Chapter 1

My story begins on 27th February 1920. I was born in Streatham, South London. My father managed the London office of my mother's family firm S. C. Chambers and Co. which owned a fleet of ships known as the "Castle Line." My brother Michael (Bunny) was four years older than me. Our home in Hopton Road was a Victorian style house of yellow London brick with quite large front and back gardens. My parents were keen gardeners and grew several species of flower that are no longer fashionable. At the far end of the back garden there was a bed of sunflowers, behind which Bunny and I (more often Bunny) would take refuge when in trouble. When my father was erecting a greenhouse, quite a large number of panes of glass were broken, and Bunny remarked that it was a good thing that he was not building the Crystal Palace - an occasion when retreat to the sunflowers was called for. Our house had attics and cellars, both of which had a fascination for me, the attics because of the water cistern in its own little room, the cellars because of the ritual of coal delivery. We would stand by the cellar door to see and hear the coal cascading down a chute from a circular manhole in the front garden.

My parents employed two sisters from Keynsham near Bristol. The younger, "Cessie," was nurse to Bunny and me, "Edith" looked after the domestic side. I can only guess that there was some connection with grandfather Forster, who worked in Bristol for Wills the tobacco makers and lived in Keynsham before returning to New Brighton on his retirement. Our "comfortable" circumstances did not deter my parents from thrift, my mother made her own clothes, which she cut out on the floor. I could never understand why she took so much trouble embroidering flowers etc., on her underwear which would not be visible to anyone!

Streatham in the 1920s was synonymous with suburbia, it has now become synonymous with drugs and crime. Ambleside Avenue, where Bunny attended a preparatory school, achieved dubious fame in later years as the home of Cynthia Payne. (Madame Sin)

As I grew up in Streatham, my constant companion was my cousin Nancy, three years my senior. She lived with our grandmother, her elder sister Dorothy and maiden aunt, Agnes. Her father had been killed in the war, and her mother had died shortly after. They had moved from New Brighton to a house in Mitcham Lane, about a mile from us, following the death of my grandfather. Nancy and I spent many hours on Tooting Bec Common, watching the trains, which were then being electrified, collecting acorns and conkers, fishing for tiddlers in the lake, on which we would sometimes hire a paddle boat as a treat. We would paddle the boat behind an island, and out of sight of the "boat man," then rotate the paddles in opposite directions causing the boat to spin like a "Whirling Dervish."

Tooting Bec and Streatham Commons played a significant role in my childhood. Sailing model boats on the various ponds was a constant joy. In winter, there was an excellent toboggan run on Streatham Common, which I have to admit, I never really enjoyed - I still remember the agony of chapped thighs. No boys under the age of eleven wore long trousers in those days - girls not at all.

Both Commons had "keepers" who wore brown uniform - part of their duty was to hire out green painted wooden folding chairs for two pence. (less that 1p) Another was collecting litter with a spiked stick. There was a cricket pitch on Streatham Common, occasionally used for county matches - I can remember being told that I was watching the legendary Jack Hobbs. A fond memory is of a kiosk that sold brilliantly coloured pink and yellow toffee apples - very sweet and very rough on one's tongue.

Dorothy was a typical "flapper" of the 1920s. She was a saleslady in Pratts, a department store in Streatham Hill and later worked in a shop on one of the Atlantic liners. I fear that Bunny and his friends gave her a dreadful time. They immediately labelled one of her boyfriends "Cow-face Reggie," a name openly used by the whole family, giving Dorothy little chance of romance.

There were many exciting things to be seen on the walk to my grandmother's house. We crossed the high road at Streatham Vale, where we were seen safely across by the "skate man." At this point the trams changed from an overhead electricity supply to one below the rails, this was to avoid overhead wires in the city. The tram conductor would pull down the trolley pole, while the skate man manoeuvred the skate beneath the tram with a large fork. The skate ran on a slotted centre rail below which it was connected to the supply. I still remember this in detail, including poking a stick and dropping objects through the slot. I understand that all the trams in Bournemouth were stopped when a boy managed to touch the conductor rail with a metal hoop. Reaching Mitcham Lane, we passed the fire station, its doors open, and the bright red fire engines at the ready. If we were lucky we might see them answering a call, the firemen in brass helmets, literally clinging to the engine, one of them furiously ringing the bell. Finally, the electricity power station, through the open doors of which we could hear the hum of the machinery and smell the warm ozone laden air. A footpath between Hopton Road and and the Vale was lined on both sides by hawthorn trees (mainly pink) forming a tunnel. The scent of may blossom still evokes memories of this walk.

Walking in the other direction, towards Sydenham and the Crystal Palace, we passed a blacksmith's shop with a red glow from the fire and the horses waiting patiently outside. Horses were still used for the delivery of coal, green-grocery, bread and milk. United Dairies vans were very smart with pneumatic tyres. Even removal vans were horsedrawn for short and medium distance removals. Rubbish collection was a combination of horse and motor. When full, the horse drawn dust cart was hauled up a hinged ramp on a "Pagefield" lorry, an empty cart being lowered for the horse to continue the collection, a forerunner of the "skip" system some fifty years later. Steam lorries were quite common, watering points for which, were scattered about the city and suburbs.

