The Publican’s Daughter 4sx1r

THE PUBLICAN’S DAUGHTER

CATHERINE MIDDLETON

Copyright © 2016 by Catherine Middleton.

ISBN:

Softcover eBook

978-1-5144-9699-2 978-1-5144-9698-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

All of the events and characters in this book are true, other than the ‘stories’ written for the Writers Group. These stories were based on factual events and family and acquaintances in June’s life.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only. Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/25/2016

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Preface

Prologue

PART I—THE EARLY YEARS

Chapter 1: The Powell Family

Chapter 2: The Bungalow Monks Lane, Cousley Wood

Chapter 3: The Camden Head Public House

Chapter 4: Brother Joe’s Recollections Of Camden Town

Chapter 5: The Princess Of Wales Chelsea, London

Chapter 6: The Extended Family

Chapter 7: Boarding School - 1940 - 1945

Chapter 8: Home, At Last

Chapter 9: Life In London

Chapter 10: Ronald Pegram

Chapter 11: My Wedding Day

Chapter 12: 1949 – 1953

Chapter 13: Aslett Street - 1953 – 1956

Chapter 14: Harrowing Times

Chapter 15: Mum & Ethel Synopsis

Chapter 16: Joe & Eddie’s Exploits

Chapter 17: Crawley - ‘New Town’

Chapter 18: DYMchurch

Chapter 19: Immigration

PART II—LIFE ON THE CASTEL FELICE

Chapter 20: The Trip To Australia

PART III—DEAR MUM & ETHEL (M&E)

Chapter 21: Our First Year

Chapter 22: 1964 – 1965

Chapter 23: 1966 - 1968

Chapter 24: 1969 - 1970

Chapter 25: 1971

Chapter 26: Family Exploits

PART IV—OUR ENGLISH HEART

Chapter 27: Homing Pigeons

Chapter 28: Family Update - (1978 – 1988)

Chapter 29: Mother’s 100th Birthday

Chapter 30: Mother 1988

Chapter 31: Epilogue

DEDICATION

When you have a family history that is thought to trace back to William the Conqueror, why wouldn’t you want to let people know about it. Family histories are unique to each one of us, but when that is brought to life by stories handed down from one generation to the next, it keeps that history alive.

I have dedicated this book to an incredible woman, my Mother. As I recreate her story, June is 84 years of age, and it has been my very greatest wish, to complete this book during her lifetime, as an acknowledgement of her wonderful story telling abilities. This I am happy to say, has now come to fruition due to the wonderful world of electronic diversity in e-publishing.

Unfortunately my Father Ronald, ed away in December 2011, but he would have been very proud to have held a copy of ‘The Publican’s Daughter’ in his hand, knowing that future generations of his family would have the pleasure of understanding their family’s roots through these pages.

As a storyteller and fledgling poet, (although she would protest that title), June has woven a tapestry of life creating a vivid picture in my mind of my ancestors, the Blunts, the Powells and of course the Pegram family. It is such an intriguing story that I felt that it may also be of interest to others.

I have included a selection of her poetry throughout this book as it enriches the telling of her life story. Her tales are as she wrote them, so that some are from a personal viewpoint, whilst others are reflections of key people in her life, which adds to the authenticity of the stories being told.

This book has been made possible due to June’s incredible memory. Initially, she wrote diaries so that her grandchildren and perhaps even her great grandchildren would have the opportunity to share her story, and gain an understanding of what life had been like for their Grandmother/ Great Grandmother as she was growing up in England so many years ago.

She describes excerpts of her life over many years recalling precious childhood memories, of which the clarity of detail is quite astounding. As a daughter, I am very proud of my Mother’s ability to write, whether that is as a poet, or as a teller of stories, as she has a wonderful ability to paint a picture of the many trials and tribulations she endured throughout a period of her life that was extremely challenging.

As I read her diaries and transcribe them here, I experienced many emotions as I read of love, hardship and the many life experiences that go to make up The Publican’s Daughter. Her story is one to be told, and I hope everyone who reads it is as amazed as I have been, in understanding the women who is my Mother.

PREFACE

June’s of writing her diary was that it evolved over many years.

“It just happened, I just had to ‘fill in the gaps”. My first motivation was Mother (Ada), who had (unbeknown to me), kept most of my ‘Dear Mum and Ethel’ letters that had been written during our first eight years in Australia. I typed out excerpts from the letters, which became the basis for this diary.

My second piece of good fortune happened in the 1980s, when I met Edna Percy, a distant cousin who lived in the country cottage that had belonged to Samuel and Naomi, my Great Grandparents and essentially was unchanged. Just across the narrow lane from Edna’s home was the cottage belonging to William and Mary (Blunt), my Great, Great Grandparents. It turned out that Kilndown was ‘awash’ with relatives.

Thirdly, I ed the Tea Tree Gully Writers Group, and wrote several short stories and poems about my childhood, gradually a scrapbook of family history emerged. Not wanting to relegate all these bits and pieces to a dusty cupboard to be forgotten, I stitched all the information together, hence the diary. There are many letters, poems, newspaper cuttings, birthday and Christmas gifts and greetings that did not find their way into this book, but then, as this saga took exactly twelve months to ‘mature’, I did not want to add another day or page to this chronicle.

I have always been fascinated by words, (both written and spoken), and as a school girl, I enjoyed writing plays and essays. My teenage years and twenties were ‘active’ rather than ‘contemplative’ so until I started writing the ‘Mum and

Ethel’ letters in 1963, I had hardly put ‘pen to paper’.

All of the events and characters in this book are true, although some have been written in story form.

PROLOGUE

June was born in 1929 in the upstairs bedroom of the Camden Head Public House where her Father was the Licensee.

Her life was full as she encountered many wonderful experiences in her early years. The trips to the country to stay with Grandparents, her frolics in the English countryside, where she could run ‘free’ with her brother Eddie. These were idyllic times and are highlighted in the many references to ‘Cousley Wood’.

At the tender age of just 8 years of age, her Father died, which turned her life literally ‘upside down’. The Family needed to leave their home in Camden Town and moved to The Princess of Wales, which became the family home. At just eleven years old however, she was sent away to Boarding School together with her brother Eddie. This story recounts June’s many experiences throughout her formative years, and beyond.

June’s story depicted in ‘The Publican’s Daughter’, includes the turmoil of life in London during the Second World War and how this historical event impacted on her family and her life. A World War brings people from all walks of life closer together as they rally to one another, enabling them to contend with what was happening around them for so many years. I feel that this book is also a tribute to the Powell family who enriched the lives of others as they pursued their own life paths.

This is a story of resilience, of enduring incredible hardship at times through circumstances that one would never dream of occurring in one person’s life. June

survived Tuberculosis which should have claimed her life, the details of life in hospitals and sanatoriums and the impact it had on her family, are almost chilling. The Family’s eventual moved to a ‘new town’, where they started life a fresh. However six years later they immigrated to Australia.

A remarkable story, that is one of survival, tenacity and when it comes down to it, courage and determination to get on and live a life that would provide hope for the future.

This is not your usual biographical book, as it contains such gems of imagination that it is actually awe inspiring. The gift of words is not endowed to everyone, but certainly it is an attribute that June was able to bring to each page of her memoirs. It is therefore with great pleasure that I share her life’s story with you here. I do hope you enjoy your time spent experiencing my mother’s journey.

Catherine Middleton

PART I

THE EARLY YEARS

CHAPTER ONE THE POWELL FAMILY

For any child born into a publican’s family, life is going to be interesting, to be born in the year of 1929 in the heartland of London, at the tail end of the great depression, is going to make a child’s life one that creates a plethora of opportunity to experience the wonders of growing up in such a vibrant environment.

History reflects that through the 1920s, Britain’s economy was already struggling to pay for the effects of World War I. Then in 1929, the US Stock Market Crash, world trade slumped, prices fell and credit dried up. The value of British exports halved, plunging its industrial areas into poverty. By the end of 1930, unemployment more than doubled to 20 per cent. However for this Publican’s daughter, life was almost idyllic, as she lived her early years in comparative comfort in the rooms above the public house with her parents, siblings and an aunt who ‘lived in’.

To understand the intricacies and significance of being born into the Powell family, we must take a look at the family history to see where June fits into it. The family tree can be traced back as far as the late 1700s, each member with plenty of tales to tell. There were many influences on June’s early life, but perhaps most intriguing were her Grandparents, Charles and Hannah who had six children, Ada s, (June’s mother), Edith, Edwin, Beatrice, Bertha and Ethel, all of whom had some part to play in those early years.

On 24th June 1929, June was born in the upstairs bedroom of the Camden Head Public House. She was the last of six children, the eldest being sixteen years her senior. Being born in June, it was not unusual in those days to name children

after the month they were born, or after another member of the family. I don’t think she ever really liked her name, but ‘Mother’ had spoken and June it was.

Her Father, Joseph Augustus Horatio Powell, was the Publican of the Camden Head in Camden Town, London. Joseph ‘ruled the roost’ as far as the business was concerned. Her Mother Ada Francis, also pulled her weight in keeping the business running. There was a third person who made up the household, Ada’s sister Ethel, who lived with the family and generally looked after the household and the children whilst Joseph and Ada ran the pub. She was affectionately referred to as ‘Little’ Aunty Ethel as it differentiated her from June’s sister Ethel.

JUNE - 1930

JUNE’S FATHER

JOSEPH AUGUSTUS HORATIO POWELL

Joseph was born in 1868, his father was a Barge Master on the River Thames could neither read nor write. It was said however, that ‘no one could do him out of a penny’, as he had devised his own method of bookkeeping. His Mother had died when he was just two years old, so he lived with an Aunt who was deaf and dumb. Joseph learnt sign language during those years, however he must also have received a reasonably good education for he became an excellent business man, and wrote in a beautiful copperplate script. Quite an achievement when you think of his early beginnings.

At some point Joseph’s father had remarried, however as he did not ‘get on’ with his stepmother, he escaped to the Army, the ‘Household Cavalry’s Royal Life Guards’ to be precise. He didn’t return home for several years, however, when finally he did cross the threshold of his home, his Father wept with joy to find his ‘lost’ son on his door-step.

During the 1st World War, Joseph served in , in the Catering Corp, (he would have been 46 years old in 1914). He had married Ada before World War I and in 1918, Joseph and Ada became the proprietors of the ‘Shepherd and Flock’ Pub in Shepherds Bush, London. They had three daughters, Ada Winnifred (1913), Bertha Josephine (1915) and Ethel (1918), then in 1922. Joseph, June’s eldest brother was born, whereupon the family moved to ‘The Camden Head’ in Camden Town, and there were two more arrivals, Eddie (Edwin) (1927) and June (1929)

June wrote, “I Dad, but as a remote character, although he was always around the house, his life was the pub. He liked going to the race-track with his cronies, taking his three eldest daughters dancing, and a good cigar.

There were of course the good times when on an occasional Sunday afternoon, the bar was shut, the large dining table in the sitting room would be pushed aside, the carpet rolled back, and Dad, Wyn, Joey and Ethel used to do ballroom dancing, whilst my job was to keep the old record player ‘revved-up’ by turning the handle.

Nine of us used to sit down to Sunday Dinner, Dad, Mum, six kids and Aunty Ethel, and we had to behave. I Auntie Bertha came down from Wakefield on a rare visit, and I turned my bread and butter upside down to eat…. Dad sent me to Bed!

Usually Dad rested in the afternoon, before reopening the bar at 5pm and 7pm on Sundays. If Dad had attended a Dance at the 19th London ex-serviceman’s Club, he would bring home a bunch of balloons which he would tie to the end of the old brass bedstead, and when I awoke in the morning, I would discover a cascade of bright balloons.

Dad had bowel cancer, so understandably he was sometimes bad tempered. Brother Joe was the renegade of the family, he was the one that pushed the boundaries and constantly got into trouble because of it. On one occasion, he refused to practice the violin, (Joe hadn’t a musical bone in his body), and Dad in a violent rage, smashed the violin. Mum held onto Dad to prevent him from beating Joe (badly bruising dad’s arms). Ethel hauled me off to the Kitchen to ‘repair’ (she said), the totally wrecked violin.

My father was an excellent communicator and built a good business. Being of the Victorian persuasion, he believed that it wasn’t a women’s place to learn the cellar work or the books of a business, however Mum was expected to do the more manual tasks of cleaning, cooking and tending the bar, especially if a staff member was off sick. As Ada herself said, “Maid of all, Master of none”. On top

of all of these duties, she was also nursing a sick husband.

Dad was in his 61st year (Mum was twenty years his junior), when I was born, so he was more of a Grandfather figure than a Father and was a very strict Victorian.

OUTSIDE THE PRINCESS OF WALES WITH THE CHARABANG THAT WOULD TAKE THEM TO THE RACES

A VOYAGE ROUND - Written by WINNIFRED

June’s Sister Winnifred, being 16 years older, had different recollections of her Father, and wrote many years later her of life in the Powell household. This was during a period of prosperity for the family, so the experiences of life outlined here come from an entirely different perspective.

This is not a narrative, just random thoughts as I them. I don’t guarantee the accuracy of details as it was all very long ago. I don’t know very much about Fathers’ family, I only saw one member of it once, very briefly. Dad’s half-brother had called to see him when he was ill. I have a vague memory of a rather large middle aged man sitting by the bed. His family transported goods up and down the Thames and round the coast in sailing barges.

Dad’s Father made him wash in cold water every morning, even if he had to break the ice in the jug to get at it. Dad, in his turn made us do the same, though we didn’t have to break any ice.

After his mother died, his father married again. Dad didn’t get on with his stepmother and went to live with a deaf and dumb Aunt. Many years later, when we were living at the ‘Camden Head’, Dad would still talk to a group of deaf and dumb customers in sign language. When he left school, he was apprenticed to a Law Firm as a copy writer. All documents had to be handwritten on special paper. They had to be absolutely accurate and clearly legible. Father had beautiful copper plate handwriting right up to the end of his life.

By lying about his age, he managed to the Army a little early, and was assigned to the 2nd Life Guards. One condition for this was that you had to be over six feet tall. At some point they had a very bad chef. The men got so fed up

with this that one day they saved up their plum duff and when the Chef entered the dining hall, they pelted him with it.

At the wedding of Princess May of Teck and Prince George, (later George V and Queen Mary), Father rode by the side of the carriage. He said that the Princess was all smiles, waving to the crowds, but the Prince looked as though he was going to his own funeral.

During the 1914 -1918 War, he must have been stationed in Paris for a time, as he brought me back from there a beautiful walking and talking doll. It was large enough so that a child could hold it by the hands and walk with it as it kept saying ‘Mama, Papa’.

Father said that when waiting to embark at Dover, on returning from leave, one could always tell which young men were the new intake. They would be laughing and larking about. The others would be very quiet, hardly speaking, they knew what they were going back to.

When he left the Army, he took on a small Public House, the Shepherd & Flock at Shepherds Bush, which was a leafy suburb. Lime Grove really was a grove of lime trees. There was no garden but there was a flat roof area and part of this was wired off for a chicken run. There were plants growing in containers and trellis was fixed all around it. It was made into a roof garden and play area.

I don’t know when, but Dad had made a coterie of friends - Mr. McGage, Mr. Garbet and a Mr. Gibbons. They remained his intimate friends for the rest of his life. They formed quite a habit of sometimes staying on after early closing on a Sunday and having a drinks and men’s chat session in a cosy corner of the Saloon Bar. One day the Police pounced. Father was had up for serving drinks during prohibited hours and consequently lost his licence.

We moved to quite a large private house somewhere near Ladbroke Grove and lived there for quite a long time. I don’t know what Dad did during that time, but do not seeing him around very much. Eventually Father was able to apply for a licence again and we moved to the ‘Camden Head’.

As a father, he was a martinet. He imported army discipline into the home. He expected punctuality and instant obedience. I always say that he expected you to be there and back before he had finished telling you what he wanted. At the table you only spoke if you were spoken to. ‘Children were to be seen but not heard’. Hands were not allowed on the table.

He had a hair trigger temper and we were afraid of him. If you were being told off, you would stand like a mesmerized rabbit. If he was seriously annoyed, you were liable to get a thoroughly smacked bottom and sent to bed for the rest of the day on bread and water. Mum however would always make sure that we got something to eat on those occasions, without Dad knowing.

I once escaped what could have been a serious beating. We children were not allowed in the bars, but one Sunday afternoon whilst Mum and Dad were resting, we went into the Saloon Bar and had a romping game over the tables and settees. The tables were quite heavy, with polished wooden tops set in a fretwork of cast iron. Joey managed to knock one over and suffered a gashed head and the table suffered a broken leg. Father went berserk and stormed through the house looking for me, as I was the eldest and therefore responsible. Mother hid me under a bed and then sat on it.

I don’t think that we took much interest in our ordinary education, but Dad had three ambitions for us. He wanted all his children to swim, dance and ride. He was adept at all three. For swimming, I was sent to the Lime Grove Baths and taught by the instructors who trained cross channel swimmers. I was then

expected to teach the others. Ethel was the most difficult, as when I took her into the water, she got into a panic and bit me.

As regards riding, we failed. Only Joe learnt to ride, and I don’t know how or when.

I don’t know if Joe was very musical. Josephine and I learnt to play the piano, Ethel the violin, but that may have been Mum’s influence. Dad loved the old Music Hall songs, but amongst the pieces that I played, his favourite was Chopin Nocturne. One day he had a brilliant idea. He bought a tall cabinet gramophone and told the shop to send with it a selection of records for us (Joe, Ethel and I) to choose from. We chose a mixed bag, and must have played them a lot, because Ethel and I still many of their titles.

There was an album containing the full score of the ‘Pirates of Penzance’, ‘In a Persian Market’, ‘In a Monastery Garden’, ‘Gold and Silver Waltzes’, ‘The Skaters Waltz, Sea Shanties, old English songs, funny songs, and ‘The Laughing Policeman’.

For dancing, we (Joey, Ethel and I), went to the Ladbroke Grove Dancing School for Ballet and Ballroom Dancing.

Wyn (as gentleman) & Josephine (as Lady)

After I got married, he heard that I missed the piano, so he had one especially made for me. He was friends with a Piano Manufacturer and they provided me with a small upright piano, in walnut to match our dining room furniture.

He had a quirky sense of humour. In order to play a trick on her parents, he gave our Cousin Edith (Edie), a monkey as a gift. They were furious, but the pet shop agreed to exchange it for a large, red, talking parrot, and ‘Polly’ lived with them for many years.

He liked his children to be smartly turned out, and one day complained that one of us needed new shoes. He had no idea about how much it cost to feed and clothe a large family, and Mum said that she needed more money. He indignantly complained to his crony Mr. Gibbons that he gave his wife a generous allowance but she couldn’t manage. When told how much this was, his friend said “You mean devil”. Father was astonished and shocked as he was a generous man.

Although we lived in a business house, and he was always there, he never played any games with us, but did occasionally take us out. When we were living at Shepherds Bush, he would take us to the local sweetshop. There we were allowed to choose something for ourselves, and he would buy chocolates for Mum, chocolate almonds for himself and a big bag of mixed sweets. This bag was taken home and locked in the safe, the contents ‘doled’ out during the following week.

Then there was a pantomime that we were taken to at the ‘King’s Theatre’ in Hammersmith. Ethel was quite young at the time but still re it. Father booked the stage box. This was so close to the stage that one felt almost part of the action, and one of the characters waiting to go back into the fray, called up to us and waved. We must have created quite a lot of interest, three pretty little girls, all with long curls and dressed in identical party dresses, sitting in so prominent a position.

All four of father’s friends were Masons, and Ladies Night was a highlight of the year. When we were old enough, Gerald, my husband and I were taken along as well. One night at Grosvenor House, we were sitting chatting after dinner waiting for the cabaret to begin, when there was a sudden crash of cymbals, curtains at the side of the room flew open and a full Guards Band marched straight out onto the dance floor, all instruments blazing. Wow!! It was one of the most dramatic events that I have ever seen.

The group liked to go to the races once or twice a year. Big cars drove up, fully equipped with drinks, Fortman & Mason hampers, and all the necessary equipment, and off they went, plus wives to Ascot or the Derby. I still one of Mothers’ Ascot dresses, pale yellow silk or crepe de chine, the waist band slung round the hips, the hemline up to the knees and the hat over the eyebrows.

Father had expensive tastes. He always wore a diamond ring. One day he lost it – and promptly bought another one. Mother was never allowed to wear ‘costume jewelry’, jewels should be real. If you couldn’t afford the real thing, you should go without! His suits were tailor made and his shoes hand made. His shoe maker, of course, had his ‘last’ and when he needed a new pair of shoes, he simply lifted the telephone receiver.

He liked going to the Theatre, but would only sit in the stalls, and in those days, that meant turning out in evening dress. Only once Mother booked seats in the Dress Circle, it was when they took me with them for the first time, she may have thought that I would see better from there. Father was disgusted. The show was ‘Maid of the Mountains’ with Jose Collins. Another show I is ‘Chow, Chin, Chow’.

Father had some sort of associate connection with the Nineteenth London Territorial Army, and quite often took us to the dances which were held in their

local drill hall. Father was expert at the ‘old fashioned waltz’, being very light on his feet.

Our family was divided into two. June complained bitterly that Joey, Ethel and I got all the best of it, and that is true, but we also got the other side as well. One has to that these ‘goodies’ were spread over many years. Life with Father went on, even when I was twenty, I still had to be home before eleven at night. It should also be noted that Dad was already middle aged before he married Mum and by the time June came along, he was elderly, and latterly in poor health.

Towards the end of his life, he was in terrible pain due to the cancer. He apparently would beat his head against the wall due to the incredible pain he had to endure. He lived with cancer for about eight years, during which time Mum nursed him upstairs at the Camden Head. It must have been a nightmare for her.

I LIKE NOISE (JP)

The wheezes and snorts

of galloping horse,

or the sharp, joyful bark

of my dog in the park.

The pop and the whistle

as sausages sizzle,

and the gurgling creek

after rain for the a week.

The musical warbling

when magpies are calling,

and the shriek of bright parrots

as they soar over paddocks.

The rip-roaring noise

of mini-biked boys,

or the thunderous howl

of jets leaving the ground.

A Kookaburra’s laugh

is a row that I love,

but, Dad’s key in the door

Is the sound I adore.

JUNE’S MOTHER

ADA FRANCIS POWELL (NEE BLUNT)

Ada Francis was born on 14 February 1888, St. Valentines’ Day. Her father Charles, a market gardener, had to trudge through deep snow drifts to fetch the Doctor to 12 Priors Heath, Bedgesbury near Kilndown, heart of the Kent countryside. Ada was one of six children.

Kilndown was a beautiful hamlet with narrow Kentish lanes. Ada’s Grandfather, Father and Uncles were all market gardeners. From the cottage you could see wide fields where she and her siblings had picked mushrooms, and the back garden where her father would kill his pigs. There was a small front porch where Hannah, her mother, would stand with the children during thunderstorms, on the assumption that they would never in future be afraid of a storm.

Ada was christened in the nearby Kilndown Village church (Christ Church), which had a delightful hammered beamed ceiling. There was also an elaborate font and pulpit together with exquisitely carved screen and marquetry s. At the back of the church, there was a small balcony where bell ringers would be in full view of the congregation. The church had a magical feel about it with light and colour shimmering through the stained glass windows as the sun poured in.

When Ada’s Grandfather died, he willed the business to his sons Albert and Samuel. We never discovered why his son Charles had been excluded, but for whatever reason, it made life very hard for Ada’s parents (Charles and Hannah) and their children.

Another calamity was when Charles suffered a stroke and so Hannah became the bread winner of the family, walking miles to work in a ‘gentleman’s house, or

doing seasonal jobs like hop picking. Hannah refused to ‘go to the parish’ (charity) which would have meant explaining in detail to the village hierarchy why the family was impoverished. She was too proud a woman to do that.

The youngest children, Bertha and Ethel were accepted at the village school, even though both were underage. This was an accepted practice at the time, a kind of day care. Ada said that she often had to carry her ‘screaming and kicking younger sister Bertha to school and that many people thought it was very funny, but for her it was dreadful. Life was certainly not easy.

At the age of just thirteen years, Ada started work carrying coal from the cellar for the local chemist shop, whilst also working in the kitchen. From there she was ‘in service’ to one of the larger households, Twisenden Manor where she was one of the youngest of the household staff. On leaving school, her siblings also took jobs in the kitchens and nurseries of the ‘big houses’, whilst their brother Edwin worked with the horses, he wanted to be a jockey.

It was many years later that Ada told stories of her early years living at Kilndown. She talked about the Old Gripper (her teacher), who had ruled supreme in the 1890s, and of how large onions had been hung in the cloakroom to bait the germs, and how in the school playground, Auntie Edie, who was the tomboy of the family, had climbed a tree and promptly fallen into a bed of stinging nettles.

A few miles from Kilndown is a place called Goudhurst, which had a history all of its own. Ada talked about the Boer War and how men had carried huge flares around the village to celebrate the ‘Relief of Mafeking, and Lady Smith and of course Queen Victoria’s Jubilee, where a Fair was held in a large field behind the church. This had been a grand occasion, but more vividly ed because Ada’s younger sister Beatrice had been lost for a short time, and Grandmother (Hannah), believed that the Diddycoys (gypsies) had attempted to kidnap her young daughter. Nevertheless, Hannah never refused to buy clothes pages from

them or refused to shake their hand, as to do so would have meant ‘bad luck’.

Ada spoke of the Londoners and Gypsies who would descend on the village at hop picking time. The pickers treated it all as a holiday and livened up the district with their noise and flamboyant London ways, and the pickers took potatoes to the hop field to be baked in the Oast House for lunch. Later, as did all the sisters, Ada moved to London where at the age of 24 she met and married Joseph Augustus Horatio Powell, a Guardsman from the Household Cavalry. He was twenty years her senior and a Victorian Gentleman who wore a diamond tie pin and gold cuff links, certainly a person of means.

In 1915, when Joseph, was in with the Army Catering Corp, he would send Ada, Parisian hats and corsets. In 1918, (after the War), Joseph and Ada became the proprietors of a Public House, the Shepherd & Flock in Shepherds Bush, London. Though not the owners, they held the goodwill which meant that the Brewery could not evict them. This later proved to be the saving grace for Ada.

THE POWELL FAMILY 1933

L-R BACK ROW

Joe, Ethel, Winnifred, Josephine

L – R FRONT ROW

June, Mum, Eddie & Dad

Ada Winnifred (Wyn) Bertha Josephine (Joey) Ethel Eleanor (Ethel) Joseph Augustus (Joe) Edwin Charles (Eddie) June 1929

1913 1915 1918 1922 1927

(JP)

Ethel, Winnifred and Josephine,

were more civilized, than ‘we’ (barbarian,

younger three), for they,

played both, violin and piano,

n’ Ethel even played ‘her’ fiddle, in the,

Regent Street, (ever so posh),

CHAPTER TWO

THE BUNGALOW MONKS LANE, COUSLEY WOOD

THE PIED PIPER (JP)

When I was a child, I lived in a wood, and pears grew fat on an onion bush, and Gran, she danced along the lanes, her skirts flew high and how we grinned; at, her black stockinged legs, like, liquorice sticks,

the neighbors, they hid, behind closed doors, but the kids came out, to dance and jig, off we went, through woods and fields, and the cows (impolitely).

laughed out loud, rabbits, sat amazed, to watch the fun,

n’ foxes played tag, with the farmers hounds, the sun shone hot, and the birds, they sang, ––- Then, I grew up, and the rain, ––— came down’.

When we look back at our childhood, there will always be that one special place that is ed as being our paradise, where we laughed, played and only good things come to mind. That is how it was for June and her siblings at Cousley Wood. June wrote:

Grandfather Blunt had a great white beard and Grandmother Hannah was a ‘proper’ gran, with long dresses and a ‘Po’ hat, and very old fashioned and very, very poor. The small white washed bungalow had no running water, this was obtained either from the green water-butts close to the cottage, or carried in buckets from the well at the bottom of the garden. There was no electricity, so light came from kerosene lamps, and cooking was miraculously accomplished on a low, black-leaded stove.

One of Grandfather’s rules, was that we were not allowed to close the curtains before it went dark outside, he said that it was blocking out God’s Light. There was a garden where he cultivated fresh vegetables and fruit, and my Grandmother grew flowers. There was also a cow that was milked everyday so there was an abundance of fresh milk and they made their own butter, which was always a luxury.

Life at the cottage was exciting for a four year old. Plenty of fresh food, fresh water, fresh air, and along with it, two doting grandparents who were very special to the grandchildren. Eddie and I spent many happy days there with Tiny our little terrier.

Memories of Grandfather laying in his huge old fashioned feather bed, with his pure white beard carefully groomed, his pale face quite beautiful. Herbal vapour by his bedside helped him breathe more easily, and permeated every corner of the cottage. That fragrance still has the power to enchant me. I never saw Grandfather out of bed, although there were photographs of him sitting in the garden with grandmother standing beside his chair, and in the background, a

trellis of climbing roses and clematis.

Grandchildren were allowed unlimited freedom, to climb an enormous Yew tree, to ‘scrump’ apples, plums and pears from the orchard. Scratch the pig’s back, ride bare-back on uncle’s carthorse Kit, or wander the narrow lanes blackberrying accompanied by our dog Tiny, who ed in all of our escapades, and was ferocious in our defence, especially when we ventured too close to the Gypsy camps. We often played in the lane in front of the cottage our favourite game of skipping, ‘Mrs MacGinty says’, or build a den amongst the thick hazel hedges.

Sometimes, we could be persuaded to help with the butter making, with the aid of an ancient wood-churn, an arm arching job, but I suppose even our small contributions was welcomed by the adults. When the butter was the correct consistency, it would be rolled out on a marble slab. Salt would be rubbed in, and then butter pats would be used to form neat packets.

We often had tea under an archway of roses. It would arrive in a small tea-pot, the milk-jug covered with a piece of muslin weighted with tiny, blue beads to keep the wasps at bay. Wasps however, like stinging nettles, did inflict painful stings on our arms and legs. These were treated with wet bluing bags or dock leaves which we would carefully spit upon before applying. Tummy upsets were cured with a dose of senna pods. The Village did not boast a Chemist shop, but it did not matter, as it was doubtful that Gran would have approved of any modern remedy.

A highlight of our day was when we stood in the front garden and clapped our hands. Immediately the rabbits, which had been browsing happily in the field opposite, would take fright and scuttle towards the sanctuary of a small wood, their white tails bobbing in their frantic efforts to escape. No doubt our shrieks of laughter did nothing to alleviate their terror.

Although we enjoyed incredible freedom at the Bungalow, there were certain rules. Good table manners and absolute silence during News broadcasts on the battery operated radio, for Grandfather listened to every scrap of news, even gardening tips and as he had an uncertain temper, we kept very quiet at meal times.

On Saturday mornings, Gran in her long, black dress which nearly reached her feet, a ‘chamber-pot’ hat perched on her head, and carrying a heavy basketful of new-laid eggs, caught the bus to Tunbridge Wells where she would sell the eggs at the market. When she returned, having bought supplies for the bungalow, she was quickly relieved of her basket and parcels by excited grandchildren who waited for her by the bus-stop and carried her shopping down the lane, knowing there was a paper bag full of toffees amongst the groceries. Gran’s odd manner of dressing was never questioned. Gran was just ‘Gran’. A tiny straight backed lady, who looked rather fierce, yet her numerous grandchildren adored her.

We all loved the evenings at the cottage. The oil-lamps would be lit which attracted fluttering moths, the lamp and firelight waving soft shadows across the dark, timbered walls. A picture of a sailing vessel called ‘The White Ship’, with a cracked blue punch bowl sitting beneath it on the sideboard. Little Auntie Ethel could occasionally be cajoled into singing. We would sit with our feet propped up on the fender, watching the firelight, whilst Aunty sang songs of her own childhood. It was magic.

I one sleepy afternoon in summer. I had been dozing in a deck chair under the crab-apple tree, when my older sister Josephine gave me some biscuits which were covered in coloured icing with tiny patters of fairies. “Where”, I asked, ‘did they come from?”. Josephine told me “the fairies brought them, for being such a good girl”. I was astonished, and spent the rest of the afternoon diligently searching for the elusive ‘little people’. Having reached the age of enlightenment, I realize the biscuits had been a bribe, but hope the children who now live in the new, modern house that replaced our much loved cottage, will

discover the fairies and the happiness which was there in abundance during our childhood.

Gran and Grandfather died in 1935, and in 1940 the bungalow itself was destroyed by a German bomber who released his unspent load to assist him to have enough fuel to return home. The only other casualties were five cows grazing nearby. Although devastating, the golden tapestry of the love and family laughter would always remain secure in my memory, exactly as it was. A raggletaggle garden, where stinging nettles and roses flourished, and where there always seemed to be a gaggle of children.

Mum, Dad and June outside the Cottage at Cousley Wood

June’s recollections of life at Cousley Wood with Uncle Edwin are reflected in her story Orphan Annie, that she wrote for the Writers Group many, many years later in life.

In 1939 Little Aunty Ethel, shepherded brother Eddie (12), Cousin John (14), and Myself (10), to Uncle Edwin’s cottage at Cousley Wood, (my grandparent’s old home) to ensure our safety due to the impending War (WWII). Uncle ‘E’ was Mum and Auntie’s older brother, and ‘he’ was not over-pleased, to be invaded by three exuberant evacuees!

Uncle was born in 1882 and apparently was great fun as a young man. He wanted to be a Jockey when he grew up, however Grandfather forbade it. His first wife was unfortunately killed in a bicycle accident, after which Uncle became very moody. He got married again in later life to Mrs. Dodd who had 10 children, however by that time they were all grown up. Where Mrs. Dodd lived, there was a loft that actually ran across all of the cottages in that row, it was like a long dormitory, and it was where all the children from each family slept. Quite fun for the children, I should think.

We spent many happy weeks roaming the countryside, where we helped with the hay-making, rode on Kit’s broad back (an elderly carthorse) and made friends with gypsy children, (much to Uncle’s rage and horror). One of our favorite diversions was, pumping the hand-bellows at the village Forge, breathing the wonderful pungency of red-hot iron and the warm aroma of the horses. Mr. Gallop (yes, that really was his name), had a large collection of rusty, farm machinery parked in front of his Smithy, which was a fascinating playground for

local children.

On a number of occasions, Eddie or I would have to take the radio battery up to the local garage, to be ‘topped up’. We returned carrying the battery ‘very gingerly’ since it was now filled with acid!

A particular delight was that we always listened to the Children’s Hour in the afternoon, The program finished with this little song, as much as I can of it:

Goodnight children everywhere, Your daddy thinks of you tonight Lay your head upon your pillow, Don’t be a kid or a weeping willow.

Close your eyes and say a prayer Surely you can find a kiss to spare Although he is far away, His with you night and day, Goodnight children everywhere

Sadly, many Dads did not return at the end of the War.

We were hauled back to reality, when we were issued with gas-masks and ordered to - ‘Go to School’ but the three mile walk to Wadhurst was no hardship, we ed frozen ponds, where we ‘slipped’ and ‘slid’ on the ice (just for fun), receiving a few painful bruises.

When Eddie refused to accompany Uncle on the nightly ‘milking expedition’ (taking an old ‘sit-up-and-beg’ child’s push chair for carting the milk-churn), I was then ‘persuaded’ to take the ‘long walk’ and hold the lantern, while Uncle milked the cows. Afterwards, I waited ‘outside’ in the cold, for Uncle who enjoyed a few warming drinks ‘inside’ the home of two ‘friendly’ ladies.

I felt a bit like ‘Orphan Annie’. but one great joy, was to sit in a galvanized bath in front of the kitchen fire, it was a real luxury on a cold, winters night. Our Idyllic existence came to an abrupt end when we returned to Chelsea, only to be ‘packed off’ to a boarding school.

Throughout the whole year we spent with Uncle and Auntie at Cousley Wood, we only saw Mum once. She was obviously busy with the Pub, and with the bombing etc., it must have been almost impossible for her to ‘get away’. We didn’t know she was coming and on this particular day, I had called into see Mrs. Dodd on my way home from school. Mrs. Dodd had given me a huge bunch of flowers to take home, which I carefully held so not to drop any.

When I walked in the front door of the cottage, there was Mum waiting for me. I ran to her and gave her the bunch of flowers, which of course she loved.

June With Tiny

SISTER WINNIFRED’S RECOLLECTIONS OF COUSLEY WOOD

Another member of the Powell household June’s Sister Winnifred, had similar memories of Cousley Wood but at a much earlier time in the history of the family. Her memories were of a haven at a time of imposed refuge from the perils of World War I in London. She paints a glorious picture of her time spent with Grandparents at the bungalow. Winnifred was born in 1913, and this story relates to the year of 1915, when her sister Josephine was born at the Bungalow. It should be ed that the story is written specifically from a three year old’s perspective.

It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, the flowers were wearing all their pretty colours, and the air was full of country sounds. Winnifred stood in the middle of the large garden, and surveyed her domain. All hers, at that moment anyway. Grandfather had taken the eggs to the station, to put on the train that would take them to London, because the people there didn’t have any eggs. Granny was busy in the kitchen and it was full of the smell of hot fruit, for Granny was bottling gooseberries and making blackcurrant jam.

Three year old Winnifred was free to do as she liked. Well, she couldn’t go out of the garden of course, she wouldn’t be able to open the gate, but that didn’t really matter, her immediate world was just full of exciting things to see and do, for she was a Town Child. Up until a short time ago, before the birth of her sister Josephine, Winnifred and her Mother had lived in London. Her father used to live there as well, but then he had gone to be a soldier, and had left to go overseas to a place called . All the Uncles had gone away as well. Uncle Ted, Uncle Edwin, and Uncle Sid. They had gone to a place called ‘The Front’.

Winnifred had liked it in London as her cousin Edie was there, and Edie being the same age and liked to play the same games. But one night, a huge silver balloon called a Zeppelin, had floated over London and there had been a lot of

loud bangs, very loud bangs. The next morning the Aunts had come hurrying round to see Mummy. They talked and talked. Winnifred was told that she and Mummy were going to stay in the country with Granny and Granddad. After that, everyone had been terribly busy, hurrying here and there, usually carrying something and usually finding Winnifred in the way. “Do go away and play dear!”, they said “Please don’t get in the way”. At last everything was ready and they all squeezed into a cab to go to the station.

It was crowded with people, all milling about and shouting. Winnifred couldn’t see very much, only long skirts and tro legs, and sharp cornered cases which hit her if she wasn’t very careful. Mummy held her hand tightly, and warned her not to let go. They had to queue for ages to get tickets and then there was a frantic rush to find a seat on the crowded train. Soon after that there was a loud slamming of doors, the shrilling of a whistle, shouted goodbyes, and a great hissing and roaring from the engine as it got up steam to pull away from the station.

Mummy had sunk back into her seat and was sitting with her eyes closed, but Winnifred’s eyes were very wide open, there was so much to see. The train went over a bridge, right over the River Thames, and when they reached the houses, she was looking down right into people’s rooms and gardens. Out in the country, it was even more exciting. There were sheep and cows, and there were great big farm horses working in the fields.

Eventually, even Winnifred got tired and so she climbed onto Mummy’s lap and quite soon the swaying of the train and rhythm of the wheels, lulled her to sleep. Perhaps Mummy dozed as well. When they stopped at Tunbridge Wells, there was more banging and shouting, as a lot of people got off the train, but after that, everyone could sit more comfortably as the train chugged onto the quiet country stations, with their pretty flowerbeds.

At Wadhurst, Grandfather had met them with the Pony and Trap. He had known

that they were coming because Mummy had sent him a Telegram. It was lovely sitting behind the Pony as it pulled them up Wadhurst Hill, through the country lanes, past Sparrows Green and onto Monks Lane in Cousley Wood. Granny had a lovely tea waiting for them. Brown new laid eggs, homemade bread and jam, and a large fruit cake, one of her very special ones.

Winnifred didn’t any more after that, but she must have been undressed and put to bed, because she woke up in a lovely soft, billowy feather bed. She would later discover that all Granny’s beds were feather beds, the mattresses and pillows full of feathers from their very own chickens and ducks. After breakfast she went exploring. Grandfather’s garden seemed enormous. A little girl could almost get lost in it, but it was a wonderful new world, and Winnifred grew to love it.

It is true that she sometimes felt a little lonely as she missed her cousin Edie, and Mummy didn’t have much time for her now that she had the new baby. The Doctor had brought it one day in his little black bag, and Mummy had had to stay in bed for a time to keep it warm. Winnifred simply couldn’t understand why Mummy had decided to keep it! It was always having to have things done to it. It had to be washed and changed and fed. It even had to be picked up just because it was crying, and it cried a lot, and even cried at night. It wasn’t even of any use, you couldn’t play with it, it couldn’t talk, and you had to keep quiet when it was asleep. It was just an awful, awful nuisance. Mummy said that the Baby had come to be a little sister to Winnifred, and that she must love it. Well, she didn’t. She heartily wished that the Doctor would come and take it back again. This particular morning however, it was really rather nice to be on her own. There was nobody to tell her what to do, and there were lots of lovely things to choose from.

There was a swing hanging from an old apple tree in the orchard, but then there was nobody to push it for her, and the apples were still green and tasted horrid. There was a mummy cat and her family in the big shed, but she got into trouble one day when she had borrowed one of the kittens to play with. It had been taken

away from her and everyone had cried ‘Poor little thing, Poor little thing! Winnifred couldn’t see why, the kitten had loved it, but when Granny had told her to think how upset she would have been, if someone had taken her little sister, she had got into even worse trouble, when she said that she wished that they had.

It would perhaps be better to go and chase the ducks. It would be easy to find a big tick and she would yell and yell at them. They always got into such a silly panic, and were so funny when they tried to run, flapping their wings, quacking like mad and even falling over their flappy yellow feet, as they madly dashed for the water. It was nice down by the pond, she had once seen a big green dragonfly there, and butterflies and lots of flowers, blue and yellow ones. She could pick some flowers for Mummy, although only the wild ones. She wouldn’t dare touch any of Granddad’s. Granddad knew all about growing things and had some very special flowers, even Mummy had to ask when she wanted to have some of those for the house.

Winnifred was just a teeny weeny bit afraid of Grandfather, as he had a growly voice and a white beard and was sometimes rather stern, and had heard that he had been very stern with her Uncle and Aunts. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a good idea to go to the pond, she would very likely get her boots muddy again, and Granny was strict about not tracking mud into the house. So how about going and looking for eggs.

Sometimes Granny took her on a treasure hunt, searching under the hedges all around the chicken run, because every now and again, a chicken would try to hide her eggs. Granny said they had gone broody, so we had to find the eggs quickly or they wouldn’t be fresh. However there was a big bad tempered Cockerel who although gorgeous to look at, with his shining bronze feathers and great red cock comb, always glared at her with those fierce black eyes and looked as though he would like to peck her. He was horrid and spiteful and mean, so she decided she wouldn’t look for eggs, in fact she wouldn’t do any of these things.

