The Brooks Family

INTRODUCTION  

 

On the morning of September 3rd,1976, I awoke early and in a little time, realized that I had the biblical age of three score years and ten.

I reflected on all the great figures in history who had lived much less(some not even half) than the allotted span and how much more,they might have contributed to mankind’s knowledge and enlightenment,if they had reached my age.

 

What had I accomplished, fortunate as I was, to have lived until my 70th birthday? Certainly nothing innovative and in any field of endeavor. I had attempted, achieved little beyond what could be considered average or in some cases, mediocre.

 

Then, why would I consider writing an autobiography? It has been said, that most people in writing an autobiography are merely pandering to their ego. There are many requirements to make such a literary effort worth reading, and by most of the accepted standards, I would not qualify.

 

In these days of mass communication, families seem to have much less time to talk about themselves and there have been experiences in my life, about which my children and grand-children are unaware. An autobiography, I thought, might enable them to know me a little better. It could perhaps, interest other people. This of course is where my egotism shows through.

 

A few weeks after my birthday, I visited a friend whose judgement I respect and told him of the idea which had occurred to me. The subsequent conversation went something like this:-

                     Friend: “How many names can you drop?”

                     Me: “About 5 or 6”.

                     Friend: “Per page”?

                     Me: “No”.

                     Friend: “Per chapter”.

                     Me: ”Per book”.

                    Friend: “Ah! What about sex? Ah now, with your long years in the Navy and many months away from home, during civilian life, I bet you could make the pages sizzle!” 

                     Me: “Well,let me see,I don’t-

Friend: “Good God,if you have to think about it, there would be nothing worth writing about. If you must write, I think you should concentrate on writing letters to the editor, complaints to Government Departments and letters of criticism on poor service to department stores. You have had some little success in those areas”.

                      Me: “But I could see the book as not merely writing about my life, but as a platform to express some of my views on events and people”.

                         Friend: “Hell! I know your views. If you put them to paper, you would be banned from all R.S.L. meetings and Clubs, Public transport, your grandchildren would be very uncomfortable in the Public school system, Churchill idolaters would clamor to have you publicly flogged and Al Grosby   and Mrs Franco Arena, would demand that you be branded with an “R”, as a racist. The Catholic Church would excommunicate you, unless as I suspect, they have not already done so,and Public Servants would refuse to process your pension cheques”.

                           Me: “Well,you can’t expect to please everybody”.

                           Friend: “You would please nobody!”

 

He was of course exaggerating, but had given me food for thought. Even when I advanced the notion I had, that my grandchildren might be interested in some of my adventures, he threw cold water on the idea. “They are”, he said, “exposed to sensational and extraordinary situations, real and imaginary, every day on TV. They would make your puny experiences scarcely worth knowing about”.

 

Thus, so fulsomely encouraged, I consoled myself with the thought,that with what time I might have left,  there was so much to do. So much reading to do, so much good music to listen to, so many issues to discuss and argue about. Who wants to waste time writing?

 

Almost 2 years passed, before I again thought about the matter. I had over the years, received some encouragement to write about my experiences (not by anyone really noteworthy) and my wife and two sons, somewhat by way of joking, I suspect, have often said, “when you are going to start on your book?”

 

If I get beyond the introduction, I might find that I enjoy writing, and not even care if it ever gets into print.

 

I have never kept a diary, so some dates and spelling of names and places, will quite probably be slightly incorrect. The text is entirely factual. Where a person living or relatives might be offended, I have omitted names. Apart from an autobiography, this is a record of my views and facts concerning a variety of events I have been concerned in and facets of life, I, in common with most citizens, find of great and often compelling interest.

Anyone reading what I have written, might believe that I have had the extraordinarily good fortune to meet and work with only sterling characters and wonderful human beings.

 

Naturally, I have known my share of thoroughly nasty people but I regard them, as not worth discussing or to make mention of their names.

 

 

MY EARLY LIFE IN PLUMSTEAD

 

Hector Street, in Plumstead a South East London suburb, is a street of some 50 houses such as to make a right angle, in the corner of which is, or rather was, St. Paul’s C of E Church.

 

In 1906, when I was born, it was doubtful, if any motorized vehicle had ever travelled on it. It was unlikely that any but a few people, had ever seen a coloured or black person. If one thought of such people, it would be, as servants of the white administrators, business man etc., those representation of the far flung and mighty British Empire and whom they addressed on, Masters, Sahib, Tuan, Bwana or some such title.