One morning, there was a commotion in the back garden, 'Bitha, the maid next door, had challenged Bunny from an upstairs window to hit her extended finger with his air rifle, which he promptly and successfully (for him) accepted. Although the gun, a "Diana," was a toy, it had enough power to hurt poor 'Bitha and draw blood. She was quite young and was from a South Wales valley. Relations were not strained. It was she that gave me the miniature miner's lamp which still graces our Welsh dresser.

On many Sunday mornings, my father and I would walk to the Crystal Palace, which, on a sunny day, could be seen for miles, shining like a huge diamond. After feeding the swans on a lake near the palace we would call at our regular sweet shop to buy raspberry jellies or pink and white marshmallows.

I went to the cinema from an early age. The Empire was in the vale opposite the skate man. We would, of course, go in the afternoon, but the performances were not specifically children's matinees, Tom Mix and his white horse Tony, was one of my favourites. There was a long sloping gangway from the paybox to the auditorium divided down the middle by a brass rail. The floor "creaked" as one walked down this passage. Tickets were in the form of metal tallies, round, square or triangular, according to price. These had to be given up on entry, a disappointment to me, they were attractive to a child, particularly to a rather odd child, as I am sure I must have been. On one occasion, I was taken to London to have a meal in my father's favourite restaurant, (I think it was called Apendrots) followed by a visit to the Tivoli to see Ben Hur, with Ramon Novarro.

Local cinemas did not have proscenium curtains in those days. Bunny teasingly informed me that the screen would grow whiter as the time for the film to start approached, and I convinced myself that this was so.

The odour remains with me to this day, a combination of airlessness, tobacco, smoke, gas emergency lights, deodorant pesticide which the usherettes sprayed during the intervals, and, I strongly suspect, "bodies."

Wireless was in its infancy, we had a crystal set, tuned by what was known as a "cat's wisker." We could only hear it through headphones which had to be shared, sometimes separating them to provide one earpiece each. Every house had an outside aerial attached to a convenient pole or tree. Ours passed through a porcelain eyelet attached to a tree, a large stone was fastened to the end just above ground level. This ensured that movement of the tree in the wind did not break the wire. A near neighbour, Gordon Gribben had a set with myriads of coils and valves which actually worked a speaker - we were spellbound! Not until the early thirties did we have such a luxury.

One evening, my father brought home a Pathé 9.5mm ciné projector. This kindled my interest in home movies, an interest that was to develop into a hobby over many years.

My parents were keen walkers, and used to take a bus from Streatham to Caterham, their favourite base for country rambles. On one such outing they saw a house next to St John's Church in Caterham, which was to be sold by auction. They attended the sale and bought it, apparently a nerve racking experience. Shortly before we moved, I caused quite a stir (I was not quite seven) by taking myself off on a bus to have a look at the new house. London buses still had open upper decks. The only protection from the weather was a canvas apron attached to the seat in front which could be unrolled and pulled against one's chest, giving no protection to the head and shoulders; the driver had similar basic protection. The first bus I saw with a roof was when visiting my grandparents in New Brighton. There were two main bus companies, "Tilling" and "General." When my mother took me on the bus to London we would see what were known as "pirate" buses, I think I expected to see a skull and crossbones painted on their sides - I remember one name "Enterprise," their buses were navy blue - no Jolly Roger!

Visits to my maternal grandparents in New Brighton added to my confusion over words. I was taken to Liverpool on the ferry boat which I took as "fairy" boat. As we left the landing stage , New Brighton Tower was pointed out to me. Expecting to see a tower as depicted in children's stories I failed to recognise the iron structure in the style of the Eiffel Tower. A one-legged diver used to dive for money from New Brighton pier. I feel sure that the catch phrase "Don't forget the diver sir" in the wartime radio series "ITMA" owed its origin to this diver, Tommy Handley the star was a Liverpudlian. The ferry boats "Royal Daffodil" and "Royal Iris" gained their "Royal" prefix for their participation in a naval raid on Zebrugge during the first world war.

These visits were usually the result of exchanging houses with my father's opposite number in the Liverpool office, Harry Lloyd. At the time there were quite noticeable differences in lifestyle between Liverpool and London. Breakfast cereal at home was "Post Toasties" or "Force." In New Brighton, I saw a completely new name, "Kelloggs." Shops of course, were quite individual. Chains such as Lipton and Sainsbury were in their infancy.

An incident when I was nearly four years old had a profound effect on my life. Bunny and I were playing "ships" under the bedroom table, (Bunny was later to become a master mariner) a little candle lamp doing service as the saloon lantern. In some way the lamp set fire to the table cloth. Bunny rushed into the bathroom for a glass of water, but by the time he had returned the curtains were also ablaze and I was still under the table. I remember my mother screaming down the telephone in a hoarse voice, "Fire! Fire!" and almost immediately the sound of bells. I was told that four fire engines were at the house in three minutes, by which time my father had extinguished the fire and rescued me from under the table. Following this incident I had repeated nightmares and developed a stammer which has diminished over the years but still returns when I am over-tired or excited. My parents took me to a specialist in Harley Street. Part of his prescription was that I should have nothing to eat following my tea except a grape and a glass of water at bed time. Many, many, years later, when I related this story to my family, they fell into near hysterics at the notion of "Father" going to bed with one grape and a glass of water. Both my dear children insist that the title of this little story be "A grape and a glass of water."

I did not go to school until I was seven, by which time we had moved to Caterham.