Suddenly she knew what she would do, she would go and pick some raspberries. Winnifred just loved raspberries. Now she knew this was a naughty thing to do, as she had been told that she must not eat any of the berries on the fruit bushes. She had been told that she could get a bad tummy ache and might even be sick. But surely a few wouldn’t hurt, and nobody would know! She wouldn’t even be seen amongst the raspberry canes, they were so much taller than she was. Soon Winnifred was hidden away amongst the branches and leaves of the fruit garden.

It was like being in a secret world of her own, as she was simply surrounded by juicy red berries. Time was forgotten as she moved happily along the rows, all thoughts of a tummy ache vanished as she search for the largest berries under the leaves. Winnifred was having a simply scrumptious time, her face, fingers and pinafore smeared with juice. But then, suddenly, a gruff voice boomed “Winnifred, what are you doing down there?” It was Grandfather. Winnifred jumped in alarm and hastily hid her hands behind her back. “Nussing Granddad, nussing”.

Then she did a ‘silly’ thing, with her hands still behind her back, she turned around to walk the other way. Of course, Granddad could see her red sticky fingers, still clutching a squashed raspberry. Granddad put on his stern face and said to her, what a naughty little girl she was, and what could happen to naughty little girls, like getting smacked for instance. Winnifred began to wonder if it might not have been better to chase the ducks after all. You could never tell with grownups, they might have been cross about that as well.

One day she would learn that Grandfather hadn’t been cross at all. When he had told her Mother all about it, he had laughed and laughed. He found it very funny that his small granddaughter had thought that because her hands were behind her back, where she could not see them, then nobody else would be able to see them either.

In later years, the story of the stolen raspberries would become part of the family folk lore. Sister Josephine mostly continued to be a ‘nuisance’ as Winnifred was often told to ‘keep an eye on her’, especially after Baby Ethel appeared. Granny’s special fruit cakes became a traditional annual treat for the children. Summer holidays were always spent with her and a large fruit cake was always there to welcome them. There would of course always be the new laid eggs for tea, and those wonderful raspberries from the garden.

Winnifred always loved raspberries, but never did get to like that Cockerel.

CHAPTER THREE THE CAMDEN HEAD PUBLIC HOUSE

(June on The ‘Leads’)

1931 - I will always Gulliver 4019 which was our telephone number at the Camden Head pub. At the age of 2 years, (Eddie was about 4), we used to play out on the roof of the Camden Head (called the leads). This was our playground, and we had to climb out of the dining room window to play there. It is amazing that we did not injure ourselves as the parapet was low enough for us to sit on.

An early memory was of my mother carrying me downstairs with a blanket over my head, (I was very young), as there was a fire in the furniture storage shed at the back of the pub and the thick black smoke was coming through to the house, so we had to evacuate for safety.

As we got older, Camden Town was an interesting place for a child, I loved it. We had no garden, so the streets became our playground (but only after Dad died). Marbles was a favourite game, also skipping where the girls wore out numerous lengths of heavy clothes line with their furious ‘salt, mustard, vinegar’ routine. Cricket stumps would be chalked up on a side wall in a back street; hopscotch patterns decorated pavements; only boys played ‘last across the road’ when they tried to dodge traffic and Eddie had his leg broken playing this game. I would sit with him whilst he was recovering, and he would ask me to read him a story. Now as I wasn’t old enough to actually be able to read, I would find a book, open it and make up stories from the pictures.

Another incident was one day when I was sick in bed upstairs, and Eddie, playing with matches, actually set fire to the bed, with me in it. I cried out to Mum, who was downstairs with Auntie Ethel sorting out laundry. Mum only came up to see me because I was ill, and found the bed alight. Eddie ran down to the cellar to hide, whilst Mum put out the fire. Dad, who was resting in the

afternoon, (whilst the pub was shut), was not disturbed as Mum said he would have only panicked.

Only Eddie was allowed to play in the street, I was considered too young however, I used to ‘escape’ by the side door so I didn’t have to go through the bar, and follow him and his ‘gang’. Nobody had informed me what a ‘Bobby’ was, so when someone yelled ‘Bobbies’, I remained perched, while the other kids scarpered. I was ‘caught’ as the others had lit a bonfire in the street, much to my dismay.

We also used to play ‘marbles’ in the gutter, but Eddie used to delight in ‘winning’ all my marbles, I never seemed to win.

We would buy broken biscuits only a half-penny for a large bagful, fairy cakes were a farthing each, and we would have a feast in the ancient churchyard sitting on one of the flat grave stones.

We knew the local barrow-boys (street traders), who gave us a free banana or apple occasionally, and if we had sixpence to spare, we could buy a yellow hardback Rupert book in Woolworths (how I wished I had kept them).

There was a ‘stop me and buy one’ ice-cream tricycle that toured the streets, and a triangular frozen ice, in a thin cardboard container cost one penny. At the Workman’s café next door to ‘Camden Head’, the proprietress liked to have her hair curled in the kitchen, and I was delegated to putting the tongs into the gas flame and curling her hair. Another interesting shop (to a child) was the artificial limb makers which was located just further up the street.

Saturday mornings, Eddie and I would be in the queue amongst the shrill seething mass of local kids outside the Gaumont Cinema. Having ‘bagged’ the best seat (we hoped), we were then quite ready to ‘allow’ the entertainment to proceed. Cartoons, Laurel and Hardy slapstick comedies etc, and during the interval, we would be regaled by budding Shirley Temple who tap-danced and sang, and whose performances were judged by the enthusiasm of their audience, or lack of it.

The grand finale, was the cowboy film, where we would hiss and boo the unshaven villains’ who wore black Stetsons and who spat cringingly into the brass spittoons; or shout warning to the hero, who naturally wore a white Stetson. Just at the moment of ‘nail biting’ suspense, up would come the film credits and TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK……………..

The old ‘Bedford’ in the High Street was where I saw Errol Flynn in Robin Hood about six times. I was about seven years old and thought living in Sherwood Forest was a marvelous idea, and tried to persuade my best friend Elsie and others to run off together to see it. The Bedford had been a variety theatre, where Dad always reserved a Box for the family, (unfortunately this was before my time).

Sunday afternoons, a whelk/shrimp/winkle barrow arrived in the street, with the vendor ringing a hand bell, so there was always winkles for tea. We would pick out the black scab with a pin then gently ease out the winkle, to be dipped in vinegar and pepper and eaten with thin slices of bread and butter……..lovely.

Drays (brewer’s carts), drawn by enormous beautiful Shire horses, delivered the draught beer in barrels. These barrels were carefully lowered through a wooden trap door in the pavement, and then slid down a semi-circular ladder (to accommodate the shape of the barrels).

Ice blocks were carried on the sack-protected shoulders of men who used spiked hooks (crampons) to grip the ice. We did not have a refrigerator, only an ice box and cold room. Coal deliveries were made by black-faced ‘Al Jolsons, (only their eyes were recognizable), their coal encrusted clothes were stiff and shiny with the accumulated coal dust. The streets echoed to a cacophony of traffic noise and bustling humanity, where trams squealed and discharged a firework display of electricity. Could any child possibly ask for more? What an exciting playground we had.

Sometimes I dressed up in Edwin’s clothes and Dad, would occasionally take me down to his Club the ‘Nineteenth London, and stand me on the bar to be ired.

When Auntie Ethel went away on holiday, Joey took Eddie and I to the Greengrocers shop, where we were given a kitten each. We already had an old Tom with a broken eye. Auntie returned to find our new pets installed in the bedroom and fleas everywhere. The bedroom had to be fumigated, but we kept the cats. Mine was female and produced kittens at a grand rate. I used to dress up the kittens in dolls clothes and wheel them around the sitting room in my old pram.

When we left the Camden Head, we had to leave the cats behind, luckily the new owners were happy to take them on. I wept, and the mother cat ‘Tiddles’ brought all her latest batch and put them in my lap. Tiddles loved one of her kittens which we kept and every time she had a new litter, she grabbed him by the neck and dragged him along to see her new acquisition.

I going to Elsie’s home not long after her mother had died. She and her brother were being cared for by their Grandmother. The only concession they made to the death was black ankle socks, as they were very, very poor. For tea we had bread, butter and a cup of tea. When Elsie came to the Camden Head for Tea, she was very jealous of my life-style, as the Pub did catering we always had

a good meal, plus the fact it was a big house which made her very envious, so much so that when we returned to school, she told everyone I ill-treated the kittens, which had been ‘dressed up’. I didn’t realize how lucky I was.

Other memories of that period were when I was about six years old, Auntie used to send me down to a tiny shop to get a box of kraft soft cheese – 6d a box of 6, quite incredible. Then there was Dad who liked eels, and would buy them ‘live’ from the fish monger and then proceed to chop them up in front of us.

Dad always dressed well and when I was given a small bar of chocolate from a machine at the underground station, he refused to walk with me, so I had to trail behind with my chocolaty mouth. 1929 was the year of the Wall Street Crash, with many people in Camden Town living on the poverty line, but although there were six children in our family we lived extremely well due to Father being a Publican.

We used to travel to the seaside or to my grandparent’s home in Kent for our holidays. We were given a few pennies occasionally as pocket money, but it was never a set amount. Sweets were bought for the family to have after Sunday lunch. I stealing 3d for sweets, and my mother really beat me, it was quite a shock because she rarely used physical violence.

School started at the age of 5 years and my brother Joe had the task of taking me to school, he was in the Senior school. I always made him late, which he continually complained about. He got his own back though by making me walk home and spending the bus money on sweets, needless to say I didn’t get any because he said I wouldn’t eat my meal at home and then Mum would find out about the illicit sweeties”.

Our playground at Haverstock Hill School was on the roof which was

surrounded by wire netting there was no school field or swimming pool. We played ball games and tucking dresses into the elastic of our knickers, and we wore out lots of skipping ropes. These were actually long lengths of washing line which is heavier and better than the shop bought variety.

In 1935 my oldest sister Winnifred was married to Gerald Gibbons. It would have been a Grand Affair, I was just six years old.

Dad died on 17th June 1937, and was buried on 23rd June, the day before my 8th birthday. Dad’s body was in its coffin in the sitting room the day before. I was scared of him, however Rose the barmaid insisted that I saw him, I never forgave her.

Wyn, was pregnant at that time, so she and I watched the funeral cortege depart from the upper dining room window.

At my Father’s funeral, my brother Joe saw one of Dad’s friends drop a white glove onto the coffin, when it was lowered into the grave. Apparently it was a ‘farewell’ gesture from his Lodge.

My Father was ‘Victorian’ and did not think it necessary to involve Ada in the actual running of the business, consequently she was never involved in how to run the cellar or manage the books of a business, a huge problem to be overcome. After his death, she was virtually left destitute as she now had six children, three still at school, the youngest barely 8 years old. It turned out that Dad had been lending money on a ‘gentleman’s agreement’ to his ‘friends’ without the benefit of I.O.Us being signed. Upon his death, not one person repaid their debt.

This was a woman in a man’s business. The breweries did not take kindly to women running a Public House, especially in the rough areas of London, of which Camden Town was one. The Police were reluctant to grant licenses to a woman publican, due to possible problems for example fights in the bar. The male staff were not happy taking their orders from a woman. To exacerbate the situation, there was general upheaval in Britain as there was a Depression, conflict in the Royal Family with the abdication of Edward VIII due to the Wallis Simpson affair, and Hitler was making moves on Europe.

The final straw was that my father’s Will stated that all cheques must be countersigned by a business associate, making it impossible for Ada to keep the business running. However, Ada being the stoic person she was, and against all of these seeming insurmountable odds, carried on. She had learnt from an early age that it takes hard work, long hours and the courage of her convictions to survive. She also had the wonderful ability to communicate, which was her saving grace.

Initially, the Brewery in their attempt to recall her license, offered Mum other public houses, mostly run down, rat infested premises that no one else wanted. Ada stood her ground, she had her s who assessed these offers and reported back on their suitability. She was of course receiving inside information, unbeknown to the brewery. Eventually she was offered a small pub in Chelsea, called the Princess of Wales. No catering required, therefore no staff required. The work could be handled by herself and her daughter Ethel who had stayed on to help.

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

June’s story ‘Birds of a Feather’ was written many years later, as a reflection of life at Camden Town as seen through the eyes of an 8 year old. It should be noted that the main character Dai, is not a fictitious character, but one of the many personalities of that period in Camden Town.

The bitter wind snatched the grey dust and debris and hurled it at the mass of struggling humanity in Camden High Street. Rubbish collected into whirling heaps in corners and shop doorways. A large piece of dirty, yellowed paper flattened itself against Woolworths ‘Nothing over Sixpence’ Store. A fat, scowling boy, armed with a stiff-bristled broom strove to clear the litter from the entrance of his father’s paint shop, but the debris maliciously rearranged itself. The boy gave up the unequal struggle and retreated into the shop, banging the door in frustration. Nothing could remain static in the swirling disorder.

The elderly paper women clutched the fluttering newsprint to her flat bosom, her dark face wrinkled and weathered, her eyes narrow and sharp for she acted as ‘look out’ for the street bookmakers. From beneath her black pinioned hat, her huge bony nose thrust out like an aggressive parish pickaxe, dew drops occasionally spilling onto her coat sleeve.

Red kneed boys skillfully maneuvered their home made scooters between the perambulators and Saturday morning crowds. Small children squealed, buskers played but could only be heard in their immediate vicinity (an occasional penny was dropped into their chipped enamel cups). Trams screeched, taxis hooted, brakes crashed, the whole world was pulsating, electric.

June standing on the street corner was an avid spectator, her green eyes greedily

absorbing all the vitality and colour. One or two of the busy shoppers may have glanced at the tall, skinny eight year old, wearing a short Teddy bear coat, white cotton socks and black patent ankle strap shoes. Surely this was an odd assortment of winter clothing, yet had they paused they might have also noticed a supremely happy child, who had she been decked in a potato sack, would have been quite content.

June stood close to Dai, an illegal street book-maker and local king-pin of local crime. The man stood arrogantly, legs astride and hands thrust deep into the pockets of his thick coat. A tight gaudy tie and crocodile shoes completed his elegant wardrobe. The child often thought that the too tight tie was the reason for her friend’s red face and slightly bulbous eyes.

Two rough looking characters stood, one either side of Dai, their eyes ever watchful for either a prowling policeman or perhaps a disgruntled punter. Dai was never alone, not in the streets or the local pubs. He secretly ired the harum-scarum, self- assured child, whilst the urchin responded to the man’s occasional acknowledgement of her existence, and didn’t notice his slightly bizarre attire or shifty demeanor. Both were rebels, he from a conventional worka-day society, she from a busy household, full of older brothers and sisters, cats and a constant stream of uncles and aunts, all of whom (except for the cats), insisted on offering endless good advice to the youngest sibling and her widowed mother. Both Dai and the child were at home in the noisy, bustling, dirty street. It was their stage where they were both participants and spectators.

An unshaven man wearing a filthy raincoat made his unsteady way towards Dai, his attitude drunkenly belligerent. Within a few minutes, the two men were arguing heatedly. Suddenly, Dai’s manicured hand lashed out, punching the drunk who fell heavily into the gutter. The man raised himself on his elbow, obviously prepared to retaliate, but the two minders stepped forward threateningly. Dai red faced and angry, leaned towards the intimidated man and whispered hoarsely, ‘Its too quiet, leave things along, something’s up”. All this was intensely interesting and mysterious to the wide-

eyed child, ‘too quiet’, hardly seemed an apt description for the ear splitting racket around them. The subdued man limped rapidly away. Dai turned sharply to the inquisitive child, ‘Buzz off”. Disappointed at being dismissed from such a fascinating drama, she obediently moved away to explore an alternative field of action.

The tailors shop offered an amusing diversion, there was a live dummy in the window just waiting to be tormented. June stood exactly in the dummy’s line of vision, crossed her eyes, stretched her mouth with grubby fingers, thrusting another finger under her nose pushing her nostrils skyward. The human dummy did not flicker an eyelash. A change of tactics was called for, June stood on her hands exposing her dark blue school knickers. No response. Temporarily defeated, she sniffed, shrugged her shoulders to demonstrate indifference, she had been beaten this time, but she would (as the unfortunate dummy knew), return. The old woman paper seller had been watching the child’s antics. The kid was a real comic, the woman smiled, exposing her pale smooth gums, for she could still enjoy the changing tableau of the streets and the impertinent child was as good as a Charlie Chaplin film.

June skipped and hopped her way to the Saturday street market, where yellowing cabbage leaves, discarded apple cores and banana skins lay in the gutters. The electric light bulbs strung between the stalls were already lit, against the darkness of the afternoon. The girl wandered between the barrows and watched the housewives searching for matching pieces of china amongst the cheap oddments piled higgledy-piggledy on Alf’s crockery barrow. She hurried past the cat meat shop, with its stained sawdust scattered wood floor, to the cheerful whelk stall where Mrs. Welsh’s customers were laughing and joking. The market was a happy cheerful place, full of life and colour. June picked up a scrawny kitten and tucked it under her coat to keep it warm. She saw Dai stride past, his minion in tow. He was angrily engrossed in some urgent business. The child knew better than to approach him.

Leaving the market, the girl turned into Bayham Street, a street of small terraced

houses. Charles Dickens had lived here as a child. It was too cold for the women who would have normally been chatting to their neighbours and ers-by. A few of her hardy friends were playing hop scotch on the opposite pavement. She acknowledged them with a rude gesture, but did not stop to pursue, or be enticed into any new venture, for she was too preoccupied with the nagging problem of Dai’s anger.

June made her way to a narrow Mews, where puddles of dark oil lay greasily between the cobble stones, and rusting exhaust pipes, bald tyres and miscellaneous junk lay scattered carelessly about. The whole place decrepit yet still used as a repair shop. The youngster found her brother Joe and cousin Reg happily absorbed in fixing an ancient motor-bike. The boys grinned a swift greeting, their teeth gleaming white against their oil streaked faces, then immediately returned to the examination of the bike.

June had however, come on a mission of her own, for above the workshop were two small rooms, which were used by Dai and his associates as an illegal betting shop. She glanced towards the iron stairway hoping for a glimpse of her friend, however the office windows had been carefully screened against prying eyes and the place appeared dark and deserted. June leant against the splintered garage doors watching her brother and cousin working. The naked, electric light bulb threw a warming glow over them all, and the drowsy kitten peeped from the safety of her coat. Traffic noises from the High Street seemed far away and this small relatively quiet corner was familiar and reassuring.

Suddenly, there was a violent eruption of noise. Two police vans swooped into the alley way. Car doors slammed, and heavy boots exploded on the iron stairway leading to Dai’s hide away. Shouting, swearing, breaking of glass could be heard. Inevitably, the uproar attracted a small crowd. Housewives in flowered pinafores and carpet slippers, the old newspaper woman, the boy from the paint shop and men from the workman’s café appeared, all eager not to miss the excitement.

Now at last June understood what Dai had meant when he had whispered “too quiet”. The police had been out of sight, but watching, waiting to pounce. The punters had ignored Dai’s warning and would now have to face the consequences. The men were escorted down the stairway to the waiting police vans. They joked with their captors and yelled words of encouragement to their wives, “It’s OK love, keep the dinner hot, I’ll be home soon”. The patient women accepted their ‘lot’ philosophically. It had happened before and would no doubt happen again.

Dai was the last man to be led down the stairs. For once his burly protectors were not in evidence. He looked directly at June and winked. The girl stood quietly, her brothers arm about her shoulders, but she was confident now. Everything was alright. Dai would return and she would be waiting, unquestioningly and uncritical, for nothing had changed. They were Birds of a Feather.

CHAPTER FOUR BROTHER JOE’S RECOLLECTIONS OF CAMDEN TOWN

June’s brother Joe’s recollections of life during those early years at Camden Town and thereafter at the Princess of Wales, were depicted in his autobiography, ‘The Life and Times of a FALL GUY, published in 2007. He draws on another set of experiences as depicted in the following excerpts, reproduced with his kind permission.

I was born in March 1922 at the Shepherd and Flock public house, Shepherds Bush in London, the first son born after three daughters, Ada Winnifred (1913), Bertha Josephine (1915), and Ethel Eleanor 1918), so that my father evidently went wild with excitement when I arrived. That initial elation however, gradually diminished as time went by.

We were at the Shepherd and flock for a number of years, although I can’t much about it. One day the police called at a builder’s yard nearby to borrow a ladder to enable them to look into the bar, where my father was entertaining some of his friends after hours. Prosecution followed and Dad lost his licence.

Before my father had married, he served in the Life Guards during the First World War and was promoted to quartermaster sergeant. He acquired some knowledge of catering which was to stand him in good stead as a future publican.

The Life Guards was at that time solely a horse regiment, this riding experience

helped him find his first job. He was employed in a theatre as an extra, riding a horse on stage as part of a cavalcade. The cavalcade would enter stage left, ride across the stage and exit right. Dad and the other riders then rode around the back of the stage to reappear once more and repeat the performance. This continued over a period, during which the actors carried on with their dialogue. After several circuits of the stage however, the audience gave Dad a cheer each time he reappeared. The fact was that his horse had a limp and was immediately recognizable. The actors found this too distracting and Dad, along with the horse, was sacked. Thus Dad’s brief theatrical career came to an abrupt end.

He fortunately had beautiful copperplate handwriting and was employed by firms of solicitors to write out wills and conveyances. From these contracts he gained sufficient knowledge of the law to help him to find a way around reapplying for another pub licence which he did and took over the tenancy of a pub in Camden Town named the Camden Head.

The pub was rather notorious, as it was frequented by the local tear-a-ways, known as the Sabini Mob, however with his knowledge of catering and the help of my mother Ada, who was a marvelous cook, he started high-class lunches and turned the pub into a meeting place for local businessmen. It became a great success.

It was here that I spent the first part of my life. Work in a pub is for 365 days a year with no time off for Christmas or other special occasions. The long hours my parents spent in running the pub meant that I was left for long periods after school or at weekends, with little to keep me occupied.

I was encouraged to the Cubs, which certainly took up some of my time. I also attended camp and was taught the rudimentary art of boxing. Instead of progressing to the Scouts however, I ed the 1st Battalion Royal Fusiliers Cadet Corps. More camps followed and between camps, we were drilled by a Sergeant Major from the Coldstream Guards. The drill I leant was to stand me in

good stead, as some years later I was to the Grenadier Guards.

Cadets only occupied me two days a week, and as a restless boy, I was soon looking for new outlets. This was around the time of the home-built Flying Flea, a single-seated aircraft. This caught my interest, and I bought the magazine Flight, to learn more about flying.

I soon convinced myself that I could build my own version of the flying Flea, had I ever been allowed to finish it, it would of course never have flown, but it illustrates the measure of my ambition even at the age of twelve years”.

Using the beer cellar as a workshop, I set about building this contraption, believing that it would release me from this earthbound existence. From Flight 1, I obtained the address of one of the aircraft manufacturers to whom I wrote regarding the tail wheel of an aircraft featured in the magazine. This brought forth a surprising result. The Air Ministry sent around an inspector, who descended on my father, who had the same initials as me. He was accosted in the bar, and taken to one side to be interrogated about this request, as the aircraft design was still on the secret list. My father was not amused. My work in the beer cellar subsequently ceased as I had been banned from using it as a workshop.

It was also at this time, that I was the only child in the family not playing a musical instrument, as my three sisters played piano, so it was decided that I would play the violin to accompany them. Lessons were held at school though it is probably due to the help I received from my sister Ethel, (who also played the violin), that I quickly picked up the basic technique. Soon I was accompanying her whilst she played the piano. This was a regular feature on Sundays, the only day on which the whole family could sit down together for a meal. Once the meal was finished, the children were expected to supply the musical entertainment.

I well the last occasion on which I was to play. I was accompanying my sister as usual, when my attention was drawn to some kids playing in the street below. As I knew the piece, I didn’t need to concentrate too much, resulting in me not always keeping strict time, consequently falling behind, though quickly catching up once I realized, however this must have happened several times, and I was unaware of the danger signals my sister was giving me.

Things reached a point where my father could not tolerate the uncoordinated music any longer. He bounded across the room, snatched the violin from my grasp and hit me with it. The instrument smashed to smithereens. It was a great pity really because in fact I was just beginning to enjoy playing. It was however, the end of my musical career, although my mother kept the pieces for a number of years.

Camden Town was an exciting place for a small boy in many ways. The place was all hustle and bustle. The trams used to screech up and down the High Street. On the corner of Pratt Mews, the Dowset Brothers carried out their illegal betting and were frequently raided by the police, who arrested both bookmakers and punters alike.

Just below our window, the local fishmonger had his stall, which was illuminated at night by a pressurized paraffin lamp. He sold whelks, mussels and cockles, which customers from the pub would come out to enjoy, as a break from their serious drinking.

Across the road was the Bedford Music Hall from where during intervals, the artists would rush into the pub, knock back a few glasses of their favourite tipple, then tear back to perform. We had musicians, singers conjurers, tap dancers, bands people and performers of all sorts who toured all over the country all the year round. A little further down the High Street was the Hippodrome.

Here, for a few coppers you could sit in the gallery, known as the ‘Gods’, this being the highest place in the theatre, where you could listen to the most talented artists and watch acts as good as any you could see in today’s London Palladium. In those days, a shilling (twelve old pennies) would buy a packet of five woodbine cigarettes, a box of matches, half pint of beer and a visit to the ‘Gods’.

At the other end of the High Street was the Gaumont Cinema. Each performance included a second feature film, a Disney cartoon, a newsreel showing the world news and an organ recital.

Other free entertainment came from the street buskers, of which there were a great number. Most of them were ex-servicemen, formerly from regimental bands in the 1st World War. As long as buskers kept moving, the police didn’t interfere with them. As a result, the musicians paraded along one side of Camden High Street, then crossed over and continued playing on the opposite pavement. There were men on either side of the road with collection boxes, all of them with their campaign medals pinned to their jackets.

Sometimes as a diversion on a Saturday night, we would go to Pages Stores, a butcher shop in Chalk Farm Road. As there was no refrigeration, the meat could not be stored, therefore any meat left unsold after five o’clock would be auctioned off. The dialogue between the auctioneer and the housewives prior to the bidding was like a pantomime in itself; the wives in the know, wouldn’t start bidding for the Sunday t until the breakfast sausages were also included.

I left school at the tender age of 14 years and went to work. In 1938, England was threatened with War by . Britain was mobilized, with all the Territorial Army, Auxiliary Navy and Air Force personnel called to the ‘colours’. At the barracks in Albany Street, Camden Town, the Army territorials reported for duty. Dispatch riders and staff cars arrived and departed with seemingly increased regularity, hourly updates on the situation came via the radio and newspapers. All this seemed an anticlimax when the Prime Minister, Neville

Chamberlain arrived back from Munich waving the now famous piece of paper signed by Adolf Hitler which he held aloft as he left the aircraft, saying, “Peace in our time”.

In 1937 my father died and Mum carried on with the pub, assisted by my sister Ethel and two barmaids. The brewers decided the pub was too big for a woman to handle and efforts were made to get us out. Mum refused to move until they came up with alternative premises with accommodation. There were six children in the family for my mother to raise. After months of haggling, another pub was found, the Princess of Wales in Dovehouse Street, Chelsea. This turned out in time to be a much bigger handful than the Camden Head, as during the bombing of London some five thousand Irish workers were housed in Onslow Square, just around the corner from us. Talk about out of the frying pan into the fire!

CHAPTER FIVE THE PRINCESS OF WALES CHELSEA, LONDON

Life at the Pub for me was idyllic, my earliest memories rich and rewarding. I’ll never forget our shabby kitchen upstairs at the Princess of Wales in Chelsea, as it was the only warm room in the house. Here the family congregated after the pub was closed at night. Fierce arguments were had about the correct use of a particular word, or just events of the day discussed whilst we had supper, usually cheese, pickles and hot cocoa.

Above our heads the washing was draped over an old fashioned clothes-hoist, for we didn’t have an inch of garden. Under the table our dog Johnny would stretch comfortably between our feet, while the cat Tiddles, took up residence on the huge kitchen dresser, out of reach of Johnnie’s ‘waggish’ sense of humour.

“Little’ Aunty Ethel held dominion in the kitchen, she always sat at the head of the scrubbed wooden table, in control of a small t which she cut wafer thin, rationing was still a hard fact of life. In the afternoon Aunty would spread the daily newspaper across the table and frowningly absorb every item and ment. At the opposite end of the table, mother’s business paraphernalia was sacrosanct. Bills impaled on vicious hooks and other papers anchored with miscellaneous weights. This area was never disturbed, so we were forced to sit in close proximity to one another with our elbows well tucked in to eat our meals.

The black leaded coke fired range and exposed hot water tank (which was always stacked precariously with airing garments), plus a busy gas stove kept us warm. When stepping from the stuffy coziness of the kitchen onto the landing, we would make a brave dash, closing the door quickly behind us to prevent an

icy blast lowering the temperature of the kitchen.

The welsh dresser and high mantelpiece were loaded with ancient letters, photographs, biscuit tins, full of empty cotton reels, pins and used stamps, all the flotsam of a family reluctant to throw anything away. The deep dresser drawers were ‘stuffed’ to bursting point with bits and pieces that might come in useful someday, but didn’t actually yield anything that could not be bought in Woolworths for sixpence.

Aunts and Cousins would arrive for tea uninvited, but sure of a welcome and soon the ‘grapevine’ of family gossip would be in full swing. Len Potts, a regular customer in the saloon bar, who had never been invited ‘up’ into our crowded, untidy home, laughingly remarked that the prodigious ‘Powell’ family were constantly climbing the staircase, but to his knowledge there was no ‘upstairs’.

Johnny and Tiddles, our pets, would often indulge in a game of ‘one-up- man ship’. A grinning Johnny would chase Tiddles away from her own dinner. Tiddles’ revenge would be to sit patiently on the edge of the table until the dog poked his black nose from beneath, and then a sharp claw would swipe unerringly and find its target. Johnny usually retreated with a bloodied nose. My sister Ethel, (named after ‘little’ Aunty Ethel), once saw a piece of string dangling from Tiddles mouth, tugging gently she continued pulling, just like unraveling a knitted jumper. Eventually Puss disgorged a considerable length of string, and had obviously enjoyed its flavor as the string originated from our meager t of beef.

Aunty Ethel rarely left the security of her ‘snuggery’ (upstairs), and never served in the bar or met the customers, yet she could identify our regular customers by their voices. When at night we were serving in the bar, Aunty left alone in the kitchen above, would leave the door ajar and voices echoed up the stairwell, giving her a sense of being ‘involved’. She became a vast pool of information

about her ‘unseen’ companions, facts of which we who knew (or thought we knew), our customers were quite ignorant.

Despite our crowded living quarters, at ‘The Princess of Wales, it provided Aunty in ‘her’ kitchen with a warm Noah’s Ark, in an uncertain world.

Life for my Mother however would have been much more challenging, as she needed to understand the cellar work and teach herself the Books, as her late husband had not felt it appropriate that she understand this side of the business. She also opened up her own bank with only one signature needed, her own. So here was Ada, my Mother, in the year of 1939, starting out on her own at 51 years of age.

In that very year, World War II broke out. Ada, aware that a war was imminent, had taken a gamble, borrowed money, and proceeded to buy a wide selection of spirits and liquors, storing them in the wine cellar. Having lived through one War, (well two really, though she was too young to the Boer War), she was acutely aware of the scarcity of such luxuries. Certainly I think you would agree that this was a sign of her foresight and business acumen.

From a Depression, England was now at War. With that came jobs in the factories and of course the Forces. It was at that time that money began to circulate for the first time in many years. It is a tribute to Ada and Ethel that the Princess of Wales turned out to be such a successful enterprise. It is interesting to note that no man was employed, family assisted with running the business. Ada would bring out the occasional bottle of spirit or liquor from her cache, much to the delight of patrons, and word quickly spread, that if you wanted a ‘nip’ of something special then go and see Mrs. Powell at the Princess of Wales.

Ada’s success was due to being in the right place at the right time. The Americans were now involved in the war effort and were well ‘funded’. They were of course intrigued to find three women running a public house in the heart of London. It was certainly an unusual occurrence. Ada treated her customers with respect, and in return was ired by even the roughest types. Against all odds, Ada was successful in running the business and this was probably due to her incredible ability to communicate and understand the ‘people’ business she was in. The Princess of Wales, Dovehouse Street Chelsea, became known as Ethel’s Pub, however Mum being the actual Proprietor was affectionately referred to as the Duchess.

Between Mother and my Sister Ethel, they managed the pub doing all the cellar work, cleaning of the bars etc., and despite the air raids, the pub was never out of action.

The Pub was surrounded by hospitals, and artist’s studios so that our customers came from all walks of life. Artists, Doctors, and Film Directors lived in the exclusive Chelsea Square, and often their conversations were way above my comprehension; together with the mature students (ex-service men and women), who studied at the Polytechnic, and Mac, (who really was a flamboyant artist), with his ‘aggressive’ wife, who would scream abuse and on occasions, had to be asked to leave, all added to the wonderful melee of culture, both artistic and academic.

Ada, although exhausted by the war time bombing and running a busy pub, was still briskly upright, reminiscent of an old-fashioned school mistress which was exactly what she had wanted to be. She was a country girl, but now a Londoner to her fingertips, having married a man who boasted that he rarely allowed his feet to wander beyond the pavements of London.

Due to the bombing raids, most of the pub windows had been shattered and were boarded up, leaving only a tiny, central pane of glass. These areas, plus all the

doors were shrouded with heavy black-out material at night, to prevent any light escaping onto the street outside. Although it sounds claustrophobic the Princess of Wales was a cheerful, friendly pub, and always busy. It was more like a ‘club’ than a pub.

Spirits (gin, whisky, rum) were rationed to one bottle a night with liqueurs almost unattainable. Sometimes, during a particularly heavy raid, several of the customers and Mum and Ethel would take shelter in the cellar. Those customers who remained ‘aloft’ would serve themselves and carefully ‘chalk up’ their purchases on a slate. The public bar was usually crowded with Irishmen and Poles who were employed in clearing and rebuilding the bomb sites. They were comfortably housed in the once elegant residences in Onslow Square.

Two of the regular lunchtime customers, who dressed soberly in black suits, were always joking and laughing. June was quite amused by these jovial souls, until she discovered they were Undertakers and their ‘jokes’, were rather close to the knuckle’, which soon wiped the grin off her face. Life at the pub was rarely dull, her sister Ethel said that she always rushed home on her night off (before the pub was due to close), in case she missed something.

Saturday nights could be bedlam, busy, noisy, hot and smoky. One such night, a furious fight developed in the private bar. Brother Joe, an ex-commando, happened to be in there at the time, (an unusual occurrence since both brothers hated pub life). He attempted to eject the trouble makers who were gleefully pulling legs off small tables to use as cudgels. Women were screaming, caught up in the melee, (that is if they weren’t engaged in a more vigorous pursuit of participating in the hostilities), glasses were smashed, furniture upended, the noise was horrendous.

The Police arrived with their ‘paddy wagons’. Immediately the warring parties were clapping each other on the back, apparently the best of friends, to them it was just a game. It was more serious for Mother of course as the Police disliked

women holding a pub licence, so complaints of brawling or excessive noise from near-by residents, would count unfavourably before the Justices, and her licence had to be renewed annually.

CHAPTER SIX THE EXTENDED FAMILY

Ethel Annie Blunt - (1898 - 1994) – (Little Auntie Ethel)

Aunty Ethel was born in Cranbrook in 1898 and never married. When she left school, she worked ‘downstairs’ in the ‘big’ houses. She used to tell us all sorts of stories of her time ‘in service’ in these large establishments and I wish I could have written them down, as memory does not serve me to them. The only one that comes to mind is the large house that Queen Elizabeth I stayed in, which was built in the shape of an E.

Ethel (Ada’s younger Sister), came to live with us at the pub in both Camden Town and Chelsea, though generally resided ‘upstairs’ running the household whilst Ada and Ethel ran the Pub. She would however, always help with the cleaning of the Bars ‘after’ the pub was shut! Although Aunty was nervous of meeting people, she accepted the Blitz calmly.

Poor Aunty, we really didn’t appreciate her as we should have, but she was a bit of a Jeremiah. If we suggested ‘going for a walk’, her familiar response would be “It’s going to rain dear”. Just to get her to go to the pictures in the afternoon, was like trying to prise a reluctant oyster from its shell, but she did care for everyone of us, ‘we were her family’.

When Ada left London to go down to Dymchurch, Ethel went to live with her sister Beatrice in Rothwell Street, however when Beatrice died some years later, she travelled to Dymchurch to visit her sister Ada, but actually never left.

June wrote this story based on the characteristics of Little Auntie Ethel and the family.

“What in heavens name is the use of making a Protest, nobody ever listens”.(JP)

Mabel lay snug in her narrow, tidy bed, her small body making only a slight, elongated mound which hardly disturbed the bed covers. Although the old lady was nearly blind, her beside lamp was not on however she could still distinguish the shapes of her sisters and nieces as they drifted about the hazy room. Faces peered down at her smiling and twittering. Her tired heart missed a beat, when she noticed Grandfather James sitting quietly in the fireside chair, clutching his briar pipe in his knobbly, gardener’s hand and giving her a conspiritual wink, as if she were a three year old child again.

Her elder brother Sam grinned at her from the dark corner of the room, obviously he had been up to some boy’s trick, probably scrumping apples and hiding them under her bed, or raiding her piggy bank. Aunt Matilda came marching through the door, her ample form frocked in a crisp, starched nurse’s uniform, followed by Uncle Percy in his Size 12 policeman’s boots, Mabel prayed silently that they were not to be accompanied by their daughter, who would, ‘at the drop of a hat’, render a soul-in-torment ‘Ava Maria’. It appeared to the old lady, that all her numerous family and friends were crowded into her tiny bedroom. Mabel was extremely annoyed by the invasion of uninvited guests, so tried to ignore them.

In her mind’s eye, she pictured all the photographs and knickknacks which covered all the walls and furniture, all the pieces had been carefully dusted and placed in a precise order, for this was the first time in her long life she had had a bedroom to herself and could unpack her ‘treasures!’ As a child, Mabel had slept in a room with her four older sisters; as a teenager she worked as a housemaid and shared a cold attic room with other female servants. Then, as a middle-aged woman, she had lived with her sister’s large family and shared a bed with her youngest niece. Years later she slept in the same room as her widowed sister.

All through the years she had never had the luxury of unpacking her travelers trunk. The trunk had been purchased in an uncharacteristic burst of enthusiasm, after the First World War, an enthusiasm for foreign travel which had never been realized. Now however, it was her own photographs and lacy placemats which decorated her comfortable, old fashioned sanctuary.

It was unkind, she thought, of these ghostly figures to bother her, why even the wretched one-eyed Tom cat she had befriended out of common kindness, had made itself comfortable at the foot of her bed. She tried to dislodge the animal with her rubber-tipped walking stick (which she kept close to her pillow in case of burglars), but to no avail.

Mabel was not afraid, only very angry, suddenly she sat bolt upright in the bed, her thin wispy grey hair about the winceyette clad shoulders. She banged her bony fist on the faded pink counterpane, “Go away, leave me in peace, get out”, but her age old protest went unheeded. The old Lady died as she had lived, besieged by an avalanche of bustling humanity.

PRIMROSE HILL (JP)

4 Rothwell Street, Our second home. Aunts – Edie and Beatrice, and Uncles – Ted and Sid, they, May have sighed quietly, When Eddie and I, so frequently arrived, On their doorstep, demanding entrance, yet, We were always greeted with ‘open arms’

Just a half hour walk from Camden Town To Regents Park Zoo, (where we had a free ), or, Primrose Hill, -- there, Aunts, Uncles and cousins resided, At No. 4 Rothwell Street Eddie and I would race ‘upstairs’ To Aunt Beatrice, for nourishment, On one such occasion, Aunty gave ‘me’ A small, 45 record (bakelite), as a gift,

I promptly sat on it for safety sake, since Eddie had his eager eye on it. I doubt not, that I wept.

We’d fly down, five flights of stairs To greet, Aunt Edie in her basement flat, Where Auntie’s pet dogs (Paddy and Molly), Plus a large, bad tempered parrot – Polly, Who nipped unwary fingers), lived; And where, in later years, (long before, Any other member of the family), Aunt ‘E’ Installed a television set. But then, Aunty always was a rebel, who, ‘openly’ rolled her own cigarettes, in defiance of, The silent disapproval of her sisters. No 4, was as familiar as our own home. It was ‘part and parcel’ of our lives.

CHAPTER SEVEN BOARDING SCHOOL - 1940 - 1945

LICENCED VICTUALLERS BOARDING SCHOOL,

Slough Buckinghamshire (Patron: His Majesty the King)

Founded in 1803 at Kennington. S.E. and transferred to Slough in 1921. From its foundation, the determination and generosity of of the Licenced Trade assisted in fitting for life the sons and daughters of deceased or distressed ‘on’ licence holders throughout the United Kingdom. The school could accommodate 150 boys and girls, itted between the ages of seven and twelve years, and remain until they are at least sixteen.

Reference: A promotional publication seeking donations to the School – (undated).

June wrote: As I had lost my father at the age of 8 years, and Mum ran a public house, both myself and Eddie were eligible to attend this boarding school. With London receiving such a ‘battering’ during the WWII, my mother felt that we children would be safer at the school rather than staying in London.

We were bundled off to the Licenced Victualler’s School at Slough. Having been fed a diet of the delights of boarding school, half-day holidays, midnight feasts, pillow fights and a galaxy of new friends and experiences, we were hooked. Neither Eddie nor I stopped to reflect that no one in the family had ever attended such an establishment therefore their knowledge was somewhat hazy.

In September 1940, Mum, Eddie and I arrived at the Licenced Victuallers School

gates the day before term officially began. We walked up the wide graveled driveway which was flanked by well-tended lawns and large trees leading up to the modern school building. We entered through huge double doors and were somewhat intimidated by the highly polished parquet floor flanked by two marble stairways and silence. We were quickly escorted up the back stairs to the school hospital where we were pronounced ‘fit’ by the doctor. I think my sense of belonging was lost the moment I crossed the threshold of that school. It was a forlorn moment, and one that would last for quite some time to come.

Eddie and I were parted and told that we might talk to each other for one hour after dinner (mid-day) on Sundays, and that we should stand in the corridor to do so. Later I was shown the dormitories, day-rooms, dining hall, classrooms etc., and given a uniform. All my clothes, shoes, hairbrush, towels were marked with the number 32. My long hair was cut to the regulation length of my ear lobes. I gathered up my curls and put them in an envelope to send home to Mother.

If the school was a shock to Eddie and I, the teachers were left in little doubt that they had been saddled with two unruly kids who had not the slightest notion what discipline meant, as we had spent 1939 in the heart of Sussex with an Aunt.

As Little Aunty Ethel had a strong aversion to leaving the cottage, we were unable to collect our gas-masks from the local authority, and as gas masks were paramount to attending Wadhurst School, we had run free and untutored for weeks. A lot of our time was spent in the gypsy camps, it was one long glorious holiday.

School authorities did eventually catch up with these two reluctant students, but we still enjoyed the three mile walk to school through Snape Wood and past the churchyard where Gran and Granddad were buried. To move from the freedom of Sussex lanes and the busy streets of London, to a life regulated by bells and strict rules, was like running full tilt into a brick wall.