 

The children in my young days played in the street, games such as jacks. hopscotch, bowled cane or street hoops, skipped or staggered about on rickety home made stilts. In nearby Bobbington Road, a short street, where there were the brick sides and fences of two houses on one side and the steel fenced side of Conway Road school on the other, boys played rough riders, football or cricket. The playing of football, was performed with any sized ball from a tennis ball upwards. If a ball was used. In my day, home made bats of flat timber from cases were used. One local boy, Reggie Blackman had a real cricket bat and more often we used that, but at a price. It was mandatory that Reggie opened the bowling and batting for his side and he had to be caught to be out. The ‘stumps’ were chalked on the wall and he would successfully dispute every claim to be out L.B.W or clean bowled. We loved using that bat!

 

When I revisited Hector Street, 54 years after first leaving it, the street was lit by fluorescent lights, the road was tar sealed and St Paul’s Church of England was now St. Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church. Motor vehicles were parked outside nearly every house and there were coloured people living in the house I was born in and in others in both Hector Street and the surrounding ones. There were no children playing in the streets at 5pm on a fine day. They were undoubtably in their homes watching television, possibly bored at being able to view (in colour), yet another landing on the moon. There was no child in sight in Bobbington Road.

 

The British Empire no longer existed and indeed, the United Kingdom was no longer united.

 

I had travelled from the Haymarket in London to Plumstead on a number 53 bus. That number was possibly the only thing that had not changed, as 53 was the number of the first solid tyred bus, that started the run from Plumstead to London, when I was a child. This number 53 bus was driven by a West Indian driver and had a white conductor. Returning by train from Plumstead station, I purchased my ticket from a turbaned sika, had my ticket clipped by an Indian station assistant and when the scheduled train failed to arrive, a very polite Indian station master came down to the platform to explain to the waiting passengers that two trains had been cancelled because of a train drivers dispute.

 

My generation had lived through the greatest period of change, both technological and social, that any other generation had experienced or I believe any future generations are likely to experience.

 

The third of my parents four sons, I was born on September 3rd, 1906. Being born on September 3rd, I was always able to remember that Oliver Cromwell’s greatest victories, the Battles of Dunbar in 1650 and Worchester, a year later, took place on September 3rd. Apart from 1066 and the fact that World War II started on September 3rd, I scarcely remember another historical date.

 

My mother was born in Lambeth, the youngest of 12 children. Her parents were Irish having migrated to England from Cork. They both died within 18 months of my mother’s birth. A couple of the children were able to work, the rest, except my mother, went into children’s homes. She was lucky enough to be brought up by a maternal Aunt and Uncle. Her Uncle came to London and took her back to Cork.

 

John and Ellen Curtin had no children of their own. Shortly after adopting my mother, like a lot of Irish people at that time, they migrated to America and for a number of years, lived in Philadelpia where my mother spent some time at school. John Curtin who was a cobbler (boot repairer) did not settle down in America and decided to return to Ireland, when my mother was about 11 years old. She was aged 15 years and working in Cork’s largest store, when John Curtin made another move. This time, it was to Woolwich on the outskirts of London, where he rented an old semi-detached house not far from the railway station. My mother went to work as a domestic, at the presbytery of the nearby St. Peters R.C. Church. I imagine that her Aunt Ellen would have arranged this, as John Curtin never went to Church services, whereas Aunt Ellen never missed daily mass and benediction. My memories of them, which covered 4 or 5 years of my childhood, are as kind simple people. John Curtin (Uncle John as we called him) was a very quiet man and I cannot imagine him as having had the enterprise to move around as he did during his life time.

 

My father’s father, came from Tipperary and served as a young man until retirement age, in the Royal Artillery. He then settled in Woolwich, at that time and possibly still, the headquarter’s town of the Artillery regiments of the British Army. My paternal grandmother came from Wales and out lived her husband by many years. I don’t remember him, as he died shortly after I was born.

 

They had 3 children, my father and 2 daughters. Aunt Julie (who I just remember) died at 21 years of age and Aunt Nell, who was married to Bob West, died at a little over 30 years of age, having had no children. As with so many people of that period, they died of tuberculosis (or consumption, as it was generally called in those days).

 

It was at St. Peter’s Church, that my mother and father first met. There he had been at one time, an Altar boy and member of the choir, something (in view of how I later was to know him) I could never imagine him as ever having been.

