dressed in her best intent upon just one drink before proceeding onward for an afternoon at Rosherville Gardens, then famous for a variety of entertainments. Unfortunately on this occasion she made the fatal decision to have a second then a third drink and even missed the last train back to Crayford. This, she always felt was a pity, since she had been Dolled Up To The Nines and even sported a brand new hat with an ostrich feather.

I don’t remember much about The Huggens Arms at 10 The Creek which opened in 1860 and apparently changed its name in the 1960s. I recall visiting the place only once in 1955 as a teenager and feeling very nervous. I had dared my boyfriend Barrie to take us there and order us both gin and tonics. Although he was barely sixteen we were served without incident despite looking strangely out of place among the half dozen or so elderly men leaning over the bar who only seemed mildly unsettled by our bursts of giggling. Later I learned that it was said to be one of my father’s favourite places to pop inside from time to time with his latest Bit On The Side on his arm.

The New Blue Anchor at 5 The Creek that closed as long ago as 1908 was definitely spoken of by my grandmother who claimed to have pulled her Edgar out of the place more than once and furthermore said that it was a dead and alive hole which meant little to me. Its only family significance was that apparently it closed in the year my mother was born in the hop gardens at Mereworth. Locally it was known that Old Lil who delivered babies and laid out the dead lived nearby and was in the place twice a week as Regular as Clockwork should anyone wish to converse with her.

Pubs more familiar to us as we grew up in York Road, Northfleet were those that were not in fact Destinations but rather places we dropped into from time to time as we passed, almost becoming an extension of home. Neither of my parents were habitual drinkers and my mother put this down to the fact that both her parents had been alcoholics, a situation that invariably creates ambivalent feelings where alcohol is concerned; nevertheless they were certainly occasional imbibers. In those days when the Wireless was the only form of home entertainment, casual pub visiting was possibly more customary than it is today and with one on every corner, more accessible a pastime than Going to the Pictures. A place that was spoken fondly of by one very elderly neighbour was The Dove which had been on The Hill adjacent to the lychgate of St Botolph’s Church, and sadly burnt down in the early years of the twentieth century, presumably making way for the Infants’ Playground of St Botolph’s School. As a small child old Mrs Beresford had lingered in the doorway frequently, observing her parents consuming quantities of gin. If she complained she was given a drop of gin and water and sometimes fell asleep outside. At other times a complaint might simply result in a clip around the ear. On one momentous occasion she had been completely forgotten about and woke up to find everything still and quiet and had to run home and let herself in the scullery window. She was fearful that it might turn out to be her fault and result in a beating but luckily it didn’t.

A year or two ago, I was cheered to find that The Coach & Horses at 25 The Hill, was still open and serving a hearty Sunday lunch. It was also a remarkably atmospheric place with many of the original features still intact. The proprietor told us that although it was said to date back to the mid-1700s, it had been around since 1686 when it had a different name – The Three Horseshoes. It was the fact that it had been rebuilt in 1764 that caused the confusion. This had been one of my brother’s favourite Inns back in the early 1960s when he proudly introduced me to his first girlfriend Christine, the girl he was going to love for ever. They were both sixteen and lost within an intensely passionate relationship. To Bernard The Coach & Horses was simply the smartest place he knew locally and therefore fit to entertain his Beloved and his sister and so we sat beneath its ancient beams sipping slowly on our vodka, nibbling Smith’s Crisps and trying desperately hard to look sophisticated. When I revisited the place more recently I was impressed both with the way it had stood the test of time with little visible deterioration in its antiquity, and also with the Sunday lunch which was substantial and delicious.

Happily I also discovered that The Leather Bottel at 1 Dover Road and dating from 1706, was also still open for business. However, the inside of the building has been so modernised and upgraded as to be all but destroyed from a historical perspective and completely belies the enticing promise of the exterior. This was my mother’s favourite Local if one of her sisters should suggest a Milk Stout or Half of Mild and a Sunday afternoon gossip. It appears to have been a coaching inn at one stage and apparently it provided excellent stabling. As the adjacent road into Gravesend was said to have been dangerous at the time, presumably eroded by the incessant digging for chalk, it is possible that The Leather Bottel was a convenient place in which to take pause and consider the best progress forward. Back in the early days of the 20th century Little Nanny had been friendly with Martha Johnson, apparently the mother of the then proprieter and told us that coming from Dublin she had found Northfleet a difficult place to settle into. My mother always maintained she wouldn’t have relished being in the building alone because it was haunted by not just one, but two different lost souls and that was why she needed company to visit the upstairs Ladies convenience. A former maid was only seen on the upper floor but downstairs a tall dark man was seen frequently and was said to have committed suicide. At one time The Leather Bottel was the venue for holding inquests into the deaths of those born in the parish and if I had known all this when I was patiently waiting for my mother and aunts outside the place in 1948, devoid of entertainment I might not have squabbled quite so much with my cousin Pat, who was a more patient waiter than me!