RULES - No child was allowed beyond the school grounds unless accompanied, (which meant crocodile formation with teacher in charge). All our outgoing mail to be scrutinized before posting, even letters from home were read by the teaching staff, before being handed to the addressee. No doubt these rules were necessary.

The ‘free’ afternoons we had been looking forward to were spent on the sports field. Sundays we were marched to Church in crocodile formation. Even bed making was regimented, anything less than perfect was promptly pulled apart by the school nurse, to be remade correctly.

Due to the War there was a shortage of domestic staff, so the girls had to take it in turns to wash-up, peel the potatoes, clean the dining hall and dormitories. There were compensations, for instance, we all preferred strong tea, so we would dip our fingers into the large enamel jugs to judge the strength of the brew, the boys tables always got the wishy-washy mixture. I don’t imagine it bothered them too much for they were not expected to participate in the chores.

RULES, One Hundred and Three (JP)

When Jonathan told me,

“We’re invited to tea”,

I knew what was coming,

Rules, One hundred and three.

Don’t lick your fingers,

Don’t strangle the cat,

And you know it’s not manners

To tell Mary she’s fat.

Don’t gobble the cream cakes,

Don’t shout you want more,

And, please use a tea-plate

Don’t splatter the carpet or,

Try blowing bubbles

Whilst having a drink.

And Johnathan, arm wrestles

With granny, are silly I think.

Don’t forget ‘thank you’ is said at the door.

AND THAT MUST BE RULE, ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR

I was homesick and resentful. I often took ‘french-leave’ and go for long walks on my own. Our first heaster, Mr. Powell (no relation), was a sympathetic character, and would put his arm around my shoulders and enquire ‘Where had I been this time’. His successor, Mr. ‘H’ displayed less entente cordiale and quickly applied the brakes to my escapades. Mr. ‘H’ and I loathed each other from the word go. I’m not sure which of us had ‘a tiger in its tail’ he was handy with the cane and not averse to slapping a child’s face for some minor misdemeanor. His saving grace was that as a Welshman, he was an excellent singing master, but I can still recall his terrible wolfish smile.

The teaching staff were a mixed bag. Mr. Sparks with his thick pebble glasses was affectionately nicknamed ‘Pep’, was well past retirement age and taught in the Junior School. We carefully copied his copperplate lettering from the blackboard, and at his instigation, our letters home were identical, only the name at the top of the letter and our own signature at the bottom was different. Later in the senior classes, I circumvented the censoring procedure by popping (unofficially), down to the local postbox.

The Maths Master, Mr. Thomas ‘Tot’, had an uncertain temper. We would gauge Tot’s mood at morning prayers by his hairstyle. If his hair had a wave in the front, or whether combed straight and slicked back, then the barometer stood at ‘stormy’, his sarcasm was impressive. Although Maths to me was a total enigma, I astonished him by being quick at mental arithmetic. I did not enlighten him but I interpreted numbers as gins, ale, Guinness etc., amounts of which I was quite familiar for I often served in the family pub during school holidays.

Mr. Williams was the Art Master, very tall apparently boneless, dark wavy hair, best of all he was young. The girls thought he was marvelous and so Art and Poetry became the ‘vogue’. He, much to our chagrin, married the Sports Mistress which we considered unsportsmanlike.

Mr. Lewis the History and English Master, instilled in me a love of history and essay writing, unfortunately he was less successful imparting the mysteries of punctuation and spelling. He encouraged me in play-writing, having written the plays I would cajole other girls to act. We borrowed counterpanes from the beds, (I never discovered why we were allowed to take such liberties), for the stage curtains, and then put on the plays in the gym. These shows were always well attended, even by the staff.

There were a succession of temporary teachers, some had been invalided out of the Forces. Despite the interruptions caused by air-raids and staffing problems, several of the students did go onto ‘further education’.

Air-raids were frequent due to the proximity of the main railway line that ran close to the school grounds. Most nights were spent marching to and fro the dormitories to the bomb shelters, located under the old tennis courts. A hug cowbell was rung when a raid was imminent. Half asleep we would assemble in our dressing gowns and slippers, carrying a blanket and pillow. Eddie on one occasion apparently was so befuddled with sleep that he forgot his slippers and had to stumble across the gravel in his bare feet. It was eventually decided that we remain in the shelters for the whole night. At first it was a novelty. Straw was laid on the concrete for us to sleep on, this proved unhygienic and uncomfortable. Straw was replaced with wooden benches which stretched either side of the shelter.

We lay, our head ed by our neighbours’ rump, like a string of sausages. It was an agonizing position, if you wanted to visit the portable ‘loo’ or just shift a numbed limb, then the entire line of sleepers would be disturbed. Eventually the problem was solved, bunks were installed and relative comfort was established.

THE BOMB SHELTER

After a night spent in the shelters, we would return wearily to the main building for breakfast, then went to bed in the dormitory until noon. After midday dinner, the afternoons were spent in the classroom. Tea, was closely followed by ‘prep’ (homework) which was supervised by a senior prefect in the classroom. Supper consisted of cocoa and bread and butter. In the evening the seniors would listen to the radio in the senior day room. It was a strange world but appeared quite normal at the time.

Due to the Blitz on London, we did not always return home for holidays. On about four occasions, several of us remained at the school. Rules were relaxed and the teachers made it as pleasant as they could for us.

One Summer, we had two weeks Youth Hostelling in North Wales. Another wonderful holiday was spent hostelling in the Cotswolds’ (a range of hills in southwestern and west- central England), where we twice visited Shakespeare’s Memorial Theatre, and where an American G.I. sat next to me whispering the actor’s words during the performance.

The last school trip was to a ‘Dig for Victory’ camp where we hoed religiously between Mangel Wurzels (a type of beet), whilst swapping unintelligible insults with Italian P.O.W.s in the adjacent field, both sides enjoying the buffoonery. We returned to our camp tired, but having thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

Two school holidays were spent with an Aunt in Yorkshire. Eddie and I loved our Aunt and her beautiful home-made bread, but Uncle was not so keen on ‘Londoners’. We of course would have preferred to be home at the pub with Mum.

The big event of the month, was the arrival of the mobile sweet shop. We would

queue up for our ‘ration’, those at the front of the queue had their pick, whilst late comers were not so lucky. Jam was a great luxury, occasionally a kind relative would sacrifice their points and buy a pot of jam for us, which was dutifully labeled with the recipient’s name and kept on a wooden tray in the dining room. School food although plain was adequate, and we were all extremely healthy despite the rationing.

Two afternoons each term, plus Sports Day, we were allowed visitors. Mum always arrived late because pub hours were difficult, but she would arrive carrying a small, jaundiced coloured attaché case full of ‘goodies’ for Eddie and me. Mum would take us to Eton or Windsor for tea in one of the quaint tea rooms. Looking back, I don’t know how she found the time or energy. Twice Mum came accompanied by our brother Joe who wore the uniform of No 4 Commando, and Eddie and I were so proud of him.

I was always in hot water. On one occasion, finding the front hall deserted, I galloped up the stairs and slid down the banister, unfortunately my heel knocked the cow-bell which promptly hurled itself down the stairs. In response to its fearful clanging, the entire school vacated their class rooms and stood ready to be escorted to the air raid shelters. I stood in line trying desperately to look innocent.

Even my few triumphs turned rapidly to gall, having been stopped in the corridor to be congratulated by a Master for achieving top marks for a history exam, I immediately dropped my bottle of ink onto the parquet floor. It was a calamity.

Mr. Thomas who realized I was unable to see anything written on the blackboard, sent me to see the School Sister. She knowing my reputation for clowning, did not believe my eyesight was chronic, therefore I was not seen by an Optician. It made life rather difficult for me.

Matron had a portly frame, and we always thought she was bigger than life. We weren’t actually scared of her, but we did mind our manners when she was around.

The morning routine commenced with the Nurse walking through the dormitory each morning and announcing “Good Morning Girls”, open the curtains and then withdraw allowing the door to close noisily behind her. We would all just snuggle down more cozily in our beds as if we had not heard her. About 5 minutes later she would repeat the performance and more loudly this time announce “Good Morning Girls, AND THAT MEANS GET UP!!” We had no alternative but to tumble out of bed, as there was no third chance.

I WEAR GLASSES (JP)

They sit on my Nose and so I suppose, I can see better, to read a letter, or see a horse. But of course, I can’t see my friend round a bend.

But, I really can see a bird in a tree, and the stars in the sky are as clear as the eye, of my own Teddie-bear. Though, it really not fair, cos, T.V. I can’t see when I’m naughty.

Spiders hiding in webs made of gossamer threads, and the silvery trails left by slow moving snails, can’t hide from me, for now I can see. Specs on my nose means everything grows, ………..C L E A R ……….

There was one incident that was particularly difficult for my brother Eddie. Auntie Ethel used to call Eddies pyjamas his nightie, so one evening before going to bed he couldn’t find them and loudly said ‘Where’s my nightie?”. Of course, all the boys in his dormitory laughed like a drain. He never called them a nightie ever again! I felt so sorry for him.

My final escapade had a surprising result. I made a last desperate attempt to persuade Mum to let me return home. Borrowing Wellington boots and a thick winter coat, (to cover my school uniform), from the drama cupboard, and hiding my cropped hair under a turban, I caught a train to Paddington, then an underground train to South Kensington. Mum had been advised of my ‘flight’ by telephone. She knew exactly where I was heading. The pub customers were highly amused at my ‘scarecrow’ outfit. Mother only complained that I was responsible for the burnt rabbit stew (the only meat not on ration) due to the commotion I had caused. Next morning, I was unceremoniously returned to school, where Mr. ‘H’ caned me until my fingers bled, but only after Mum had left. It was a sobering experience.

However, at a later date, I was given the job of delivering the school’s information sheet to the ‘r’, the Licenced Victuallers Newspaper near Fleet Street. After making delivery, I was allowed home for the rest of the day, returning to school in the early evening. These ‘excursions’ happened once a month and my illegal wanderings came to an end.

During my time at LVS, I went on a number of trips, organized for students who were unable to return home during the holiday period. We had a wonderful time together and even walked 20 miles each day when in North Wales.

I AM A RUCK SACK (JP)

I am a ruck sack an old, dilapidated ruck sack fit for little more than …. A receptacle for Mrs. Monday’s newspaper wrapped … cooking apples, …………but, there was a time when I was young………. vigorous …………full of ‘go’

When I was young and in my prime I travelled widely, … as my stained embroidered, cotton badges can testify, all sewn, with immodest pride, upon my bulging anatomy, by my ‘then teenaged owner ……. an enthusiastic ‘back-packer’.

My memory is green, my talk extravagant! of those days, long ago; yet to me it seems only yesterday that smelly socks,

damp towels, melting chocolate blocks, coca-cola bottles were ‘stuffed’ within my inner regions.

Now, I hang quietly upon a metal hook in a garden shed, sharing the accommodation with other elderly ‘past their selling date’ equipment. we relics reside quietly together, recalling… former glories … ‘You know’ … family anecdotes, and occasional arguments, where memories differ.

We act as a memory jogger; for ‘grown up’ children and their smiling, doting parents.

The ‘good old days’ YES I think perhaps they were.

The ‘inmates’ of LVS made up a ‘ditty’ which was sung with much gusto, though obviously not appreciated by the hierarchy.

The LVS are merry,

the LVS are gay.

Independent so they say,

don’t care whether they work or play.

‘Harry’ says their slackers,

Slackers they may be

but if it wasn’t for the LVS

where would the old crab be!

In July 1945 I walked ‘down’ the driveway on my way to explore new unchartered waters. I could almost hear the deep sigh of relief emanating from the building behind me, as I closed the school gates for the last time

I WAS GOING HOME…….

CHAPTER EIGHT HOME, AT LAST

1945 – 1948

I left school at the tender age of just 16 years, (Eddie having left school two years earlier), and returned home to Chelsea where rationing was still severe. My brother and I were allowed to share our Aunt’s sweet coupons (Little Auntie Ethel), a great luxury. I stayed home for about seven months.

It was difficult for me to be home again, as although I had been desperately homesick for the entire time I had been away, ‘home’ was not as I had dreamt about. I did not take kindly to family advice, nor their criticism. At the age of sixteen years, I was patently unprepared to relinquish one iota of my ‘freedom’. The family of course, continued to treat me ‘as a child’, after all I was the ‘baby’ of the family, and constantly ‘told’ what I should be doing at any given time. This is probably understandable but it was not a situation I handled at all well. I had lost my ‘belonging’ when away from home, and when I returned, it appeared to me that I didn’t ‘belong’ there either. It didn’t make for a happy homecoming. Of course to exacerbate the situation, Mum and my sister Ethel were running a very busy pub, and didn’t really have time to ‘nurture’ the youngest member of the family.

I quickly found my ‘footing’ when I started my working life, holding a number of jobs over the next couple of years, firstly as a factotum (general office worker) at Younger’s Brewery, Head Office, near Waterloo Bridge. I also had my first boy-friend at that time, a sailor, a gorgeous, humorous fellah!

From the Brewery I went to Littleton’s Riding School, Dorking, where I learnt to ride a horse, after a fashion, and drove a horse and cart– without supervision, (a hair raising adventure), as I went into a dyke, cart and all on a side road. Whilst at the stables, I ‘lived in’. The house had been divided into an upstairs and downstairs, and I lived ‘upstairs’. One night I came home after Lettice, (the owner’s daughter), had not only gone to bed, but had also locked the door to the upstairs rooms. So I climbed in the window to get access however was seen by a erby who rang the Police. I was in all sorts of bother, until I explained the situation.

It wasn’t long after that I was riding a man’s bike which unfortunately didn’t have any brakes, and it was just my luck that as I ‘sailed’ through a red light, a police officer saw it happen and came after me. I was required to present my identity card at the Police Station the next day, which I did, dressed in a pair of old army tros. When I arrived at the station, the police on duty just roared with laughter, at this young girl dressed in such a way.

I had an Irish boyfriend that I used to go out with during this time, and when I left to go back to London, he came and looked me up and then asked me to marry him. I refused his invitation even though he was blue eyed and handsome. Mother reiterated, with a very strong NO, I was only seventeen at the time.

Next job was a Day Nursery Nurse at Cheyne Walk, a refuge for underprivileged children. Next door was Chelsea’s Old Church, or to be exact, its remains since it had been destroyed by enemy action. Here, workmen had discovered a plague burial pit, one of these ‘kind’ working gents, offered me a piece of medieval skull to examine, though I politely refused the offer.

(Cheyne Walk is an historic street in Chelsea in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. It takes its name from William Lord Cheyne who owned the manor of Chelsea until 1712. Most of the houses were built in the early 18th century. Wikipedia)

I returned to London, and found a flat in South Kensington which I shared with a school friend. For the next eighteen months I took up the post of Nanny in an exclusive luxury flat in Cadogan Gardens. The Italian cook could speak three languages, and Mac a chemistry tutor at the ‘Poly’ presented me with a box of Turkish Delight! (He must have used his entire sweet ration), AND he had a motor-bike!

My next job was as a Model in Woollands Store in Knightsbridge. As a fashion model, I worked for a Mrs. ‘R’ the buyer, who dressed in a bombazine dress and feathered hat, and rustled and bobbed as she strode through the showroom. It appeared to me, being young, that all our customers were elderly, respectable ladies, of a Victorian conception.

Jobs etc., 1945 – 1948 (JP)

A factotum …. Youngers Brewery Head Office, near Waterloo Bridge bonus – my first boyfriend, a sailor, a gorgeous, humerous fellah!

Littleton’s Ridging School, Dorking where I learnt to ride a horse, (after a fashion), and drove a horse and cart … without supervision, (a hair raising adventure(, refused an invitation to marry a handsome, blue-eyed Irishman.

Day nursery Nurse, Cheyne Walk, A refuge for under privileged children, Next door, was Chelsea Old Church, Or to be exact, its remains, since It had been destroyed by enemy action. Here, workmen had discovered a plague burial pit,

One of these ‘kind’ working gents, offered me A piece of medieval skull to examine! N’ I got engaged to Edward A young army officer.

A Nanny, in an exclusive, luxury flat In Cadogan Gardens, the Italian cook could speak three languages!,… and Mac, a chemistry tutor at the ‘Poly’ presented me with a box of … Turkish Delight! (he must have used his entire sweet ration), and He had a motor bike!

A fashion model, at ‘Woollands’, Knightsbridge The Buyer’ a Mrs ‘R’ ever clothed, in a bombazine dress and feathered hat, who rustled and bobbed, as she strode through the show room. It appeared to me, being young, that all our customers were elderly, respectable ladies

of a Victorian conception.

I often worked as a barmaid in the evenings and at weekends in Mother’s publichouse.

The public bar was usually crowded with Irishmen and Poles who were employed in clearing and rebuilding the bomb sites. They were comfortably housed in the once elegant residences in Onslow Square.

Two of our regular lunch-time customers who dressed soberly in black suits, were always joking and laughing. I was quite amused by these jovial souls, until I discovered they were Undertakers and their ‘jokes’, were rather close to the knuckle’, which soon wiped the grin off my face.

Life at the pub was rarely dull, my sister Ethel said that she always rushed home on her night off (before the pub was due to close), in case she missed something. Saturday nights could be bedlam, busy, noisy, hot and smoky. One such night, a furious fight developed in the private bar. My brother Joe, an ex-commando, happened to be in there at the time, (an unusual occurrence since both our brothers hated pub life). He attempted to eject the trouble makers who were gleefully pulling legs off small tables to use as cudgels. Women were screaming, caught up in the melee, (that is if they weren’t engaged in a more vigorous pursuit of participating in the hostilities), glasses were smashed, furniture upended, the noise was horrendous.

The Police arrived with their ‘paddy wagons’. Immediately the warring parties were clapping each other on the back, apparently the best of friends, to them it was just a game. It was more serious for Mother of course. Police disliked women holding a pub licence, so complaints of brawling or excessive noise from near-by residents, count unfavourably before the Justices, and licences have to be renewed annually.

Morning trade can be slack, so if Ethel was not playing shove-halfpenny or darts with a stray customer, she carried on working on her marvelous prayer carpet, which she was making by hand. The customers were fascinated and the carpet became a major talking point.

Sometimes, on a gloomy winter afternoon (the pub would close from 3pm – 5pm each day, it was good just to relax in front of the open fire in the saloon bar, where everything was quiet, and you could enjoy a chat with a friend and enjoy a cup of tea by firelight.

There were times when I loathed the pub and dreamt of living in a private house with a large back garden, or just a weekend at the sea-side however, weekends, Christmas time, New Year’s Eve and Public Holidays were our busiest times. When cousins and friends were partying or going dancing on Saturday nights, we were working. But how lucky we were, for we had the opportunity to meet a wide section of society, who would chat, laugh, argue and made life fascinating. I would have missed the ‘crowd’ that was Ethel’s Pub, it was all marvelous theatre.

“Time Gentlemen please”, Ethel raises her voice above the general hubbub. Immediately there is a frantic rush of customers to the bar, anxious for their last drink before glass cloths are draped over the beer pumps to indicate that business is over for the night. I stand behind the counter washing and polishing the glasses, my eyes stinging from the cigarette smoke and hoping that we will soon be able to lock the pub doors and relax as the customers begin to drift homeward. We would clear the tables, add up the days’ takings, before trooping up the stairs to the warm, cluttered kitchen.

Aunty, who never emerged into the bar (actually she rarely left the house), had prepared cocoa and supper. We sat and discussed, or argued, about events of the day and were often forced to refer to a dictionary to settle a particular point. We all enjoyed these late night ‘get-togethers’, as we grumbled and complained but,

as Mother reminded us -— when all was said and done, this was our Home.

Family rows were lively affairs. Poor Mum threatened to ‘knock our heads together’. On one such volatile occasion, Joe objected to the amount of make-up I was wearing, so he shoved my face under the bath tap and scrubbed vigorously. I of course, was absolutely furious, and packed a suitcase ready to leave home (I hadn’t a clue where I would go). Arriving at the foot of the stairs, there stood Mum, handbag on her arm calmly putting on her gloves. “I’m coming with you”. I was of course defeated -— Mothers can be very difficult!

Some winter mornings our ‘lie-ins’ would be rudely shattered, the entire house suddenly vibrating, -— Joe and Eddie, who had wheeled their motor bikes into the Private Bar the previous night, would start their engines -— before leaving the house. I would have preferred a more civilized awakening, a nice hot cup-oftea would have been more welcoming.

One amusing incident was when my brothers Joe and Eddie took Johnny the dog on the motor bike down to swim in the Serpentine Lake near where we lived. They sat him in between the both of them, it was a very funny sight to see going down the road.

We were lucky the Pub was located where it was, close to the local hospital and the polytechnic which saw such diversity of customers, with Doctors, Artists and people with money standing alongside some of the more colourful characters that would frequent the bar. After the war there were the Irish and the Poles, who didn’t like each other, causing innumerable problems for ‘Mum’.

I see Andrew standing by the fireplace in the saloon bar, telling his outrageous anecdotes, flicking his bushy nicotine stained moustache with his finger and chuckling, his companions leaning forward so as not to miss his quiet words.

Len is smiling at the old rogue enjoying the endless stream of reminiscences. Len is an artist, but resembles a city business man in his trilby hat and thick overcoat, there is nothing flamboyant about his mode of dress.

Andrew had been very well brought up, but he was a betting man, and Dr. Jones, another of our patrons knew that one day Andrew would make it ‘big’. And it happened! He placed a bet one day and had a huge win. He came in to the pub and was ‘over the moon’ at his good luck. He went home happy that night to his abode, but died that same evening. The money was never found! I missed Andrew, as he was one of the true gentlemen of his time.

Another one of our patrons was Hugh, a middle aged Scot, a gentleman of the ‘old school’, and would sit gently puffing on his pipe listening to the general cacophony of human interaction. He was a great favourite with everyone, for he had a lovely dry wit. It was Hugh who persuaded Len to do a portrait of Ethel, which would eventually decorate the sitting room upstairs.

Ethel is the beauty of the family and the mainstay of the business. She wore bohemian colours which reflected her personality. New customers were often startled, fascinated by her thick green or orange woolen stockings (which in point of fact, she wore because she suffered from chilblains), with her dirndl skirts, bright scarves and long hair swept up in a chignon, she looked like a gypsy version of Jean Simmons.

Many of the male customers were quite smitten, one in particular was Jack, a Malaysian gentleman who would sit every evening on the same stool in the private bar and politely decline anyone other than Ethel to fill his glass. He had been a patron for many years, and had never asked Ethel for a ‘date’, he was perfectly happy just to ire her.

In the public bar the piano would be constantly ‘thrashed by an uninhibited Irishman, whilst another accompanied the ‘music’ with raucous renderings of ‘When Irish Eyes are Smiling’, Molly Mallone etc. The two Irishmen could enjoy themselves just as much indulging in a brawl, especially if an Irish girl came into the pub escorted by a Polish chap.

There was a large notice on the wall which asked customers to ‘Please refrain from dancing’, of which they took not the slightest notice. I wondered that if they could see the ceiling in the cellar (beneath their feet), the cracks and bends in response to their capering, if they would have been quite so energetic.

Three elderly widows wearing respectable felt hats and carrying bulging handbags, commandeered the same circular table in the saloon bar every night, although drinks were more expensive in this bar. I presume it didn’t bother them much as they had been more or less adopted by the regulars, who frequently bought them a Stout or Guinness and a bag of crisps. They were like London sparrows, readily accepting of people’s generosity.

There are many stories I could relate whilst living in the Pub, some funny, some sad, during those years of the war. One that comes to mind, during one of the many attacks on London, it was thought that a parachutist was coming down, and so one of the patrons rushed out to grab ‘him’. Unfortunately it was a mine, and he paid the ultimate price for his endeavor, it killed him. (It was not uncommon for the patrons to participate in a game of darts or cards as a way of lightening the mood during those ‘dark’ days).

I there was a group of woman known as the Barrage Balloon girls, some of whom were located close to us in Chelsea Square. It was their job to manage the operation of the barrage balloon system.

(Wikipedia states that: The barrage balloon was a bag of lighter-than-air gas, attached to a steel cable anchored to the ground. The balloon could be raised or lowered to the require altitude by a winch. Its purpose was ingenuous; to deny low-level airspace to enemy aircraft. This provided three major benefits: forced aircraft to higher altitudes, thereby decreasing surprise and bombing accuracy, enhanced ground based air defenses and the ability of fighters to acquire targets, since intruding aircrafts were limited in altitude and direction; and the cable presented a definite mental and material hazard to pilots. By the middle of 1940, there were 1,400 balloons, a third of them over the London area. By 1944, the number had risen to nearly 3,000).

The underground was a favourite place of mine, as it always felt exciting, especially that hollow sound of the train coming through the tunnel. This was of course after the War years as during the air raids on London, the underground was where thousands spent sleepless nights sheltering from the nightly bombing. I also that due to the War, railings were taken off all the parks and melted down for scrap. These ‘goings on’ were all part of life, to me it was ‘normal’.

I saw the School Nurse many years later in the underground. I was dressed in a beautiful red coat, had makeup on and looked quite elegant. The Nurse, who had looked after us at the School had aged somewhat, and must have been surprised to see what used to be one of her ‘charges’, grown up and looking so smart. She did not speak to me which was a surprise, perhaps she did not know what to say.

CHAPTER NINE LIFE IN LONDON

Poems were written by June depicting how she saw her world in London, during a time of complete upheaval for those caught up in the years of devastation. She cleverly describes a picture (in verse), of what was ‘normal’ for that time.

CLEAN AS A WHISTLE (JP)

I was not there

When a bomb blast sliced through the top floor of our home,

Lifting the top three bedrooms ‘up’

In one piece, (clean as a whistle),

And dumped it down again but,

Not exactly where - - it should have been.

A large gap appeared between the wall and floor

and we were able to ‘look down’ through

the gap to the street,

–- three floors below.

We still slept in the rooms, thankful

That none of us walked

In our sleep.

(These rooms were not removed until 1947).

MIND THE DOORS (JP)

Traveling on the Underground (Tube) at night

Was a sobering experience,

One had to manoeuvre very carefully

Between, a mass of ‘sleepers’, who

Sprawled across the platform

Wrapped as tight as Egyptian Mummies,

young children wedged safely beside their elders.

‘Old hands’, appeared oblivious of the heat

And pungent smell, the screech

Of the train wheels, and wail

Of tiered babes, seemingly unaware

Of the constant movement

Of enger’s feet, that trod warily over

Their sleeping forms.

The sharp cry, ‘Mind the Doors’

And the heavy ‘thump’ of train doors closing,

Was totally unlike any lullaby

I’d ever heard.

Why no sleeper rolled onto the ‘live-rail’

Is a mystery.

The place was like a breathing tomb,

A submerged city. Yet, a refuge,

From the madness, of the London ‘Blitz’.

A RAID IS IN PROGRESS (JP)

A visit to the Cinema

Could be interrupted, with a ‘warning’

Flashed across the screen -––

‘A raid is in progress’

So patrons, might if they so wished,

Seek shelter, but few did.

Like Athenians, who could hear the strident sounds of was

In Attica, we stayed

To watch the show, and dream of,

Gathering Lilacs in the Spring again.

ONSLOW SQUARE, CHELSEA (JP)

The Yanks commandeered The lovely old houses in the Square, For barracks, and then proceeded To build Nissen huts ‘in’ the road!

Pedestrians had to be nimble, to avoid Uninhibited jeeps, which sped along Pavements, we had to laugh though, At large painted signs which read––— ‘Heavy Traffic Must Not Travel on Pavement’

I suppose we should have been grateful, That heavy, laden trucks remained (hopefully) on the tarmac!

RAINBOW CORNER (JP)

Carrying ‘pig buckets’ (household food scraps),

To a collection point in Cale Street,

I met a G.I., “Excuse me Mam,

But could you tell me how to get to Rainbow Corner?”

not feeling like a Betty Grable pin up,

with my shorn, regulation school hair-do, and

smelling no doubt of potato peelings,

I told him “a number 14 or 96 bus

Will take you there”.

He politely inquired, “Will you come with me Mam?”,

I declined, but felt sorry for

a lonely G.I.

in war torn London.

The Powell’s Contributions

WINNIFRED (Wyn) Wyn was married before the War, and had a baby son. Her husband Gerald was in the Army so she took her baby to Yorkshire, to stay with Aunty Bertha, away from the Blitz, in the south of England. I knew very little of my sister’s experiences, as she was married when I was just five years old, and had moved away from Camden Town.

JOSEPHINE During night raids (those close to home), Ethel and Josephine, wearing their protective helmets, would take beer out to the firemen and rescue teams, though some of them said that they would have preferred -— a nice, hot cup of tea!

On one occasion, all the windows in my sister’s bedroom were blown inward (bomb blast). Had they been at home in bed as usual, they would not have survived that night.

Josephine was a Nurse at Guys Hospital, and on many occasions, would walk home after her shift ended, as the buses were not predictable at night. It was amazing on one particular evening, that she was not ‘hit’ by the shrapnel that was falling all around her, embedding in buildings as she ed.

She later was transferred to a hospital in South Africa.

ETHEL Ethel was a Fire Warden with the ARP, the Air Raid Precaution. She was trained how to extinguish incendiary bombs with a stirrup pump. She would take beer out to the firemen who were fighting the fires in the area. They thanked her but said they would prefer ‘tea’. After their shift, the wardens would come back to the pub, still dirty from their night’s work.

Easter 1941, She married Bill Woodham in a beautiful little church in London. The Easter flowers that were still decorating the church, were an added bonus to the ceremony. Ethel wore a mauve suite with a wonderful beige Tam O’Shanter hat. She was certainly an elegant bride. Although still at Boarding school, I was allowed home and attended the wedding.

JOE At the age of seventeen (1939), he enlisted in the Grenadier Guards, then transferred to the Special Service Unit, which later became No. 4 Commando (Lord Lovatt’s Unit).

During his service, he took part in several reconnaissance’s in and Holland, (together with the Canadian Commandos), on the raids on the French coast, St Nazaire, Boulogue and Dieppe, the D-Day Landings at Ouistreham (Sword Beach), and the attack and capture of Flushing”.

Arriving home on leave after one such raid, he had a bullet hole through his khaki balaclava and his hands were badly gashed from barbed-wire. Mother gave him a huge hug, so happy and relieved to see her son home and all in one piece. Mum then thrust the ration books at him and sent him to the butchers, knowing that Joe would get a more liberal ration of meat, with his ‘battle scars’ still evident. Joe was at Sword Beach on D. Day (6th June 1944).

Joe was there on ‘D’ Day 6th June 1944 having survived the War, and was mentioned in Despatches later receiving the ‘Croix de Guerre’.

Wikkipedia describes the Award as (English translation: Cross of War) as a military decoration of . It was first created in 1915 and consists of a square-cross medal on two crossed swords, hanging from a ribbon with various degree pins.

The Croix de guerre may either be awarded as an individual or unit award to those soldiers who distinguish themselves by acts of heroism involving combat with the enemy. The medal is awarded to those who have been “mentioned in despatches”, meaning a heroic deed or deeds were performed meriting a citation from an individual’s headquarters unit.

When Joe was de-mobbed, he became a ‘Stuntman’ in the film world, where his commando training came in very useful. He found work as an extra on both British and American movies being produced in the UK. He realized that with his military background, he could bring realism into the mass of war action stunt scenes.

He met up with a Captain Jock Easton, MC, and together they gate-crashed the movie industry and formed the first professional stunt team in the UK”. Joe was one of the first professional stuntmen in the British film industry.

The following comes from a Newspaper article promoting Joe’s Autobiography entitled ‘The Life And Times Of A Fall Guy’.

Working with top actors and directors from the late 1940s through to the 1980s, professional stuntman Joe Powell has tumbled out of planes, narrowly missed falling down a 2,000 foot ravine, and been killed off in countless spectacular ways, in films ranging from the swashbuckling Crimson Pirate of 1952 through to the high-action Bond movies of later decades. He worked alongside the likes of Gregory Peck and director John Huston, and even had an acting role in Zulu.

Joe Powell recounts not only the work that has earned him the description as the ‘Daddy of British Stuntmen’ but also describes his experiences as an active soldier prior to his entry into the film industry. As a Commando, he developed his skills as a heavyweight boxer and keep-fit enthusiast, which later stood him in good stead for leaping off the Titanic, jumping off bridges and falling out of planes, without even knowing how to fit a parachute!

Another side to this homegrown daredevil is also revealed, in his inventiveness during lean times in the stunt business. As well as crewing on the historic transatlantic voyage of the Mayflower II, he came up with various entrepreneurial schemes making the most of his other talents, although all have had some connection with his first love – the film industry.

A quote from Joe after a particularly difficult stunt – “What a way to make a living”.

EDDIE Born in London on 9 March 1927. He left school in 1943 and promptly volunteered for the Grenadier Guards in 1944. In 1946 he was stationed in , (Allied Occupational Force) where he served as a dispatch rider. Demobbed in 1948, he ed his brother Joe who ran Jock Easton’s stunt agency, the first British organization of its kind. Prior to that time, there were no ‘rules’ for stunting and any ‘extra’ willing to fall downstairs for more money was given the job, sometimes with tragic results.

He was in his natural element, for as a young boy, he had always climbed. One hairy escapade was when he and our Yorkshire cousin Edwin, walked across the roof of Wakefield Cathedral, whilst another was when he was perched on the slate roof at The Princess of Wales’ with only the unreliable sagging gutter to hold his weight.

Multi-skilled, inventive and genial, Eddie was the pre-eminent stunt performer and coordinator of his generation, highly respected by his colleagues and worshipped by a thriving American fan club.

In films he doubled regularly for Christopher Lee and Gregory Peck and also played acting roles, amongst them, two roles that Lee had turned down, the Mummy in the Mummy Shroud 1966 and the Inquisitor in the Lost Continent 1968.

Powell survived dozens of faked deaths and real injuries, the worst of which was a ruptured spleen he suffered on The Sea Wolves 1980. His stage work included a year on Barry Humphrey’s ‘Back with a Vengeance’ (Strand and Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, 1987 -88) in which he and Jazza Jays played arguing audience who fell out of the stage left box into the stalls, a stunt never to be forgotten by all that saw it.

Eddie Powell’s first film success dates from 1958, when he began work for the Hammer Studios, doubling for Dracula star Lee, a relationship that continued until 1982. He appeared in many other Hammer films, notably The Devil Rides Out, 1968 in which he had another of his title roles, Powell also doubled for two other screen Draculas, Jack Palance in 1973 and Frank Langella in 1979. Eddie itted he was ‘absolutely choked’ that he received no credit for taking over when Bolaji Badejo pulled out of the title role in Alien, 1979.

Eddie worked as stunt co-ordinator on some of the biggest action adventures of the eighties, most memorably Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade 1989, Batman 1989 and Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves 1991. He continued until the end of his life in 2000.

More recently his work was seen in the TV serialization of Formenghast (1999) and the film of Noel Coward’s Relative Values (2000). In a fanzine interview in 1995, he described his work as “a lot of fun and games and getting paid for it”.

Eddie had no fear of heights, though I think he might have been feeling rather queasy dangling from the top of a cable car in ‘Where Eagles Dare’ many years later in his acting career.

JUNE On V.J. night, I was outside Buckingham Palace with about a million (at it seemed to me) other happy, laughing people of every nationality. Servicemen and women, English, Australians, Americans, New Zealanders, Poles, Indians, Frenchmen and many others, all in their own distinctive uniforms, but it was together that we chanted ‘We want the King’

And then……………. The Royal family appeared on the Palace balcony, they were greeted with an almighty roar of joy, which rose up into the air, as one united voice from the huge crowd. In the excitement, I knocked the cap off a Canadian soldier…. and he was completely bald.

In 1948 I got engaged to a young Army Officer Ronald Pegram, Corporal in the Life Guards, Household Cavalry, Knightsbridge. It was incredible that both our

fathers had been in the same regiment.

In 1948, Mother bought a village grocer shop in Dymchurch, Kent in anticipation of her retirement, and I took up the realm and acted as a stand-in manageress.

Rationing was still very much a part of our lives, and actually continued until 1953-54. Although cream cakes were to be had, we discovered the ‘cream’ contained paraffin. We hadn’t seen bananas for many years, and my sister and I used to argue on how many sides a banana had.

Reference: Denise Robertson’s ‘Towards Jerusalem).

Everyone had to carry their Identity Card, Ration and Clothing Books in order they could be allocated their correct ration when shopping, and of course be correctly identified as who they said they were.

Rationing lasted for fourteen years. In 1946, the ration per person, per week was:

1 shilling 2 pence worth of Meat 3 ozs (ounces) Bacon 2 ozs Butter 2 ozs Cheese 4 ozs Margarine

1 Egg per fortnight (usually powdered egg) 2 ozs Tea A large tin of fruit was 30 points (a Month’s ration) Bread was on B.U. (Coupons) Dried fruit and biscuits (was difficult to get) Soap was rationed 3ozs Sweets Bananas (these were non existent) Clothing and New furniture was purchased using Coupons.

(1 ounce (oz) is equal to 28.350 Grams) (1 shilling is equal to 10 cents)

A STITCH IN TIME

‘A Stitch in Time’ is a reflection of life in London during the Blitz told through the characters of the Pearly King and Queen written by June.

Queenie was day dreaming. The flickering patterns of the firelight illuminating her gypsy dark, walnut features. “How quickly the years have flown” she murmured. She flexed her aching feet in Cyril’s tartar bedroom slippers and closing her eyes, leant her frizzled, grey hair back against the armchair, unconsciously rolling a small bright button between her thumb and forefinger.

Earlier that wet wintry afternoon Cyril, her adored husband of over fifty years, had been laid to rest. Mourners had crowded into the church and elaborate wreaths had smothered the grave. After the service family and friends had returned to the house where initially there were a few gentle tears, then people began reminiscing and smiling. It was not an unhappy gathering, and Cyril would have enjoyed listening to his praises being sung, but now she was alone.

“We had some laughs love, didn’t we?” She addressed the shadowy room with its polished horse brasses, overflowing work basket and the eccentric up-sidedown wallpaper, “gave you hell about that wallpaper, didn’t I sweetheart? You squawked like a bloody parrot when I whacked you with a saucepan, still we had fun making up later” she smiled ing.

Queenie, settled her bulk more comfortably and dozed, letting her mind travel back. She and Cyril had known each other all their lives, having played in the same streets, gone to the same school, even holidays were spent together with lots of other Londoners, working in the hop fields in Kent.

Queenie licked her lips, she could almost taste the bitterness of sandwiches eaten with hop stained fingers, and the burnt sugar of the occasional toffee-apple; the flavor was on the tip of her tongue. She clearly recalled the farm buildings where they had slept on rough straw mattresses and cooking had somehow been achieved on an open fire.

Children spent most evenings outside the pub doors, clutching a lemonade and an arrowroot biscuit playing endless games like ‘Mrs McGinty says’ or ‘hopscotch’. Adults were in the bars drinking, arguing with the Diddicoys (gypsies), or singing sentimental old favourites, perhaps ‘In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree’ to the accompaniment of thumps on the beer stained piano.

Queenie ed crazy ‘intoxicated Liz, dancing on the bar counter, amid the roars of approval from the men, and the crashing glasses. On overhearing Liz remark that ‘she had tried them all, both black and white and they were all the same, Queenie had asked her mother what Liz had meant, only to receive a ‘clip on the ear’, and hear her father laugh.

Those far off Kentish days had been magic, even when it had poured with rain on the occasion when Cyril had pushed her into the stinging nettles during a game of ‘Robin Hood’. The musical sound of the ice-cream van in the street outside nudged Queenie’s memory. The Silver Jubilee for King George V and Queen Mary in 1935, when red, white and blue flags, bunting and balloons had been strung across the street from one house to another, long trestle tables weighted down with huge jugs of rainbow-coloured cordials, iced cakes and sandwiches.

An accordion played and women danced still wearing their aprons, enjoying the noise and excitement. The junior school had celebrated the occasion earlier in the day where the girls were dressed in white, sleeveless dresses with red, white

and blue sashes, carried straw baskets filled with fruit or some products from the colonies.

The youngsters were preceded by the older pupils who were carrying banners depicting countries belonging to the Empire, a tall Britannia, with a golden trident and helmet led the procession. How proud and solemn we had been, posed under a large painting of St. George and the Dragon. That day stood out like a beacon amid the dreary days of the depression, and how we talked about it for months afterwards.

Queenie recalled some of the characters who had lived in the street. Vi, a young girl who had three illegitimate babes and had been ostracized by her own family. She did eventually marry Bill, the children’s father and produced seven more babies, all appeared to be happy.

Mrs. C, a thin, energetic woman who went to the doctor with a swollen ankle, asked to remove both stockings she was indignant, since she had only washed her bad leg.

Mrs. G, a large, elderly lady who always wore a black cloak which was rather ‘the worse for wear’, had a ‘posh’ accent and was treated with great respect, rather like a ‘lady of the manor’. She was a forbidding character, who regularly got drunk on Saturday nights and would bang on a galvanized bath hanging outside her kitchen door, but she could be quite respectable for the rest of the week. Queenie sighed, ah yes there had been plenty to keep tongues wagging.

The 2nd World War, seemed like only yesterday, where Cyril and I would spend long nights ‘fire-watching’ on high office buildings. Wearing boiler suits and tin hats, we doused incendiary bombs with the aid of stirrup pumps.

We had had a ‘birds-eye view of the London Blitz, and although we were well aware of the danger, we somehow felt the invulnerability of youth. It had been an exciting time, the familiar streets, unfamiliar in the ‘black out’, the mournful wail of the sirens, and the probing searchlights criss crossing the night sky, occasionally catching a silver enemy bomber in it beam, closely followed by the racket and vibrations of the ‘ack-ack’ guns and bombs exploding. Yet this was also a time of great friendliness as strangers spoke to one another and laughed at silly German jokes.

Cyril, shaking and embarrassed, asking me to marry him, to the cheers of people sheltering in the underground station, whilst a raid was in progress somewhere above us.

We settled down after the War, and following the family tradition, devoted all our spare time to charity activities. We worked in the local markets, on the race courses, at the Easter Parade in Hyde Park and in London pubs, collecting thousands of pounds and pennies for hospitals and children, and most folk were generous.

All our hard work was acknowledged when Cyril and I were invited to a Buckingham Palace Garden Party. Two nervous cockneys in Pearly King and Queen costumes, we caused quite a stir amongst all the flowered hats and morning suits. We were personally congratulated by a smiling Duchess of Kent, it was a moment we both treasured, never to be forgotten.

Queenie yawned, ‘a nice cup of tea’ she thought, and then I must start sewing thousands of pearl buttons on our son’s new outfit. I know that Cyril will lie comfortably in his own ‘Pearly suit’. She carefully placed the button she was holding into her work basket, patted the upside down wallpaper and murmured, “It was great fun love”.

HISTORICAL NOTE: Henry Croft started the tradition of sewing buttons on clothes back in 1875 so he could draw attention to himself to raise money for charities. He was in demand so asked his friends to help. The clothes have often been ed down the generations of Pearly Families or are remade by the successor but the tradition is for the man (Pearly King) to sew on all the buttons. (Ref Wikipedia)

CHAPTER TEN RONALD PEGRAM

Ron’s father George Pegram was born in about 1885 in Lee Kent, England, and died in 1959 in Lewisham London. He is the son of Charles Pegram and Sarah Jones. He married Lily Mary Pierson in 1907 in Lewisham. She was born in about 1889 in St. Leonards, Sussex England, and died in January 1940 in Lewisham Hospital. She is the daughter of Frederick C Pierson and Mary A Pierson.