 

My father worked as a laboratory assistant (laborer) in the cartridge case filling section of the Royal Arsenal, at that time, an immense complex employing tens of thousands of men. The high brick walls of the Arsenal stretched down one side of Plumstead station, a distance of about a mile and beyond in the direction of Erith. From the wall, it ran back to its other boundary, the River Thames. There were three main entrance gates, the middle gates and Plumstead station gates.

 

In my young days in England, the main cooked meal of the day was at midday. There were no such things as work canteens, so most workers at the Arsenal, had their hot dinner brought to them at noon, on plates wrapped in cloth and packed in wicker baskets. It was the children’s (during the school lunch break) or in some instances, the wives job, to take the basket to one of the gates where it was picked up by the workers. In my father’s case, he picked it up at the middle gates which were nearest to where he worked. The basket had to be handed over at a marked line inside the gates, beyond which the worker could not face. It was supervised by Arsenal policemen, the idea being, to prevent workmen passing anything (screws,nuts and bolts etc.) to the person bringing the basket. On leaving work the men were subjected to a random search routine, being tapped on the shoulder by a policeman, as a direction to go to a search room where he was  given a body search and bag or basket examined.

 

In the neighborhood surrounding Hector Street most men worked in the Arsenal, generally manual workers but a few more white collar workers or tradesmen. These were a bit more affluent than unskilled  workers such as my father. There was a slight degree of snobbery among the workers and the clerks and tradesmen were more likely to live in Griffen Road a street with newer semi-detached houses. I suppose that my family could have been considered to be poor but I don’t know that we ourselves thought that we were poor. Certainly, we never had toys such as scooters or later on bicycles as a few of the other kids had. But I cannot ever remember being hungry, although by pay day my mother frequently did not have one penny in her purse. We always had a cooked breakfast in the warmer weather and porridge and toast in the winter, a cooked dinner at mid day and an egg, kipper or bloater at late tea.

 

On occasions, the budget must have stretched because sometimes it became necessary to borrow 1 pound from a loan club. These clubs were co-operative enterprises run by groups of workers, with their headquarters usually in a public house. The loan if approved, was repaid by weekly payments of one shilling a week. The interest was minimal. My mother disliked having to make use of these facilities but particularly when the children were young, it became necessary. I often went to a room at the “pub” on a pay day evening, to have the payment recorded on a card.

 

Fortunately, except when my father had to go to Charing Cross Hospital in London for a successful ulcer operation, I don’t remember any member of my family being really ill. As I remember, coughs, colds and other minor complaints were treated by tincture of quinive, eucalyptus or epsom salts. There were never pills of any sort in the house.

 

Our rented house at number 5 Hector Street, was a 2 storied terrace, consisting of a hall way, ‘front room’ or ‘parlour’, a fairly large room with what would be called a kitchenette, on the left of the ground floor and then the living cum kitchen with fuel stove. This room lead on to the scullery which contained a sink with cold water tap and a gas stove. Upstairs were 2 fair sized bedrooms and 2 smaller bedrooms.

 

Up until I left home, we nearly always had a lodger. My earliest recollection was of a full boarder, Reggie Bridges about whom, more later. Reggie joined the Army soon after World War 1 started. Sometime during the war, Mr. and Mrs. Yates came to live with us. They had a little girl and occupied the room with a kitchenette and one large bedroom. Mr. Yates had been wounded in the left hand early in the war and always wore a glove. He worked in the Arsenal and they were a fairly quiet family, the only time we heard them being when they had mild disagreements, after an overlong stay at the Public House on infrequent evenings. My mother got on well with Mrs Yates but they never intruded on our part of the house.

 

Mr Yates was a man of few words. In fact, I only heard him utter two in the years they lived with us. It was his greeting “hello cock!”, whenever I chanced to meet him. I don’t remember when they left, but it was not long before I myself left home and the family’s economic position had improved. Previously, it had been necessary to have someone in the house, in order to be able to pay what was a high rent for those days.

 

The house was, to me, comfortably furnished, with a piano and book case in the front room, both bequeathed to my father by his god father (a retired Army Sergeant-Major) when he died.

 

My father was not a practical man and I never remember him doing any odd jobs around the place. He looked after our very small back garden, washed up after mess and always cooked the Sunday morning breakfast, my mother having the luxury of breakfast in bed on that day. Then he cleaned up the living room, whilst everyone made their own beds, one sheet being changed on Sunday, the only day we did not make our own beds.

 

The practical member of the family during my childhood was my mother, who seemed capable of doing anything. She cooked well, sewed (making many items of clothing), resoled the boots and mended anything that needed attention. The boot repairing was undoubtably learnt from watching Uncle John Curtin.