Those public houses closest to us we always treated with disdain and in fact my mother who said that you wouldn’t catch her walking into them even if she was dying of thirst. I suspect Little Nanny might have felt the same as they were determinedly lively places with nothing genteel about them. The Prince Albert at 62 Shepherd Street was almost on the corner of York Road and had opened in 1855. This was the place where my friend Pearl whose York Road address was conveniently close by, sent her boyfriend when he was visiting and happened to want to use the Gentlemen’s convenience. She did not want him to know that there were no indoor facilities at her place and thought she would keep him in the dark with this clever ruse. I can only imagine that it confused him further. This pub closed a few years ago and has now been converted to a Pre-school but before this happened I was able to visit one summer afternoon and sit drinking shandy in the recently established tiny courtyard (where the Gents, much visited by Pearl’s boyfriend was situated in the 1950s). A little later I took photos of both the front and rear of the place and the bar staff then took photographs of me simply because they thought it decidedly odd that a stranger should be so taken with a backstreet bar.

The British Volunteer was in Buckingham Road and quite the rowdiest and most popular place in the neighbourhood on Friday and Saturday nights. It opened in 1889 and was demolished in the 1960s to make way for the building of flats. But in 1948 it was very much still open for business and my mother’s best friend, Grace Bennett, whose husband frequented the Public Bar regularly told us that it was there her Frank happened to hear that the local council in their stupidity were about to create rose beds and flower gardens in the New House Farm housing estate and what a waste of money it would be. Frank also heard that The Battle of Britain at Shears Green was shortly to open as a Charrington House and suggested he and Grace might pay a visit at the earliest opportunity. Despite the interesting gossip, some of which was more salacious and could not be repeated, my mother could still not be persuaded to patronise The Volly. Even without her patronage, however, it went from strength to strength and at times was so crowded that the patrons spilled out onto the pavement and into the very road itself. The British Volunteer not only went in for Darts matches and illegal betting but also regular sing-songs to keep their decidedly working class clientele happy and the local children for miles around, awake. In its heyday it was quite the most popular public house in the area.

In the late nineteen forties one of our Sunday afternoon destinations was The Fleet Tavern in Waterdales. It was a thoroughly modern and up to date place, having opened in 1938 and it had a Children’s Room for the use of those with baby-sitting problems or the kind of offspring it would not be safe to leave home alone. We went there to meet up with my Uncle Walter, who was my father’s older brother and lived in Waterdales. Sometimes he would bring his wife and two or three of his many children. If that happened, my father would disappear into the Public Bar with him and the rest of us would remain in the Children’s Room. It was all a bit boring once we got over the initial excitement of being given lemonade, sometimes with ice, and a packet of crisps. I solved this by initiating fights with my cousin Georgie who was only there because he was one of those children it was not safe to leave at home. This always worried my cousin Connie who was a year older than me and a very responsible child, possibly she knew that in the end it would definitely be her fault for not coping with the situation properly. Uncle Walter was a very hard taskmaster and I was definitely frightened of him but he had an impressive intellect coupled with very old fashioned ideas. It was he who informed my father during the late 1940s that Wombwell Hall had just been purchased by the Kent Education Committee and would shortly be turned into the kind of girls’ school where those like me and his Connie might be taught a number of housewifely skills that would prove invaluable in years to come.

The Battle of Britain pub increasingly became a weekend destination for families like ours in those years that followed World War Two and the stories concerning how many brave young pilots had made the place their own abounded and the undoubted truth became intermingled with the undoubted fiction about the place. Gravesend air base had become a satellite airfield for Biggin Hill in the early stages of the war under the control of No 11 Group Fighter Command. During the Battle of Britain it was the Hurricanes from No 501 Squadron that were primarily using Gravesend. As an eight year old I found it exciting to go there though I was uncomprehending of the history of the place. More interesting to me were the piles of comics and Rupert Bear Annuals on hand for the amusement of young visitors. There was also play equipment in the garden in the form of swings and a slide. This forward thinking of the owners ensured that the place was constantly busy.