Ronald’s was born on 20th December1927 in Lewisham, and was the youngest of 10 children. He was named after the English Actor, Ronald Coleman who was beautifully spoken, and a favourite of his Mother.

Ron had fond memories of his parents, unfortunately his Mother died when he was just 13 years of age, and so he went to live with his sister Gladys. He ed the Army with he was 17½. The War had finished about 8 months later, and so he opted to the Life Guards as his father had before him.

Ronald, seven-foot tall, in his high black-polished boots, and pure white plumed helmet. He wore a scarlet tunic, with shining cuirass, white buckskin breeches – gauntlets and carried a sword. He would sit comfortably on a white sheepskin covered saddle, on Mareth, a gleaming black Mare, whilst on guard duty at Whitehall.

Ron on Horseback (Mareth)

Ronald had ‘Trouped the Colour’ on four occasions (Monarch’s official birthday celebration), been on ‘Musical Rides’ at Earls Court, attended a ‘Knights of the Garter’ red carpet ceremony at Windsor Castle, where George VI, Queen Elizabeth, Princess Elizabeth, Prince Phillip, and Princess Margaret had attended. He had waited patiently with Mareth outside Buckingham Palace in November 1947 to escort Princess Elizabeth to Westminster Abbey on her Wedding Day. He was later called upon to escort the Princess and her new husband to Waterloo Station as they were leaving for their honeymoon.

HISTORICAL NOTE: Based on article in the April 1990 Issue of the Clopton Family Newsletter By James M. McMillen, [email protected]. With special thanks to The Churchill Society of London and Romance Communications.

(Ref Wikipedia) KNIGHTS OF THE GARTER

Descendants of William Clopton, Gentleman, and his wife Ann (Booth) Dennett are eligible to belong to The Society of the Friends of St. George’s and Descendants of the Knights of the Garter.

King Edward III founded the Knights of the Garter in 1348 as a noble fraternity consisting of the King, the Prince of Wales and 24 Knights Companion. This group was chosen for their chivalry and their valor at the Battle of Crecy in two years earlier.

Three of those, Ralph Stafford, 1st Earl of Stafford, Sir Miles Stapleton of Bedale, Yorkshire, and Ingham, Norfolk, and Thomas Beauchamp, 11th Earl of Warwick, are among the ancestors of William Clopton, Gentleman, of Virginia and his descendants. Later, two more ancestors became of the Order: Robert de Ufford, 1st Earl of Suffolk and Hugh Stafford, 2nd Earl of Stafford.

There are several versions of the origin of the Order. The most picturesque is the following anecdote said to be of King Edward. Edward III was crowned King of England on February 1, 1327, at the age of fourteen.

His age, and the fact that he had lived in the shadow of his father’s craven lifestyle, could explain his idealism and his iration for King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Unlike his father Edward II, who had been a weak ruler, the young Edward desired to prove himself through acts of valor and quickly gained the respect of his people by following the standards set by his grandfather Edward I.

Tradition has it that during a ball held to mark Edward’s recent victories in , the garter of a titled lady fell off while she was dancing. Some say it was the Countess of Salisbury and others argue it was Joan of Kent. Whoever she was, she was saved embarrassment by the king’s quick action.

He immediately picked up the blue garter, slipped it about his knee, and declared “I shall turn it into the most honored garter ever worn.” One has it that the words honi souit qui mal y pense was inscribed on the garter while another attribute the words to the king himself. No matter, the words provided the motto for Europe’s oldest surviving order of knighthood: “Shame on him who thinks ill of it.”

The conferment of the Order entails adoption into knighthood and, for the Knights Companion, the right to use the title “Sir” before their Christian names. Further, the holders of the Order are entitled to add the letters “K.G.” or “L.G.” after their surnames or title.

From the earliest times ladies were received into the Order as “honorary ” but this practice died out under Henry VIII. It was not until the reign of Edward VII that the King’s Consort was automatically a “Lady of the Garter.”

The Statutes of the Order have recently been amended to allow ission of females as Ladies Companion. The first such ission was that of Lavinia, Duchess of Norfolk, in 1990. Those who visit Windsor Castle may see St. George’s Chapel, founded the same year as the Order. This living church, burial place of many sovereigns, belongs to the College of St. George and is ed in part by contributions of The Society of the Friends of St. George and descendants of the Knights of the Garter.

The Household Cavalry are the Sovereign’s personal bodyguards.

June’s Father was in the Life Guards during Queen Victoria’s and Edward VII’s time, and would have formed part of their escort. Strangely enough Ron’s Father had also been in the Household Cavalry in 1914, so it appears to have been almost a family tradition. Very much a part of our History on both sides of the family.

Beneath all of these resplendent trappings, was ‘Ron’a chap who loved playing soccer and cricket. A bloke who didn’t even complain (at least not in my hearing), when my humorous hound Johnny, sat with panache, on Ron’s highly, spit-polished footwear after enjoying a watery dip in the Serpentine Lake at Hyde Park on a Sunday.

What red-bloodied girl could ignore such a catch?

I married him – on 20th of December 1948, on his 21st Birthday.

CHAPTER ELEVEN MY WEDDING DAY

The day arrived, as did a bevy of sisters who ‘hogged’ the only decent mirror in the house, leaving the Bride to Be bereft of means to examine her wedding finery, which was a beautiful oxford blue velvety ‘new look’ suit, worn with a jaunty sideways on beige hat. I looked good, that is what bits were visible in a saucepan lid!

Arriving with Mother at the Parish Church, (Mum gave me away, with many sighs of relief I think), we argued all the way down the aisle, as to who should walk to the left or right, however, Ronald and I did manage to get ‘hitched’. I was just 19 years old.

The craziest wedding I have ever attended -— my own. The first inkling that perhaps ‘things’ might turn a trifle whimsical, was when, the Vicar, a Mr. Simmons, called the banns, one Sunday morning, not, as one would imagine -— towards the congregation, but delivered entirely to – an unresponsive, stone wall, behind the pulpit. We discovered later, that our eccentric Vicar – had his eyes shut!

We should no doubt, have known better than to count our chickens before they hatched for whosoever loaded our box camera, placed the film in ….. upside down, therefore we had no photographs to show our future grandchildren. We actually had our only photo taken, two days after our Wedding Day.

The ceremony, having been successfully resolved, the family enjoyed a buffet meal, and by early afternoon our guests had all decamped by bus and train for London, whilst Mum and Ethel had to be at the Princess of Wales ready to open the pub at five o’clock.

Our Wedding may have been slightly chaotic, but how lucky we were to have been married in the beautiful Norman church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in the village at Dymchurch.

CHAPTER TWELVE 1949 – 1953

Ron left the Army in October 1949, and ed Johnny and me at Dymchurch, I was pregnant.

He began a grocery delivery service with a tiny blue Austin van, criss-crossing the Romney Marshes. He converted a huge, heavy kitchen cupboard into a solid shop counter, and generally kept himself busy.

Jeffrey Charles was born on 23rd March 1950 at Willesborough Hospital in Kent. He was a lusty bouncing baby weighing just over nine pounds.

I became ill and therefore unable to run the shop, so we left Dymchurch and returned to live at the pub in Chelsea, until such times as we could find a home of our own. It was extremely difficult to find accommodation and even the Council housing list was unable to give us any hope, it would be several years before we should become eligible. This was due to the returning married soldiers from the War, (most of whom were still waiting for a home, often living with their own parents or in-laws), plus, the bombing had reduced much of the small terraced homes to rubble, with whole streets having to be demolished. New towns were being built outside London, plus blocks of high rise flats, but they were not being constructed fast enough. Our chances of obtaining one was practically nil.

At the tender age of 21 years, I was very ill, it was just 3 months after Jeffrey was born, when I was rushed to the Folkestone hospital where they took three

and a half pints of fluid off my lungs, I had Pleuresy. I also had a tear in my lungs. Mum immediately came ‘to the rescue’, gathering Jeffrey up in her arms, and taking him home with her to Chelsea.

I, and another patient were ‘put-to-bed’ on an extremely breezy verandah, where we remained ‘in isolation’ for three months, after which time I was allowed home for a short while. Ron and I were able to see and play with Jeffrey Charles, before I was ‘packed off’ to a sanatorium in the Isle of Wight for several months. During this time Mum and Ethel looked after Jeffrey.

During my time convalescing, I received a marvelous letter from my sister in law, Clem, where she made flippant remarks which made me smile. She also sent me a beautiful red bag, which I treasured.

When I was sent home, I went back to the pub in Chelsea, where Ron had returned some time earlier. Josephine and her husband having taken over the running of the shop at Dymchurch.

It was Ethel now who was desperately ill in Brompton Hospital, and Mum was totally exhausted, so when Ron arrived home after finishing work, he immediately took over running the Pub. I helped out where I could, visiting Ethel most days, caring for Jeffrey and shopping etc

Ethel had two very nasty major lung operations, before going to Frimley Sanatorium. Later she spent a year convalescing at Wyn and Gerald’s home in Edgeware.

1952

Catherine was born on 6th October 1952 at Queen Charlottes Hospital in London. She weighed just seven pounds, and was long, skinny and pale and although the Nurses would unwrap her, they could find nothing wrong. I spent six weeks in hospital altogether, having two operations for breast abscesses, very unpleasant!

It was obvious that Mum could not carry on the business at the ‘Princess’ any longer, so amidst all the worry and chaos, we packed the china, glassware etc and moved out of the pub in May 1953. Mum went to live at Dymchurch, with Ethel following later. Little Aunty Ethel was already living at Rothwell Street with Aunty Beatrice.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN ASLETT STREET - 1953 – 1956

Leaving the “Princess of Wales’ public house, after Mother had retired, we, that is -– Ron, Jeffrey (three years), Catherine (six months), Johnny Walker (our dog) and I, had a choice! The ‘Workhouse’ (a real possibility), or use our ‘nest egg’ to place a deposit on a cheap house. We opted for a terraced property in Wandsworth, which boasted an out-side lavatory (to be shared with the family in the lower flat), plus a chicken run, ‘conveniently’ located outside the ‘loo’ door where Mrs. ‘H’ frequently ‘dispatched’ a noisy bird.

Our upstairs establishment had -— one cold water tap in the kitchen, a bath with heavy lid, but no water, and -– a plague of mice. It took us a very short time to discover that the Workhouse might have been a better proposition.

Mr ‘H’, our sitting tenant, who paid the magnificent sum of twelve shillings a week rent, was a fiend! Every time we moved about in ‘our’ flat, he would bang on his ceiling with a broom handle or shout abuse up the stairwell. Occasionally, he would scatter chicken dropping on the lavatory seat. Another delightful trick was to force me into the roadway by blocking the pavement with his overt belligerence and vast belly.

I spent many days in the freezing park with the children and Johnny, to escape the harassment of ‘home’, although the flat itself was like a fridge, since the coalman refused to deliver ‘up’ and ‘down’ our narrow stairs and ‘H’ would not allow anything to be delivered to the communal backyard via his kitchen. Unfortunately we could not afford an electric heater as the meter ate shillings at a prodigious rate.

‘H’s next tactic was quite spectacular, he took us to High Court no less, where we were accused of creating excessive noise in an effort to dislodge him, which was blatantly untrue. Presumably ‘H’ thought he could sue us for a large sum of money (we had none), or like previous owner-occupiers ‘H’ wanted us out. Ron

and I eventually got ‘Legal Aid’, but only for our Defence, we could not accuse him.

To pay legal fees, I had to go to work, firstly in a toy factory then as a door-todoor saleswoman for Surf washing powder. I supervised six women, and found the job exhausting as we had to walk up and down many stairwells to reach people living in high rise apartments.

I later went out to work as a Conductress on a Number 31 Bus at Battersea, which in itself was a ‘tale to tell’. I was absolutely hopeless with figures which proved to be quite a problem in my job. When the bus came into the depot at the end of each day, the other staff would sit down and work out my ‘takings’ which was a wonderful thing for them to do.

Another incident was when I first started, and was unfortunate enough to be placed with a ‘difficult’ driver. The bus was full and there were people standing in the rain at the bus stop. The fact that I was taking fares on the upper deck meant that I did not know anyone had actually got onto the bus.

The rule was that there are only a certain number of engers that are allowed to stand at any one time. Although not allowed, there was nothing I could do about it, I wasn’t going to ask them to get off the bus, especially in the wet weather. Well, the bus driver got out of his seat and came around to the back door where he proceeded to ‘blast’ me for not following the rules.

Now, I am not a person who is backward in coming forward, so once the driver had resumed his seat at the helm, I went and stood in front of the bus, so obviously he could not move, and proceeded to give him as good as he gave me. Once having said my piece, I returned to the bus where I received a hardy round of applause from the engers.

The Driver reported me to the Inspector, who although sympathetic, did reprimand me. However there was an unusual ending to this little saga, as the driver landed up buying me a box of chocolates. Who said life on the buses was boring!

There were humorous moments at the flat, ‘Granny’ (no relation) who lived next door with her numerous brood collected junk. Her backyard was ‘stuffed’ with old iron bedsteads etc. Granny usually got drunk on Saturday nights, and would entertain the entire neighborhood by rendering a rowdy tattoo on a galvanized bath, which hung on a nail by her back door. I liked her.

Another eccentric was an elderly ‘lady’, who always wore a long, green cloak. She was rather elegant and spoke with an ‘upper-class’ accent. I often wondered why she lived in Aslett Street. A not so salubrious, younger women with three children, a husband and lover, all living together in a tiny flat. ‘She’, ruled the roost and apparently it was against her principles to pay bills. When there was a ‘rap at the door’, her children played ‘possum’, not a peep out of them. The poor ‘tally man’ or ‘wireless licence inspector always retired empty handed.

A brawny construction worker ‘knitted’ delicate, lacy cardigans for his wife, their red headed son was the junior chess and quiz champion of Wandsworth.

A street funeral was always well attended by neighbors, often in carpet slippers and curlers, as they would stand either side of the pathway in silence for the coffin to . Every curtain in the street was closed as a mark of respect. Street life was certainly interesting.

Unfortunately, my health broke down due to our circumstances and the children were initially placed in a Day Nursery, but life became completely untenable at Aslett Street. Mum and Ethel took the children to live at Dymchurch. Ron remained in the flat, finally managing to sell the house. He paid Aunt Ethel the fifty pounds we had borrowed, and finished paying the installments on the ‘Legal Aid. The original ‘nest egg’ had vanished!

Amazing as it may seem, my Brother Joe’s children were also in need of care at virtually the same time as my sister-in-law had ed away, so they also need to be cared for. For a time there were four small children at Dymchurch, which of course was not sustainable, so Ron and I decided to send Jeffrey and Catherine to a private children’s home on the Kent coast, near Dymchurch. Johnny was ‘put to sleep’. Our world was very bleak.

The court case dragged on for eighteen months, but was eventually ‘thrown out’ as too trivial. Easter 1956.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN HARROWING TIMES

In 1956, I was rushed to St John’s Hospital with a hemorrhage. I was diagnosed with Tuberculosis (TB), something which was quite prevalent after the War. The next period of my life consisted of lying in a hospital bed and not being allowed to move a muscle, this was called ‘absolute’. They moved me into the corner of the ward, so they could wheel me out as and when necessary, but I wasn’t having any of it, and complained so bitterly to one of the doctors as did my Mother when she came into see me. She told them I would die if left in the corner. They returned me to the main part of the ward.

Ron received two telegrams during those first few days advising him that I had been put on the ‘Danger List’, and obviously not supposed to survive. A shocking time for the whole family, but luck must have been on my side, as I survived. It took twelve months, which is an infinite amount of time to be incapacitated, of treatment. Treatment that was uncomfortable in those early days of medicine as the nursing staff had to put packs of ice on my chest to stop the continual bleeding.

During my stay in the St John’s Hospital at Battersea, I met other TB sufferers, Jean, Audrey, Agnes and Joan, and we were allowed to sit out on the balcony for short periods, once we had been stabilized. I stayed there for several months, then Jean and I were transferred by ambulance to the station and placed into a private compartment. We arrived at Dorking and were whisked off to a Sanatorium near Dorking, where we were immediately put back to bed, exhausted.

The Sanatorium was an old house overlooking magnificent gardens, so our time

on the balcony was one to be cherished. We became known as the ‘Annex Girls’ We all became great friends during that time and kept in touch for many years afterwards.

I was at the sanatorium for many months after which time I went back to Dymchurch to be cared for by Mum and Ethel. When I arrived at Dymchurch and opened the front door, Catherine was carrying her dinner through to the dining room. She took one look at me, handed me her plate and then ran away into the kitchen. I am sure she knew who I was, but was uncertain about greeting me. It must have been close to a year that the children and I stayed at Dymchurch.

During this period I had to attend the hospital every week for ongoing treatment called a peritoneum, this is where they fill your stomach with air which in turn pushes your lungs upwards to assist with breathing. Although successful in its intent, it was like feeling pregnant for the entire period of the treatment, as my stomach was forever ‘blown up’. Very uncomfortable and confronting for a young woman, however effective.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN MUM & ETHEL SYNOPSIS

Reproduced this piece written by Winnifred, as her of the circumstances surrounding her mother Ada and sister Ethel in what was a tumultuous period for the both of them, and the family as a whole. She wrote:

Mum thinks that, ‘considering everything’, she hasn’t done too badly’, so, let us consider everything. When Father died she had two children still at school, and the War was looming. She had to take over the running of the business when Father became ill, and now continued to do so. Ethel left her job and ed her. Josephine also helped for a time. First they ran the Camden Head, then the Princess of Wales. Shortly after their move, the War started. With Battersea Power Station just across the river, Chelsea was no place to be when the bombs arrived, so Edwin and June were sent away to school

It was no small achievement to have kept the ‘Princess’ running throughout the War. Doing all the cellar work as well as the bar work, and even scrubbing out the bars on their hands a knees when cleaning help was no longer available. Working in the ‘blackout’ in the enclosed and smoky atmosphere of the bars in the evening and sleeping in the cellars during the raids. Little Auntie Ethel helped out ‘upstairs’.

In 1952, it was discovered that Ethel had Tuberculosis (TB), and that it was far advanced. She was still working flat out when it was discovered. The Doctors said that she must have contracted it at least two years previously. Then, it was off to hospital for two major operations, hospitalization for one and a half years, and convalescence with me for a year.

Meanwhile, with help from other of the family, Mum carried on. At some point, June went to Dymchurch for a short break, Joey went with her. They saw a village shop for sale, ‘Woodland Stores;, and took a fancy to it. Mum bought it as an investment.

After a while, Mum’s Income Tax Inspector got suspicious as the shop was continually losing money. In his book NOBODY, but nobody continued to run a business which lost money year after year. Frightening official documents started to arrive. Huge Tax Demands, which she couldn’t possibly owe. Long questionnaires about what she had spent on this and that, (clothes for instance) over the previous seven years. It was all too much.

She was running a business, and chasing down to Dymchurch as often as she could to try and sort things out. She was getting into debt. Her ‘right hand man’ was presumably disabled, and now the Tax man was hounding her. It became obvious that she was heading for a breakdown.

Gerald her son-in-law, offered to try and sort out her financial affairs. He asked for all the relevant papers for the previous seven years. Mother took him to a cupboard, opened the door, looked at the papers spilling higgledy – piggledy from the shelves and said “There you are”. Gerald, a meticulously tidy man, stared in stunned disbelief.

All the documents were scooped into two suitcases and transported to my dining room. The table was pulled out to its fullest extent, and then Ethel and I set to work to sort things out. There were all the papers for both Dymchurch and ‘The Princess’ businesses, domestic and personal, and they all had to be sorted into their relevant piles -— and years. It took days and days.

Ethel now says that she reached a point where, if she saw Gerald with some papers in his hand, she would avoid him, if she could. I don’t how long it took to bring order out of the chaos. One has to that all the figuring had to be done by the old fashioned manual and mental arithmetic method. Calculators had not been invented. Eventually Gerald felt that he had a case to present, and made an appointment with the Tax Office. Happily even the Taxman said that he was happy about it, Gerald was able to prove that, not only did Mum NOT owe money, but actually had a case for a reclaim which was obtained.

By now, family help in the business was no longer available, and Mum decided that her only hope was to run the shop herself, so ‘The Princess’ was given up and Mum moved to Dymchurch.

Joey and Joe and the two children were still living there, and Ethel ed them all later. Unhappily the atmosphere was fraught, as Joe liked to be Boss, and thought that he knew best. Mum does not take kindly to being TOLD anything, and anyway she didn’t agree with him. Joey had to contend with the chores for two small children, and a husband that demanded a clean shirt every day, which was difficult to provide, (no drip-dry in those days). She was also pregnant and there was no bathroom.

Ethel got shingles. I seeing her with one eye and the side of her face all inflamed. She was the picture of UTTER misery. Luckily, before the baby was born, Joe and Joey got a place of their own. Mother and Ethel were then able to start sorting themselves out.

One has to that Mum, already sixty five years old, had to do all the heavy work. Ethel was a semi-invalid who was not allowed, or usually even able to do any lifting or shifting of goods. She also had to have a rest every afternoon. It must have been difficult for her, over all these years, to have to watch Mother working so hard. It has of course got harder and harder as Mum got older and

older. This situation obviously caused some friction between them as frustrations showed. However, when one really thinks about what has been done over the years, one can hardly believe it.

If you take the original ingredients – an elderly woman, a semi-invalid, a business losing money, and debts of around £2,000 (pre inflation), and family worries as June becomes ill and Jeffrey and Catherine come to live. Joe is widowed, and Johnny and Shelley come to live.

For several years there were two and sometimes four children being cared for, with all the usual washing, cooking disciplining and coping with upsets, illnesses and mayhem that looking after children entails, PLUS a shop to run! The shop opened up before 7.30 each morning and closed at 6.00 in the evening during the winter, and in summer it might not close until 9.00 pm, 7 days a week. The mind boggles.

After the children had been reclaimed, a new phase began. Bed and Breakfast, Caravans for letting – one caravan on site, and one in the yard outside the back door. Cooking for the shop:- home-made pies – five varieties made daily. Spiced bread pudding, made from the unsold bread. Ethel says that people in the shop would smell this as it was cooking, and that it would be sold before it came out of the oven.

Jams and Marmalade was a regular job with crates of Seville oranges standing in the hall waiting to be processed. All peeled and sliced by hand, until I was lucky enough to come across a special gadget. Only five pounds of preserve could be boiled at any one time, owing to the limited facilities. One year over three hundred pounds of fruit was transformed into spreads.

Add to this the disruptions of family visits. The Aunts and Uncle Edwin for

instance, Joey’s children who would drop in almost daily on their way home from school, and Joey would drop in when shopping. In their ‘spare’ time, Mum and Ethel did redecorating, Mum up the ladder, Ethel on the lower slopes. As I said, the mind boggles.

When help has been offered, they make it infuriatingly and frustratingly difficult to give. Still, I suppose it is that bloody minded determination and independence that has kept them going for so long. Mum has always said that you don’t know what you can do until you have to. I would agree with that philosophy.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN JOE & EDDIE’S EXPLOITS

THE MAYFLOWER

Received two letters (ship’s mail) from Joe, he was on the ‘Mayflower’ (exact replica of the Pilgrim Father’s ship). He referred to the ship as ‘an old tub’, he wrote, “Should be off Plymouth Plantations by next Friday night, -— all being well, perhaps then we shall stop rolling about”.

Mayflower II is a replica of the 17th century ship Mayflower, celebrated for transporting the Pilgrims to the New World. The replica was built in Devon, England, during 1955–1956, in a collaboration between Englishman Warwick Charlton and Plimouth Plantation, an American museum. The work drew from reconstructed ship blueprints held by the American museum with hand construction by English shipbuilders’ using traditional methods.

On 20 April 1957, recreating the original voyage, Mayflower II was sailed across the Atlantic Ocean under the command of Alan Villiers. According to the ship’s log, Mayflower II was towed up the East River into New York City on Monday, July 1, 1957.

Afterwards, Villiers and crew received a ticker-tape parade in New York City. Built at the Upham Shipyard in Brixham and financed by private donations in England and the Plimoth Plantation, the ship represented the alliance between the United Kingdom and the USA for collaboration in World War II.

Within a few details (electric lights added and ladder replaced with a lower-deck staircase), the ship is considered to be a faithful replica, with solid oak timbers, tarred hemp rigging, and hand-coloured maps.

The ship is 106ft (32 m) long by 25ft (7.6 m) wide, 236 tons displacement, 4 masts (mainmast, foremast, mizzen, sprit), and 6 sails.

Captain Villiers referred to Joe as ‘a Gentle Giant’

Wikkipedia: Plimoth Plantation is a living museum in Plymouth, Massachusetts, USA, that shows the original settlement of the Plymouth Colony established in the 17th century by English colonists, some of whom later became known as Pilgrims

INTERVIEW WITH ADA REGARDING HER SONS, JOE AND EDDIE

On Ada’s 80th Birthday, she was interviewed by Nancy Ward on how she felt about having two sons who were famous in the film industry for being top of their field stuntmen. The interview related under the article ‘Her Sons Went Up In Flames’ as detailed here.

“You must have been extremely worried”, I said to eighty year old Mrs. Ada Powell “when both your sons went up in flames last year”. “In flames, were they?” I didn’t know. They never tell me anything much. Perhaps it is just as well!”

Mrs. Powell has cause to worry over her sons. Joe, forty one and Eddie forty, are two of Britain’s leading stuntmen. They risk death every day of their working lives.

“They have been stuntmen now for over twenty years” their mother told me as we sat talking in the cosy sitting room behind the general store that she4 runs in Dymchurch, Kent.

“Joe ed the Grenadier Guards when he was just a lad”, she said. “Then he was in the Commandos. You know how they like to jump and climb about, I think that gave him a taste for stunting. When he finished his war service, he decided to be a stuntman. One night, when he had been working at it for a while, I heard him persuading his brother Eddie. “He told him extra riders were needed on set the next day, she said. “That was it, Eddie ed his brother as a stuntman”.

Since then, between them the pair have run the gamut of danger. Besides being ‘burned alive’, they have fallen from cliffs, from masts and from staircases. They have swum in shark-infested waters – in fact, they have done all the things the insurance men considered too great a risk for the actors”.

I asked their mother if she had tried to dissuade her sons from taking this risky job. “Of course not”, she replied, “We are all independent characters, we have to be. I have six children and their father died over thirty years ago.

She continued “Mind you, I will confess I am glad they do not tell me all the dangerous things they get up to. When they bring their wives and children down to visit, they often bring colour films of the interesting parts of the world they

have travelled to. But they take very great care never to bring me shots of the dangerous work they have done”.

Mrs. Powell and her daughter Ethel, who helps run the shop like to watch television. “We always recognize the boys,” Mrs. Powell said, ‘even if they only appear briefly. Plunging from a great height or hanging on the side of a lorry over a cliff edge, we can always say ‘That’s Eddie or that’s Joe”.

Eddie had a warm time in the recent filming of ‘The Inquisitor’, he was burned alive in an asbestos suit. “It got rather warm”, was his only comment, but firemen were standing by ready to douse the flames as soon as he signaled.

At present Joe and Eddie are in Austria stunting in ‘Where Eagles Dare’, a war film. There are fights off top of swaying cable cars and a fifty foot jump from a roof.

“I realize how some mothers would worry all the time,” said Mrs. Powell. “I don’t though. It is the life they have chosen. “They have been stunting a long time now, and we take it all as a matter of course”.

“But,” she continued with a smile, “do not forget to say that I’m proud of them”.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CRAWLEY - ‘NEW TOWN’

1957

Ron was working at Crawley New Town, in order to qualify for a council house on the estate.

Then we had some fantastic piece of luck, we were actually allocated a council house in Crawley and in 1957 we finally, the children, Ron and I moved in.

We had survived, but would never forget the nightmare that was Aslett Street. A brand new council house …………………… and garden! Jeffrey seven years and Catherine four and a half, home at last. Ron, happy to have his family together June, wondering if she could cope.

NOVEMBER 1958

Like a bombshell, in November 1958, Catherine had to have a major heart operation at University College Hospital in London. The diagnosis came from a routine school medical checkup that all school aged children had to have. It took

six months for Catherine to recover.

JULY 1959

David Andrew born on 18th July 1959, a happy, smiling babe, and life sailed upon more tranquil waters.

Summer 1960

Leaving Ron to care for David, and watch the Olympics on television, I took Jeffrey and Catherine youth hostelling in the New Forrest. We enjoyed three consecutive sun filled days, the only warm days of that particularly wet summer season.

Life in Crawley had its drawbacks, Ron travelled up to London each day to work, (extra money in his pay-packet), yet we had no cash to spare. He would leave home by about six in the morning and not return home until six or seven o’clock at night. He also worked every Saturday morning. This was of course a grueling schedule, as he worked on a number of building sites, which was demanding on his health, he always appeared to have a cold.

I took a job picking mushrooms, imagining the job entailed strolling gracefully through misty, green fields carrying a basket, however was totally disillusioned when handed a helmet with lamp attached, (like a coal miner’s hat), then being thrust, unceremoniously into a dark, musty shed with bunk-like beds of ‘cultivated’ mushrooms. I quickly changed my ‘field’ of employment, to work in a toy shop.

We lived in Crawley for six years, during which time we didn’t seem to be progressing. Money was incredibly tight (Ron working as a ‘casual’ did not get paid if the weather turned bad), and life had stagnated. It was at that time the idea of emigrating raised it head, as there had been a strong marketing campaign being promoted to entice families to move to Australia.

Although we had a large house with modern amenities, we decided to take a chance and move to Australia. Many English families were emigrating at this time. The cost was €20 and by scooping together every penny we had, we just scrapped in with the required amount. We were offered the chance to go to South Australia, and in April 1963, we were packed and ready to chance our luck in a land of what we hoped would bring new opportunities.

I took Jeffrey and Catherine on a day tour of London in 1963, just before we immigrated to Australia. I wanted them to something of London, which was timely as Catherine was 10 and Jeffrey 12 years old. These photos show them enjoying their experiences of visiting Trafalgar Square, where they fed the pigeons, St. Pauls’ Cathedral, Trafalgar Square and the Traitor’s Gate in the Tower of London.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN DYMCHURCH

A fortnight’s holiday each year was spent at Dymchurch with Mum and Ethel. This was a very special time for the whole family, being that the house was only a hundred yards or so from the beach, where the children especially, loved their time spent on the ‘sands’ with their cousins.

Dymchurch is one of the most idyllic seaside towns, nestled on the coast at Kent and has a long history stretching back the Romans. Smuggling was very much a part of the town’s history from medieval times, with wool being smuggled across the Channel to Flanders. Later, it was tobacco and alcoholic liquor. This illegal trade was inspired by Russell Thorndike a local author who created the character of ‘Dr Syn’, a fictional vicar come smugger who had become famous in folklore. The antics of Dr Syn, alias the ‘Scarecrow’ is reenacted bi annually in the ‘Day of Syn’ celebrations in the town.

Two events altered the character of the Village, firstly, the construction of a Nuclear Power Station at Dungeness (a headland on the coast of Kent formed largely of a shingle beach), where trucks carrying heavy equipment ed through the narrow High Street. Secondly, the proliferation of the ‘family’ car. Villagers and holiday makers now take their custom to supermarkets in Hythe and new Romney, consequently many village shops have been financially stretched and have gone out of business.

Fifty years ago (when there was a much smaller population), there were three butcher shops now, not one. Just one greengrocer and replacing the ‘wet-fish’ shop, a van calls once a week. ‘Coopers’, a large clothing, shoe and haberdashery emporium (Mrs. Cooper knew all the preferences of her

customers), is no more. ‘Smiths’ the family grocery store, became a Bingo Hall and later, a second hand market and electrical store.

‘Woodland Stores’, (Mum’s small village shop), unfortunately situated at the wrong end of the High Street however, although away from the main shopping area, was well-known and appreciated for Ethel’s fruit pies and bread puddings. The shop closed in 1972.

‘Uptons’ Antiques and second hand furniture shop was constructed of four railway carriages ed together, and was run by three elderly brothers, Tom, Monty and Henry. Tom was a paraplegic who lay on his mobile bed, knew the price of every piece of merchandise. The Villagers would pop in to say hello. The Uptons were well known around the Romney Marshes. Now the shop has been replaced by two modern houses.

Many of the vacated shops have become meccas for cheap seaside souvenirs, video games and poker machines. The village shop has been decimated, such is progress!

Dymchurch in winter must be in my estimation, the coldest place in the universe. The sea-wall, just fifty yards away from the shop front, and the glacial Romney Marsh gales howling and punching at the back door, and into the outside loo. Dymchurch, (especially the outside loo), was not a place to linger.

Our only trade was via the head-scarved mothers battling their way against ferocious winds, while escorting their off-spring to and from the village school.

Summer, brought the bed and breakfast crowds and caravans, attracted by the

sandy beach, and the advert: ‘Dymchurch, a Paradise for Children’. Through summer, visitors erected canvas shelters to escape the stinging sharpness of the wind-blown sand, and when I went swimming, I would race home to get warm and dry beside the kitchen fire. Initially, I did not like the narrow twisting lanes and flat landscape of the Romney Marshes, but eventually, grew to love it.

Our annual holiday with Mum and Ethel, were a great delight to the whole family, especially the children, as it became a wonderful environment for them to enjoy and spend time with their Gran and Auntie.

They loved to frolic on the ‘sands’ and dip their toes into the ocean and even build sand castles whilst eagerly watched by one of the adults. Then home to a ‘hosing down’ in the backyard to ensure all the sand was left outside the back door and not traipsed through the house.

There were times also when John and Shelley, their cousins would visit at the same time, and this was an extra special treat for Jeffrey and Catherine, as there were only a few months difference in ages between each of them.

The children would ‘race’ to Ethel’s bedroom each morning, so that they could get the best ‘position’, next to her so they could listen and be delighted by her many wonderful stories. Not from books, but from her imagination, perhaps about little boys and girls that stayed with their Grandmother and Auntie whilst at the beach, and what wonderful antics they would get up to each day.

Dymchurch became the ‘hub’ for the Powells and Pegrams over many years. It was where the family stories came in the front door with one person, to be ed onto the next visitor crossing the threshold. It was certainly a way of keeping up with the family ‘goings on’. Aunts, Great Aunts, Uncles, Brothers, Sisters and of course the cousins, we all loved being there.

I feel that Dymchurch was to my children, what Cousley Wood was to me, a place to enjoy the wonders of childhood, a place of cherished memories.

THE STRAY

It was many years later that June wrote this story. It is a reflection on life at Dymchurch, from the perspective of a mischievous feline. The three old ladies were Ada (June’s mother), Ethel, (June’s sister) and the ‘roly- poly lady’, was her Aunt, known as ‘Little Auntie Ethel’. The cat did indeed ‘worm’ its way into the affections of these three women, and remained there until it died many years later of ‘old age’.

The bedraggled, gaunt, tortoiseshell tom-cat, peered woefully from the shelter of an outside lavatory. He shivered and contemplated his uncertain future.

The old cat’s life had never been easy, always being referred to as ‘that bloody animal’ by his erstwhile owners. When a large energetic puppy had been introduced into the household, the cat’s life became unbearable, not only did the pup steal his food, but would sit like a sack of potatoes on the sleeping cat, flattening still further the skinny frame. The cat thought it was time to ‘move on’.

The cement floor of the lavatory was cold and uncomfortable, but at least he was out of the Marsh winds. He eyed a large apple tree and noticed that the heavy branches leaned against an ancient, brick shed. He decided to investigate. Climbing up, he discovered a broken window and jumped nimbly through the jagged glass onto an upper floor. Here, the ‘flotsam and jetsam’ of many years had been accumulated; broken armchairs, newspapers, cardboard boxes, and a tattered shopping basket.

The cat determined that he had found a dry bed for the night, peeping into the basket he found a family of mice. He quickly dispatched a couple for his supper,

the rest had scampered off to safer quarters. The cat, temporarily satisfied, settled down for a nap.

The following morning, much refreshed, the Tom searched for his breakfast amongst the bric-a-brac, and having appeased his immediate hunger, took up a position by the window to watch the back door of the big house.

An elderly, but sprightly woman emerged, she vigorously shoveled up a bucket of coal from the bunker and moved back into the house. The cat waited patiently while fastidiously cleaning his whiskers with his paws.

An hour later, a younger woman emerged with a shopping basket on her arm. The cat was alert, but saw no evidence of a dog. When the woman returned, she left the back door slightly ajar. The cat crept down from the shed and slipped quietly and unobserved into the warm kitchen. He sat close to the Rayburn heater which was bliss.

The older woman suddenly noticed the scrawny interloper. She pounced and unceremoniously tossed him outside, shutting the door with a determined bang. The cat flicked his tail angrily and returned to his observation post in the shed. Later, he saw yet another woman, she was elderly with grey wispy hair and was quite plump, and was heading for the lavatory, the cat followed.

When the lady was comfortably ensconced, he rubbed his thin body against her lisle stocking legs, peering up at her through half closed eyes. The woman smiled and lent down to stroke the bony cat, “poor puss”, he purred obligingly, though the sound came out more like an outlandish croak, he thought she looked generous. The cats appraisal was accurate, as later that morning a saucer of milk and some meaty pieces appeared at the back door.

The Tom cat possessed all the cunning of his species. For the next few days he sat stoically by the back door, trying his best to look hungry and pathetic, and was rewarded with milk, food and an occasional gentle pat.

He listened intently to the arguments between the three women in the house; the tall elderly woman was not in favour of having ‘another cat’, when all their previous feline pets had come to an untimely end on the main road, it was much to upsetting. The younger woman suggested that perhaps the cat would reduce the mouse population, while the timid elderly lady thought that a cat would make their home look cosy.

The ancient Tom went into action. He escorted the younger female to the gate on her shopping excursions and waited for her return, when he would present three or four neatly arranged dead mice. He was attentive to the second roly-poly lady by giving her the soft-soap treatment, she was a ‘push over’. The cat instinctively realized that he needed to get into the ‘good graces’ of the older woman, -- he waited.

An opportunity presented itself when he again managed to slip into the kitchen, and found the old lady sitting by the Rayburn, she was asleep. He jumped very gently onto her lap and lay purring quietly in his guttural way. When the woman awoke, she automatically stroked the warm fur with her hard, work-roughened hand saying “I don’t want you, you’ll be a nuisance, I know you will”. Neverthe-less the heavy hand did not stop stroking and the cat’s slightly extended claws clung to her apron, he had no intention of losing such a hard won position.

Having decided that ‘he’ was to become a member of the family, he was named October, as that was the month in which he had appeared. He was very careful not to venture close to the main road and would present his ladies with a reasonable quota of dead mice in lieu of rent, though he did indulge himself by

consuming an occasional plump one.

October was ‘home’, he was warm, well fed and petted. His only complaint was that his companions would insist on smothering his coat in eucalyptus oil every Saturday night, in a vain attempt to cure his hoarse voice. It made his eyes water and his local feline friends kept their distance, but it was a small price to pay for Utopia.

October had discovered a safe harbour-sanctuary, though he never became fat or lost his outlandish ‘croak’.

CHAPTER NINETEEN IMMIGRATION

LEAVING DYMCHURCH

Ron & June

Catherine, Jeffrey, Ada, John (Nephew)

& David in front

LEAVING HOME

‘Leaving Home’ was written by June using Hannah’s experiences to describe how she felt about home and her angst of leaving her ‘world’ to travel to Australia, about trying to hold onto the past whilst also embracing the future, obviously a tumultuous time. Particularly poignant is the reference:

‘as if the sepia images held the formula to the secret of keeping their familiar lifestyle safe here within their own tiny fortress’ and ‘the building of new castles in the future’

The young woman stood at the waters’ edge watching the waves crashing against the rocks. Thrusting her hands deep into the warm copious pockets of her winter coat, Hannah drew the woolen folds closer against her to keep out the cold. She loved the wildness of the sea, the tearing wind and the dark, turbulent sky, it was exciting and took her breath away.

A few barking dogs raced along the stony beach accompanied by their doting owners, who struggled and leaned against the gale force wind and salt spray, their heavy coats billowing behind them, as if made of some cotton material giving the impression of puppets manipulated by an intoxicated puppeteer. It was a familiar winter tableau.

As the walkers ed Hannah, they all wished her a breathless “Merry Christmas”, whilst continuing to thrust and angle their thick walking sticks into the pebbles, in an effort to make headway.

Turning her back to the wind, Hannah squinted up to the medieval castle above the chalk cliffs, its broken Roman lighthouse silhouetted against the heaving clouds, ‘it looked’ she thought, like a citadel welcoming home pilgrims, crusaders and the battle weary sailors and soldiers from Dunkirk. It had also defied would be conquerors like Napoleon and Hitler’s hordes.

As a child, Hannah had often climbed the steep hill to the castle and wandered through the tunnels below the ancient fort, or watched the ships heaving their way through the English Channel. The castle was as familiar as the streets where she had played.

Nearby the chalky cliffs, were deep underground tunnels where her grandmother and many others, with their children had sheltered during air-raids and where bunks, books, toys and make shift furniture still remained as mute testimony of those awesome days, when this part of England was known as ‘Hell Fire Corner’.

Her Mother had told her, how adults had organized sing-songs and noisy games to keep the children amused and drown the vibrations of the huge guns on the cliff above them and the dull thump of the exploding bombs. All part of history now thought Hannah, but she acknowledged that she had felt a deep sense of pride in her forebears.

The cold had become more intense, Hannah began shivering and returned slowly to her parent’s home where her anxious family awaited her. “Where have you been, you must be frozen”. The young woman became the wayward child again, to be fussed over by her parents and older sisters.

That evening the family sat by the open fire, the small room bright with Christmas decorations and gaudily wrapped gifts, ensnared within the pungent

evocative smell of fresh pine needles. They turned the dog-eared pages of an ancient photograph album, pointing and smiling and retelling of old family gossip, as if the sepia images held the formula to the secret of keeping their familiar lifestyle safe here within their own tiny fortress.

For Hannah, the last few days had been magic, but now the future beckoned. In a few weeks, she would be leaving the past behind and moving into the future with her young husband. They were going to Australia. Hannah would have to, she knew, build her own castles.

SOUTHHAMPTON DOCK - 11th APRIL 1963

It was with mixed emotions that June stood on the deck of the Castel Felice, the ship that would take the Family thousands of miles south to Australia.

Their tearful embraces and final goodbyes had been said as they climbed aboard the ship together with the many hundreds of other families looking to immigrate and start a new life in their new country. Although exciting, it was with a great deal of nostalgia that June stood there at the ship’s railings, looking out at the many well- wishers that had travelled to Southhampton to farewell their loved ones and friends.

As the ship began to move, slowly pulling away from the dock, June’s heart missed a beat, as she realized, perhaps for the first time, that this ‘expedition’ was now a reality.