 

On Sundays, we all went to mass, except my father. He had divorced himself from the Catholic faith (or any other religious faith as far as I know) shortly after marriage. This came about because he was an avid reader of almost anything, particularly of history. He had read all of Dicken’s novels. From his reading, he had formed his own philosophy and were prepared to argue about it, with anyone at anytime. It was from my mother, that I first heard an old joke, when she said to him, “you are like the Irishman cast up on a desert island. The first words he said were “if there is a Government her, I am agin it!”.

 

Actually, he was not a dissident towards everything, and he changed his opinions with more book learning and experience.

 

He and so many others during his young days and in my generation later, were able to read a great variety of books because of the many fine, free public libraries, established by the Carnegie Foundation throughout Britain. Andrew Carnegie should always be remembered for this, undoubtedly one of the most worth while philanthropic acts of all time.

 

My father was Catholic only in his attitude to life. Sport (mainly soccer, football and athletics), music, reading and as he would put it, ‘arguing the toss’ about the political and social issues of the day, were his main interests. He liked a drink of beer when able to afford it, had a great sense of humour and was regarded as a ‘bit of a card’ amongst his friends. These, when I came to look back at it later in life, were a little unusual in their variety, for him a labouring man in those days.

 

Mr. Hetherington, an inspector of school, was God-father to my eldest brother Leslie and was a frequent visitor to our house. Bob Molyneux, the proprietor of a printing and stationers business in Woolwich, was my second eldest brother Jack’s godfather, whilst a John Cornelius, an Assurance Company’s local office manager who later migrated to Chicago, was my God-father. I don’t remember him.

 

Probably Dad’s best friends were Bob West, his brother-in-law (Uncle Bob to us) and Joe Miller a local barber, who both shared his interests in music and politics. Bob West, who had remarried after my Aunt died, lived at Eltham which was about 3 miles away from Plumstead. The two men, sometimes but not always with their wives, visited us quite often for an evening of music and a shared jug of beer and dry biscuits and cheese. Joe Miller, was a quiet spoken gentle man, whose parents were Polish born and had Anglocised their names which were almost unpronounceable to English ears. Sadly, both Joe and his wife Millie, died within 2 years of each other of T.B., when still in their forties.

 

A gramophone (with a large horn, of course) was a prized possession, in our house. Dad had a few records, Uncle Bob a greater number, with Joe Miller having the largest collection, probably about 30 in number. I can see them now, absolutely enthralled, listening to Curuso, Melba, Peter Dawson and overtures such as ‘Poet and Peasant’ and another of Suppe’s, ‘Morning, Noon and Night’. They also had some records with parts of movements from symphonies. The sound, was of course, atrocious by today’s standards. If they were to return to the world today, I am sure their main enjoyment and possibly their only one, in the changed standards of life in this present day world, would be, to listen to long playing records with stereo equipment.

 

Bob West, was an unusual looking man for an Englishman, appearing to be much more like a Spaniard or Italian. There must have been Latin blood in him from somewhere. A small man, he was very dapper in his dress and almost always, with a flower in a silver holder, in his lapel button hole. He was without exception, good humoured and although our affection for him was genuine, it was, I suspect, somewhat enhanced by the fact that on his visits, he never failed to ‘cross our palms’ with a piece of silver, usually a three penny piece but on some occasions, a whole sixpence. As our weekly pocket money was fourpence, (threepence for cinema on Saturday and a penny to spend), the receipt of this largesse, was an event of great delight.

 

At one time, my father was a keen supporter, if not a member of the I.W.W., the extreme political group of that period. But he apparently could not reconcile himself to some of their policies, joined the Labour Party and as far as I know, remained a Labour supporter all his life.

 

Our local Member of Parliament for the electorate of East Woolwich, was the Labour man, Will Crooks, a benevolent looking bearded man, greatly admired by the working class people of the district. West Woolwich, which was a ‘classier’ area, was always held by a Conservative. We all took part in canvassing at Election time, wore very large buttons with Will Crooks photo on them, knocked on doors delivering pamphlets and even (briefed by Dad), attempted to tell people why they should vote Labour.

 

Meetings were held by the rival candidates on street corners, literally standing on soap boxes and they were lively affairs. They were of course very partisan and in our area, Will Crooks always received -----, with the unfortunate Liberal or Conservative hopefuls being soundly booed.

 

Will Crooks held East Woolwich until just after the end of World War 1, when Conservatives had as their candidate, Captain Gee V.C.M.C. As I imagine, the conservatives expected, in the immediate post war climate, the voters fervor for heroes overcame their common sense (near enough my father’s words) and Will Crooks was defeated.