I had a poignant reminder of the place a few years back when listening to late night radio in New Zealand. I was enormously cheered when the Midnight To Dawn host, a well-known Maori broadcaster who had just come back from his first visit to England, began to talk about his trip. He said the highlight had been going to a place called Gravesend in North Kent, twenty miles or so from London. He went there he said, not because he had any connections whatsoever with the district, but because he wanted to visit the place where the only battle that was ever fought and won in the air, took place. Over time he had developed a yearning to stand in the nearby fields and look up into the very sky in which it had all happened and cogitate upon those events of WW2. And then he was thrilled to be able to go into the local pub, aptly called The Battle of Britain, a place those young pilots would have undoubtedly been familiar with. He drank a pint of beer and was glad that the pub existed and had been preserved for the memory of that critical point in history!

And I was glad too – glad that an important link to those historical events remained at least as a place where someone from across the globe and completely disconnected, but with a yen to uncover a splinter of modern history could sit and muse and sample English beer. It is therefore difficult to make any sensible comment on the fact that The Battle of Britain has since been demolished.

Tuesday, 9 January 2018

The Sad Demise of Huggens College

Auntie Queenie, my hermaphrodite Aunt who wasn’t really an Aunt at all but a first cousin on my grandfather’s side of the family had very much wanted to be accepted as a resident of Huggens College, or at least that is what she said. Not unexpectedly in the final analysis her application was turned down. My mother said it was because of her unresolved gender, though she didn’t express it quite like that. Great Aunt Martha who lived in Hamerton Road maintained that the place was for more middle class and educated persons who were regular church goers and the indecision about whether she was male or female would not have come into it. My Grandmother said that far be it from her to spread rumour and gossip but if she had been inclined to do so she could tell a story or two about Queenie that would have prevented her ever entering the local fish and chip shop, let alone Huggens College. I wondered what on earth could be so very special about the place, sitting as it did behind what seemed impenetrably high walls. The only people we ever saw coming and going, apart from delivery vans, were elderly ladies carrying shopping baskets or bunches of flowers and walking slowly though purposefully along the High Street.

Until I became friends with Brenda, the oldest daughter of my father’s foreman at the Cement Works, I had never been inside the place but I was increasingly curious as to what might lie behind the rather intimidating exterior. From what I could glimpse of the Gatekeeper’s Lodge, I began to rather fancy living there myself. Once the friendship with Brenda was established I did not have long to wait because her family had a relative in residence who was definitely keen on visitors. It was remarkably easy to become Brenda’s friend because she was not particularly likeable and of a highly nervous disposition which made her mother very anxious about her welfare whilst very much desiring she should make friends with other girls.

Before long we found ourselves visiting her Great Aunt Lavinia together with a basket of vegetables from Brenda’s garden and I was pleased to find that once inside, the place was pleasingly reminiscent of Days Gone By and I felt that we should really be wearing the kind of clothes worn by Mary Lennox in Frances Hodgson Burnett’s `The Secret Garden’. I mentioned this to Brenda but she said she’d never read it and asked me why I was whispering. In fact it was a place where whispering came easily, feeling as it did just a little like entering cathedral cloisters. I suggested perhaps playing a game where we pretended to be book characters from long ago but it turned out that Brenda was not really much of a reader and was even dismissive of Enid Blyton which was surprising in 1952 and rather shocked me.

The forty or fifty tidily identical little houses seemed to be built to form a square and they were surrounded by very well kept lawns and gardens. From memory, a further wing faced the river down to which the whole complex gently sloped. There were rows of horse chestnut trees against the walls which I noted would come in very handy should the residents have an urge to play Conkers later on in the year. Though of course this game, mostly favoured by boys was not one that generally involved adults of any age.

Aunt Lavinia looked as if she was expecting us and immediately poured glasses of her home made lemonade which was completely different from any version I had previously experienced and to be honest not entirely to my taste. She was a small plump woman wearing a long muslin dress and a little white lace cap making her very similar in appearance to Great Aunt Martha of Hamerton Road. Her little house, sitting as it did alongside the hustle and bustle of Northfleet High Street, yet clearly quite apart from it, was to my mind rather like a fairy tale cottage. It had an enticing porch entrance into the living room and a kitchen that I believe must have been equipped with a bath because I don’t recall a bath anywhere else. A narrow staircase led up to the bedrooms, the smaller of which our hostess told us was originally intended for maids or companions as so many of the earliest residents preferred not to live alone.