Ron took charge of the three children, Jeffrey (12), Catherine (10) and David just 3 years old, who were already eager to ‘explore’ the ship that would be their home for the next four weeks, leaving June time to ponder on what she was leaving behind, her family, her heritage and as she stood there, she wondered what lay ahead, what would living in Australia be like? Would she ever return to her beloved England?

P A R T I N G (JP)

Bright streamers, Gripped tightly, either end, Link us across, The ever widening gap. A plaintive wail of piped music, and the haunting boom of the ship’s horn, bid, Farewell.

Parents strain to catch, the expression on their child’s face, They call, ‘see you soon’ as if, they will embrace,

and kiss, goodnight, again ‘my dear’. a deux.

The Quivering deck throbs with life. Our streamers stretch, and break. Only, wisps of grey smoke whisper, ‘Goodbye’

PART II

LIFE ON THE CASTEL FELICE

CHAPTER TWENTY THE TRIP TO AUSTRALIA

April 1963 -

Dear Mum and Ethel,

After a rather emotional departure from Southampton, we had other things to worry about as the Bay of Biscay lived up to its evil reputation. The ship rolled, wallowed, tossed and quivered, until we were all feeling thoroughly sorry for ourselves, and were very seasick. Many engers spent the first day in their cabins, we struggled up on deck to be in the fresh air. Catherine seemed to be suffering the most, with lots of people offering good advice, ……. stand amid ships, lay on your bunk, eat, it lines the stomach or contrarily, don’t eat. We listened, but didn’t actually believe that we would survive.

Incredibly, by the second evening, we were sitting down to dinner and actually enjoying ourselves, we had acquired our ‘sea-legs’.

The ship is like a wooden labyrinth, with hundreds of cabins leading off the narrow corridors, with staircases seemingly in every direction. There was a tiny shop, more like a kiosk really plus a hairdresser and beauty establishment.

We were well catered for and everything is kept scrupulously clean by the Italian crew, although it is a bit disconcerting, when you visit the lavatory to have a

young Italian chap (who is doing the cleaning), open the loo door for you.

By the second day we were really in holiday mood, lazing on deck chairs, talking and playing cards in the lounge and enjoying the experience. The ship is absolutely jam packed with migrants and there seems to be ‘millions’ of very young children.

There are a few paying engers who I think, resent not being treated any differently than the 10 pound migrant ‘hoards’. Some of the paying engers ‘tipped’ the deck stewards to place their deck chairs on the upper deck so permanently grabbing the best positions., This was much to the annoyance of some of the migrants, with a few ‘words’ exchanged!

Jeffrey is as ‘happy as a sand boy’, helping the sailors collect bottles and glasses and generally making himself useful.

The Mediterranean was perfectly behaved, and as the Captain is leaving the ship at Suez, we have been celebrating his retirement, with a few drinks and dancing Scottish Reels. We finished off the evening with the Captain and his Officers leading all the dancers in a ‘Conga’ along the decks, through corridors, and up and down the stairs. It was a marvelous night, we went to bed exhausted.

Friday we arrived at Port Said, where scores of ‘Bum’ boats came out to greet us. Ropes were lowered and goods hauled aboard. Arab traders swarmed over the ship selling copper plates, watches, rings, sand stuffed toy camels, wood carvings and leather wallets, everything laid out on the deck, engers and Arabs bargaining. It was excited chaos. We were not allowed ashore as we only had ‘Cards of Identity’, not ports, but to be honest, I don’t think we missed much for those that did go into the Port, were pestered by beggars, so perhaps we were the ‘lucky’ ones.

Saturday we sailed down the Suez Canal. It was blisteringly hot, the air absolutely still and we could see a wavy band of heat rising above the sand dunes. Arab workmen, robed from head to foot waved and whistled to us as they were clearing the sides of the canal, and we answered in kind. Whether they were being complimentary or not, we shall never know.

Along the side of the canal, there are houses (huts really), alongside the road, with bony cows standing in the heat. What is totally incongruous though was the spectacles of huge, fast American cars zooming along that road, with thick clouds of dust billowing behind them. Here East meets West with a vengeance.

Incredibly the narrow channel opens up into a beautiful aquamarine lake, and instead of endless sand-hills, there are trees, grass and a large modern hospital. We dropped anchor here to allow a northbound convoy to through. Some of the ships sounded their sirens which gave me goose bumps.

We often chat with a Malaysian planter, (don’t know what he actually plants), his wife has a magnificent voice and sang for us in the Veranda Bar. He is a bit of an old reprobate, while in his ‘cups’ (having drunk too much alcohol), he apparently decided to have a shower and managed to sit on the water outlet like a plug and created a lovely, soapy pool which bubbled out onto the cabin floor. He wears exotic coloured evening jackets to dinner, and since most of us don’t own anything resembling formal attire, he stands out like a dazzling ‘Bird of Paradise’, but very friendly and great fun.

Arrived Aden before 8am. Hot, hot, hot. We were ferried ashore (no ports needed here as it is a British protectorate), by a silent, black bearded, magnificently turbaned Arab. Aden is fascinating. Goats, cows, camels wander across the road, with beggars and street traders almost barring our way. Open air cafes doing a roaring local trade, canvas beds propped up against walls

presumably claimed by their owners at night. A dentist’s sign inviting customers ‘up’ an extremely rickety stairway. We shuddered and looked hurriedly elsewhere.

We indulged in a minor spending spree. I bought a metal wall plaque, Ron had a musical cigarette box, Jeffrey a leather wallet and Catherine bought a lovely blue silky shawl, and David a toy camel. We returned happily to the ship clutching our ‘booty’. Next Stop - Australia

A young couple with whom we share a dining table, have spent all their money on booze during the trip, they will arrive in Perth without a penny, and two small children. They don’t appear to be a bit worried. Another older couple have eleven children, all very well behaved, but what an enormous risk the parents are taking. People are amazing!

Each evening, we were delighted to find these beautifully created Menus on the table, each one a collector’s item, even the children were catered for with bright colourful designs that raised a lot of interest, even at their young age.

Indian Ocean – 25th April – ANZAC Day. A service of remembrance held in the Verandah Bar was well attended by enger and most of the crew. After the sermon, a wreath was thrown into the sea by the Captain and the ship did a complete circle around the flowers as a salute. It was a simple but moving ceremony.

There are plenty of activities on board, films, quizzes, children’s pool games, mock-horse-racing etc. Jeffrey took part in a chess competition reaching the semi-final, unfortunately he became impatient with his opponent’s slow rate of play and just ‘threw in the towel’. Later he beat the winner of the tournament in a friendly game.

We have attended talks and watched slides about the Australian life style, and amongst the slides was one taken at night from the Adelaide Hills. The city lights looked spectacular …………, and that’s where we are going (apparently).

April 30th, the children’s fancy dress parade was held, Catherine went as Cleopatra draped in two long white bath towels and wearing a borrowed necklace and tiara. We painted her finger and toenails in bright red, added a thick layer of mascara and eye-shadow, and brushed her hair until it shone. She was delighted although didn’t win first prize.

All the children looked gorgeous, a flower-girl, a two humped camel, a pirate, cupid and two tiny tots who were wearing green crepe paper costumes to represent ‘two peas in a pod’. The little boy wet himself and watched sadly as the green dye dribbled slowly down his legs. The Italian crew adore the children and take endless trouble to amuse them.

‘Crossing the Line’ (the Equator) ceremony was pure burlesque. King Neptune arrived with his ‘retinue’ in tow. The deck was packed with spectators, and there were several young girls in bathing costumes huddled together behind a rope, looking rather apprehensive. They were brought forward one at a time to face King Neptune.

They were accused of gluttony and other ‘vile’ crimes and ordered ‘to be cleansed!’ Escorted by their none too gentlemanly jailers, they were placed on a table and covered with large white sheet whereupon they were ‘operated on’. Suddenly sausages, enormous bones and celery began flying through the air, the victims ‘innards’ were being removed. They were then daubed with a huge paint brush wielded by a diabolical King Neptune and then given a wash with a make shift shower.

The moral of the story is, if you volunteer to be a ‘victim’, don’t wear bikinis, wear ‘battle dress’. As the ceremony progressed water was being sloshed everywhere, until a soft, soapy cake was hurled at one of the accused, missed and hit the audience, then everything went hay wire, but it was all great fun.

The engers were presented with their ‘Crossing the Line’ certificates at Dinner, and now have King Neptune’s blessing for any future voyaging. The children are all thoroughly enjoying themselves. David is totally besotted by the dolphin and tiny flying fish which seem to be keeping the ship company, it really is a most beautiful sight.

The adult fancy dress ‘do’ produced some fantastic garb, Hunchback of Notre Dame, Hula-Hula girls, a fat man dressed as a baby complete with dummy, but the Malaysian chap capped the lot, with n authentic Arabian outfit, plus a hubble-bubble pipe (kookah), he was completely unrecognizable. I can only imagine that he came on the trip prepared for this event. You will be pleased to hear that there is a school on board. The teacher wears a black gown and blows a whistle to announce that classes have started. The Captain presents prizes to the star pupils, needless to say that our beloved off-spring are not among the recipients as they find other activities on board much more interesting, …. And who can blame them.

Australia at last. We landed after a rough day at sea and were very glad to feel solid ground beneath our feet. Jeffrey and Catherine had a heated argument about ‘who’ should step onto Australian soil first. Catherine won by coolly walking dow the gang plank first. Jeffrey of course was furious, so it appears we land here on a familiar note, thank goodness David is a non-combatant!

We were met at the dockside by Tess and her children whom we had known in Crawley, plus another couple and their two sons who have been living in

Australia for many years. We all piled into a large station wagon, and were taken for a quick tour of Perth. First Kings Park and the Swan River which is a beauty spot, even the brewery situated on the riverside was lit up at night and resembles an old sailing vessel. Unfortunately we were unable to see it as we left before nightfall. It felt strange walking on grass again, I don’t know whether it is because we have become attuned to heaving decks, but the earth felt ‘spongy’ underfoot.

We were taken to Steve and Bab’s home in the suburbs. The streets of Perth are wide and lined with bungalows, all with large gardens which look very attractive and a great place to live. Shops appear to be non-permanent structures as the windows are all plastered with ments and there are no living quarters above them.

Their home is built of a fibro material, fly screens on all the doors and windows, with an enclosed back veranda. Ceilings are twelve foot high to keep the house cooler in summer. You would approve of the launderette, they have built in the garden, all the washing away from the kitchen (marvelous). They have orange, lemon and gum trees in the garden and chickens (chooks) rummaging about; swings for the children and a sand pit (in an old bath tub).

Lunch was fish and chips and a variety of salads …. Eaten with the fingers, which was friendly and informal, we loved it. Steve took Ron to the pub for a cold ‘Aussie’ beer. Ron arrived back without ‘pulling a face’, so I presume the experience was OK. He had bought sweets for the children which cost twice the price they are at home, but fruit is plentiful and cheap. Nobody uses coal or coke for heating, just wood or oil. Electricity is cheap and used for cooking etc.

It was a pity we have to leave the same evening, I wished we could have stayed, perhaps we will get back here eventually. Anyway, it was a grand day, we shall be sending you some photographs.

Next stop Melbourne, then a train to Adelaide. Hope it’s as good as Western Australia.

Oh dear! The Australian Bight is a shocker. We rocked, rolled, heaved, pitched in every direction. Chairs went flying, drink glasses had to be clutched and not placed on the table. Huge seas and gale force winds made life somewhat uncomfortable.

The sailors put up canvas awnings to prevent their customers from disappearing overboard. One moment we were perched high on a jumbo wave, the next we were unceremoniously pitched into a deep trough. Catherine was feeling seasick and insisted on going out onto the deck, so naturally I had to stay with her. I asked a barman if the Bight was always this bad. He grinned and said “Oh, it will be much worse next month”. GRRRRRRRRRRRRR……………………………..

For two nights we had to tie the children in their bunks… In the dining room ledges had to be raised around the edges of the tables and tablecloths had to be made wet to prevent our dinner plate becoming airborne.

We had four new dinner companions, three bank officials and a priest who had boarded in Perth. I felt terribly sorry for them as no doubt, they had been anticipating an enjoyable cruise. The first night they excused themselves and beat a hasty retreat to their cabins. The following evening were well enough to come to dinner and entertained us with horrific stories of snakes and spiders.

We were still talking long after all the other diners had left. We learnt that there was a radio program called ‘Blue Hills’, it sounded exactly like the endless saga

of ‘The Archers’ and ‘Mrs. Dale’s Diary”, perhaps life in Australia is not all that different than England.

MAY 12TH WE ARRIVED IN MELBOURNE.

We landed like floppy fish, wrapped in wet newspaper. We didn’t think much of the port area, lots of dusty abandoned shops and dreadful prehistoric stone loos on the beach front. It was rather like a ‘down-at-heel’ Camden Town. We were unlucky in not being able to see the main part of the city.

We left for South Australia by train at 8pm. The train was akin to a hotel on wheels, very swish. Air-conditioned, layback seats, iced water dispensers and was modern and comfortable. Jeffrey went to sleep with his head resting on a man’s shoulder, the chap was quite happy about it and chatted to Ron and I throughout the night. He was going to visit his mother who was in hospital in Adelaide. The six hundred mile journey took thirteen hours. I was glad that we had met such a friendly character as he made us feel very welcome.

Adelaide railway station. We were loaded onto a ‘ribby’ bus and driven to Finsbury Hostel which is in an industrial area. My heart descended into my boots. The hostel resembles an army camp, low rows of huts and huge galvanized main building, although there are grassy spaces and flowers dotted about.

After a meal in the canteen, we were given a ‘pep’ talk about health insurance and job opportunities etc and then shown our living quarters. We have been allocated three rooms where the children sleep in bunks and Ron and I have a divan which opens up into a double bed in the lounge area. Everything is quite adequate and clean. At least the world has stopped ‘rocking’

Lots of love to you both, will write again soon.

June

We steamed into Port Phillip Bay,

our chains were not evident, nor were we

aware of them, never-the-less, they linked us,

with family, friends and traditions,

which we had left behind, and were to become

heavy, almost unendurable, when home-sickness

overwhelmed us.

(JP)

PART III

DEAR MUM & ETHEL (M&E)

(THE FIRST EIGHT YEARS)

(Extracts from letters home – 1963-1971)

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE OUR FIRST YEAR

MAY 1963

Dear Mum & Ethel, (M&E)

Good news, Ron got a job on the day of our arrival, just noticed a builder’s yard next to the hostel, walked in and asked about employment. He starts Wednesday.

Tuesday we all went into Adelaide to have our compulsory X-Rays, so it gave us the opportunity to have a look around. You’d love it, wide main streets with advertising signs hanging below old fashioned verandahs, a very good shopping area with large modern department stores. Tell Gerald that it will not be necessary for me to bake my own bread.

We walked along North Terrace where there are lawns and trees, a library, university and Government House which has a beautiful stone wall. Just to make your mouth water, we had an enormous milk-shake, served in the container in which they had been mixed, I couldn’t believe the size of them. There seems to be mountains of reconditioned electrical goods, we could have bought a huge fridge for only €25.

Dear M&E

We are not enamoured with the hostel, the things we find so discouraging is the state of the toilets and washrooms, although the loos and shower area are thoroughly cleaned every morning, by the afternoon we have to go in search of a clean lavatory in another part of the camp. It is the fault of those migrants who allow their children to run unsupervised all day. We must present an interesting spectacle, wandering around the camp, festooned with a toilet roll and washing gear.

The canteen is another sore-point, the food is plentiful and well cooked, yet here again children run riot and make a lot of noise. In spite of the noise, there is a French family that always say ‘grace’ before and after their meals.

A really horrid discovery was finding mucus on some sheets, so we rushed out and bought our own linen and now wash them ourselves in the communal laundry. God help the fastidious house wives, they must really be suffering. We bought an electric kettle and tea pot in a local hardware shop, and got chatting with the Australian owners who said they couldn’t understand anyone migrating from England, they had been for a holiday and had wept when they left as the countryside was so beautiful, which made me think a bit.

Thursday evening we were washing our cutlery in a tiny washroom, (we all carry our own cutlery), when we were approached by a rather enthusiastic house agent. He asked if we would be interested in buying a house in the new town of Elizabeth. I thought him a bit optimistic considering the non state of our bank !

On Friday morning, I went with the agent to investigate….. Elizabeth is a large

new town (like Crawley), all the houses (bungalows) are built in different styles and have decent sized gardens. Wide green lawns and trees separate the main road from the housing estate. Even the electricity lines are located underground so there are no ugly power lines decorating the landscape.

Close by is a Drive-In (open air movie theatre), a skating rink and a good shopping area, also the town is not far from bushland, which we are looking forward to seeing. The agent said that we only needed a €50 deposit, (the rest of the DOWN PAYMENT), could be bought on the ‘never-never’. However we did not succumb, we decided it was much too soon to commit ourselves and wanted to have a good look around first.

The Irish couple in the next cabin to us, have four children and are expecting a fifth, they bought a car, which is probably sensible for a large family, but we have decided to either put our money on a piece of land or on a house first, so that we will have the capital to retreat to England if we are truly unhappy here. It sounds a bit defeatist, but it makes our minds easier.

Heavy rain! The Aussies are complaining like mad, apparently it’s the worst downpour they have had for seven years. I guess that after our English winter, we are not finding it too bothersome. By the way, Ethel might like to know that the tiny cacti she cares for so lovingly on her mantelpiece, grow to about three foot in the gardens here!

Jeffrey and Catherine have started school and are already enjoying a weeks’ holiday, they are not objecting one bit. They must imagine that emigration involves a continuous round of pleasure. Catherine seems to have taken the whole thing in her stride, she has even developed a ‘northern’ accent (having palled up with a group of children from Lancashire). Jeffrey is finding life more difficult, says he would have preferred to have remained in Crawley with his school friends. Keep your fingers crossed for us.

Dear M&E,

Thank you for your letter, about time too! I have been trotting up to the camp post office every day for post that didn’t arrive. I was beginning to feel like ‘orphan Annie’, never mind, all is forgiven.

Ron is working in the country at Mount Gambier, which is about three hundred miles from here, and staying in the local hotel (pub). It is considered a beauty spot, there are blue lakes and interesting rock formations nearby.

Certainly it must be an improvement from the hostel and its location. The hostel is situated near the abattoirs, you would imagine that would be bad enough, but Friday nights the local authorities excel themselves, apparently some sluice gates are opened (must be sewerage), the smell is appalling.

Catherine was physically sick. We walk about holding Vick smothered handkerchiefs to our noses. What humourist names this area Rosewater!

Dear M&E,

I took the children by bus (there are no double-deckers here), to town. We then travelled on a tiny antiquated train to Aldgate, in the Adelaide Hills. The first thing we saw from the train window as a rundown churchyard, with an ugly wire fence, and some very old stone cottages.

The countryside improved dramatically as we climbed into the hills. We were able to look down into beautiful, green valleys whilst also travelling through the tree tops. There were masses of blackberry bushes on the hillside, lots of ferns and bracken and fallen logs.

Many of the tree trunks were blackened and must have been burnt in a bushfire at some time, yet green leaves were sprouting again, so they can’t be completely dead. Many of the trees are tall and spindly and grow close together (bushland). I was surprised at the amount of colour, I had expected lots of olive green and dusty browns, but there are blue, green and yellows everywhere, and we ed red rock cuttings.

The noisy clanging of train bells as we ed over crossings and the high pitched rattle of the wheels as the train climbed the steep gradient was quite something. Incredibly, the train doors are left open and we could smell the Pines at Mount Lofty. The small country stations reminded me of village schools in England, except for the rusty red coloured roofs, which blend wonderfully into the Australian backdrop.

When we left the train at Aldgate, we were met with perfect silence and clean country air, a much appreciated relief from Rosewater. We walked down a narrow, stony track, there was a high laurel hedge and an oak tree (could easily

have been in Kent), we crossed over a creek via a small wooden bridge.

There are lots of trees, ivy and damp moss and we just stood enjoying the quiet. We found the main road which is bordered by a magnificent display of European trees, Pines, Firs, Beeches and Mountain Ash.

The shops are quaint, fronted by long verandahs with buckled wooden posts and sagging, corrugated iron roof. There is even a grain store where you can buy bales of straw. We wandered up a side lane where there were a few bungalows with huge gardens. In one back garden there was a ‘grazing cow’, nothing like having a fresh milk supply on your doorstep.

Aldgate Pump Hotel, is a very large pub which seems out of place for this sparsely populated area, but as this is the main route from Adelaide to Melbourne, I suppose they get truck drivers etc. Reluctantly, we returned to the hostel, but at least we knew that there were some lovely places close by.

I now have a job working in the hostel canteen and is extremely well paid, although the work is hard. I crawl back to the cabin when my shift is finished. The Chefs are Polish, Russian, Dutch and Slavic. The women workers are mostly German and Scots, their accents are often difficult to understand, but we get along OK.

It is said that Aussies swear, but it would take quite a bit to beat the English and German women at it, phew! It makes your ‘hair curl’. David attends the camp’s day nursery. He was very reluctant at first, but seems to have settled down.

One thing that frightens the life out of me are the shiny, red back spiders, they

are poisonous little creatures who apparently housekeep behind corrugated tin, of which this camp is largely constructed. Believe me, I take great care before exposing my bare toes in the showers. The showers are dark and no doubt the spiders find them ideal haunts in which to breed and lie in ambush. Mind you, I haven’t actually heard of anyone being bitten … still!

You will be sorry to hear that Catherine had all her dolls stolen, she had them propped up on a box in her room, and someone took the lot. She is heartbroken.

1st September 1963

Dear M&E,

The first day of Spring, the sun is quite warm and there is a gentle breeze, a beautiful day. We have put a deposit on a block of land in Tea Tree Gully, which is in the foothills, about eleven miles from here. There are vineyards, almond and orange trees, and horse paddocks, a lovely spot. The block is quite large and we can plant fruit trees etc.

Last weekend, we were invited out to lunch by Derek and Pam, (Derek and Ron work together). They both migrated from England as teenagers with their parents and probably felt an empathy for us as ‘brand new’ migrants. Derek is very slim, blond has blue eyes, and continually smokes a pipe. Pam is the exact opposite, round, dark and has large grey eyes. She is a very easy person to get along with. They have built their own house, with a 32 foot lounge with tall ceilings, it really is a spacious home and we are rather envious. In their garden is an enormous Willow tree, which they said was a ‘life-saver’ in the summer months.

Crawling amongst the bushes was a sleepy lizard, about a foot long, a flat spade shaped head with a king sized mouth. We watched while the creature crunched its poor snail victim into a disgusting glutinous mess. Derek had painted a white line on its knobbly back, so on one stepped on it accidentally. Mind you, it gets rid of a few of the garden pests, we left it to dine alone.

We had tea and played cards, and Catherine presented me with a bunch of ‘thistly’ weeds called Salvation Jane, (the weed was supposed to have sustained sheep during a bad drought when there was no grass for them to feed on). The purple ‘weed’ looks attractive in the distance, but horrid stuff to handle.

However, I accepted my ‘posy’ and thanked her. We had a very happy day and returned to the hostel with a few ideas for our own future.

There are a couple of the most bedraggled specimens of humanity (like tramps), living in the hostel, both are grubby, unkempt and probably smelly (we don’t get too close). They inform us that we are all ‘Philistines’… perhaps they are right, but how on earth did these two ‘elegant’ characters get past an Australian interviewing officer?

Rain, buckets of it, you have never heard such a noise. It slams down with terrific force, the roar it creates on the tin roof of the canteen makes conversation almost impossible. It stops and starts suddenly, and we have to make a quick dash to our cabins during a lull. I now realize why there are deep storm drains that crisscross the camp.

I am now working in a factory on the assembly line. I found the canteen too hectic, also the factory hours are better as there isn’t any shift work involved. I work next to a stringy, small, elderly chap, who for some off reason always grips an empty pipe at the side of his mouth. He wears a beaten up leather apron and steel rimmed glasses and if he wants anything from another part of the factory, just stand in the middle of the aisle and roars like a bull. Sound double-dutch to me, but he seems to get what he needs.

On meeting him for the first time, I was greeted with “What, another Pomme bastard?” Having been warned of this ‘affectionate’ Australian colloquialism, I had my answer ready. “Well of course, they are the best kind”. He obviously enjoyed a bit of back-chat, because we get on ‘like a house on fire’. He likes baiting me with stories of a particularly scorching summer, when the temperature didn’t drop below 100oF for a fortnight, and how people were fainting in the streets, he is a gorgeous character!

Unfortunately, the woman working on my right side is not so hospitable, she patently dislikes migrants and is not backward in saying so. She resents the fact that we came to Australia for only €10 and says she doesn’t get a free holiday although she was born here. I tried to explain that it wasn’t quite as easy as it sounded, that we had sold up all our furniture etc., to take a chance out here, and it was like starting from scratch again, but she rarely speaks to me, so I don’t bother to chat with her.

There are a high percentage of migrant workers in the factory, many of them speak two or three languages, yet because they are unable to write in English, they spend their working day constructing wooden crates, it seems very hard.

The Italians and Greeks are always eager to work overtime in order to pay their mortgages quickly. They keep chicken and grow vegetables in their back gardens and are completely single minded in their approach to life, a house and family before anything else.

Just to make you giggle …. I found it rather embarrassing to be whistled at by a group of men who were sitting on the lawn during the lunch break, so I walked, head in the air ignoring them, but my ‘savoir-faire’ took a nose dive, as I didn’t notice that the sprinklers were full on, didn’t dare run and lose my poise, just kept going straight through the damn log and got very wet!

There are three channels on television, which stays on to about 1am. The films are not prehistoric like the Sunday programs in England, but there is lots more advertising, masses of it. When we first listened to the news, we were amazed as commentators talking ‘ten to the dozen’, not worried about making a few mistakes, or even apologizing if the programs were running late, all terribly casual.

‘Z Cars’, ‘English Castles’ and ‘No Hiding Place’ on Channel 2, it doesn’t appear that we have travelled 12,000 miles from home!

November 1963

Dear M&E,

I took Catherine and David to the John Martin’s Christmas Pageant in Adelaide. It was a wonderful show, led by Mounted Police Bands, floats of Alice in Wonderland, Hansel and Gretel, Pirates, Clowns and Marching Girls …. (they looked very American).

There were crowds of people and of course lots and lots of children lining the route all wearing colourful summer dresses etc. The sun was shining and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. The Pageant was brought to an end with the arrival of the Pageant Queen and Father Christmas with his reindeer, the children loved it, but it does seem strange celebrating Christmas in bright sunshine, it just ‘aint’ right!

I, yes me, courageously murdered a scorpion in our cabin. We eyed each other warily, me ‘shaking in me boots’, he obligingly standing still whilst I dropped a wad of magazines on top of him, then whacked the lot for good measure, exit one rather flattened scorpion.

The weather is crazy, one minute we are sweltering in a temperature of 94oF, a couple of hours later it drops dramatically to 70o, anyway we are enjoying swimming in the sea, keeping our eyes skinned for hungry sharks (they must have already dined). There are small planes which fly over the metropolitan beaches, if a shark is sighted then there are warnings on the radio and on the beaches, so bathers can get out of the water fast if there is any danger.

Just after we arrived in Australia, we went swimming in the sea, much to the horror of some warmly clad spectators who thought we were mad, we however thought the water quite warm. We must be tough after the English winter we had just come from.

Sunday, we went up to Tea Tree Gully to ire ‘our’ block of land for a picnic lunch. There are a lot of Gum trees growing in the area and Jeffrey tried to climb some of them but the boughs start quite high up, not being quite so ‘climbable’ as European trees. Never mind we’ll plant a lot of fruit trees when we are established, he’ll be able to climb those … eventually.

Ron is still working in Mount Gambier, we usually see him one weekend in three, but he’ll be back for the long Christmas vacation soon. We are looking forward to the break. We have sent you an Australian landscape calendar to give an idea of what it is like out here.

December 1963

Dear M&E,

As you may have noticed, we have moved to Seaton Park. David was unhappy in the hostel and hated eating in the canteen, so when we were offered a rented place, we jumped at it! We are now living in a ‘shack’, I mean that, shack is the only description. The front garden is full of long, dry grass and weeds, the building is made of a flaking fibro material, the laundry is in the back garden and possesses an ancient boiler, but it is luxury to have our own toilet and to eat home cooked meals. Ron was informed of our ‘change of address’ by telegram.

Pam, Derek, the kids and I, piled our boxes onto a trailer and we moved into our new ‘home’. I bought some beds, a second hand fridge and kitchen table and chairs, plus some crockery etc. We made quite a party sitting on the beds, drinking tea and eating piles of ‘pressed beef’ sandwiches, (someone had accidentally stepped on the beef in the kitchen thus, ‘[pressed’ ing Mother’s dictum, ‘waste not, want not’. We dusted if off and consumed the lot, there were no complaints. Ron arrived home to find us fully installed.

We celebrated our first ‘at home’ on Sunday. Pam, Derek, Bill (all English), Johnny, a Dutch boy and his Australian girlfriend, and an Italian family, it was like a mini United Nations. We had a few drinks and Bill played the guitar (very loudly), it was great fun.

The children have already attended two Christmas parties. David was thrilled to receive a wind up train at the first do, but rather disappointed to get a garage at the second one, as he had privately asked Father Christmas for a rifle, however all is not lost as Catherine has a pop-gun for him on the great day.

We have decorated the house and have a small Xmas tree, I think the children will enjoy the experience of an Australian Christmas. Think of us on the beach, whilst you sit roasting yourselves in front of the fire.

December 1963

Dear M&E,

Returning with Catherine and David from the beach on a hot day, we discovered a plume of smoke billowing from our front garden. I couldn’t believe it, the Pegrams having their own private bushfire! I will not mention the name of a certain lad, that we all know, who was the instigator of the awful deed.

I galloped around walloping the flames with a shovel, whilst Jeffrey was busy running ‘to and fro’ with buckets of water, (we have not as yet aspired to a hose). Italian neighbours appeared quite interested in these proceedings, they were chatting to each other, obviously enjoying the spectacle of those ‘mad English’. Only when the fire threatened their fences did they condescend to get their hoses out. Well, the dry grass hazard has gone, but I did have a few words to say to that same ‘boy’ whose name I still shall not mention, but I believe he is sufficiently chastened not to repeat the performance.

The heat is terrific, it is 7.15pm and the temperature is 90oF. Ron is in shorts and singlet and is nut brown, but reading about the freezing fog in London, we are not complaining … yet!

Ugh, large spiders in the laundry, so now I do the laundry in the dark bathroom where there is a most uncooperative geezer, if anyone notices the off white state of their shirts etc., they may, ‘do their own’.

The other evening I whacked a spider which was scuttling across the bedroom

floor. Dozens of tiny ‘folk’ then rushed off in every direction, it was like a mini invasion, I just hope none of them escaped my busy slipper. Mother spider must have been carrying her brood on her back.

The house is very old and the back garden is full of weeds and junk, so I expect there will be incursions of ‘wee beasties’ from time to time. I cannot imagine how the first settlers to South Australia coped, in long dresses and petticoats etc., living in tents with no protection against heat and flies, with no regular letters from their families in England (and elsewhere), and with very little chance of ever returning to their homeland. ‘They’ were the true pioneers, ‘we’ are only a pale, watered down version, not terrible brave, nor having to be resourceful, but maybe, enjoying life a lot more.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO 1964 – 1965

January 1964

Dear M&E,

HAPPY NEW YEAR

Thank you for the postal order, it was put to good use.

We had a warm and happy Christmas. The children were very pleased with their presents. We bought Jeffrey a second hand bike, so now he cycles off to the airport with a friend each day, he also received a canary in a cage from an Italian friend. Catherine was delighted with her manicure set and a large box of paints, David had a cowboy outfit and of course the much desired popgun.

Ron and I were severely practical, we bought ourselves an electric fry pan as our oven had gone ‘phut’. It costs us 2/6d (two shillings and sixpence) a week on hire purchase and 1d (one penny) an hour to run. It roasts, fries, stews and even cooks cakes. I made a cake and it turned out beautifully.

We spent quite a lot of Christmas day and Boxing day on the beach, the sand was so hot under our feet, that we had to scoot from our beach tent down to the

waters’ edge, although even the shallow water is quite hot.

Mum asks if we like it here, well I think so. Certainly we can save money here, which was quite impossible in England, and we are looking forward to building our own house.

Except for Trust homes (council), all the houses are detached and stand in comparatively large back gardens, front lawns often continue down to the road, (no pavements), which can make it quite hazardous for pedestrians who are forced to either walk on the beautifully kept lawns or risk walking in the roadway, but as practically the entire population owns a car (therefore don’t walk anywhere), I don’t suppose it matters a lot.

One thing I don’t care for is the ‘blank’ look of the houses as blinds which are kept drawn most of the day against the sun, seem to rob houses of any personality. Many of the old, inner city suburbs are dreary and run down, how people manage to survive during the summer, who live in corrugated iron homes is a mystery.

One enormous bonus is the fact that Ron rarely has to work in wet or cold conditions, and has been free of colds since arriving in Australia.

Dear M&E,

Knowing how you both like surprises … here’s one! ………………we have moved again.

We were offered this place for the same rent as Seaton Park, but this one is much, much better. It has the same fibro construction, but it has a large enclosed verandah, high ceilings, and a bright bathroom and loads of hot water.

The garden has peach, apricot and almond trees, grapevines, plus tomato plants and pumpkins. We have already devoured the grapes, and it is a pity that the apricot season is over. The previous tenant came to wish us ‘good luck’ and hoped we would be as happy as he and his wife had been in the house, so altogether we feel very welcome and pleased with ourselves.

We live about five minute walk from the beach, which means we can swim every day, also the town of Port Adelaide is close by so that we can walk to the shops by taking a short cut across the railway lines. The Port reminds me of an American cowboy town (minus hitching rails), the shops are all ‘lock-ups’, there are no living quarters above them. I ‘laughed like a drain’ when I saw a truck with a wooden arm, a yellow wood hand attached, being used as an indicator.

David has made friends with a chubby, brown eyed little Italian child called Marta, who lives across the road. He follows her everywhere, although she can’t speak English, they chatter to each other somehow.

Jeffrey had been swimming in the Port River, which is not exactly hygienic, but there is an old barge and various other interesting objects for the local children to investigate. I shall be thankful when the school holidays are over and we can establish some sense of normality. The temperature has been fantastic, 104o and 103o, a couple of 100s and 96o today.

A few of the neighbours take their televisions out into their gardens in the evening, where it is cooler, and the children stay up late as it is too hot in the house for sleeping. Of course, the kids whole heartedly approve of these late night arrangements.

We had a wonderful, unexpected evening, Pam and Derek arrived, then Gino from across the road came with a gift of crayfish, so we rushed out and bought wine, fresh bread rolls and salad stuff and had a scrumptious supper. We then played canasta all night.

Derek, being rather ‘merry’ gave us an animated demonstration of a volatile, Italian stallholder in the market from the dizzy heights of the kitchen table, it was hilarious. By early morning Ron and Derek were trying to sleep on chairs, Pam and I having pinched the double bed. We had a late breakfast, they stayed for lunch and eventually took Catherine home with them.

People are relaxed and enjoy entertaining, welcoming casual guests with ‘open arms’, it really is a good lifestyle. We have been extremely lucky with friends like Pam and Derek, and the Italian family who have been ferrying us around in their cars and treating us like one of their own family.

Ron has had the marvelous opportunity to travel around South Australia with his job, so he has seen quite a bit of the countryside, away from the main centres, so we have no complaints as other migrants have not been so lucky.

Young mothers who care for their small children whilst their husbands are working, often do not venture far from the hostel, therefore they are more exposed to the homesickness that can become overwhelming, plus being cooped up in those tiny huts during blistering weather cannot be too comfortable. Some just stay for the compulsory two years and spend their time here saving all their wages for a return ticket. They don’t give Australia a chance, and are referred to as ‘wingers’. I must it to feeling a bit sorry for them as some probably came from beautiful areas in the English country side, expecting wide open spaces, sandy beaches and vineyards, only to be ‘dumped’ in a smelly industrial area life Rosewater, it must have been devastating.

To be more cheerful, … I visited a couple and their eleven children who we met on the ‘Castel Felice’, they now have an enormous old house at Semaphore. The husband is doing well at his job, one daughter is engaged to be married and two sons are working as apprentices. They are independent and hard-working, happy with their ‘lot’ and determined to make a ‘go’ of living in Australia.

An Irish family, who also lived in the hostel are now living in a ‘Trust Home’ (council) at Salisbury. The man works as a traffic warden (he was a policeman in Ireland). He and his wife Kitty now have their fifth child, a daughter and have no intention of returning to their former home. So as you can see, we are a mixed bag.

Now for a juicy bit of gossip! Our immediate neighbor is a one armed elderly woman, who obviously enjoys the company of ‘gentlemen’, (lots of them). Her visitors arrive in noisy cars, carrying bottles of grog! Are they there for an Orgy???????????? The mind boggles.

Jeffrey, with a friend in tow, disappeared for three days, and so we informed the Police. They returned however, thankfully unscathed but absolutely filthy. They

had been sleeping rough in the hills. It all sounds like a boy’s prank, but when you read in the newspaper about the conditions in the outback (not the hills), it is a worry. For instance: The death of an English family of five who had apparently run out of petrol in the desert and wandered off in search of water. A newspaper quote referring to the conditions the family faced …. “A match dropped on the burning earth lights spontaneously, screws fall out of wooden boxes, lead falls out of pencils. A man’s hair stops growing and his finger nails become as brittle as glass. If the sun strikes him, muscles contract and his skin turns black”.

It doesn’t sound inviting does it? Yet this particular migrant family loved the outback and knew the risks, but maybe became desperate and forgot the absolute rule! “Stay by your car and wait for help to arrive”. So when Jeffrey disappeared, and we didn’t know where he was, we worried. This isn’t England where there is a village over the next hill. However he is safe, and didn’t even catch cold.

Dear M&E,

Although this is the Australian autumn, I am sitting outside in the garden in brilliant sunshine. Ron is home again after ten weeks at Ceduna, which is approximately 500 miles from Adelaide and even then its about 350 miles away from the Western Australian border, so you can imagine the size of this country. Whilst he was there he was introduced to the ‘delights’ of fishing and later on, how to smoke the catch. Flat, galvanized iron is fashioned into a box arrangement with a couple of rails in it, then sawdust is set alight inside, hey presto a smoking compartment. He didn’t say whether he enjoyed the results of his labour though.

Ron says that a lot of the roads have not been bituminized therefore one of the main hazards of the outback is dust, which is thrown up from the vehicle travelling in front. The driver following has to keep well back to avoid being temporarily blinded by gritty sand.

Jeffrey is in Whyalla, (a huge shipbuilding town). He is camping with eight other boys who are working for the ‘Morning r’ (during the school holidays). They are trying to persuade householders to indulge in a daily delivery of the newspaper. We are told by his heaster that Jeffrey has a high IQ but that he is strong willed and will not cooperate, (shades of the Powell family)? ‘J’ was quite indignant when told to remove his budding moustache, by his teacher.

I had a strange experience, very odd. I was invited into a large garden shed where there were a group of Italians, who eyed me with suspicion. I certainly wasn’t feeling exactly myself. It turned out they were selling fresh meat, but the whole setup seemed ‘dodgy’ to me. I made a swift departure and never asked any questions as I certainly didn’t want any answers!

I have been busy stripping old paintwork from two, secondhand chest of draws, and repainting them for the children’s bedrooms. I must it my work looks rather professional. I also made a small bookcase, which I it is a trifle ‘wobbly’ but will serve its purpose. I have sewn curtains and installed five chicken in a rusty old shed in the garden; planted sprouts and lettuces which incidentally look rather limp at the moment, but will hopefully survive.

We have bought a second hand lounge suite for €13.10s, so we don’t have to sit on beds whilst entertaining guests. It appears we have settled down to an almost normal household at last. We have been to a couple of Bar-B-Ques, one for Ron’s works sports-day which was held at Tanunda in the hills. The children ed in all the competitions and games, receiving small prizes for their efforts.

There were gallons of ice-cream and soft drinks and of course beer, sausages, steaks and salads. It was a good ‘do’, not only for the youngsters, but also a get together for the men who worked in different parts of the state and didn’t see each other very often, so there was a lot of ‘shop’ talk.

Last night, we went to Pam and Derek’s home for an evening Bar-B-Que, where I think the entire population of Tea Tree Gully was there. The meat was cooked on a sheet of iron which was propped up on bricks with a fire underneath. People wandered in and out of the French windows, they all pitched in to help by serving the drinks and washing up. Cars kept arriving with more guests bringing lots of booze, etc. The party went on until the ‘early hours’, we just sat chatting and drinking coffee. Derek and Pam are very popular and have masses of friends. It was a lovely night.

Dear M&E,

I came home from work to find all the beautiful trees had been gouged out, as the factory at the back of the garden is extending its premises (the house belongs to the factory owner). We are nearly perched on the workman’s laps.

We have therefore decided to go ahead and have a house built on our land at Tea Tree Gully, although it isn’t fully paid for yet. However, Ron has been made a Leading Hand, Jeffrey should be working in eighteen months time, and I am still at the factory, so we should be able to manage alright financially.

Incidentally, I have been made an Inspector on the assembly line, the first time a woman has been given this job. I thought the men might have been resentful, but they appear to be quite happy, call me Judy, but the women are not so pleased, isn’t that odd.

Ron has just returned from a trip to Cook, where things are really tough. He and Derek travelled by train across the Nullabor Desert, to a tiny town with only a few houses, most of which were owned by the railway. Two homes were occupied by the weather bureau and one by the heaster (with whom they were billeted).

Life apparently wasn’t a ‘bed of roses’. For dinner one night they had sardines, not because of any meanness, but that’s how life is. There is a weekly ‘Tea and Sugar’ train that delivers all the town’s foodstuffs and it is very expensive and probably limited in variety. The only transport is a truck that visits the houses to empty the toilet systems, therefore Ron and Derek had to haul all the materials for the school building from the railway station by wheel barrow, up a rough, dusty road.

The temperatures were horrendous with the thermometer hovering around 105oF during the day and drops to 70 oF at night when everyone puts on a jumper because they feel the ‘cold’. Entertainment arrives via a stationary railway carriage which seats up to forty people who watch ‘up to date’ movies, not bad when you consider that Cook is about 750 miles from Adelaide and in the centre of a huge desert! Both were very happy to be back in ‘town’.

p.s. I discovered a nest of baby snakes in the long grass beside the back flyscreen door. I took a spade, shut my eyes and ‘chopped’, it was a nasty thing to do, but I could not risk the snakes getting into the house with children around.

November ’64

Dear M&E,

A quick note to let you know what is happening.

We toddled up to Tea Tree Gully to see how the house was progressing, only to find the bare foundations and not a builder in sight. We raced down to see the agent and were informed that the builder had gone ‘bust’. We were furious, as no one had bothered to inform us! I shouted like a banshee (Ron was highly embarrassed), but we had already given our notice in at the Port Adelaide house and the new tenants were due in on December 12th.