 

Captain Gee only lasted one term and another Labour man was elected, Will Crooks having retired from the scene. Some years later, I saw Captain Gee’s name mentioned in a West Australian newspaper. He was personnal manager of Boans, Perth’s largest department store.

 

My father’s particular ‘Be`te moire’ in politics, was Winston Churchill. He regarded him, as a dangerous enemy of the working class. I can remember him saying “he would sell his country for his class, anytime”. By that, I took it, that in referring to Country, Dad, meant the great mass of the people. My experience and reading, have lead me, also, to have strong views about Winston Churchill.

 

My brothers Leslie and Jack were older than me by eight and five years, respectfully whilst Donal (Don) was born a little over 6 years after me. Leslie was not brought up as a Catholic, attending two secular schools. It seems, that Dad must have acquiesed to my mother’s desire for the rest of us to have a Catholic education because Jack, Don and myself went to St. Patrick’s (L.C.C) school. This school adjoined St. Patrick’s church, which was only a few minutes walk from our house and was financed and run under London County Council administration, the same as other schools, but almost all the pupils were Catholics and the lay teachers (employed by the L.C.C.) were all Catholics. We had religious instruction by a priest, once a week. 

 

As I said previously, my father quite early in his married life ceased to be a practicing Catholic. He could no longer accept the philosophy of the Church, which he said, taught people to ‘accept their lot’ and thank God for it. The majority of people had very little to thank anyone for, in his view and he thought that priests, well provided for in food and drink, had an unreal understanding of man’s lot in life.

 

Royalty and its perpetuation, he considered an anachronism. I remember him pointing out, that Queen Victoria might never have existed as far as the people were concerned, as very few has ever seen her and that Edward VII was an extravagant lecher, to be despised by decent people. What respect or loyalty could the throne expect?

 

Titles and inherited wealth were targets for his criticism. He maintained that everyone should work for what they obtained, as working people generally, had to do. For people who had obtained wealth or fame by hard work and intellect, he had no resentment and in fact, I often heard him extol that type of person. In that respect, I suppose that he was not a true socialist by today’s standards but he did strongly believe, of course, that the worker was entitled to a much fairer share of the results of his labour, and that a continual struggle would be necessary to obtain this.

 

However, he was wrong in his estimation of when this would happen, as he thought that the great change to a just society, would happen in his life time and although he saw much improvement, he was not to live to see anything like, that which he would have thought desirable. With increased education, he believed that the workers would realize how much they were being exploited, resent the ‘grace and favour’ customs of the day, vote for Labour in increasing numbers and bring a Labour government into being, which would change the system. I often wonder what he would have thought of the present day welfare state and the quite frequent abuse of power by the Unions.

 

He derided the use of titles, usually referred to the so called upper class, as ‘the nobs’ and deeply resented this assumption of superiority. One quotation which always aroused his ire, was said, I believe, by the Duke of Wellington:- ”The Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton”, ”What arrogance! The playing fields of Eton, indeed”, he would say, “what about all the thousands of poor sods, who died at Waterloo and other battle field and never went to school or even saw a playing field”?

 

Undoubtedly, his views on the society of the day, were considerably influenced by the stories told to him about his maternal grandfather who had worked in the coal mines of Wales and who died in his early forties.

 

Furthermore, he himself had spent his childhood and teens in the last decades of a century, of which it has been said:- ‘in no earlier period, has there been such a large proportion of our population living in want, below the margin of poverty, as at this present time!’ This was stated in a book called, ‘The Wonderful Century; its Successes and Failure’, published in 1898.

 

Born in London, with no direct English family connections, he nevertheless, I believe, always considered himself an Englishman. I certainly never heard him imply anything else. He read and somehow accumulated, quite a few books on history. A critic of Britain’s colonialism, he was, in spite of his views, fascinated by the enormous expansion of Britain’s global power. I can remember him pointing at the red coloured areas (then about a third of the world’s land mass), then point at the British Isles and wonder at how a little island like that could impose it’s authority on such vast areas. I don’t imagine, that at that time, he would have thought that any of his children would live to see all those red areas except for a few pin pricks, disappear from the map. But if he had, he would have been pleased!

 

Although he sometimes became very heated in his discussions on politics, he never used bad language, except for the occasional ‘sod’. In fact, he was a non-violent man and never laid a hand on any of his children, nor did my mother. Discipline was imposed at school, reinforced by reasoning and deprivation of privileges (if necessary) at home.