I decided to ask how she came to be living in such a lovely place and if it was totally necessary to be well educated in order to do so. She explained that the cottages were in fact an estate of almshouses, a term that was new to me, and had been built to accommodate genteel ladies of the High Anglican Faith who found themselves in Reduced Circumstances. I didn’t like to ask what she meant by that because it sounded like something I ought to know about so I just listened. She said that one of her mother’s cousins had in fact been a Founder Resident as long ago as 1848 when the College first opened to receive those who had passed the entrance qualifications. Back then each resident was allocated a monthly allowance along with a ton of coal each year. John Huggens the instigator of the idea was a wealthy corn merchant and philanthropist from Sittingbourne and originally the College was going to be built there but try as he might he simply couldn’t get the required permission for the venture no matter how great his financial resources were. It was that misfortune and difficulty that became Northfleet’s gain! He was said by some to be an abrasive man but ultimately became extremely well thought of because he had not only provided homes for the elderly Anglicans but also a chapel with a cottage for the vicar and a croquet lawn for those who enjoyed the game. At the mention of croquet I pricked up my ears because although I had never played the game in my short life and the only thing I knew about the rules was what I had gleaned from Lewis Carroll, it sounded like a splendid opportunity for an extended fantasy that might last for days. It seemed a pity that Brenda was a playmate so lacking in imagination.

Aunt Lavinia went on to say that originally there had been a statue of John Huggens over the entrance gates but that had to be taken down during the war for fear of it falling on someone during the bombing. Later on the gateway itself had been struck by lightning and had to be restored so these days the main gates were only used occasionally and residents and visitors alike were required to enter via one of the smaller entryways in College Road.

She showed us a photograph of John Huggens sitting in an armchair with eight stern looking women around him which she said had been taken when the first cottages were pronounced ready for occupation. Then she showed us another photo of his funeral procession which had apparently been one of the most impressive ever seen in Northfleet or possibly even Gravesend as well with a hearse drawn by six plumed black horses and a young man in front holding a canopy of ostrich feathers. She told us he was buried in St Botolph’s Churchyard and there had been coach after coach of mourners all dressed in black and that after a month or two a Board of Trustees was appointed to run the College. It was said that the Board were not nearly as efficient as Huggens himself had been and the monthly allowance and allocation of coal soon stopped. By the time we were acquainted with all this information about the rather saintly benefactor it had become totally clear to me that my poor Auntie Queenie would never have been an entirely suitable resident and I felt a twinge of regret because it was clear she would have very much enjoyed living in one of the little houses. My brother and I would have definitely appreciated visiting her and perhaps even learning to play croquet whilst she made tea and chatted with our mother.

More than a decade later when attending the first wedding of my young brother I learned from one of the guests that the pretty little almshouses had been rather unwisely built from Kentish Ragstone which was said not to have weathered well but the speaker obviously found that hard to believe saying that it had been used locally for over a thousand years and in fact was the hardest rock in the county. After all neither local churches nor Leeds Castle were in danger of disintegrating were they? It was his belief, the guest said, that there was Much More To It than simple wear and tear of Ragstone. And of course he may well have been right. Nevertheless by 1966 Huggens original College had been largely torn down and a new, smaller complex built in its place with the promise of a brand new chapel but no sign whatsoever of a croquet lawn.

Apparently ten acres of the formerly pristine grounds had been sold to the local council who built flats for pensioners there and named the venture The Wallis Park Estate. In 1969 my mother moved into one of them and with memories of the Huggens College Almshouse still fresh in memory, was excited to do so, leaving 28 York Road behind her without a backward glance. Sadly the move was not a happy one with the delinquent behaviour and vandalism of bored local teenagers almost impossible to put up with. She was more than happy to move on to Pickwick House on the Painters Ash Estate.

At the time I could quite understand the ease with which she left Northfleet. When I had visited her at Wallis Park I found the rapid local changes made it almost impossible to recognize the area as the environs of the old High Street that I had known so well as a child. College Road, Samaritan Grove and Hive Lane all seem to have evaporated along with the myriad of familiar shops and businesses. The last vestige of bygone days was a block of flats called Rayners Court which presumably had been named in honour of the local family of Rayners who had run the hardware store with such fortitude and determination for so many years. It always seemed a great pity to me that the Kentish Ragstone so favoured by John Huggens had weathered quite as badly as it did.