However, the upshot being …………… we have traded in the block of land for a newly built house at Modbury, not so big but at least available. Three bedrooms, a large lounge-room 20ft x 12ft, a narrow kitchen come dining area, a cooker and night storage heater is included. There is an enormous back garden which has deep holes, due to the tractor wheels that got bogged down during the wet weather earlier in the year. Best of all there is a paddock with a creek and horses at the rear of the garden, which provides a beautiful view from the kitchen window, so we haven’t done so badly.

We move in on Dec 12th.

Dear M&E,

Jeffrey had won a trip, (he is one of the top boys in a newspaper promotional competition). He will be flying to Cooma via Melbourne on Dec 9th, visiting the Eucumbene Dam (Snowy River Hydro Electric scheme in the Mountains of Southern New South Wales. Also included is a cruise on the lake and a tour of the underground engineering laboratory, plus site seeing in Canberra; so he is doing very well for himself.

Ron’s trip to Malloona Station was quite an experience. He went there to build a single classroom for the station hand’s children. Whilst there he was taken up in a tiny, two-seater airplane looking for sheep (it was shearing time), …. So much for the romantic idea of Jackeroos on horseback, but the distances are so vast, that it is a more practical way of finding the strays. If anyone kills a dingo, he or she receives a bounty of €1.

Youngsters drive landrovers on their parents’ property as there are no traffic hazards to worry about, and have canvas water-bags hung from the front bumper of trucks and cars, keeps the water cool and can be a lifesaver if the driver has a break down in the Bush. It was at Malloona Station that Malcolm Campbell made his unsuccessful bid on the world water-speed record using the salt lakes, just a short time before Ron’s arrival.

Ron came home sporting a thick, fuzzy beard which made him look reasonably handsome, but he complained that it made his face itch, so now he is bereft of beard and is back to a recognizable Ronald, though he is as brown as a walnut.

We are once again, packing our belongings and the children are all excited about our next ‘move’.

December ’64

Dear M&E,

We are ‘IN’, our very own four walls; who would have imagined that nineteen months ago, all we possessed were three tea chests, Ron’s tool-box and the grand total of €80, plus three wide-eyed children. We have very little furniture and the floor boards maybe bare, but the cupboard is certainly not empty.

Modbury resembles a ‘new town’, practically all new bungalows and young couples with children. Our neighbours are quite a mixture, Australian, Scots, Dutch, Welsh and Pilipino, so life should be interesting. Not far away is Tolley’s Winery and vineyard (so eat your heart out, cos wine is very cheap, it can be bought by the ‘flagon’!

We have a local bee-keeper, he and his charges live in an old authentic Australian property at the end of the road, which gives this new, brash suburban area a bit of ‘class’, (like a petunia in an onion patch).

The only shop is about three quarters of a mile away, like an old fashioned store, it sells everything, groceries, meat, hardware, stamps and even garden gnomes, so we will not starve, nor expire from want of exercise. We have to walk to the shop via a graveled pathway, there are no pavements.

By the way, just to make you green with envy, we can buy a side of lamb for just

€1, but if we went to the market in town, we could get one for 15 shillings. But, just to let you know that everything is not so perfect, the tap water is a thick, brackish, undrinkable liquid, it’s said that there are two places in the world that ships do not take on drinking water, one is Naples and the other Adelaide, we only use it for tea, but will very quickly invest in a rainwater tank.

Here’s a bit of Australiana for you ……. We were invited to a ‘get together’, where we met a very interesting couple, Pat and Betty. He is a police sergeant from Lock, (about 230 miles from Adelaide), and is responsible for thousands of miles of territory. We all sat just listening to their fascinating tales of the ‘outback’. Pat is a tall solid and friendly character, who rocks back on his heels, head skyward, considering his answers carefully. He has an old fashioned Victorian attitude to life, adores Betty and their six children, but is master of his own household and, I should imagine, respected by the community he cares for.

Pat has great iration for the Aboriginals, he thinks they are magnificent. They live a nomadic existence, in a blistering hot and barren landscape (the explorer John McDouall Stuart described the outback as a fearful country), yet these incredible people feel a natural affinity for their desert like countryside, where every rock has some religious significance.

The Elders of the tribe are the ruling body and their laws are strict, but their scant possessions are shared by all. Pat believes if they move into our suburban society, they lose their strong anchorage to the land and tribal allegiance with many unable to cope with the ‘white man’s’ materialism, alcohol and static lifestyle.

Pam, who had stayed in a caravan at Lock, told us of the terrifying night of a bushfire. Derek had gone to help the fire fighters, being alone and isolated, Pam drove her car to the local hotel and camped outside… hopefully a lot safer.

On two occasions, Pam was invited by the local ladies, the first ‘Do’ was the Melbourne Cup Luncheon where she nearly committed a social gaffe, as etiquette demanded that the ladies wear a hat however Pam did not possess such a thing, so Berry came to the rescue with one of hers. They duly arrived at the Parish Hall, in their hats, to find white tablecloths, red roses and silver candlesticks, this magnificent spread seemed rather incongruous when outside the endless countryside was hot, dry and dusty.

The second event was the ‘Strawberry “Ball’ where the women drove over two hundred miles to Port Lincoln to buy new dresses for the occasion; again the local hall was the venue. On Saturday evenings, the same hall is used for film shows, where it is advisable to take a cushion.

Taking into consideration all these social activities, we urbanites agreed, that life in the outback did sound very comfortable, but not inviting to us due to the awful isolation, heat, flies, threat of bushfires and the sheer hard grind, especially for mothers of small children.

The men are luckier as they relax and enjoy a ‘pubby’ comradeship (mates). A two way radio, Flying Doctor Service and School of the Air, cannot compensate for local hospitals, schools, libraries and shopping sprees which we enjoy in suburbia, obviously, we are not cast in a ‘Pioneer’ mold! My own contribution to the conversation was a poem. A neighbor, Faye, knowing I liked poetry had quite innocently offered me an old exercise book which had either belonged to her or her husband’s grandmother when they had been at school.

In childish handwriting, poems had been copied out, unfortunately without the benefit of the author’s name. One, ‘An Old Settlers Yarn’ absolutely staggered me, as I believe it was meant to do. The poem was about an aboriginal ‘hunt’, a reprisal for the killing of a white man (overseer), at an outback cattle station. The poet refers to the ‘chase’ in which twenty ‘blacks’ were murdered, as ‘glorious sport’ and likens it to kangaroo hunting. In the poem a young aboriginal boy is

killed whilst saving the life of his white master’s life, is rewarded with the lines, “He was nought but black, but still a faithful lad was he’.

It was an outrageous poem, but certainly had an effect on the listening group. Thank goodness the present generation cares about the aboriginals, and are trying to compensate for past sins. We were still chatting at 2 o’clock in the morning. It had been an enlightening evening, perhaps we all learnt something.

February 1965

Dear M&E,

The temperature is hovering in the nineties which makes me feel rather sick and shaky, so if this letter sounds rather incoherent, don’t worry, I’m told it takes about three years to become acclimatized.

Catherine, David and I trekked through paddocks and over rough, dusty unmade roads, dodging from one shady patch to the next to the new school building, (Jeffrey goes to his school by bus). Fortunately, it was cool inside the school building and it has an excellent library. They are both now safely enrolled.

When the weather is cooler, the walk will be a pleasant one. We saw lots of grey and pink gallahs, also some tiny green parrots which were extremely noisy, but absolutely gorgeous.

Jeffrey has been apple picking, he is saving up to buy a drum kit. He has not settled down well in Australia, although he did enjoy his trip to Cooma, even won some money playing cards with hotel guests. He wants to return to England, but I think he would be disappointed after all the freedom and travelling he has experienced here, plus the standard of living is higher for the average wage earner. We will just have to give him more time to adjust.

The things Ron and I miss ……. family gossip, English newspapers and country pubs. While I’m in this humour of ‘wishing’, I would like a car to make us more mobile, but no doubt Ron would take it with him when he goes on his ‘grande

tours’, so it wouldn’t do me any good. Enough of this blubbering, let’s get on to more exciting events.

A group of us went camping at Rapid Bay at the weekend. The beach is about sixty miles south of Adelaide. In 1836, Captain Light considered the area as a main port, but found the anchorage was not suitable however, the place was perfect for us. A beautiful sandy beach surrounded by hills. The local village boasted only one shop which was crowded with sun soaked, scantily dressed, thirsty patrons, all demanding ice-creams and coca-cola at the same time.

The temperature was in the eighties and absolutely perfect, so we spent all day Saturday swimming. In the evening, we pitched our minute tent and prepared the bar-b-que, Ron managed to drop some of the chops in the sand, which didn’t exactly improve the flavor, but worse things were in store, our tent took umbrage at the high winds and promptly collapsed, leaving us giggling half the night, never-the-less, we were all swimming before 7am Sunday morning, the water was like crystal, but freezing.

We saw a few porpoises leaping in the bay close to boys on surf boards, lovely to watch. Catherine was lucky as she was invited for a boat trip.

During the day it became very hot on the beach and the flies were devouring us at an alarming rate, most of the other campers had elaborate tents with fly screens attached, insulate ‘die-hards’ stayed put, whilst we, less hardy folk withdrew to the welcoming grove of fir trees above the beach, where we did absolutely nothing but sprawl in the shade, drinking lemonade and drowsily iring the brightly coloured finches in the branches above our heads.

A man from a nearby house offered us some cool rainwater from his tank, it tasted wonderful after the brown liquid that issues from the Adelaidian taps. We

returned in the evening by car, I had to drape a damp towel over my left arm to prevent being burnt by the blistering sun. The traffic was very heavy, so we stopped for a breather at Christies Beach. It was superb, exactly like the travel brochures adverts, and did not boast the tiny, sharp, pointed, obnoxious painful’ three cornered jacks’ which is the bane of bare toes on so many other beaches, the wretched things can even penetrate rubber thongs.

We all arrived home exhausted, wind-blown and happy.

SEPTEMBER 1965

TELEGRAM 1/9/65

CONGRATULATIONS! NEW GRANSON. RICHARD MATTHEW

BORN FIRST DAY OF AUSTRALIAN SPRING.

A little surprise for you -–– Richard Matthew.

We hope your approve of our choice of names).

You may celebrate Richard’s arrival with a magnum of champagne,

served in crystal glasses,

he is gorgeous.

Dear M&E,

Richard was born at Queen Victoria Hospital. Instead of being whisked away to some remote nursery, he was popped into a bassinet at the bottom of my bed. He with three other babes in the ward, were not slow in demanding our constant attention, so we (Mums), were allowed very little sleep. Before ‘R’ decided to put in an appearance, I had bronchitis and high blood pressure, so I went into hospital a week before he was due, and then proceeded to sleep almost non-stop from Sunday night until 6am Wednesday, Richard arrived at 9.55am. I stayed on my feet until the last moment, so the doctor missed the ‘great event’, even the nurses had hardly enough time to ‘scrub up’. Well, he is a noisy 8lb 5½oz baby, and I have been as ‘fit-as-a-fiddle’ ever since, motherhood must agree with me. An amazing coincidence, the only letter I have received from Eddie since being in Australia, arrived on Richard’s birthday, is Eddie clairvoyant?

Home again. The children are thrilled, and take it in turns giving Richard a cuddle, so no doubt he will be thoroughly spoilt, already he stops crying the moment his picked up. Ron is ‘pleased as punch’, and thank goodness is working at Sandy Creek, so is able to come home every night. The local children have been in to see the new baby, bringing small gifts, plus the neighbours have also welcomed his arrival into the fold, so our little boy is now ‘launched’ into the world.

It appears the Tea Tree Gully is having a ‘population explosion’ as Ruth, our next door neighbor is expecting twins, Pam is also pregnant, and as this area is like a ‘new town’, there are lots of young, migrant couples, so no doubt there will be an avalanche of babies, but unfortunately, very few grandparents to welcome them.

It has occurred to me that now I don’t have to carry my shopping bags home from the shops as Richard’s pusher (pram) will come in extremely useful -—

(don’t worry, I won’t jettison the baby)!

Dear M&E,

Ron took the children to the Royal Adelaide Show which is, as far as I can gather, a cross between an Ideal Home Exhibition and Country Show with a Fair. They returned home bubbling with excitement, talking ‘ten to the dozen’ and looking like chimney sweeps.

Apparently there were wood chopping contests, cattle and horses being paraded before judges and a wonderful ‘animal nursery’ with calves, foals, piglets and lambs. Naturally the children preferred the ‘Fair’, with David apparently addicted to ‘bumper cars’, and was lured away with the promise of the multitude of side-shows, fairy floss and ice-cream.

Richard was duly presented with a fluffy monkey on a stick, and I received a money-box on a coiled wire which bounced when hung up (our share of the spoils). It all sounded like great fun.

Dear M&E,

Pam and Derek’s baby, (Andrew) was born on September 13th. We decided to celebrate their christenings on the same day. The ceremony was held at St. Wilfred’s Church in Tea Tree Gully. It was a blisteringly hot afternoon, but inside the tiny stone church, it was wonderfully cool, a real sanctuary.

Richard’s long, white embroidered gown was made by Ruth, our neighbour. He looked very grand for his first public appearance. I wore a pale green shift dress, which I had made myself, plus a small pleated cotton hat which sat jauntily on my head. To complete my ensemble, I had three quarter length white gloves, I think I looked rather ‘chic’, but you will be able to judge by the photographs.

The ceremony was attended by about twenty friends, a quiet warm hearted, family service. We wish you could have been with us. Later, we took lots of snaps outside the church and under a huge willow tree. Tell Josephine and Joe (Strand), that Jeffrey and Catherine stood in as Godparents on their behalf, and they ‘conducted’ themselves beautifully. A Christening Party was held at Derek and Pam’s home. It was a truly a happy day. Ron was very pleased, and said that it made him feel that everything was worthwhile.

Dear M&E,

We attended a school fete last week, one of the main attractions was the Marching Girls. I how we used to laugh at the American girls we saw on the television, but I must it to being impressed by these youngsters, they were marvelous.

They wore pink jackets, short, white pleated skirts, white gloves and boots, plus tall military hats. Their marching was intricate but they did it perfectly, even ignoring the bush flies around their faces. The brilliant sunshine and blue skies were a bonus that added sparkle to the whole spectacular.

Dear M&E,

Our bank loan has at last come through, although we didn’t get as much as expected, so we have a second mortgage, even so, the two mortgages together will be less than the €32 we are paying each month for the bridging loan.

Money has been tight, with a new baby, new house and school fees, but we really have performed miracles. I have been busy in the garden and planted a Willow, Fir and Wattle, plus fruit trees -- Nectarine, Lemon, Grapefruit, Apricot and Plum. Surely some of them should oblige us by growing and repay all my hard work.

The chap from the bank who valued our property, was tickled pink because Ron and I had been busily building up the garden with ‘filling’ instead of loam, (we poor innocents didn’t know the difference), he informed us gleefully, that ‘nothing will grow’, but I intend to prove him wrong and already organizing a rockery where I hope to grow fushias, ferns and hydrangeas as Ron has promised to build me a shade house.

We do have something in our favour -— the liquid which has to be pumped from the septic tank is channeled onto the garden, the smell is obnoxious, but perhaps the trees will actually enjoy the ‘sludge’ and bloom anyway, it is better way than allowing the effluent to dribble down the road, which is how many households dispose of their waste there being no official sewerage system in the area.

A joy are the horses that lean over the back fence (only a narrow piece of wire), to cadge crusts from the children, plus huge gum trees and a creek (stream) where flocks of gallahs and tiny green parrots swoop and screech. They sound as if they are engaged in having a furious argument.

Gum trees don’t have prolific foliage, nor do they lose their leaves in winter however some have silvery white trunks and branches (ghost gums), which creates a razor sharp silhouette against the bright sunlight and blue sky.

As you may have gathered, we are settling in quite happily however there are times when I get a trifle nostalgic, then I toss Richard into his pusher and trundle up to see Pam who has an inexhaustible reservoir of energy, so we usually go somewhere do something or just sit in the garden talking whilst being fortified with a glass or two of wine. It’s not a bad old life, is it?

The following poem, is a true of a visit to the Gawler Market. Pam, myself and the babies, it was quite a day. Gawler is 40 kilometers north of Adelaide.

GAWLER MARKET

Hot day

’52 Austin, Grey

with babes in carry cots,…firmly anchored,

Pam and I northward trek,

the flat, dusty Smithfield Plain.

Pam’s antiquated transport, crawling -—

in far, left-hand lane, -— towards,

Gawler, Open Market Place.

There, a burly Auctioneer, with riding crop,

inveigles, eager customers to buy,

assorted bottles, plus rusty scrap, or live,

evil-eyed roosters, brass candlesticks, sagging bed,

and one poor moth eaten stag’s decapitated head.

Pam on tiptoe with excitement roars,

“I want the marble washstand,

chipped bread crock and green wicker chair”

which she got!

Watched an aboriginal stockman, who sat,

heel hooked, on splintered gate,

in cowboy boots, tight jeans, big smile,

topped, with bushman’s

wide brimmed hat.

We struggled to pile purchases on roof-rack

and in boot, were aided by facetious chap

who joked at Pam’s impetuosity,

with babes and pushers safely stacked,

We thanked our humerous friend, and drove to seek,

cool draughts of sweet apple cider,

and dry, damp ends of baby sons.

Thirst quenched, were drawn,

by the hollow, haunting echo,

of a Blacksmith’s anvil,

and acrid tang of hot metal.

The Smithy in his fire-splashed, leather apron,

sighed, that he was the ‘last’ of his generation,

yet, an indelible image of a Kentish Smithy,

‘lives’ in my memory.

We stepped back into the sunlight,

moved on to ‘Stop and Buy’, Bulk Food Barn

so we ‘stopped and ‘bought’

cream biscuits, vegemite, strawberry jam,

to load on groaning car, then,

home triumphant

until we discovered

that marble is, alas

Terrazzo!

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE 1966 - 1968

March 1966

Dear M&E,

Seems like ages since I have written, but with a small boy, time flies. Richard is very active, he ‘demands’ attention but doesn’t like strangers much, even denies Catherine’s friends any recognition. The hot weather knocked him sideways, although we bathed him in cool water several times a day.

The ‘Adelaide Festival of Arts’ is over, it was very colourful. The city was festooned with multi-coloured lights and pendants, with lively music being played through loud speakers. There was ballet, folk opera, Greek dancing, Russian poetry, bands playing in Elder Park with an Italian singer serenading his audience from an authentic gondola floating on the River Torrens. All this, plus an open air art show, and everywhere there were floral displays.

The city looked really beautiful and was in holiday mood. Catherine and I trotted off to see Laurindo Almeida who was playing classical guitar at the Town Hall, he could really make the guitar ‘sing’. I thought the show would appeal to Catherine, however the temperature was unfortunately in the 90s and the Town Hall was not air conditioned, so we both suffered the ‘agonies of the damned’. Can only hope that Laurindo survived in his formal evening suit.

David went with his classmates to see the ‘Tintookies’, a puppet show and he loved it.

Jeffrey has once again, returned from goodness knows where. He has been working in a Circus apparently the ‘living is rough’. However, he did have a few tales to tell. He helped in erecting the ‘Big Top’, fed the animals, cleaned cages and even learnt to do a bit of juggling. To cap it all, he was persuaded to dress up in Arab robes plus fez and lead a camel during the “Grand Finale.

In Geraldton (Western Australia), there was nearly a catastrophe when ‘new men’ who were the casual workers, took down the sides of the ‘Big Top’ before securing the top, as it was a stormy day, the wind lifted the top (just like a balloon), which was only held by the pegs so that the poles came down injuring some of the workers. Fortunately Jeffrey was not one of them.

On another occasion, a female elephant was performing in the ring and heard her calf who was outside, so she decided to ‘take off’ trying to get to her offspring. In doing so she blundered into the sides of the tent, much to the consternation of the audience. Luckily the poor mum elephant was calmed down and no one was hurt. I had to laugh, Jeffrey said that the ‘young’ male member of staff (he included), like the chore of washing the elephants, as the task always attracted the local girls, and of course the men enjoyed showing off.

Now he is buying a drum set! We shall definitely have to buy ear muffs.

Dear M&E,

You must be wondering if you really have a younger daughter, to prove it, I am writing at last. Richard is trying to grab my attention by pulling the pen out of my hand. He is a full time job, nearly walking now and get around at an amazing speed. He loves opening up all the kitchen doors to see what he can find, and seems advanced for his age. Unfortunately he is not robust, catches cold easily and is underweight, but the doctor says not to worry (I do). He is a beautiful baby and thoroughly spoilt by us all, I wish you could see him.

The last couple of days have seen pouring rain, the garden looks like a swamp and the creek that runs through the back paddock sounds marvelous as the water is scuttling along at a great pace. In the summer months it is as dry as a bone.

I envy you your Rayburn in this chilly weather. When I tell people how we would race from the beach after a swim to stand in front of the Rayburn to get warm, they roar with laughter, they cannot believe it could be that cold in an English summer. Then to prove my point, I show them a photograph of Ron and his mother on the beach at Hastings, where his mother is wearing a winter coat and Ron is wearing a woolen suit, the photo was taken on a day trip during the summer!

Mrs. Powell, I have to inform you, with great sobriety that one of your children attends University - ME.

Pam and I go to philosophy lectures on Tuesday evenings, assuming sober expressions, we enter the sacred portals to ‘glean a few pearls of wisdom’. After one lecture, the whole group gravitate to a coffee shop in Hindley Street, where a recess has been reserved for us. We sit drinking coffee and discussing everything

under the sun; then Pam and I rush to catch the last bus.

We must present a rather undignified spectacle, two rather rotund ladies galloping along the pavement, to fall gasping into our seats. Never mind, we enjoy ourselves, even have the temerity to argue (discuss) with the lecturer, well why not? It at least proves that we have not yet lost the power of speech.

September 1966

Dear M&E,

Richard, at the magnificent age of one year is walking and climbing. He is a tyrant, loves cupboards and playing with water. At the moment he is happily toddling around the garden.

We are all enjoying the sunshine after several wet days. Ron is home for the weekend and he and David are ‘dribbling the football. Catherine is tidying her room and Charlie (Jeffrey) is practicing on his drums. I suspect the neighbours are mightily pleased when ‘J’ takes off on one of his long excursions.

Me, I am just sitting, the cat and dog taking advantage of my non ambulant state. Puss is gently purring on my lap, whilst Tip, the pup is trying to chew my sandal. Yes, we have added to our over-crowded domain. The puppy was found on the main road and although we enquired at nearby houses and d, no one claimed her.

The children of course are keen to keep her. I must it she is an attractive little animal, a black and white terrier. The cat was a stray who decided to take up residence with us. I’m beginning to feel like the ‘old woman who lived in a shoe’.

January 1967

Dear M&E,

Hope you had a super Christmas and that Ethel’s diet did not fall victim to the Plum Pudding. We are having continuous sunshine and we must resemble dried prunes!

Ron and I went to a prison concert last week, and it was very professional. The main character also wrote the script and could be a double for Max Bygraves. The costume and scenery were all made by the ‘inmates’ and we thoroughly enjoyed it. It seemed such a pity that so much talent was locked behind prison gates.

Josephine has written asking our opinion on migration to Australia, as some of her pub customers are interested. Here is our ‘personal’ opinion.

We are sending a South Australian newspaper in which there are job vacancies and house prices etc. It would be a good idea to have at least €500 in the bank. I know we only had €80, but we really did arrive at an ideal time. Plenty of work and Agents were ‘falling over themselves’ to sell migrants newly built houses. The chances of owning your own home are extremely good, ninety per cent of the population do so. Wages are at least double the English wage packet (for tradesmen with qualifications). Workers get extremely long holidays eg Ron gets three weeks holiday at Christmas, plus Public Holidays (one day holiday), of which there are quite a few.

The weather is better (I think?), but the blistering hot summer months and bushflies can be distressing. Autumn and Spring are lovely and I don’t mind the mild winters. Public transport is not anywhere as good as its English counterpart, because practically every household owns a car. The disadvantage is that pavements are not a priority, and dusty, gravelly pathways are hard on unprotected toes, most people wear thongs for coolness.

A local High Street is non-existent in the new urban areas, although they do exist in older suburbs. There is no class consciousness, in-as-far as accent and titles everyone, bosses also, are on a first name basis, you don’t hear many ‘sirs’ or ‘madams’.

We do have a compulsory health service like in the U.K., but most people subscribe to a voluntary health fund which works extremely well. Ron paid $62 (you’ll have to work that out in English pounds), last year for the family hospital and medical bills, optician and dental costs are not included, and can be expensive.

The weather allows plenty of sport, cricket, swimming etc., sports enthusiasts including horse racing are. well catered for. Most Australians enjoy an easy going lifestyle, good food, cheap wine, sunshine and material goods, although I am not referring to the ‘outback’ Australians, whose lives appears to be extremely hard and a ‘different kettle of fish’ altogether.

I am considered an oddity because I like to ‘know’. My favourite word is ‘why?’ Probably just nosey. Pat said “June, you think too much”. Australians like to keep their girlfriends and wives in the background. Young brides have comfortable homes with all the modern gadgets, the ‘groom’ then returns to his sport interests and pub friends. ‘Mateship’ is not a myth!. I think a ‘male’ would have apoplexy if a ‘female’ strayed over the threshold of ‘their’ public bar, as ‘she’ is relegated to the lounge area.

Women have their own interests. They organize Tupperware and jewelry parties which are well attended by their friends and neighbours. I have not made myself popular because I refuse to participate in the entertainment. They thought I was eccentric when I arrived at a ‘do’ (not Tupperware), wearing one of Ron’s shirts!

A visitor to Adelaide described the colour of children’s clothing ‘like a rainbow in the streets’, add to that, the pink and blues of uniforms worn by women who work in banks etc., and the sunshine and it creates a cheerful, casual mood in the city.

Adelaide is a very attractive clean city and referred to as the ‘City of Churches’ (sedate). It has four large department stores and lots of small shops. All the city streets run parallel to each other, which is considered a masterpiece of town planning. Adelaide did not evolve, it was built to a specific design therefore, unfortunately, there are no dusty nooks and alleyways to be discovered and explored. The city could be toured in a few hours.

Adelaide has a University and a small Museum, lovely botanical gardens and a thumbnail Zoo. There is a marvelous Market full of fresh fruit, vegetables, the wonderful smell of newly roasted nuts, lot of different cheeses, and a narrow walkway which consists entirely of butcher shops. The vendors compete nosily with each other, like an ancient “York Shambles’ market and there are plenty of ‘specials’ (bargains) to be had.

Aussies are very generous in their of charities for example, last year there was a 24 hour Appeal on TV (Telethon), and on this particular day it was raising money for the Home for Incurables. $168,247 was raised by people phoning in, or bringing donations directly into the Studio.

Another example is ‘Carols by Candlelight’, held in the evening at Elder Park just before Christmas. Tickets, programs and candles are purchased before entering the park. The Orchestra, Choirs and well known Australian soloists give of their services free of charge, therefore every penny goes to the charity. Incidentally, it is a marvelous night to see thousands of candles flickering through the darkness. It is certainly a happy and imaginative way to collect for charity.

Adelaide maybe an ‘oasis in a troubled world’, but if you prefer big city life, then I suggest Melbourne or Sydney, as Adelaide is not only isolated from the rest of the world, but also from other Australian cities.

For me, the greatest drawback is home sickness. Most women migrants suffer from it in varying degrees from time to time. Australia is a long, long way from home and family, so don’t underestimate its reality. About 6% of migrants return home.

There are a few Australians that are not overly enamoured with the English migrants, and are not backward in voicing their opinions, they think we are arrogant, and perhaps they are right. Mind you, I think the Italian and Greek migrants also suffer from this ‘anti’ philosophy.

We have been lucky, Pam and Derek have involved us with their many friends, who have made us welcome. Pam advises new migrants to ‘take Australia as it is, don’t compare it with England’, and that is the best advice of all.

TINY TIM (JP)

(An English view on Christmas Lunch)

We sit gorged replete with succulent, roast turkey and mince pies. Fermented grape-juice glistens in our eyes and on our tongue, we can relax, be merry, chockfull of benevolence toward mankind. Santa Claus has kindly delivered his booty family and friends have sent their ‘Goodwill’ messages, which vie for space on our mantelpieces ……………. Snowmen, horse drawn carriages, firelight and happy Tiny Tims, who smiles benignly through thick, drifting snowflakes ……………..display a truly English Christmastide n……………………….Yet! Half a world away

Its 90 degrees in the shade. Beach umbrellas bristle on the sand, Cold salads, icy beers (kept cool in an Aussie Esky), are digested By scantily attired bathers, sweltering in the heat, Their ‘Santa’ in full regalia ………. Long red gown and fully whiskered (although HE probably imagines Shorts and tank top more appropriate), may arrive on a surf board over sparkling, blue water. ‘He’ is greeted by tiny-tots And their parents, who no doubt agree That surf-boards are superior to narrow, blackened chimney-pots. However, the joyful spirit of Christmas Remains intact! England, Iceland or Australia, Its……………………. Happy Christmas Tiny Tim, and, Families and Friends.

February 1967

Dear M&E,

Catherine and David did well in their ‘end of year’ exams, and have been promoted into the next grade. As there are no primary schools in this area as yet, a few classrooms at the high school (Modbury High), have been set aside for the younger children, so Catherine and David are able to walk to school together; they are busy planning a t farm venture for when they grow up, they are great ‘pals’.

We have made several trips to the beach during the summer holidays, squatting under a beach umbrella, only emerging to gallop down to the water’s edge for a cooling swim. I will send a photo of me squinting’ into the sun with Richard on my lap.

We gave a New Years’ Eve party and invited our guests to ‘dress up’ for the occasion. Peter, Pam’s brother, came as an onion seller, complete with string of onions around his neck. Another chap as a French artist, wearing a beret, dark glasses and splashes of paint on his baggy tros.

Leslie, a student teacher, came as a 1920 ‘flapper’, she looked just like a doll. Ron and I were a couple of ‘tramps’. I must it to being rather disappointed by Derek who arrived in his every day wear, until we was kindly asked to ‘step outside’ to go for a walk, where we discovered Derek with a grubby blanket pinned across his shoulders, a bedraggled straw hat and teetering on stilts, he was supposed to be a Mexican peasant.

Off we went in all our glory to the main road. A cruising police car paused momentarily, the occupants probably thought we were ‘dotty’, but quite harmless, so kept going. It was a super party and didn’t finish until 3am.

Dear M&E,

We had a letter from Josephine telling us that she had won a prize, unable to guess exactly what the object was, (a pink, perfumed piece of material), she put it on her head, much to the amusement of her friends. Later she discovered, it was a lampshade frame -– in the ‘loo’, it would then ‘give out’ a pleasant aroma when the light was switch on. I though such a bizarre event deserved a nonsense verse.

SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS (JP)

‘Powell’s have never followed fashion,

‘They’ have never worn a bowler hat, -- except,

Perhaps for Uncle Edwin, who

doesn’t count -— cos, -- He’s a Blunt.

Who can boast, they have actually seen ‘Us’ at Ascot

decked up in floppy, -— flowered bonnet,

or top hat? Let others like -—

The Lady Well heeled, -– stagger bowleggedly,

Beneath ‘Her’ candelabra coronet.

‘We’ (the Powells, that is), display -— panache!

‘We’ wear only pink, perfumed creations,

Perched above our noble brows.

Who else! – would dare to follow,

‘Our’ flamboyant -— LAV, -— ish, style?

Autumn 1967

Dear M&E,

Thank you for ‘the’ letter, our postman laughingly suggested that we remove the letterbox altogether, I had been waiting expectantly each morning, but nothing arrived. Today however, we were able to (metaphorically) clear away the accumulated dust and cobwebs, so please keep it that way!

The summer has lasted six months. We did have one downpour of rain yesterday, you would imagine that one could never get tired of sunshine, but everyone here is longing for some lovely cold, wet weather.

Jeffrey was sent to the Labour Exchange for an IQ test, to find out what sort of job he was best suited for, later I was asked to attend an interview. It appears that he has an extremely high IQ and is capable of learning anything he puts his mind to, but is incapable of coping with a humdrum job. They suggested that he return to school next year to get his Leaving Certificate, he could then apply for University, but although Jeffrey would love to do it, he is so busy running around with his friends and playing those wretched drums, he can find no time to sit down and concentrate.

Life must be ‘lived’ at so many ‘knots per minute’. If I say anything, I am accused of nagging. We are rapidly losing our patience, but hope he will recognize his opportunities, especially as there are 8,000 men out of work in SA.

Catherine will be sitting for her Intermediate Exam at the end of this year, she

has great plans for saving enough money (when she leaves school), for a trip to England. She is a very determined character so perhaps she will really do it.

Ron took David and Catherine to see ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’ at Yatala Prison. They thoroughly enjoyed it. At a previous performance, two of the ‘dwarfs’ absconded during the show, however they were replaced, and unfortunately for them recaptured.

Spring – 1st September 1967

Dear M&E,

You’ll be pleased to know that Pam and Derek have another baby, a little boy David. They are both ‘over the moon’, and will no doubt spoil him like mad. You cannot imagine how much baby equipment has been accumulated on behalf of one small child, a ‘silver spooned’ baby indeed!

We attended ‘Arbor Day’ at the school and incredibly it pelted down with rain, (somebody must have heard me complaining about dry weather). We dutifully stood listening to the Heaster, but no one could hear a dicky bird, as the loudspeaker was not being cooperative, (it was that kind of day). We then squelched across a ‘sea of mud’, to watch David and his classmates plant forty five trees. It will look wonderful when they grow, with the vineyards close-by, and the Adelaide hills as a perfect backdrop. It turned out to be a very successful day.

Poor Richard had a mirror fall on his forehead and had to have stitches. He quickly recovered, it is just surprising that he is not involved in more accidents as he is forever climbing. I often threaten to leave all my problems here and ‘go home to Mum’, but David says “you can’t do that Mum, you haven’t got any money” -— how true!

Dear M&E,

I am feeling very guilty as I had promised to write more often, so I’m making an early start in the hope of actually finishing a letter and posting it.

The big news here of course is the death of Mr. Holt, his tragic drowning is shrouded in controversy, even suggestions that his death was not accidental, rather like a ‘cloak and dagger’ mystery.

Prince Charles and Mr. Wilson arrive for the funeral tomorrow, but the feeling is that they would not have been so eager to come if Mr. Johnson had not been so ‘quick off the mark’. Certainly America is keen to forge strong ties with Australia, and clearly Mr. Holt’s ‘All the way with L.B.J.’ acknowledged the growing friendship between Australia and America. If England goes into the Common Market, then the links with this country will be sorely tried, it all seems terribly sad.

The drought is the other major topic, we expect water restrictions to come into force soon, although the onus to save water is on the householders at the moment. The local councils have roving inspectors advising people to clear rubbish and long grass from around their properties (in case of bush fires).

We have given up the idea of trying to keep the lawn green and just concentrate on keeping the trees alive. All the water from the washing machine and bath is scooped into a bucket to use for the garden. A neighbor has even broken her drainage pipes to allow the effluent to run into ditches which have been dug around her trees. Already little green islands have formed amid the straw coloured former lawn.

A nearby sports oval boasts a flourishing grassy area, but no doubt the club was apprehensive about public opinion, so a large notice was erected, “We are using bore water”. I feel sorry for the cattle and sheep, the countryside is brown and parched and farmers are being forced to sell their starving animals very cheaply.

A cheerful ‘footnote’ -–- Pam and I took our small sons to a charity auction, which was held in an old stone church hall. It was a blistering hot day, so you may imagine how we roasted. A large bosomed, elderly lady arrived. She was dressed in a cream coloured safari suit and an enormous floppy hat. She took charge of the proceedings with enormous dignity, (conjured up visions of a pioneer missionary attended by her ‘good’ ladies).

We were invited to bid a small amount for mystery parcels. These were well wrapped so we could not see the contents. Pam got a black lacy blouse and I got a toy, it was hilarious, but we retreated early as the boys had become somewhat peevish with the heat.

Charlie, is now playing the drums in a jazz band, and is actually quite good, but I do wonder at the survival rate of parents of frantic youths; we shall soon be ostracized by the entire neighbourhood regarding the constant beating of the drums. Obviously the idea of ‘study’ or ‘apprenticeship’ is not in his vocabulary.

Catherine has to wait until the middle of January to know if she has ed her exams, but her teacher thinks she deserves excellent results since she has been top of her class for the last school year. Catherine works on Friday nights and Saturday mornings in the local greengrocers, for which she receives the magnificent sum of $3 a week.

She has already bought herself a second hand typewriter with her earnings. Peter, her boyfriend, still escorts her to school, although they now travel by bicycle with David tagging on behind, she is very casual about Peter and tells him off when he is late, but no doubt is forgiving when his parents take her on excursions to the beach.

You will be pleased to hear that David had a marvelous school report, 100% for Maths, and 186 out of a possible 200 for the whole exam, though he doesn’t appear to have a brain in his head, he is a real dreamer.

He does however have a wonderful memory which is an enormous help. He took part in the end of term Nativity play, and was one of the three Kings. He did look gorgeous, but was quite embarrassed by Richard who kept calling out “Dadid, Dadid”. Richard cannot pronounce his ‘V’s as yet.

We went to a Rodeo with some friends, it was a beautiful sunny day (we have sunburn to prove it). There were Aussie, American and New Zealand competitors. We found it all very violent and cruel as some of the horses had raw wounds on their flanks, but I must it the horses were very clever in the way they allowed the riders to keep the ropes taut, when the cowboys lassoed the steers.

Clowns diverted the wrath of the Bull when a rider was sprawled on the ground, after being tossed by a ‘bucking bull’, (not my idea of fun). The continuous, raucous commentary suited the mood of the occasion, plus there was a small fair, and lots of candy floss for the children everywhere sticky, noisy and dusty.

We enjoyed a Bar-B-Q lunch amid all the pandemonium and heat, the pungent smell and drifting smoke from the cooking would, I think, always remind visitors to this country of Australia. The entertainment was exciting, but we have

no wish for a repeat performance, as we felt that it was rather cruel.

Happy Birthday Mother, I have written a poem to mark your 80th Birthday. Mum did not approve of this poem, she disliked the word ‘wench’, and thought I was frivolous when referring to Dad’s death – “Old Joe took off he flew to heaven”

MAMA’s 80th BIRTHDAY (JP)

Saint Valentine’s Day, 1888,

Ada s had a date,

Full of energy and go,

She did not linger, heavens no!

Promptly and with great aplomb,

Made her debut for her Mum,

Independent little girl,

roared ‘her’ welcome to the world.

Ada grew, as children should,

went to school and then to work,

labored hard to make a living,

never heard of ‘woman’s’ libbing.

Full of pride, was never servile,

‘she spake the truth and shamed the devil’,

travelled once by horse drawn cab

‘Old Growlers’ they were called, she said.

Now previous to World War One,

Ada married, became a Mum,

soldier Husband, went to ,

sent Paris hat and doll that danced.

A christening gown, all trimmed with lace,

and corset for his lady’s waist.

By Nineteen Hundred and Eighteen,

There was Ethel, Wyn and Josephine.

Husband Joe, became Mine Host,

at Public House in Sheppards Bush.

Ada, ‘shoulder to the wheel’,

from rosy dawn till closing hour,

paused for breath, then had a son,

Joseph Augustus Powell, the Second.

Had another – Edwin Charles,

June was next, and she was last.

In Nineteen Hundred and Thirty seven,

Old Joe took off, he flew to Heaven,

Leaving Ada, minus wings,

Anchored down with kids and things,

Faced with herculean task,

she challenged male prerogative,

Got artists pub down Chelsea Way,

Sign posted – ‘Princess of Wales’.

World War Two, she did not flinch,

This stubborn and tenacious wench,

Nicknamed, The Duchess, by her friends

Queued to buy the weekly ration,

Dried egg, with luck a slice of bacon.

Then Adolf blew her windows in,

Raised her roof, but could not win,

T’was Ada won the war.

Now in her eighties, Ada lives,

On the Romney Marches, Dymchurch).

She loves to build huge, -— aromatic

bon-fires in her garden, -—

(much to her neighbours consternation),

she climbs, (like a goat), the apple-trees,

to pick the fruit,

makes marmalade –and—jams,

bakes crusty bread, and once,

chopped up an entire wood shed

for kindling, so she said, Ada also

runs a village shop, then - Woodland Stores

In the evenings, at approximately Nine pm,

Relaxes with a glass of wine, whilst

watching, every scrap of news -—

– (and Wrestling),

On the television.

Happy Birthday Mum.

Dear M&E,

We have just experienced our first dust storm.

I noticed a chocolate and purple cloud in the distance, I thought it was a huge bushfire, as it was like an enormous tidal wave which stretched for miles, and travelling very fast toward us. The wind was bending the trees almost double, and the temperature was over 100 degrees. A neighbor shouted to us that it was a ‘dust storm’, and to go inside and shut all the doors and windows.

We watched as the houses opposite were swallowed by the cloud bank, the heat was indescribable. We went into the house and everything became dark, like night. The dust was thick and suffocating, the windows leaning inwards. We put wet towels over our mouths and noses.

After a few minutes, we could see the thick doughy mass rolling away across the back garden, it was a frightening yet fascinating experience. Later, there was a cool breeze, but it didn’t last very long, the humidity returned however the following day, it pelted with rain and we all felt a lot easier.

How I dream of the freezing weather we enjoyed at Crawley, and the huge igloo the children built in the garden which remained solid for many weeks, ‘such is life’.

Dear M&E,

Catherine is very happy as she has ed her Intermediate Exam with ‘flying colours’, she wanted to start work and actually applied for a couple of jobs, but she has been persuaded to return to school and study for a Leaving Certificate, which I think is equivalent to the School Certificate in England.

Jeffrey who had been working in Whyalla, decided to take off for Perth, a mere 1,500 mile trek across the Nullabor Plain, 400 miles of which is unsealed desert road. Peter and Steve (his old school friends), elected to go with him, so they bought a 1950 Morris car for $120, took out one of the front seats to accommodate extra petrol cans.

Thus fortified, our hair brained son, and his equally mad companions, sallied forth with a few dollars in their pockets, and one heck of a lot of optimism. They made holes in the floor of the car, to allow water to escape (it was the wet season) and apparently only got bogged once.

That they actually arrived in Perth safely, owes more to luck than judgement, however that is not the end of the story. After their arduous expedition, they parked their exhausted Morris near the beach. The Police came along and removed the car for inspection, and found to their amazement, that it had twenty four defects. The vehicle was subsequently towed to the junk yard, where a Mr. Jolly gave them $10 for the one component that actually did function. I sincerely hope he finds a job soon.

I took David and Richard to see a Horse Dressage Show, it was a blisteringly hot day, so we sat in the shade to watch. The riding instructor was an English chap, who had recently arrived in Australia. He stood in the centre of the ring, when

suddenly a flock of Galahs flew screechingly above our heads.

There was a long silent pause, then an awed whisper ‘that was magnificent’ came over the microphone, he was obviously enthralled. Most of his audience, who would have normally taken this for granted, must have felt a reawakening thrill, and realized just what a superb display these pink and grey birds put on for us every summer.

Well, the sun is shining as usual, the sky is blue and all of my fruit trees are growing. The family are OK although Richard does have a cold, no doubt because the temperature dropped below 70 degrees a couple of times.