 

In my young days, workers were not paid for holidays, such as Easter or Christmas and received no annual paid holidays, except in certain mostly white collar) occupations and the Civil Service. Arsenal workers were not then classed as Civil Servants.

 

However, by some means or other, we did have at least one day trip to Southend-on-Sea (the Mecca of the London working class, at that time) and one similar visit to Margate, a seaside resort in Kent not so very far from Plumstead.

 

Plumstead, local governed by the Woolwich Borough Council, was then, just on the edge of the London Metropolitan area and next door to the boundaries of Kent. It was an area, where there were plenty of diversions for the minds and activities of young children.

 

Bestall Woods was about a miles’s walk away, with fairly thickly wooded areas of trees, some yielding chestnuts which we could roast, other, horse chestnuts (Goukers) suitable for attaching to the end of a string and playing the game of ‘Goukers’. The woods were prolific, in the spring, of blue-bells (principally), snow drops and even daffodils. We gathered many a bunch of flowers there.

 

The woods covered an area on both sides of Bostall Hill and at the top of the Hill, there were grass areas with some flowers and shrubs planted and on one side, a band stand. Here, from spring until late autumn, band concerts were held every Sunday afternoon.

 

I think, every district had it’s own brass band and these used to rotate around various areas. In addition, at Bostall Woods we sometimes had Military bands (or part of them) with wood wind instruments and very occasionally, stringed instruments. We seldom missed a performance, weather permitting and were usually accompanied by my father and sometimes, my mother. It was mandatory on these days, for everyone to were their best suit or garment on Sundays. One would just have soon considered going out naked on that day, as to have thought of defying the convention. No male would dream of appearing without wearing a hat.

 

I not interested in the music, the band stand area provided a convenient place for the young bloods of the day to promenade and survey their contemporaries of the opposite sex and hopefully strike up an acquaintance. I started this routine, when I was fourteen years old.

 

Further on from the band stand area, was a piece of common land with the capacity to stage one cricket or football match at a time. Separating the woods and the field was a lane which lead to a large field, which had a name I have now forgotten. This was used as a fair ground on Whitsun, Easter and August Bank holidays. We greatly looked forward to the advent, and usually managed to be provided with a few pence to indulge our fanery. Now, when I think about it, the fair did not consist of much more than a couple of merry-go-rounds (steam driven), a number of game stalls including rifle shooting, darts and knocking coconuts off their wooden cups on top sticks and some food stalls. There was the inevitable, ‘try your strength’ game, of trying to make the bell ring, by moving the marker up with a blow of a large wooden mallet. It was interesting to watch the attitudes of the young men out with their girl friends. Urged on by the girls, they were either obviously reluctant to try, and expose their lack of muscle power or eager to do so, and show their virility. People came to the fair, in large numbers from all around the place.

 

Larger fairs were held on the comparatively nearly Blackheath Common and the biggest on faraway Hampstead Heath.On one edge of Bostall Woods and almost adjoining Plumstead Cemetry, was quite a large cave, known as Dick Turpin’s Cave. Dick Turpin was supposed to have used it, as a hideaway but whether in fact, the notorious highway-man did ever use it, is I believe in doubt, but we always thought that he had so.

 

Cook’s farm bordered another edge of the Woods. There was a house there but it was certainly not used as a farm in my day, but rather as a picnic ground for church groups, lodges and working men’s clubs. I can just recall attending a picnic there and imagine it would have been a Labour Party picnic.

 

Within walking distances and in the direction of Bostall Woods there were small farms mostly growing vegetables but also strawberries and raspberries. On the River Thames side of the Woods, lay Erith with its marshes and numerous gypsy encampments. These latter, never ceased to fascinate us, although the gypsies never liked you to get too near to the caravans.

 

To the west of our street, about three quarters of a mile away and up a steep hill, there was Plumstead Common. It was a fairly large area, divided in two, separated by a road. One side was grassed, with 2 or 3 tennis courts and room for about 3 cricket matches to be played. Football was not allowed to be played there. The other part of the Common was surfaced by a light sandy gravel. Football was played there but the Army evidently had some right to its use, as quite often on weekdays and sometimes at weekends, the Royal Horse Artillary carried out exercises there. It was quite a spectacle for us, as kids, to watch the horses drawing gun carriages and field guns, galloping and wheeling and then suddenly stopping. The artillarymen then jumped down from the carriages and went through the drill, of detaching the guns and loading them. Sometimes, when certain areas had been cleared, they even fired blank ammunition. It was all very thrilling!