Dear M&E,

I believe Jeffrey has already written to you, we are receiving post cards quite regularly now. He appears to be enjoying himself, although it must have been uncomfortable living in a tent.

When he first arrived in Perth, he had no money and when he started work, he hadn’t eaten for three days. He must have been desperate because he asked if any of his work mates (several nationalities), had a sandwich to spare. It was an Aboriginal who shared his lunch with ‘J’. Apparently the aboriginal code of sharing extends to the ‘white man’, for which Jeffrey is very grateful. He is faring much better now. David received a beautifully illustrated Doctor Dolittle book for his birthday from him, and I got an Oxford Dictionary.

He is escorting a French lass about Perth and says that if he winks at a girl in the street, he always gets a smile. I can’t imagine what the girls ire so much, perhaps it is his newly acquired beard.

Dear M&E,

Catherine is very anxious about her Leaving Exam in November, although she has been studying very hard. Last year she did a marvelous project on South Australian Primary Industry which has been sent to America. We are waiting for it to be returned, so that we can send on to you to ire.

Ron has been working at Berri in the Riverland (about ninety miles north of Adelaide). It is a citrus growing area, so I was presented with a half sack of oranges (cost Ron $1), so I made marmalade which delighted ‘his lordship’, Ronald.

We have been having the wettest, coldest winter for years, which is a great joy for the reservoirs are full and we will not have water restrictions in the coming summer months.

Sadly, our little dog Tip has run away for the umpteenth time. Ron raised the height of all the fences, but she still managed to escape. I spent ages looking for her, but she seems to have disappeared completely.

Richard is trying to attract my attention, he has just washed his Teddy-Bear’s paws in the cat’s milk.

THE PIED PIPER (JP)

I have written a nonsense poem, I am not sure if it’s for the children’s benefit -— or my own!

When I was a child, I lived in a wood, and pears grew fat on an onion bush, and Gran, she danced along the lanes, her skirts flew high and how we grinned; at, her black stockinged legs, like, liquor ice sticks,

the neighbors, they hid, behind closed doors, but the kids came out, to dance and jig,

off we went, through woods and fields, and the cows (impolitely). laughed out loud, rabbits, sat amazed, to watch the fun,

n’ foxes played tag, with the farmers hounds, the sun shone hot, and the birds, they sang, ––- Then, I grew up, and the rain, ––— came down’.

This bit of nonsense reminds me of seeing Joe in Casino Royale. After the film I met a couple of elderly ladies in the loo, who complained bitterly, that they had not ‘understood a word’.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR 1969 - 1970

1969

Dear M&E,

I keep meaning to write, but am always being diverted. I hope you had a fabulous Christmas with lots of succulent turkey, home-made mince pies and plum pudding.

We have just had five consecutive days of over 90 degrees, so decided to have cold meat and salad, followed by a special ice cream pudding. You can guess what happened, the temperature fell to 65 degrees on THE DAY, oh well.

Thank you for postal order, it was very welcome. We bought Catherine a white, fluffy rug for the side of her bed, Jeffrey a pair of shorts, David a dart board, and Richard a toy concrete mixer, as they recently had a 12 ft wide, 4ft deep, plastic swimming pool put in the garden. I don’t think we shall hear any complaints.

Jeffrey is home again, after nearly eleven months away. Early one morning, a car arrived at our front door. Charlie emerges with a big grin and introduces us to an Irishman who had given him a lift from Perth. Apparently ‘J’ started walking the 1,600 odd miles home, though he didn’t get very far before the police picked him up and very sensibly sent him back to Perth (no visible means of ).

‘J’, never daunted by such minor inconveniences, began his trek once again, this time it was an Irishman who picked him up, the chap had only been in Australia for six weeks. They took it in turns to drive to Adelaide, and then straight to our front door! The chap had breakfast with us and then said he ‘must be on his way, and ‘would keep in touch’, and off he went.

Jeffrey was in Perth during the recent earth-quake, he was living in a hostel and didn’t realize what the first tremor was, but the second one was stronger. He woke the boy in the next bed and they ran into the street to find everyone else already outside in their night attire. Several large buildings had been damaged.

The following day newspaper photographs showed just how badly mauled a town had been (eighty miles from Perth), railway lines had been twisted and broken, roads torn up, brick buildings demolished but wood homes undamaged. The inhabitants obviously had an ironical sense of humour – the pub had been completely flattened, yet some wag had put up a huge notice, ‘The Beer with no Pub’, the Aussies would have appreciated that.

You’ll be pleased to learn that David got 88% for his exam results. The Teacher said that ‘D’ has no trouble learning, but loses marks because he is so untidy, also he talks too much. David might talk a lot, but he is not match for Richard, who can talk the hind leg off a donkey. He can recite about twenty nursery rhymes, yet is still extremely shy and if anyone speaks to him in the street, he closes up like an oyster.

Catherine is waiting to get her exam results but has already applied for several jobs, one in Alice Springs, which I thought was very ambitious of her.

I did a silly thing, walking across a dry paddock with Richard. I noticed a lot of birds swooping and squawking so we set out to investigate, only to be confronted with a snake that reared up. We stood stock still (in shock), the creature turned tail and fled, thank goodness.

Dear M&E,

Catherine has ed her exams and is very happy. She is now working as a Doctor’s receptionist at a nearby surgery, and looks rather elegant in her short blue uniform.

We have an arrangement with her, it was decided that she would pay $5/week towards the house-keeping, but here comes the crafty bit, as she wants to go to England for a trip and seems prepared to save the money up, we said that the $5 could go into her bank , on condition that she saved an equal amount from her pay packet. However, if she spent ‘her’ contribution, then she would also have to put $5 into the household kitty. So far she has not had to donate a cent, so keep your fingers crossed. I am trying to help a little my making her a couple of simple dresses.

The temperature is in the 50s and I am frozen, although the sun did peep out rather reluctantly for a few moments. It seems odd because it was so hot a couple of weeks ago, I took Richard to the Botanic Gardens. He, ‘dear little boy’ ran straight between the huge sprinklers, much to the amusement and envy of a few spectators who were trying to keep cool beneath the trees.

‘R’ had lots of fun, as there was also a very inviting duck pond to be investigated, and Richard has a natural affinity to water.

We lost three fruit trees last winter because of the wet conditions, but the garden has responded to our coaxing, by producing a good crop of tomatoes and marigolds. The snails and I are having a dispute as to the ownership of the cabbages. I have got a premonition, that it will be ‘us’ eating the tinned peas, never mind, we have been cunning, we have hidden five daffodil bulbs under the

trees in the FRONT garden!

Pam drove us to the hills for a days’ outing. On our return trip, we stopped to buy half cases of apples and pears, the boxes were prepared and priced for sale, with written instructions to ‘place the money through an open window at the front of the house’. It is wonderful to think that country people trust complete strangers, I cannot imagine such a thing happening in a modern city.

I must tell you about my experiences in a jam factory. The summer heat was terrific under the high galvanized roof. The jam was being cooked in the same building as where we were working. The huge doors were left open to catch the breeze, however men steam cleaning boxes just outside the doors, did not exactly add to our comfort.

I spent most of the day sorting apricots which were being tumbled along a conveyor belt. All the women wore old, sleeveless dresses for comfort, one young lass arrived each morning in a different dress (the height of elegance!). What astonished me was that during the lunch break, a couple of the women would swallow BEX powders without the benefit of liquid, just open their mouth, tip back their heads and Bingo, down it went; and it would not only be one powder. You, Mother would not have approved, mind you, no-one here takes senna pods (Mums favourite medication), but probably with the abundance of fruit grown in back gardens, laxatives are not a necessity.

In charge of the whole caboodle was an elderly dragon who had worked there for years. She certainly knew her job, and we were not allowed to slacken our efforts. I used to arrive home exhausted, strip, put my sticky clothes into soak, and then stand under a cool shower for ages. One afternoon we were returning home by truck which had a removable top, our driver, (who was anxiously anticipating the favours of one of the women who had been flirting with him), did not to secure the top, so while he was careering round the sharp bends in the hills, we were yelling and ‘holding on like grim death’. He, lusty

fellow didn’t hear us, only when the first girl alighted at the Gully, did he learn of our plight, by that time we were nearly home. However, no harm was done, and we all lived to ‘tell the tale’.

Ron has been kept busy during his Christmas break, he has painted the lounge and bedroom and built a palatial patio onto the back of the house, it looks very grand and will help keep the heat at bay during the summer.

Charlie (Jeffrey) is now in Whyalla, and besides actually working, he is boxing, weight lifting and playing Chess, which you must it is a peculiar combination. Our Charlie is extremely catholic in his tastes.

I took David and Richard to see a children’s live TV show. ‘R’ was fascinated as he stood by the cameras to watch everything, but never uttered a word. He was persuaded to kiss an enormous puppet bear (Humphrey) on the nose, and very kindly condescended to eat an iced bun. Hopefully he will eventually decide to abandon his self-inflicted exile and actually talk to people, other than the family.

July 1969

Dear M&E,

We are looking forward to Wyn and Gerald’s visit next February. They have chosen their time well for there is an Olympic swimming pool being built close to us, plus we now have an air-conditioned shopping centre within walking distance; so they will not suffer from the heat too much. We shall do our best to keep them entertained.

Poor Richard had to have a hernia fixed at the doctor’s surgery, at least he didn’t have to go into hospital. He still has the stitches in, but they don’t seem to be worrying him at the moment.

David has also ‘been in the wars’, he broke his finger playing football however, the splint is now off and he has to exercise it in warm water every day. He is having a Bar-B-Q party for his birthday and guess what he wants for his present, a pair of football boots!

Thank you much for the Bonds for Jeffrey, will send them onto him, and with his luck, he should ‘hit’ the jackpot. Last weeks he backed a horse which was running third, when the leading horse fell, the second horse tripped over the first and so the third horse came into win, ‘J’ collected $15.

Catherine has saved over $200 towards her fare to England, however at the moment has a bad cold, which seems ironic since recently she had two anti-flu injections.

Ron is now working in Whyalla. I am pleased because he is able to see Jeffrey in the evenings when they play pool together. I think one of the reasons that ‘J’ is so unsettled, is that Ron is hardly ever home, also it doesn’t help matters that both Charlie and me have short fuses, and our tempers erupt dramatically. The poor devil comes in the front door and my first reaction is, ‘What now’. Let’s hope we both survive.

Dear M&E,

Well, both good news and bad, so let’s get the bad over with. Richard cut his finger on a plate-glass door. Pam was there, she pushed all the children into her car and drove us to the doctor’s surgery. He phoned straight through to the Surgeon, but held little hope of saving Richard’s middle finger on his left hand. Pam saw a friend and just handed her two boys over, and drove Richard and I to the hospital. We had to wait until 7pm for the Surgeon.

Pam stayed with us and phoned Ron in Whyalla to tell him what had happened. I was frantic, but there were some elderly men patients in the ward who were wonderfully kind and said they would look after Richard. When Richard went into the operation theatre, I was told to go home and wait for a telephone call. About 11 o’clock that night, Joy our neighbor came to tell me that the Surgeon had rung personally and said that it had been a delicate operation and only time would tell as to whether it had been a success.

I went to the hospital each day, Ron came home but didn’t visit Richard because ‘R’ gets so upset when Ron leaves him. The Nurses made a great pet of him, he followed them along the corridors and got rather annoyed because he wasn’t allowed in the maternity wing.

A few days ago, I took Richard to have his bandages removed, the surgery was full of Doctors and Assistants who wanted to see the result of this difficult operation. Apparently there were hundreds of tiny stitches as the nerve had been repaired, and skin grafted from Richard’s arm. Everyone held their breath when the surgeon told Richard to move his finger. They almost cheered when there was a small ‘twitch’, although we were warned to watch and see he does not bang his hand as it is still numb. Hopefully the finger will function properly eventually.

Ron and I are exhausted, but everyone has been kind and could not have done more for us. We bought Richard a tip-truck which runs on battery, just to cheer him up. Already he is emptying his toy box on the front room floor.

Now for the good news, although the fanfare of trumpets and roll of drums will be slightly muted by the previous news - Catherine has booked her age!!! She sails from Adelaide on 9th October next year (1970), on the ‘Fairstar’, which visits Melbourne, Sydney, Tahiti, Balboa, Cristobal, Curacao and Lisbon before arriving at Southampton. I hope someone will be able to meet her in London. She is trying to arrange a job and hostel accommodation in London before she leaves here, but obviously wants to see all the relatives and stay with you both at Dymchurch for a while.

I am busy making a few dresses for her (hope Catherine is not in too much of a hurry, for it took me exactly one year to make a petticoat at school, and I haven’t improved much since then). I shall however do my best. It appears that the ‘Pegrams’ are actually going to make it!

Jeffrey will hardly let the grass grow under his feet, now he can actually see the result of diligence.

We have already started preparing for Wyn and Gerald. I have made curtains and covers for the settee, and Ron will be doing some wall-papering, so we should be presentable. Roll on February.

Lots of love to everyone, and ask Josephine to write, we haven’t heard from her in ages.

February 1970

Dear M&E,

Wyn and Gerald arrived safely.

There was a small army of friends to meet them. Pam and Leslie had lacy posies for Wyn and the men polished up their cars for the grand occasion. W&G emerged from the plane rather disheveled after their long journey. They were wearing summer hats and winter coats (although the weather was hot and steamy), apparently easier to wear the coats as they had so many parcels to carry. I think they were both surprised and a bit embarrassed to be met by such a resplendent party.

Everyone was excited and talking ‘ten to the dozen’, but we somehow managed to get them home without incident. I had left all the house lights on and put flowers in every room to welcome them, also we had prepared a cold buffet, so we ‘tucked in’ to our banquet whilst exchanging family news. Although W&G were very tired, Wyn rapidly recovered, and we sat chatting until the early hours of the morning.

Mum, we are very sorry to hear that you had been so ill, and do hope you will soon be on your feet again. Please write soon and let us know how you are progressing.

We allowed Wyn and Gerald a few days to relax, only going shopping, and of course plenty of chinwag (we never stopped for a second). Pam and Derek gave

a ‘Welcome to Australia’ evening Bar-B-Q for them. Small tables with red and white tablecloths topped by beach umbrellas had been setup in the garden, with fairy lights spanning the trees. The scene resembled a French side-walk café and looked superb. Unfortunately I had advised Wyn to dress casually for the occasion, however when we arrived, we found everyone dressed up for the guests of honour. It was a marvelous party.

Although the summer had been hot previous to their arrival in Adelaide, the weather suddenly turned cold, and we finished the night huddled around a bonfire, wearing Pam’s jumpers and cardigans, and drinking wine and coffee, talking about everything on earth, but mostly education and politics. It was a wonderful atmosphere and a grand night.

A few days later, we took them to see the Cleland National Park situated in the Adelaide hills. Kangaroos and Wallabies hop around the huge paddocks, and will approach visitors for tit-bits. Richard raced after a rather large kangaroo to pat it on its back, however it turned and lifted its hind legs as if to kick out. I can only suppose that the animal realized that ‘R’ was only a child, because it hopped away. A Ranger told us that it was the only bad tempered Roo in the park, trust Richard to pick that particular animal.

Koalas and wombats are in enclosures, but there are plenty of trees and space for them. Wyn and I was actually allowed to hold one of the Koalas, what a treat. Gerald and Wyn loved it and took masses of photographs. Cleland, with its gum trees, native animals and the blue, blue sky, which seemed a million miles high, must have been how it was everywhere before civilization arrived.

They also enjoyed excursions by Coach to the Barossa Valley, visiting wineries and savouring the different vintages. They were extremely happy with the prices and bought ‘oceans’ of booze back with them, mostly for our nightly gossip sessions. They also enjoyed a boat trip down the River Murray to ire the exotic birdlife.

We went swimming practically every day in the new, open-air swimming pool which is only a ‘stones throw’ away, we certainly did not allow them to be lazy. I think they were amazed to see Richard launch himself from the side of the pool and swim like a dolphin, as he looks so thin and frail.

It was lucky Jeffrey was home since we hardly ever see him. He had been in Tasmania where he thoroughly enjoyed himself with 10,000 other teenagers, who attended Mardi Gras in Hobart. He arrived home, sans dollars, sans decent shoes, sans paying the boat fare, but thank heavens, in one piece. Wyn says we are an interesting family, well seen at a safe distance, she could be right.

Ron was only here for a short time as he has been working at Mount Gambier, but perhaps he, like Gerald would have felt slightly neglected, as Wyn and I never stopped talking the whole time they were here. We gave them a royal ‘God Speed’ by inviting all our neighbours and friends to a Bar-B-Que. We had flares, a bonfire and the hotplate going ‘full blast; with plenty of wine. We didn’t manage a ‘Roman Orgy’, but did have lots of party spirit. It was the biggest ‘Do’ we have ever had, and am pleased to report that it was a huge success.

We all reassembled to see Wyn and Gerald leave, children all scrubbed and polished, a few tears shed, and then a return to normality. I asked Wyn before she left, what she thought of South Australia, she said “flies, and the automatic reflexes of hands brushing them away from faces, the heat, and the long, dusty trek to the supermarket, the bliss of air-conditioning once you arrived at the shops, buying masses of sultana grapes and eating them by the handful. Lovely wine which is popped into insulated picnic boxes for every occasion. The miles and miles of bungalow sprawl, a beautiful city, but many of the approach roads are spoilt by jerry build shacks (shops), the lack of shady trees in the new suburbs and the magnificent sunsets.

She had a theory regarding home sickness, she thought the earth emits magnetic waves and that one is automatically ‘tuned in’ to the wave length that one is born on, hence the urge to return to one’s roots. It’s an interesting theory isn’t it, like the salmon swimming against the current.

Well, they are now on their way home to Jersey, via New Zealand, Mexico, New York and Canada, and we are positively ‘green with envy’.

Lots and lots of love to you both, please write often and let us know how Mother is getting on, I wish we could be with you.

Dear M&E,

CONGRATULATIONS! On winning the Italian trip, that should perk Mum up a bit after her illness. She always said her ‘ship would come home’, now apparently it has. Have a wonderful time and don’t forget to send a few post cards.

We have been busy preparing Catherine’s wardrobe, she bought some beautiful material to make an evening skirt, but I wouldn’t risk spoiling it, so Ruth next door is making it. I have managed to make one long skirt and Catherine has bought a couple of filly blouses, so with luck her evening wear will appear inexhaustible. I have also made a couple of day dresses and a sleeveless knitted top, so we are progressing.

A favour! Could Ethel meet the boat train in London, as although Catherine is extremely capable, and will quickly learn to cope, I think London could be rather bewildering for her initially.

David is doing well at school, he always punctuates his homework by drawing a cartoon strip of Snoopy and the Red Baron. ‘D’s teacher must enjoy all the bizarre Snoopy adventures as he gets ‘excellent’ on every page.

Richard is his usual volatile self, yesterday he finished the evening by falling off David’s top bunk. He was busy throwing a hot-water-bottle at me, but he soon bounced back, it didn’t discourage him for long. His finger still looks rather a mess, but the surgeon is pleased with it. Richard will eventually be able to play a piano or anything else he wants to do, so we breathe once again.

September 1970

Dear M&E,

Richard was five today, so we took him to the Zoo which he absolutely loves. Poor little chap, has been very ill. He had mumps in July, we thought he was recovering normally, then he became feverish and stopped eating. The Doctor was worried and visited every day. He wanted to put Richard in Hospital, but I knew Richard would be better at home in familiar surroundings, at least he was laying quietly, whereas in hospital he would have been fretful. It got very dicey. I just stayed with him every minute. It has taken ages to get him reasonably fit again, the Doctor thing that Richard has no natural resistance, so we have him on Vitamin C and hope he will be robust and ready for school in February.

Catherine bought him a cricket set for his birthday which he was thrilled with. We gave him a sleeping bag for when he eventually goes camping with the school. He of course demanded to sleep in it tonight.

We are getting a tape recording together for you, which Catherine will take with her. Jeffrey, as usual is not here as he is in Melbourne, and Richard had to be bribed to say just a few words. Nevertheless, you will be hearing our Aussie accents for the first time.

We are gearing up for a grand ‘send-off’ for Catherine to be held on 3rd October. All her friends and workmates have been invited, and as it will be Josephine’s birthday on Sunday, we shall be wishing her Many Happy Returns at the same time.

9th October 1970

Dear M&E,

THE GREAT DAY HAS ARRIVED!

Catherine sailed at midday today, amid streamers, music ship’s horn and floods of tears as she stood on the deck rail ‘crying her eyes out’. We waved and shouted encouragement, an elderly couple who were standing close to her, gave her some more streamers to throw, no doubt they will haul her off to lunch the moment the ship is out of sight of land.

Jeffrey is meeting the ship in Melbourne, so she will have time to make a few friends before then. A girlfirend of Catherine had booked her age at the same time, but had become engaged and had cancelled her trip. We all went (Pam and her crowd also), to wish ‘C’ Bon Voyage, we went aboard and had quite an exhausting time locating her cabin on ‘D’ Deck. Having found the cabin, we then proceeded to celebrate with a bottle champagne. She certainly went off in style.

Her Farewell Party was a great success, over forty guests, all the doctors from the surgery, where she had worked since leaving school, and their wives, plus the nurses and staff also lots of friends and some of our neighbours. We consumed an entire sheep, (in chops naturally), gallons of wine and punch (slight exaggeration).

As it was a cold night, we had a bonfire, someone had provided old fence posts for the fire which kept everybody warm. Catherine received many gifts, one

doctor gave her an opal broach, plus she received masses of cards and we bought a celebration cake.

Well, Catherine is on her way! The trip sounds fabulous, and then there will be the excitement of ‘arrival’ in England, so watch out for a huge grin at Waterloo and make sure England has a ‘white Christmas’, not forgetting the homemade bread.

Bye the way, Richard was disappointed that Wyn and Gerald did not arrive at the airport covered in snow, he has never seen it.

December 1970

Dear M&E,

HAPPY CHRISTMAS.

Thank you for your letter (singular), did you think we had changed our address!! However David received his ‘Ernie Bonds’ safely, so thank you once again, let’s hope he has some luck.

Ron is home from Maree for his holiday. Maree is about 450 miles north of Adelaide, the temperatures there have been fantastic, 101, 106, 112 degs last week, and there is no air-conditioning in his motel bedroom. Ron is a delicate shade of burnt mahogany, but copes with the heat very well. Me, I just melt.

One local inhabitant said that he liked Maree because he could stand in the middle of the main road and have a conversation with a friend, without the fear of being ‘knocked down’ by a car.

Ron was fortunate, he bought a tent, a set of encyclopedias and a camera for the children, apparently a family was moving away from the town and sold all their goods to make their move easier. It would be a bit like migrating, I should imagine.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE 1971

January 1971

Dear M&E,

David came forth in the class of twenty two, his report read, ‘David is a keen boy who is liked by all and he is clever. He has worked consistently well’. I have told him that he has to use his brains, because he has no practical sense atal, he couldn’t knock a nail into a piece of wood!

Jeffrey is still in Melbourne, but I hope he will soon be home. I have made him a very expensive jumper as I had done so much for Catherine, I thought it only fair.

Richard is as ‘brown as a berry’, and would run everywhere stark naked if we allowed him to. We don’t mind the back garden and playing in our small pool, but he had no inhibitions, and to see him perched on the front fence, devoid of even a stitch, is quite amusing, but a few of the less liberated parishioners, raise their eyebrows.

February 1971

Dear M&E,

Richard has reluctantly started school. David escorts him in the morning, and I fetch him home in the afternoon as he finishes earlier than David. The school is about one and half miles away over rough, stony paths. We have to walk across a wooden bridge that runs over a creek bed. We were told to walk heavily to warn any lurking snakes of our presence, so they would keep their distance. To compensate, the small green parrots and gallahs that swoop and screech over our heads are marvelous.

Dear M&E,

NOW ………….. Clashing of cymbals, beating of drums, fanfare of trumpets, and all that razzle-dazzle - David, Richard and I are booked on a trip to England on 7th July (before David turns 12 years when he would have to pay adult fare).

We are travelling the cheapest way we can, which is about $200 less than the normal flights, but means well be subject to delays if there are no seats available, never mind, we shall be ‘on our way’.

Catherine returns in June, she is going to have a short stay in Italy before flying to Melbourne, where she will be staying with the family of someone she met overseas, before returning home. Everything is working out perfectly.

Jeffrey is home and is trying to get a job in the opal mining town of Coober Pedy where he hopes to earn enough for a trip to Europe. I told him that he has the ‘gift of the gab’ and would be a marvelous commercial traveler, unfortunately all my suggestions fall on deaf ears.

Ron is happy that we are going, as he points out that he is rarely home, so it will not affect him too much, although I know he would love to be coming with us.

Give our love to all the family and tell them to get their romper suits out, cos, HERE WE COME. I can’t really believe it, but will when we put our feet inside the front door at Dymchurch.

We shall be re-crossing the Rubicon!

I have written a poem to celebrate the grand occasion.

‘ITS THERE I DREAM’ (JP)

Cool blue shadow, beneath fir and wattle trees, Where hydrangea’s dome of rosy mauve and fragile fern, Shelter from the molten sun, ‘It’s There I Dream”.

Of childhood days, In narrow, leafy Kentish lanes, Massed bluebells rioting, while we siblings fought, Pitched battles, through dry, Whale-bone fronds of bracken, Discovering sweet, wild strawberries, Cloistered, rosily between,

A tapestry of fallen leaves, Black-berried fingers, briar scratched, sometimes stung, When angry wasps, disputed our right to the abundant fruit, The humble hazel-bush, whose pliant limbs would bend To form, a canopy of tranquil green, or shape

A functional bow-and-arrow.

Dear, ancient Yew, often climbed by grandfather as a boy, We, in turn, lay snuggly on its wrinkled brow Cradled gently, by patriarchal Yew, dreaming Of unfading youth, and scrumping apples in the morning. Familiar voices calling, ‘Come home soon’ But unheeded, until twilight deepened, And the psychic moon, Changed our carefree world To silvery white, with dark pools of blue Beneath the trees, and the, As now, ’

Only the wanderer

knows England’s graces

Or can anew see clear

familiar faces.

(Ivor Gurney)

After what seemed an eternity, the trip back to England having taken four long days, due to a myriad of difficulties, one could only imagine would happen in a comedic film.

Arriving ‘home’, I could see Mum at the rear of the shop, she had her hand to her cheek, and was looking a little puzzled. She hadn’t recognized us. Suddenly, she gave a jump, and rushed out to meet us. It was bedlam, cases and coats flying in all directions, amid the excitement. Mum paid the cabbie, who took off like the wind. Apparently Mum had thought it was Wyn who had arrived unexpectedly, and she had been wondering why?

Ethel had been shopping and came home to utter chaos, everyone talking at once, the children were absolutely bewildered. Mum and Ethel had been expecting us in July, but we of course had ‘landed on them’ two weeks early, which threw them into a panic. I was shoved onto the settee to rest my swollen ankles, and given a cup of tea. Mum took charge of the boys, so was in her element. All I can say is, if anything had been planned for our arrival, it was completely forgotten in the excitement. Pam’s brilliant idea of us arriving home looking elegant, did not quite work out as planned, but of course it didn’t matter.

Ethel phoned Josephine, who came over in the evening, and of course, it was just a whole lot of chinwag about the family. Mum is slightly greyer, Ethel still looks as if she had stepped out of an ‘arty’ band box and Josephine is her cheerful self. Nothing seems to have changed very much, it is as if we had only been away a few months, not eight long years.

Richard slept in my bed, he was overwhelmed with tiredness and the noisy ‘Powells’. David slept in the small bedroom next to the bathroom, I must it it was lovely to climb into crisp, ironed sheets again.

I was ‘home’ again, and loving it.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX FAMILY EXPLOITS

Next morning, I was indulged with a cup of tea in bed. Apparently David and Richard were already on the beach. Lots of talk, and poring over photographs. In the afternoon, I took the boys to the Village Fair and ‘R’ had his photo taken with a guinea-pig, and talked me into buying him long-legged wellington boots. We spent the rest of the day recovering our scattered wits.

We have been made to feel very welcome by the villagers, who come up to us in the street and ask if we have returned home for good, they even ed our names. Bob K asked if Ron was still playing soccer, (he is now completely grey). One thing has changed dramatically, the village street has become a main highway, as enormous trucks are travelling at ‘break neck’ speed through the village. The cause of the heavy traffic is the huge, Nuclear Power Station being built at Dungerness. The house, being located on the main high street, ‘rocks’ at night as the trucks carrying heavy machinery es. Progress? Ugh!!

I took the children over to Ramsgate by bus, we stopped on the way to visit Dover Castle which enthralled them. The old Roman Lighthouse is blackened inside from the ancient fires, but now is providing an ideal home for pigeons. It was a perfect day, and we could see out over the Channel.

We found Josephine and Joe’s pub ‘The Duke of York’ at the top of the cliffs at Ramsgate. The pub is bursting with historical interest and is supposed to be ‘haunted’. There are three tunnels which have been bricked up, two in the kitchen (below ground level), these are used as cupboards, and one tunnel in the garden. They were once used as age ways to carry ammunition and army stores down to the harbor, the pub had been the headquarters of the Duke of

Wellington. They had a magnificent circular staircase which went right to the top of the house, even the walls were circular, really fascinating.

The boys were more interested in the ‘ghost’ stories, apparently running feet are often heard, but there is no-one to be seen. An old man has been seen by several people and Josephine tells me that he is a friendly ghost! But it really can make your hair stand on end when we were sitting in the kitchen when a wall mirror cam hurtling across the room, it did NOT FALL, it appeared to have been thrown! I was not dreaming. Apparently, cupboard doors fly open and the contents tumbled onto the floor, -– A Friendly Ghost? I think not.

s, (the eldest daughter) is now married and has three small children, Nicholas, Alaister and Laura. She and her husband Bill are buying a house within a ‘stones throw’ of the pub. We had an enormous meal with all the family, as the other children, John, Marion and Douglas were also at home. Then everyone came to the bus stop to see us off. It was an interesting day.

Mum and I went to Tunbridge Wells to see Uncle Edwin, he is now in an Old Peoples Home. Unfortunately, he did not recognize either of us. Both Aunties, Ethel and Beatrice were visiting Uncle, and had previously been looking after him at Quarry Cottages. This situation became untenable as he kept falling out of bed, and was unable to feed himself. A sad situation, but I am so glad I had the opportunity to see him.

EDDIE AND ROSEMARY @ STRAWBERRY ACRE

Eddie and Rosemary, arrived at Dymchurch with the children, Adam and Tania. Eddie rushed from the car and gave me a huge hug, and Rosemary said that she had never seen such a demonstrative family, nevertheless we also got a big hug from her.

Rosemary is a fun person, tall, slim and blond, and very, very elegant. She is a Wardrobe Mistress in the film world, and reminds me of Glenda Jackson. Rosemary says exactly what she thinks and doesn’t pull her punches (metaphorically speaking). Anyway, we were whisked off to their home Strawberry Acre, which is a beautiful old farmhouse which backs onto a lake. Has parkland on one side and a farm on the other. At the front of the house is an orchard and a narrow lane. It seems that they are living in the heart of the countryside, but in fact are not far from a motorway.

Most of their visitors come from the film world, so it makes things a bit difficult for me. ‘I’ have been filibustered by those more garrulous than I, believe it, cos it’s the truth!

Adam and Tania are much better behaved than our mob, they have a Spanish ‘au pair’, and travel with ‘E’ and ‘R’ on their film assignments, all over Europe so they have learnt to cope with any meal that is put in front of them with no argument, even the wine which we have with our evening meal. It will be interesting to discover how all our children turn out eventually.

JOE AND JULIE @ HARPENDEN

A large, old fashioned three story house, five double bedrooms, breakfast room, dining room with a hallway that runs the entire length of the house and has a wall of books. It is very comfortable living and has loads of character. I loved it.

Joe lives like a king, but on the knife-edge of financial disaster. Having recently returned home from filming in Austria, (a 007 film), he bought Julie and the children a pair of Olympic skis each, but actually only Joe can ski.

When he was in South Africa working on ‘Zulu’, he came up with a brilliant idea for a board game called ‘Zulu’, but was unable to afford the exorbitant cost of marketing it. Julie survives all Joe’s ideas, enthusiasms, inventions, he is as garrulous as he ever was. Dear Joe, he is always looking up at the stars, his feet rarely touch the ground, a true eccentric with a bellowing laugh that can be heard all over the house.

I took the opportunity of introducing the boys to the ‘sights of London’. The Tower of London, and The Royal Mews, plus the stables at Knightsbridge Barracks and the War Museum. We also fed the ducks on the Serpentine. They voted the Science Museum in Kensington the ‘Best’, as they were allowed a ‘hands on’ experience on all the scientific equipment, even electric shocks. A close second was Petticoat Lane, where they met a Pearly King and Queen, and Richard thought Trafalgar Square was super, and he climbed on the Lion statues and fed the pigeons again!!

I took the boys plus Joe’s son Julian to Hampton Court by River Bus. It was so cold that we sat at the rear of the boat out of the wind. It was a nostalgic trip and I tried to imagine my Grandfather plying his trade on the Thames barges what

would be a hundred years ago. We have also been to Madame Tussauds’ Wax Museum, and the fantastic new Planetarium, where we sat in ‘lean back’ seats in a darkened circular, domed auditorium to ‘see’ the stars, which could take us back in time to show us all the star formations.

One of the things I am very happy about is that we saw Shelley (Joe and Clem’s daughter), Clem was Joe’s first wife, and we were good friends. Unfortunately Clem died in 1958. Shelley hadn’t seen her father for several months, or her grandmother for over a year, so Joe asked me to get in touch. We met at Charing Cross. Shelley came racing down the platform and just flung herself at us. I think she found it easier to talk to me rather than her father. She was pleased to see us (David and Richard were in tow), and we went to Soho to have lunch and then walked back to the National Gallery. We never stopped talking. I think she felt better when I told her that I also had been the family ‘skeleton’, the family would rather not have acknowledged. The ‘up-shot’ of our meeting was that she promised to get in touch with her father in the morning, so I am keeping my fingers crossed.

John (Joe’s twenty year old son), took me out on his huge gigantic, enormous, monstrous motor bike. It took my breath away, though I appeared cool and unflustered. He calls me his mad Aunt from Australia.

The boys and I went brass rubbing in St. Albans’ Cathedral, where there was a marvelous brass of a Knight set in the stone floor. One cheeky Canadian tourist asked if he could buy my hard worked for rubbing, I told him to ‘get down on his own knees’. He just laughed.

DOWN MEMORY LANE

Mum and Ethel were as ‘pleased as punch’ to see us back, although they have plenty of people to talk to in the shop, I think they like have the family to stay.

We all trotted over to Cousley Wood, as the aunts (Ethel and Beatrice), are vacating Quarry Cottages (Uncle Edwin’s rented home), and returning to Rothwell Street. It is such a pity, as the bungalow has been rebuilt, but unfortunately sold. Only the orchard has been retained, so all our happy childhood haunts have new owners.

David discovered a load of conkers and Richard insisted on wearing Uncle Edwin’s old bowler hat, and carrying a riding crop, that the Aunts had given him. I was the lucky recipient of a dusty calendar which Gran had been given at a Sparrows Green ship in, -— wait for it, -— in 1929 the year I was born. The Aunts thought it appropriate that I had it. David had a field day with the camera, he was delighted with the English countryside.

We lunched at the ‘Wine’ at Cousley Wood pub and then collected our ‘spoils’, plus apples from the orchard, and made our weary way home. What a super day, I do hope the boys will it.

Another day, the boys and I hauled Ethel off on a voyage of discovery by bus, then a long hike into the ‘hinterland’ to Brabourne Church to do some brassrubbing. We set to work, whilst Ethel, who was so exhausted, laid down on some pews whilst we finished her brass. We then caught the only evening bus leaving the village. ‘E’ sat, her long hair hanging down to her waist, and couldn’t stop giggling. Eventually she did manage to get her hair ‘up’ again, but slightly askew. We had to wait for another bus from Hythe, so indulged in some fish and

chips from a paper bag, whilst watching a bumptious young man in army uniform, drilling a group of girl cadets, who must have had four pairs of legs apiece. The boy was red-faced and embarrassed, and our obvious amusement did not help.

We finally arrived home, grubby as usual! Mother was not exactly keen on the brass rubbings, actually thought they were a bit morbid.

I decided that we would stay in Dymchurch over Christmas, and then go over to Jersey for a couple of weeks to see Gerald and Wyn. We will then be returning home to Australia.

On an unhappy note, was when we met an elderly farmer. He told us that he was forced to dig up his flourishing orchard and plant potatoes. He was naturally very distressed, but the Common Market Bureaucracy had laid down the rules. Apparently when England entered the Common Market, they inherited hundreds of new laws -— has the world gone mad?

THE GARDEN OF ENGLAND? (JP)

The Garden of England?

Bureaucracy, gone mad I fear,

No Liberty, No Laissex-Faire,

So, burn the book, subdue the pen,

prepare the Sacrificial Lamb.

Strengthen the bonds, stifle the wail,

Invade the mind and break the will.

Inarticulate we deserve our fate,

Subservient to the Prussian State.

Naked, empty, cringing, lame

Pawns in some malignant game.

A Union card, or perhaps a license

To disagree, or create …an Orchard!

I think the farmer is a ‘sacrificial lamb’, no doubt there are many more of them. It makes me want to spit, or worse.

Mum still ‘trots’ everywhere, but has slowed down sufficiently for us to keep up with her. She is a treasure trove of odd bits of information, for example, having a drink in an old country pub, we sat in a huge ingle nook with the open fire blazing happily away. There was a heavy blackened upright beam in the bar which had been deeply scored near its base. Mum seeing one exactly the same as this one in one of the old houses she had worked in. She told us it had been worn away at the bottom, because a century or so ago, servants had been tied up by their wrists with their feet dangling just short of the floor, then they had been beaten. The worn part of the beam is where their feet used to gouge at the wood in their agony.

Another time, we were going through the enormous kitchens at Brighton Pavilion where there were masses of shining copper pans on shelves. Mum turned to a small child tourist and asked if she knew how the copper had been cleaned years ago. The child looked a trifle alarmed, however Mother explained that they were cleaned with a mixture of flour, silver sand, salt and vinegar. Mother was at her ‘school-marm’ best. Mum said that eating a sandwich or apple, or whatever, after hop-picking, the food would taste bitter, and how vendors would walk through the hop fields ‘singing their wares’, toffee apples and homemade sweets.

When sister Josephine arrives in all her innocence, we treat her very cruelly as we ‘pounce on her’ and make her play scrabble or canasta. Dear Josephine, lacks the essential ‘killer’ instinct, which Ethel and I have in abundance, so the person who sits on Josephine’s left during a game, reaps fantastic advantages of perhaps a treble or card needed to complete a clean canasta. We have solved the problem by taking it in turns to sit on her left (a kind of bonus), poor ‘J’ she is abused by one player and urged on to more extravagances by the other. We haven’t resorted to fisticuffs yet, but have fun and make lots of noise – just like kids!

On the weekends the boys and I go beachcombing, there seems to be loads of large pieces of wood washed up. We haul it home and Mum (she will not let me do it), saws it up for the fire. We helped pick the apples, blackberries, red and

black currants from the back garden, and now the cupboard is at bursting point with Jam and about 100lbs of marmalade (oranges from the shop). When a family member arrives for the day, they never leave empty handed. Ethel made some wine, but our 11am break soon disposed of that, so now we are back to the usual sherry.

Everyone has to tiptoe around the house during the 1pm News report, for one thing the radio ‘buzzes’, also Mum’s hearing is not too good these days. She gets furious with the politicians who ‘waffle on’ and believes England will not get on its feet again until it hits ‘rock bottom’, and people ‘put their backs into it’ (her words). ‘Hard work, ‘straight talk’ and ‘personal pride’ are her maxims. I do not know if she is a guru or an autocrat, but what would we do with a ‘sweet complacent mother?’

We are busy preparing for Christmas and are currently sitting around the table making party hats. Mum made the puddings and cakes and we have been shopping in Hythe. We are all thoroughly enjoying ourselves.

Joe, Julie and the children came over bearing mysterious packages with unfortunately, ‘Not to be opened until Christmas’ prominently displayed, so we had our first ‘early’ Christmas Dinner, not forgetting the crackers. Joe was his exuberant self, full of marvelous ideas for building a ship for the film industry. No one else got a word in edgeways, and if enthusiasm counted, he would be a millionaire.

A few days later Eddie, Rosemary, Adam and Tania arrived, plus an enormous Harrod’s hamper of goodies (their usual gift for Mum and Ethel). They also bought soft, wool dressing gowns for them both. The boys received books and I had a bottle of perfume. The second ‘early’ Christmas dinner with all the trimmings was consumed. Later we huddled close to the fire to roast chestnuts and delve into boxes of dates and chocolates; whilst indulging in generous glasses of wine. David and Richard could not believe their eyes at the amount of

preparation and excitement that was going on.

Josephine has been ‘rushed off her feet’ at the ‘The Duke of York’ pub, with a lot of thirsty customers, but did manage to come over for a few hours, bringing yet more bottles of booze to help the celebrations ‘go with a swing’.

Well the tree is decorated, the house festooned with masses of cards and balloons and there are interesting coloured parcels under the tree. Ethel and I have crammed ‘stockings’ with gooey sweets and small gifts. Although there will be only five of us here on Christmas Day, no doubt we will have a marvelous time.

I took the boys up to London to see the shop window displays and the street lights. Richard had his photograph taken in Selfridges with a monkey. Although it was a rainy day, it was exciting, the crowds, the traffic and the lights reflecting on the wet pavements. We finished the day by going to Trafalgar Square and listening to the Norwegian Choir by the huge Christmas Tree.

Home late at night with two very tired but excited boys.

With one last trip before our departure back to Australia, we went to see Wyn and Gerald who live in Jersey, Channel Isles. We were greeted at the Jersey airport in their old convertible.

Their house is enormous, and has been divided into two flats, with Wyn and Gerald living in one and the boys and I stayed in the other one. It used to be a Salvation Army Hall, it had thick stone walls, huge rooms and the lounge had picture windows on three sides, one overlooking the garden whilst the second toward the sea and the third the fields. It was stunning.

In the afternoon, Wyn took us to Gerald Durrells’ Zoo and although not large, it was beautifully situated. We have also been for chilly walks along the beach at Bouley Bay.

On a misty day, we walked over a stony causeway to Elizabeth Castle, which was once used by Charles II, during the days of the Protectorate (Oliver Cromwell’s mob), each of the rooms have fantastic tableaus and taped commentaries about the people and events of that period. All very effective and life like. The boys of course preferred the cannons!

The frequent mists can be very dangerous as the tides comes in quite rapidly, so it is most unwise to be caught on the causeway then, but I must it, the shifting mists create a haunting quality, a quietness, and walking across the cobblestones, was like ‘walking on the moon’.

Friday was quite different, Gerald and Wyn drove us to St. Helier, where we boarded a hydrofoil. The sea looked calm, but once beyond the harbor, it became very rough. It seems that it takes 24 hours after a storm, for the sea to settle down again.

Arrived at Sark to find a tractor with seats at the back, as our conveyance up the hill (the driver was slightly inebriated), we were informed that the ‘gentleman’ was quite safe to travel with, because the horse ‘knew the way’. Since the vehicle happened to be power driven, the information did not inspire a lot of confidence. I must it that the driver ‘oozed’ character, grizzled whiskers, long carroty hair with a grubby beret crammed on top, and a bright red countenance, he was quite oblivious of his paying customers; but managed to arrive at the top without mishap.

We were duly deposited at the summit where a horse and trap was waiting for Mr. Gibbons and his party, and off we drove into the mist. No cars are allowed on Sark, just farm tractors, bicycles and horses, which is marvelous because the narrow lanes and countryside has not been laid to waste by the need for wide roads, petrol stations or fumes. The island is governed by a feudal system, yet no one minds.

As we drove along, the mist covered everything from view. Suddenly the mist would lift and we could ire the superb scenery. The mist gave a magical quality, a quietness and we appeared to be alone with nature except for the sound of the pony’s hooves. It was like being in an empty church, and no one wanting to disturb the silence. Sark is an enchanting island.

We had a wonderful lunch at a place called, Dixicart Restaurant, after which we returned to our little buggy for the trip back to the hydrofoil for our return trip. Luckily on this occasion our crossing was a much calmer affair back to Jersey.

We had had a wonderful few days with Wyn and Gerald, and they had certainly gone out of their way to ensure we had a memorable stay. Tomorrow it’s back to Dymchurch, and then we will be on our way back home to Australia. On the day of our departure from Dymchurch, we travelled to Southampton, by private car provided by the travel agents, as there was a bus and train strike on in England. Mother didn’t come with us as it would have been too upsetting for us all, but Ethel came to see us off. She came aboard and had a look at the ship, examining our cabin the returned to shore. We took photographs and threw streamers until the last moment.

Richard wept when she left us, and although David was dry-eyed, I know he was very upset. I felt as if I had left half of myself behind, but we will return, next time we will come together, Ron, the boys and I.

I recall that many people had told me that returning to England would be a disappointment, and the family would have changed, well nothing has changed. We still belong, Richard our ‘true’ Australian, loved it.

Gifts–

A silver, filigree

Serviette ring, from Mother

A golden sovereign

From Auntie Ethel,

A host of family photographs

And a reservoir of happy memories–

‘Home’ (JP)

PART IV

OUR ENGLISH HEART

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN HOMING PIGEONS

Like homing Pigeons, June and Ron, had many trips back to England where they visited all the special places they ed with such clarity, plus spend time with the family whom they missed dreadfully.

June wrote, in 1978, Ron and I had the opportunity for an extended holiday in England, where we stayed with Mum and Ethel for a while. During that time stay, we managed a number of day trips where we took Mum and Ethel out with us. It was a wonderful time. One of which was a trip to Goudhurst.

1st June 1978 - Mum’s Day Trip To Goudhurst

Mother, in her nineties, slim and upright and wearing her favourite pink wool costume, her old fashioned, polished lace-up shoes, and with her abundant silver hair piled up in a bun, looked marvelous and knew it. She was ready for her ‘day’.

Ron was driving the hired Rover car with Ethel beside him, whilst Mum and I sat in the back seat. We were ‘off’ to rediscover Mother’s childhood. We drove through the beautiful, narrow Kentish lanes to Bedgebury, hoping to find the house where Mum had been born in 1888. February 14th, St. Valentine’s Day to be precise.

We pulled into a huge, walled car-park in order to read the road map (the area was well off the ‘beaten track), and to our amazement, Mother recognized the place, it was the old market garden that had belonged to her Grandfather. Although the area was now covered in gravel, she pointed out where ornate, iron gates had once stood, where the fruit trees had been, and showed us where the pigsty had been built against the wall.

We wandered through the adjacent Bedgebury Woods where as a child, Mum had carried her father’s lunch to him. Meeting a group of loggers, we asked if they knew where Bulldog Corner was. An older man recognized that it was an old local name, and one not to be found on any map. He was able to give exact directions, we were so lucky. We found the cottage, number 12 Priors Heath, near Kilndown, Goudhurst.

We could hardly believe it, the place was for sale and empty. I pushed at the front door hopefully, suddenly we were inside. Only four rooms, two up and two down. There was an enormous, built in cupboard in the main bedroom, and this was where Mum and her three sisters (a fourth sister was born later), slept when the family entertained overnight visitors. The only son slept downstairs in the sitting room.

We saw the wide fields where the local children had collected mushrooms, the back garden where Grandfather had killed his pigs, a small front porch where Grandmother would stand with her children during a thunderstorm, on the assumption that they would never in future be afraid of a storm. According to Mum, nothing had changed, the countryside and narrow lanes were as she ed them.

Close by was the Kilndown Village Church (Christ Church), where Mum had been christened. We ired the ‘hammer beam’ ceiling, the gleaming brass candle holders, the beautiful, elaborate Font and Pulpit, and the exquisitely carved screen and marquetry s. We were surprised to discover a small

balcony at the rear of the church where the Bell Ringers would be in full view of the congregation.

The whole church shimmered with light and colour as the sun poured through the stained glass windows. Mother signed the Visitor’s ‘book and I added the words ‘christened here in 1888. I am sure that would probably raise a few village eyebrows. We took several photographs of ‘Blunt’ tombstones, before investigating the village school which was next to the church yard.

I knocked on the school room door, which opened directly onto the classroom. The teacher did not appear to be amused at the interruption, but when I explained that Mother had been a pupil in the 1900s, she hastened away to fetch the Heaster. He was delighted, and brought out some faded sepia photos of school children, the girls wearing boots and pinafores, unfortunately Mum could not see very clearly and was unable to recognize any of the faces.

The Heaster was fascinated with Mother’s tales of ‘Old Gripper’, who had ruled supreme in the 1890s, and how large cut onions had been hung in the cloakroom to bait the germs. Mum prowled the classroom, unceremoniously pulling open a door. “And this” she said “is where very young children, under school age, were often cared for by senior pupils. Unfortunately the small room was full of old dusty desks and ancient paraphernalia. The Heaster’s face went pink with embarrassment, but allowed us to take photographs of him, with Mum’s arm tucked comfortably into his own.

In the playground, we were shown the wall where Aunt Edie, who had been the ‘tomboy’ of the family, had climbed and promptly fallen into a bed of stinging nettles.

On once again to Goudhurst, just a few miles from Kilndown, for lunch at the

‘Vine’ pub. The family had moved to Goudhurst in the late 1900s. Here, Mother became a minor celebrity as she talked about the Boer War, and how villagers had carried flares around the village, signaling the ‘Relief of Mafeking’ and ‘Ladysmith’. She told of Queen Victoria’s Jubilee, when a Fair was held in a large field behind the church, but more vividly ed because Mum’s younger sister Beatrice had been lost for a short time, and Grandmother believed that the Diddycoys (gypsies) had attempted to kidnap her young daughter.

She told the pub owner that the garages behind the ‘Vine’ had been stables and on one occasion, straw had been laid over the cobblestones to muffle the sound of the horse’s hooves, as there was a sick woman in one of the cottages.

One final visit before leaving Goudhurst. Like locusts, we descended on the house where Mother had looked after children (baby-sat) when she was a school girl. We all trotted into the back garden and proceeded to take photos. The occupants were no doubt bemused by the elegant ‘pink lady’ posing on their back door step, whilst three sober (apparently), middle aged people were busy ‘clicking’ their cameras like made.

A quick visit to our beloved Cousley Wood, where Gran and Granddad had spent their last years. We wandered through the old orchard which was overrun with long grass and weeds. We popped into Benges, the village shop and Post Office, where Mum had bought an inlaid oval table for twenty five shillings during the 1st World War, now a real family treasure.

Home again to Dymchurch, it was a beautiful Spring evening. Mother leaning back, her eyes closed and smiling, obviously reliving those indelible childhood memories. We had travelled only a relatively short distance that day, but really incorporated a crowded lifetime. It had been a perfect day for us all, but mostly for Mum.

SUMMER’S MELODY (JP)

Huge buckets

of torrential rain

beat upon

my window pane.

Through which I peer …

with woeful visage,

upon the lake … that,

which was once … my garden.

Roses (you must understand), decline …

to bloom,

in such conditions,… and,

cherry blossom, so rudely treated

by the wind …

has loosened her load

of Summer promise.

The tiny, gaudy marigolds,

(planted only yesterday) … lie,

battered by …

cold, watery missiles … hurled,

… like javelins, from the heavens.

Bees, will soon, discover no doubt,

their larders full …

of emptiness.

Sparrows, they are doing well,

they sit alert

and wait until,

a worm pops up

(just to enquire about…

the leaky, water pipe),

Then sparrows pounce and peck …

with voracious glee ….

the poor reluctant

meal to be,

n’ haul him from his wet

earthy home.

(The worm’s fate is sealed…

but do not weep,

the fledglings will,

enjoy their tea).

Who other than the greedy birds

find pleasure in …

this fuselage?

only the wretched noxious weeds,

which flourish …

despite everything!

the natives, here abouts, tell me,

Its just, a Summer Melody.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT FAMILY UPDATE - (1978 – 1988)

L – R: Wyn, Joe, Ethel, Eddie, June, (Joey)

MOTHER & ETHEL AT DYMCHURCH

Mother has always been the matriarch of the Powell family and the drawcard for all things Dymchurch. There were invariable many family visiting her and Ethel throughout the year, sometimes turning up at the same time, especially when Ron and I were in England. What a fantastic way to stay in touch with everyone.

Throughout her life, she never thought a job well done, without a liberal application of ‘elbow grease’. The weekly wash was no exception to the rule and was achieved in a narrow old fashioned kitchen, with its wide, shallow, yellow buff sink. All ‘inmates’ were banned from the kitchen whilst the ‘wash’ was in progress.

Her 1946 washing machine, had to be emptied via a tap and bucket, the wringer worked by hand. After washing, linen was ‘cooked’ in an electric boiler, steam swallowing Mum in a vaporous cloud. Having thoroughly boiled the ‘whites’, they were then ‘blued’ (thanks to Rickets little blue bags), then starched in a galvanized bath (Robin’s powdered Starch). Next, onto the washing line to be dried by gale force winds which the Marsh is notorious for.

Having dried, the washing was then ‘dampened’ and rolled into tight balls (to spread the damp evenly), then ironed, using flat irons. It took many years before Mum succumbed to an electric iron, as she hated flexes. Two flat irons were heated in turn on the Rayburn. A hot iron would firstly be ‘spat on’ to test its heat, the ‘spit; skittering across the surface of the iron, then rubbed on a piece of sand paper, next on a piece of cloth before ‘ironing’ actually commenced. The first iron would be returned to the stove and the second one brought into play.

Once the ‘ironing’ was complete, the linen would be carefully folded, placed on newspaper on a rack above the stove to air. The immaculate white linen, eventually found its way to our beds, and it was total luxury to climb into the beautifully iron and starched sheets, something we do not enjoy today. How Mum achieved such perfection is a mystery, for her eyesight was extremely poor, though I did have a quiet chuckle when she picked up a blue sock from the kitchen table and proceeded to dry the teapot, she thought it was a tea cloth.

The small kitchen was always cluttered but clean. The Rayburn was polished daily with scrunched up newspaper. The saucepans gleamed and were piled precariously on top of each other on shelves above the sink, where Vaseline jars, Vim, Washing up liquid, detergents, green slabs of Fairy Soap, medicine bottles and a battered Sharp’s Toffee Tin (stuffed with safety pins, plasters, bandages and iodine), jostled for space; the entire lot threatening to fall into the sink.

I have a photograph of Ethel toasting bread on the Rayburn, her hair and makeup perfect (as it always was), in the background, the chaotic jumble of the kitchen shelves.

Another ‘snap’ was where ‘E’ is standing on a step ladder in order to cook something on a small electric stove, which is on top of the fridge (quite a normal occupation for her). Usually this stove is crammed with old letters, bills and scraps of paper for writing shopping lists had once caused a minor bonfire, as ‘E’ had forgotten to remove the contents before ‘switching it on’ A modern kitchen is certainly more hygienic and streamlined, but the ‘Powell’ family does have an affection for this small realm, where talk and cups of tea are always in vogue, and where Mum would squeeze up close to the Rayburn to keep warm on a freezing day, and we would have to shuffle past her vulnerable toes, to reach the sink. Most days Mum spent in her garden amongst her currant bushes and apple trees. One year she made 100lbs of jam and marmalade, the fruit being picked from her tiny garden where she had blackberry and black current bushes, apple trees and strawberry beds. All was put to good use either in their home cooking for when family visited or sold in their shop. The aromas were magnificent and I

am sure that when wafting out onto the street, ers-by would have been encouraged to eagerly enter the shop door and order their share of the ‘goodies’.

Even into her 90’s, Mum sawed wood in the back yard, with her head swathed in a pixie hood with an attached scarf to keep her warm. She would save and chop all the firewood which she used for her Rayburn stove. The stove was always kept going, which must have kept Mum busy chopping wood right throughout the year.

In her eighties, Wyn moved from her beautiful home ‘Ventoulet’, to an apartment on the seafront at St. Helier, Jersey. Although not in the best of health, she continues her artistic interests, using water paints. She does charity work, acting a s a receptionist at a phobia clinic in St. Helier, whilst her elderly friend acts as ‘tea lady’ for the patients.

This job is a ‘life time’ away from when she was Mayoress of Harrow, but keeps her busy and interested in people. I do ire her.

JOE A great enthusiast. still hopes to build a ship and sail to Australia, and although in his seventies, he is busily writing his memoirs, plus studying French, and Maths. He is however struggling with the complexities of the computer. He goes swimming several times a week to ease his hip problems. His stunting days may be over, but what a fantastic life he had led.

Michael Caine wrote about one of Joe’s more spectacular stunts in his book “What’s it all About’. The film was ‘The Man Who Would Be King’, and Joe had to plummet from a swaying bridge into a ravine.

Quote from Michael Caine “I looked over the edge of the ravine and a couple of hundred feet below I could see the mound of boxes and mattresses that were to break his fall. It looked about the size of a postage stamp. With the wind blowing and the bridge swaying as the axes cut the real ropes holding it, we all stood there watching, frozen with nerves as it dawned on us, that to leap off this moving platform and hit the target so far below, was an almost impossible task. My heart was thumping as I watched and I wanted to shout out and stop the stunt. The final rope split, the bridge collapsed, and down Joe went, hurling towards the jagged rocks below. By maneuvering himself all the time as he plummeted, and as the wind tried to drag him onto the rocks, John (Huston) was not an impressionable man, nor one given to easy compliments, but at that moment he turned to me and said “that is the darndest stunt I ever saw”.

Joe’s Memoirs will certainly be memorable.

ETHEL After caring for Mum and Aunty for many years, she has become the axis for the Powell family. (Little Aunty Ethel died in Folkstone Hospital a few days before her 96th birthday). ‘E’ receives frequent letters, phone calls and visitors, yet it must be lonely for her at times, she always sound cheerful on the phone and looks about twenty years younger than her true age (much to the chagrin of her younger sister).

Ethel enters Reader’s Digest and Newspaper competitions, once winning a ‘top of the range’ trip to Italy. She took Mum with her and they enjoyed every minute of it. She also loves scrabble, and cryptic crosswords, and watching wrestling on TV. We tried to persuade Ethel to move closer to another member of the family, but she resisted all our arguments. I think maybe she was right, for she loves living by the sea and is well known and liked in the village. Ethel Eleanor is

‘settled’.

EDDIE The relaxed member of the family, laughs a lot, loves cooking (could easily have been a top notch chef). Eddie doubled for Clint Eastwood in ‘Where Eagles Dare’. He was on top of a cable car (with Alf t), without a safety belt … 2,000 feet high up in the mountains of Austria. He also doubled for Christopher Lee on six occasions, in the film ‘Count Dracular, Prince of Darkness. Eddie nearly drowned in ‘To the Devil a Daughter. He was also shrouded in fire, he called it an ‘all over job.

He actually was the ‘Alien’ in the film of that name, though he name only appeared in the ‘stunt’ Credits, (he was rather annoyed at that). He doubled for Gregory Peck in ‘Sea Wolves’, when he had to fall backwards sixty feet into the sea. He thought he had pulled a muscle in his back, but on his return journey to England, he ed out, the plane being diverted to Rome airport where it was discovered he had ruptured his spleen. Eddie actually died on the operating table and was amazingly resuscitated. Having survived, he still stunts occasionally, but also supervises stunts.

JOSEPHINE Joey and her husband Joe left the pub at Ramsgate that they were managing and now live at the Licenced Victualler’s Garden Village at Denham, and are apparently very happy.

Josephine is in her element as she loves people and parties, and is popular with everyone in the village. Her crazy, inventive hats usually win first prize in competitions, and she thoroughly enjoys all the dres occasions which take place in the ‘Owl’ pub which is part of the village complex. I wrote a couple of silly poems in response to her hip operation, and one of the photographs she sent

to me of her ‘decked out’ for a Pajama Party.

The following poems were written by June as a tribute to her wonderful sister Joey.

APHRODITE (JP)

Plastic hips

are so much nicer

don’t you think?

than tin

For you will not go rusty, like

an old galvanized bath, nor,

creak, like an unoiled garden gate,

in a gale …. (force ten).

There is no doubt,

you’ll glide gracefully, … just,

like a snowflake,

your new hips, a swinging,

so sensuous, so inviting

…. straight through the pub doors

Have fun,

APHRODITE

MY LADY JOSEPHINE

(The ‘Pajama Party’ at the Licenced Vituallers’ ‘Do’ at Denham Retirement Village)

My Lady, dressed in winceyette,

frilled night cap perched

upon her brown, n’ blue satin bows tied,

in lovers knots,

did sally forth with other folk

likewise adorned.

I am surprised, and shocked!

Such strange behavior … distinctly unsuitable

for ‘ladies’ of my acquaintance.

But, there she is, in photograph

warmly clad, within her ‘gown’ yet,

there can be no doubt, … seductive

in the eye’s of ‘man’

What can I say? Just sigh perhaps

and wish that ‘I’

could face the camera and public bar

with such aplomb …

and SMILE!

For winceyette, for me you see,

brings to mind, large cups of tea, whilst sitting

‘soberly’ before T.V.

or, cosy nights tucked up in bed … with library book.

Never, never in my widest dreams, with …

‘licentious revelry … but oh!

My Lady Josephine,

may your days be crowded,

with gleeful, unrepentant …

………………. Absurdity!

Written in response to Josephine’s tale of her excursion to Padstow with the ‘inmates’ of the Denham’s Old Peoples LV Home.

PADSTOW TOWN (JP)

Will Padstow, ever recover! from ‘that’ Denham invasion? for elderly matrons, who promulgate, sedately along the shore.

Will no longer have bonnets, knocked askew, by marauding L.V. Villains – who, enjoy making whoopee! with walking sticks and dark black, unholy umbrellas, and, gentlemen, Colonels (retired) Can once again wheel themselves slowly, in their bath chairs, without, -free loaders jumping aboard – not even bothering to thumb a lift, then Skiing precariously down steep cobbled ways, scattering

the local population, who no doubt, would rather take their chances on a busy main street, than face these villainous, Licenced Victuallers!

The local Constabulary and their dogs take annual leave (if they can), or else, cringe in dark corners not daring to challenge, such an exotic caravan of ‘Wrinklies’ (St Trinians’ mob).

B&B establishments invaded by stout ladies ‘surfing’ down stairwells, whilst less agile elderly sisters borrow comfortable cushions With which to spiral gracefully down polished banisters, cavorting like mad shuttlecocks.

Meals delivered through a serving hatch to be collected by patrons, mine hosts loathe, to make ‘eyeball’ with their hungry guests but watch in horror from the kitchen window.

Washing lines festooned with long johns and pink bloomers whilst the owners of those commodious articles invade the elaborately sculptured bird bath with their hot corn plastered toes.

Padstow residents still relate in hushed tones – of these horrendous, blood curdling events and pray…………. to be spared – another such undignified invasion!

But, Unbeknown to Padstow-inians the Denham Mob are planning – their next excursion.

RONALD Although not a ‘natural’ Powell, he became one of the family. His mother Lilian, had died during the War, when Ron was only thirteen years old. He then lived with his older married sister Gladys and her husband John (Cowburn). Ron ed the Life Guards (Household Cavalry) in 1945, and took part in many royal events, riding Mareth, his favourite horse.

When Ron and I married in 1948, he ‘adopted’ Mum as his ‘own’, in fact Mum approved of Ron more than me! It was always ‘Poor Ron’ (I think she would have felt sympathy for anyone who had married her erratic daughter!)

Ron enjoyed his job in South Australia, he worked in numerous ‘outback’ areas as a Supervisor, building government schools, and in charge of a ‘gang’ of men (he referred to them as ‘his boys). He worked in the Opal towns of Coober Pedy and Andamooka, where he bought the opals for Mum. I received a ring. He was taken up by a single engine plane to ‘muster’ sheep at Maloona Station near Marree. Worked at Cook, a small railway town in the middle of the Nullabor Desert and seemed oblivious to the blistering heat. He loved the ‘outback’. Ron loves to watch sport on TV (I loathe it), which is about the only real ‘bone of contention’ between us, which isn’t bad for half a century of marriage.

Ron was one of ten children, sadly he only has three sisters now living and we haven’t had any news of his brother Eric for many years. Such is the penalty of being the youngest sibling. However, Ron is happy with his home and family.

JUNE I watch from the sidelines, write letters, keep copious holiday diaries, write short stories and poetry (mostly blank verse) for the Tea Tree Writer’s Group. I enjoy games of Scrabble and solving cryptic crossword puzzles. However, I am a frustrated portrait artist, lacking even an iota of talent. I used to dream of a garret (artists) studio in Montmartre, just north of Paris, , swathed in a paint smock, though a beret might have been a ‘bit over the top’ …… I dream a lot!

What Ron and I enjoy together, are the car trips through the countryside with classical music going ‘full blast’ on the radio, and an endless supply of library books.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE MOTHER’S 100TH BIRTHDAY

14TH FEBRUARY 1988 - ST. VALENTINE’S DAY

WYN WROTE:

Everything was ready. A week’s solid work had gone into the preparations. The house spruced up, curtains changes, windows cleaned, and even the silver polished. Ethel had ‘done’ the flues and defrosted the fridge, and even repainted two of the walls in the kitchen. Little Auntie Ethel had swept and dusted, and even Mum had been allowed to help a little with the silver.

The Sun Room was decked out with Mum’s geranium plants, plus pots of flowering polyanthus, and as much greenery as the flower shop could spare. The transformation was incredible. The back room, with the help of a borrowed table, had been fixed up as a bar and work area.

On Friday Kenneth and Lisa, had arrived from Jersey. Lisa had been granted a day off work, and they had come over a day early especially to do the heavy work. Mum (100), Aunty Ethel (90), Me (75), and Ethel (70), were in dire need of some young muscle.

Tables and chairs were moved from upstairs to down, from the garden to the sun room, and from the dining room to … well, anywhere that could be found for

them. They all now stood in their new positions ready and waiting. We had been preparing the framework for a very important occasion, - Mother’s Hundredth Birthday Party.

Flowers and cards were constantly arriving, and had been arranged everywhere, the rooms were bright with their colours. As a focal point we had decided to use the portrait of Mother which June had painted. It had been replicated from a photograph in which Mother was looking down, so she looked a little severe, but it was a good likeness.

We hung it in the dining room, pinning cards to wide white ribbons and draped them down the sides, plus above and below. HAPPY BIRTHDAY 100 was done in large shiny gold lettering and figures.

In the sitting room, ready for action and flaunting its new electric fire, the oval walnut table was draped with a lace cloth from Ethel’s trousseau. On it were cards and flowers and THE CAKE.

Ethel had made this in three pieces. I O O. The One was an entire centre slice from their Christmas Cake. The Os were two cakes made to the same recipe. Coated in white icing and decorated with silver balls and flowers in sweet pea colours, it stood displayed on Mother’s family sized pastry board. We disguised the board with plenty of silver foil, and it looked very attractive, and was, as we would later discover, delicious.

In the dining room, the mahogany table was fully extended, and pushed up against the windows for the buffet. We covered this with Mother’s extra large damask tablecloth, and then overlaid that with a cloth from Australia which was a riot of colourful large red poppies.

All the Jersey carnations, along with tall green bottles holding red candles, were arranged along the back. A Victorian silver flower container, which Ethel had spent some time polished, was in the centre. It held a cut glass vase full of red carnations, and some small pots of variegated ivy. The finished table was a gorgeous splash of brilliant colour. We were delighted with the result.

On the Friday evening, a Television program (previously alerted by Ethel), had broadcast Birthday Greeting to Mrs. Powell of Dymchurch, who would be One Hundred Years old on Sunday. Mother was bewildered, “How did they know?”. When she understood that Ethel had written to them, she became rather cross, but then she started to giggle. Kenneth finished her off by saying that “What we had really wanted was a TOWN CRIER, to parade through the village.

Next day, some cards and small gifts were brought to the house by villagers who had heard the broadcast. They had found it hard to believe that Mother was ‘THAT OLD’. They were used to seeing her working in the garden, or even, until quite recently, chopping up the firewood. Before her fall last October, she had even climbed into the apple tree to pick the apples.

On Saturday morning the Queen’s Telegram arrived. The Postman knocked on the door to deliver it personally, and to offer his own congratulations.

We broke off work, got ourselves some alcoholic elevensies and sat down in the front room to watch as Ethel read it out to Mum. As always, with every greeting as it arrived, Ethel not only read it out, but carefully described what it looked like, before handing it over. Mum then studies it with a magnifying glass.

There was a telegram from the ‘Right Honourable John Moore MP’, The

Secretary of State for the Social Services, and a bouquet of flowers from the local council. Kenneth took some ‘candid camera’ shots.

Among the unexpected cards was a large one from the local school, where every child had signed it and added their greeting, plus a few had added kisses. Mum was very touched.

By four o’clock on Saturday afternoon, everything was as perfect as we could possibly make it. Happily tired, we went off to rest. Kenneth and Lisa left for ‘The Ship’ which was where they were staying, and I ed them there for supper in the evening. Ethel was invited, but didn’t like to leave Mum, and anyway thought that she would be too tired.

THE GREAT DAY HAD ARRIVED.

A lovely sunny day, such a relief in view of the long journeys for most of those who were coming.

Up at 5.30 to undertake the usual morning chores. The Rayburn to be raked, fuel to be brought in and then breakfast. Also today, some fresh salads to prepare. ALL the heaters were switched on. The bar was pregnant with bottles and glasses. The food was being brought. Since the party had originally be planned to be held at Strawberry Acre (Eddie and Rosemary’s home), much of the food had already been ordered. Rosemary was to go ahead with preparing the main buffet, and then bring it down early. Julie (Joe’s wife) was preparing the sweets.

By 9.30, everything was ready for the invasion, including me as I was changed and ‘on parade’, with even my bedroom tidied and cleared for use as a cloakroom, if needed. The others, according to plan, were making a more leisurely time in getting ready for the great occasion.

THEN came the call from June and Ron in Australia. Mother was hastily bundled into her dressing gown and slippers and came downstairs. After a somewhat lengthy chat, she started to go upstairs again. But then came a huge delivery of flowers, six large bouquets. Kenneth, Lisa and I, each took two and then paraded in front of Mum. Somewhat stunned, all she could say was “Oh, my goodness”. Most of our containers were already in use, so we had to borrow from the flower shop. Mother and the others now went upstairs to finish getting ready, whilst I got on with arranging the flowers.

11.00 am, Joe, Julie and Penny arrived, bringing with them a mouth-watering load of sweets. Trifle, coffee cheese cake, meringues and raspberries and cream.

Then Mother came down, very elegant in her long black velvet dress and her opals. The dress has graced every major event in the family’s social calendar for the last fifty years. The opals were a gift from Ron and June in Australia, and had been made into a beautiful necklace.

Next, the photographer arrived. He and Mother went into session in the sun room. He appeared to be interviewing her as well as taking the photos. I heard her telling him that she ed the Relief of Mafeking during the Boer War.

11.30 am, No Rosemary. She and Tania had expected to be here long before this.

The Photographer not only took coloured shots of Mother, but also took a couple of black and white shots which he later sent up to the Folkestone Herald, where one was printed. I asked him if he would take a shot of ‘my’ four generations, Mum, myself, Kenneth and Lisa, which he did, plus another of Joe, Julie and John. He did wait for Eddie’s family to arrive, however by 1 pm, he had to leave.

We were obviously worried, had they had an accident? Suddenly they arrived. They had OVERSLEPT, as Tania had flown over from Paris for the Party. Since she hadn’t seen Eddie’s perilous stunt in the Barry Humphreys Show, they had all gone to see it. Result, late home and late to bed, and of course very late waking up. Then it was panic stations and a scorching drive down to Dymchurch. In the melee the six chickens, apparently hiding in the small oven were overcooked. There was however a ham, and Quiches, stuffed eggs, pates and French bread with dips. Boxes and bags were ferried into the back room and soon Tania, Julie and Lisa were in the kitchen preparing the vegetables to go with the dips. Eddie and Adam didn’t arrive until a quarter past two, as they had gone to fetch Joey and Joe. They also brought with them the microwave and the Champagne.

The Bar, with Kenneth as bartender, was operating well and he appeared to be enjoying himself. Everyone was very busy renewing acquaintance with everyone else as some hadn’t seen one another for years and the young had grown into unrecognizable adults. For them it was a great get together, and for Lisa, it was her first opportunity to meet most of the family and she appeared to be holding her own extremely well.

The house, already laden with flowers and cards, was now full of people. With only four exceptions they were all blood relations. Mum was astonished to look around and see ‘what SHE had been responsible for’.

The twenty three of us just managed to squash into the front room for the cutting of the cake and the champagne toast. I had placed ‘Granny’s photo in a place of honour near the cake, but it had become obscured by cards. Eddie suddenly asked for it, and then proposed a toast to Her, one hundred years ago today, she had had a baby girl and named her Ada Francis.

By now, Mum had had a full and tiring day. I rather expected that she would retire gracefully. Not a bit of it, she stayed and there was another round of photographs taken with Rosemary’s instamatic camera. It became almost like a good party game. She had brought plenty of film and of course everyone had to be photographed with Mother. Individually maneuvering to get into position in the crowded room was quite difficult and caused a lot of laughter. Eventually a few of the men left the room to ‘get a little air’, and a couple even went ‘up top’ to the sea wall to enjoy the sea air. They said it was lovely up there.

Mum had not only cooperated for the photographic poses, but had thoroughly enjoyed herself. Soon afterwards, the party started to break up. Nearly everyone had long journeys ahead of them. I think that the young had quite enjoyed themselves. I heard Penny, Lisa and Shelley discussing the vagaries of parents,

especially Mums.

Quite incredibly, Mother was not only on her feet to say goodbye to everyone, but was still full of beans. Obviously the adrenalin was flowing. Not bad for a ‘hundred year old’.

Of Mother’s six children, all were still living, five of them were present at the birthday party and the sixth had phoned in from Australia.

At the Party were:-

Mother, Ethel, Little Aunty Ethel Me (Winnifred) Kenneth, my son with wife Lisa Joe and his wife Julie John, Shelley, Alex and Penny (Grandchildren) Eddie and his wife Rosemary Adam and Tania (Grandchildren) Perry (Edie), with Moira and Peter Nick, Shelley’s friend.

Finally, Ethel went upstairs with Mother to help her out of her finery. She was still lively and said that she had had a wonderful time.

We cleared whatever had to be cleared and then followed, quite ‘knackered’.

June was unable to attend her Mother’s birthday celebration however wrote the following:

On Mother’s 100th birthday, I was unable to be there as we were in the process of moving house. However, we did set about trying to find the Blunt family here in Australia. Edna (my 3rd cousin) had advised us that Orange in NSW was the last known address. I was able to get hold of a Orange phone directory where I found a number of ‘Blunts’ listed. I rang the first number on the list, as any one of the numbers would have put me in with a member of the family.

“Excuse me, did your family originally come from England? I asked. “Yes’ was the reply. “From Kilndown in Kent? “Yes” “I think you have a distant cousin on this end of the line” An excited “Oh” then, “please give me your telephone number and I’ll ring you back, as I must tell Harry, and he is in the bath”.

Ros (Roslyn), did ring back, and we established that we were indeed relatives. I immediately rang Mum to tell her, she was very happy, a lovely unexpected birthday present.

It was later that year that I actually travelled to Orange and met Ros and Harry, who were actually cousins. Harry was the grandson of Charles, who had also migrated to Australia, but to Queensland. Ros like Edna (Kilndown), played the church organ and looked very much like Auntie Ethel.

CHAPTER THIRTY MOTHER 1988

On 25th July 1988, Mum died in Ashford Hospital. She had been there for less than a week after suffering a heart attack at home. She remained lucid and talkative to the end.

Mum asked Ethel and I if she had “Done all Right”, (meaning in her life), we assured her that she had. Ethel, Joe, Eddie, Rosemary and I were with her constantly. Joe even slept in his car in the hospital car park one night. When a hospital visitor asked her if she ‘could hear the angels’, Mum replied in no uncertain , she told him to ‘go away’, he didn’t worry her, but he might upset the other patients, she was grand.

Mum’s last months were extraordinary.

In JANUARY she had attended Adam’s 21st birthday party at ‘Strawberry Acre’ (Eddie and Rosemary’s home). The party was attended by many people from the film world, who made a great fuss of her.

FEBRUARY 14th, she celebrated her 100th birthday with a family celebration at Dymchurch. I was the only one of her children who was not there. I did however send her a beautiful shawl from her Aussie family and we phone her. Mother had a telegram from the Queen, the local primary school where every child had signed it.

Of the many photographs taken, the one I liked the best was of Mum resting in her ‘special’ chair (covered in green velvet cord, which had a hood), her eyes are closed and she is wearing a long black velvet dress with coffee coloured lace inlet in the bodice. She also has her opal necklace (a gift from Ron), and her new shawl. Her silver hair is swept up in a chignon, and she looked like a panting of ‘Whistler’s Mother’. Mum obviously enjoyed her day.

MAY, Mum asked to see Eddie who was stunting in the Barry Humphries Show (London Theatre). Mum, Little Aunty Ethel (90 years old) and Ethel were given the Royal Box. At the end of the show, Barry Humphries came out on a ‘cherry picker’ over the auditorium, throwing gladiolas. He then introduced Mother as his oldest fan and asked Mum to stand up. So standing up in the Royal Box in her pink suit, she received an ovation from the audience, like a Queen Mother. The funny thing was that she hadn’t the slightest idea who Barry Humphries was, she had only gone to the theatre to see Eddie stunting.

JULY, I arrived in Dymchurch early July, and was able to tell Mum about Harry, Ros and the family in Orange, which made her very happy. I laid next to her on the bed, holding her hand and talking. She looked frail but still lively. She told Ethel to make plenty of Jam as they would need it next winter. Mum believed in planning for the future.

Mother never ‘minced her words’, or ‘stood any nonsense’ (her words), and here are a few more: ‘Damn your rags’ when she was cross with one of us. “Then, eat a dead monkey”, if we whined about being hungry between meals. “He couldn’t see a hold through a ladder”, when someone was slow to appreciate a joke. “Put your back up straight”, if we complained about being tired.

Mum could be rather imperious at times. I with a smile, on one occasion when Mum was sitting reading the newspaper in the kitchen. Joe, Ethel and I must have been talking rather loudly, and Mum told us to ‘be quiet’, as she was ‘perusing the newspaper’. Joe went into a paroxysm of noisy laughter. Mum waited until ‘J’s shenanigans (her word), was over, then peering over the top of Dad’s old glasses, which always slipped down on the tip of her nose looked at Joe and said with emphasis, “That is the correct word isn’t it?” Joe agreed that it was, suitably chastened.

Mum always insisted that we were quiet during TV and Radio news time. She was ‘well-up’ on all world news, politicians (approving of Mrs. Thatcher), and knew and understood share prices. Mum could be abrupt and not ‘suffer fools gladly’. We would not have changed her for a gentler model. She was magnificent.

The Chapel was packed with Mum’s children, grandchildren, Edna and friend from Kilndown. Mum had been the ‘lynchpin of the Powell family, she and Ethel had created a new ‘Cousley Wood’ (our Grandparents home) for us all, a secure niche when in trouble. I hope Mum realized it. After the funeral, we returned to Dymchurch, everyone chatting and renewing family ties, Mum would have been so pleased.

Yes Mum, You Did Alright.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE EPILOGUE

THE RIGHT DECISION?

In all the years our family has been living in Australia (since 1963), there has always been one nagging question that even at 84 years of age, my mother June continues to ponder, ‘had they made the right decision leaving their home in England to come to Australia?’

Her childhood years saw such a diversity of experiences whether at Cousley Wood, Camden Town, Chelsea or Dymchurch, all interwoven with siblings, Grandparents, Parents, Aunts and Uncles, who in themselves had plenty of stories to tell. This rich family history is reflected in her stories and poetry, revealing some of her innermost feelings throughout her life. Obviously it is clear that June’s formative years were full of enriching experiences with some of her earliest recollections being at her grandparents’ home in Cousley Wood.

Immigrating at the age of thirty four, after already having encountered many arduous trials in her lifetime, took a lot of courage, determination and fortitude to pursue an unknown opportunity on the other side of the world, and to do so with only eighty pounds in their pocket, and three children, is I feel a remarkable feat and of course quite a gamble.

However, even after 50 years of being ‘down under’, June is still somewhat homesick, as although her ‘heart’ belongs in England, she readily its that the family have done better in Australia.

My Father Ron, and us the children, have all had opportunities to ‘live a good life’ and have done so. For June however, there has always been something missing from her life in Australia, and that has seen my parents return home to their ‘roots’ on many occasions over the years. These trips proved to be their savior, as they were able to balance their lives between their homeland, and their adopted country.

One has to that Ron started work within a week of arriving in South Australia, and almost immediately was assigned to ‘bush’ jobs, building new schools for the Public Service. These jobs could see him away from the family for up to three months at a time, leaving June to become acclimatized to her new surroundings plus manage the three children. Being homesick would certainly be understandable. A different culture, living in unfamiliar ‘territory’ and the only link to family in the UK were the numerous letters that she wrote and received over many years.

I consider that one of my mother’s ‘saving grace’ was Pam who became a close friend, and in later years, Mum said that Pam was more like a Sister. June and Ron and Pam and Derek’s lives became intertwined as the letters home describe. They spent many years enjoying a friendship that built such a close bond between them. Without Pam, my mother’s life would have been shallow, as she would not have experienced the many expeditions with young children in tow, and have seen and experienced the many wonders that a strong friendship brings. My mother could not drive, and even if she could there was no family car in those first few years, due to restricted finances and of course Dad working away from home.

To add to the situation, there is longevity in the Powell family, as Ada my Grandmother, lived to the grand old age of 100 years, plus the Aunts lived well into their 80s and 90s, even ‘Little’ Auntie Ethel lived to the fabulous age of 96, although she was hanging out for the 100 milestone, and didn’t quite make it. The bond between June and her family became stronger due to the continued

‘separation’.

To have had a Mother such as Ada Francis, it is easy to understand the impact she would have on her children. It wasn’t until Mum came out to Australia that she started to rebuild her relationship with her Mother, through the hundreds of letters that were sent over many years, plus the trips back to England, Mum was able to reconnect with her family. Dymchurch has always been like a magnet where the extended families visit and share their stories. It is certainly a place of happiness for all concerned.

Mother’s love of England plus her aptitude for continual learning has given balance to her ‘Aussie’ lifestyle. She has always been a ‘thinker’, someone who surrounds herself with books and is articulate when it comes to English History. She often ponders on what ‘life’ is all about, and penned these thoughts on the back of an envelope, (though I don’t know when), which came to light when I was going through her penned notations.

What is the trick of living? Perhaps its enthusiasm -— the Josephines in their crazy hats and zest for living, or Andrew (Princess of Wales), with his outrageous ‘chuckey stories’, or Joe’s (brother) wonderful designer of ships, or an Italian actor’s exuberance, the old street violinist, Yuhudi Menuhin who had been in the Philharmonic Orchestra.

People not cast in the urban mold, but those enthusiasts that ‘step-out’ into the spotlight and make life more exciting and interesting for the rest of us.

The fact that June was a Publican’s Daughter, meant that her early experiences of being in a ‘hub’ surrounded by people talking and discussing issues, people from different walks of life; instilled in her a ‘ion’ for meaningful conversations, where politics, or events were openly discussed and although people may not

agree, there was always a robust exchange of ideas. The fact also that the Princess of Wales was situated in Chelsea meant that she was also exposed to the ‘hurley burley’ of life in the heart of London and its impact on herself and her family.

It is not difficult to understand then that initially June would not be totally content with her life in Australia. As said to her at one social event she attended, “You think too much!” In the 60’s, women were supposed to be content with raising a family and providing for their husband when he returned from work. June did not fit the ‘normal housewife’ mold, although she did run the house and raise the family, in Ron’s continued absence working away from home.

It was many years later that she was accepted into the University of Adelaide to undertake further study. This was a very happy time for her, as she could experience a learning environment and meet and discuss issues with fellow students. She would also write many essays which contributed to her being awarded a ‘D’ Distinction in History. She actually sat and achieved her Adult Matriculation Certificate at the amazing age of 49 years. This is an incredible achievement for someone that left school at 16 and had not returned to study until this time. The family were incredible proud of her.

As a writer, Mum loved her Roget Thesaurus, and wrote this poem to reflect her attachment to this resource.

GOLD IS WHERE YOU FIND IT (JP)

Roget’s ‘Thesaurus’

my constant companion

in a quest for

a perfect poem

Dog eared, grubby fingered and

Indelibly inked

‘R’ aids and abets

lucidity

also helps student avoid

the heinous crime of

repetition.

I shall one day

astound readers

with my vast

Vocabulary

a new ‘Shakespeare?’

Many thanks dear

Mr P. Mark R.

M.D. F.R.S.

You are indeed a

‘Treasure’

My Mother’s propensity to write, and although perhaps unorthodox in her prose, she is able to paint pictures of her life so clearly, that as we read her words, we can perhaps experience just some small part of her courage and tenacity that she exhibited through some fairly dark times. There were also the celebrations that are vividly described, and we can feel her elation through these poignant pages.

She refers to her ‘musings’ as 100 years of family history, and is hoping that these memories will be treasured for many years to come by the younger of the burgeoning brood of the family here in Australia. I am delighted that my Mother has put her life into words, and immensely proud to be able to reproduce her story in ‘The Publican’s Daughter’.

LIFE’S CARNIVAL (JP)

Fly, fly, turn, turn

windmills and treills

measuring our days.

High, high, greeting the sunrise

like whirly-jig children – riding

carnival wheels.

Spellbound and dreaming

of life everlasting, in

a world – full of splendor and,

voyaging still.

Yet, the pulse …

beats less keenly,

when buffeting winds

take their toll.

Dreams made of cobwebs

lie shattered, forgotten

as lowering shadows

flood, fall, but turn, turn

a fresh dawn is breaking,

a new dream awaking,

on the ‘wings of the morning’

we shall …………

Fly, Fly.