 

My father, like quite a few other men in our neighbourhood, was in the Territorial Army but he was in the Royal Field Artillary and had to carry out periodic drills, which were held within the confines of their barracks at Woolwich.

 

There was a fair sized shopping centre in Plumstead with a Liptons, Home and Colonial and Maypole Dairy shops. These stores had branches in many London suburbs but my mother did most of her shopping at the Royal Arsenal Co-operative Society, of which she was a member. They catered for all groceries, meat and clothes. At that time, the R.A.C.S., had just 2 stores, one in Plumstead and another, much larger and the headquarters of the society in Woolwich. Today, they have expanded considerably and I believe, are the largest of the Co-operative outlets.

 

The inducement to shop at the Co-op., was because of the fact that you received tin checks equivalent to the amount you had expended. When the member had collected checks, say, to the amount of 5 pound, they could be paid into the office and the amount recorded in the member’s book. At the end of the year, the Society declared a dividend, of so much in the Pound. Although, never a very large amount, the dividend pay out was a much looked forward to event and people often borrowed in expection of whatever sum, it might be.

 

Shopping in the pre-packaged era, was often a lengthy process. There were invariably queues on Fridays and Saturdays, at the counters of the grocers, where almost everything had to be weighed and put in paper bags. Butter was cut out of large blocks, placed on marble stands and shaped into the required amounts, from 2 ounces upwards. This was done with wooden butter ‘patters’ and the grocers assistants were extraordinarily quick and skillful in doing this cheese was cut from the whole cheese, with thin sharp steel wires, secured at one end. So proficient were the assistants, in their judgement of where to make the cut, that they were seldom more than a fraction over or under, the required amount. And of course, with almost every commodity loose in sacks or bags, the shops were pervaded by the delightful fragrances of coffee, spices etc.

 

Customers were usually well known by name to the assistants and visa versa and a little exchange of greetings and health enquiries (but not when the manager was in view), added a bit, to the time required to be served but people were seldom in a hurry. A far cry from the supermarkets of today.

 

Woolwich, however, a mile away along Plumstead High Street, was, as would be said today, ‘where the action was’. Firstly, there was Beresford Square right outside the Arsenal’s main gates. It was a cobbled area and site of the Woolwich markets, which operated on a small scale on weekdays but in a much larger fashion, on Friday nights and all day on Saturdays. There were stalls selling fruit and vegetable, fish, meat, poultry, clothes, bric-a-brac, second hand books and comics and many other things.

 

For some time, my father had a set of Jockey Scales in the market, where he operated them for a few hours on Friday night and from about 2pm until 10pm or 11pm on Saturdays. I cannot remember what the charge to be weighed was, but it was probably one half penny. He did not own the scales. They were hired and sometimes, my father had a stand-in for a couple of hours, if he wanted to see an important soccer match in which the ‘locals’, Woolwich Arsenal, were involved.

 

He only made three or four shillings for an 8 or 9 hour stand, but I think he enjoyed the job, being able to exchange wise cracks, with customers or people passing by or even getting into a political argument. I remember my mother saying, that on one occasion when she was there, he left a lady sitting in the chair for several minutes, whilst he carried on an argument.

 

Saturday afternoons and evenings was the time, when those who had unbibed ‘not wisely but too well’, were seen in the market area, which had about five ‘pubs’ on it’s perimeter. They were rounded up by the police and taken to the local police station, stretched out on a long barrow with 2 shafts at each end and a canopy over it and moved by a policeman at each end. The culprit was completely anonymous, except for his feet, which struck out from the end of the canopy in the case of a big man. If you recognized the boots, you might know his identity. Policemen, with their batons and lanterns on their waist where of course, a common sight on ‘the beat’.

 

To us children, the market was a wonderful place. I usually made my visits with my grandmother who lived only a few streets away from us. After my father’s sisters deaths, she and Aunt Ellen Curtin were the only blood relatives, we had any knowledge of in England. Somehow or other, my mother had learnt of a sister, Aunt Nell, who had migrated to Western Australia and was married to an Australian. Aunt Ellen Curtin, had a brother living in New York, with whom my mother had kept in touch but I think he died, about the time I was born.

 

Adjoining Beresford Square, was Pouois Street, the main shopping street with the very large Co-op store and Hare Street with Woolworth’s and other shops. Hare Street, lead down to the foot tunnel under the Thames and the free vehicular and passenger ferry, which crossed the river to North Woolwich. On holidays, we sometimes spent an hour or more, crossing and recrossing the river observing the constant flow of traffic. The river was a source of wonder to me, as there was always steam ships going to and from the upper London docks, the day excursion paddle steamers such as “The Brighton Belle”and the dozens of barges, with their invariably red sails. Why red? I never found out.

 

There was a Cinema, facing the markets in Beresford Square and less than 100 yards away towards the river, Barnards, a vaudeville theatre and aboout 300 yards in the other direction, the Woolwich Hippodrome another vaudeville theatre. The Hippodrome was considered to be a little classier than Barnards and sometimes put on plays and even, musical recitals. A little under half a mile from the square and uphill, in the coufines of the Artillary grounds and opposite the parade ground, was the Theatre Royal. This catered only for plays and was open to the public.

 

On Sunday mornings, we sometimes walked to the parade grouns after attending early mass, to watch the military church parade. It was a grand sight, with the soldier in their colourful uniforms and hats and officers in full dress and clanking swords.

 

A short distance away from the barracks there was a military museum, housed in what was known as the Rotunda. Opposite it was the Royal Military College of Science.

 

There were houses opposite the barracks, which accommodated officers and their families. One had a brass plaque attached to it, proclaiming the fact, that General Gordon of Khartoun had either been born in the house or had lived there. I forget which was the case but believe it was the former.

 

A short distance, upstream from the free ferry wharf, Woolwich Dockyard was located. It was still used for ship repairs in my young days and on rare occasions one saw the masts of a sailing ship, berthed alongside. It was at one time, among the Royal Navy’s busiest dockyards and Nelson had commissioned 2 ships and paid off another one or two, there, before becoming an Admiral. A little further up the Thames, was another former Navy Dockyard at Doptford. There, the “Endeavour” had been fitted out and victualled, before Captain Cook had finally sailed from Plymouth with Joseph Banks onboard, a voyage which lead to the settlement of the British in Australia.

 

About 3 miles from Woolwich and a halfpenny fare on the tram route to the centre of London, was another historic place, Greenwich, also of course closely associated with the Royal Navy. When short of a halfpenny, we sometimes walked to Greenwich to visit the many places of interest, including the Observatory, the park and the Boy’s Naval training school, in the grounds of which, was a sailing ship embedded in concrete. Sometimes, we were lucky enough to see the boys put on a display of climbing the rigging.

 

Opposite the Boys training school, was the site of the birthplace of Henry VIII and Elizabeth I. It was given by William and Mary, for use as a hospital for disabled sailors but by my time, it was the Royal Naval College. It contained the Painted Hall with the marvellous ceiling and a beautiful chapel. I don’t remember seeing these as a youth but I have done so, in later years (there was probably no public admission in earlier times). There were streets with very old houses, in Greenwich, many leading down to the Thames, where there was always some activity.

 

A former Royal residence was about 4 miles from Plumstead, on a tram route from Beresford Square, which crossed Shooters Hill, a long road once used by the horse coaches traveling between London and Dover and Kentish ports. Shooters Hill was said to have been a popular place, for highway men to hold up the coaches. The Royal residence was Eltham Palace, used by English Kings from the early fourteenth century up until the time of Henry VIII. The Great Hall, was the only part still standing. It was said to have an unusual type of roof construction but I can’t remember any details about it. There is a more recent note of interest about Eltham. Bob Hope was born there.

 

At nearly Chislehurst, could be seen the very large house, where Napoleon III lived in exile after the defeat of France in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870 and where he died in 1873. The Empress Engine continued to live there until shortly after her son was killed fighting for the British in the Zulu war in 1879. She moved to Hampshire and amazingly, lived to the age of 94 years, dying in 1920.

 

Considering the environment in which I was brought up, it is not surprising that I have always been interested in the subject, about which Henry Ford is said to have made the remark,”history is bunk!”

 

I don’t remember doing much homework during my school days and indeed, during my last 2 years at school, as I will mention later on, would have had little time on weeknights, to do very much.

 

My grandmother did washing and ironing to maintain an existence.There was no old age pension until 1909. On January 1st of that year people over 70 received five shillings a week, with a married couple getting seven shillings and sixpence. If a person was earning or had an income of over ten shillings per week, that person was disqualified from receiving the pension. The unelected House of privilege:- The House of Lords, voted to defeat the Bill entirely or to reduce the amount paid but Parliament or lower House resisted and claimed privilege. My grandmother, widowed by then and not yet 70 years of age, did not get anything at that time.

 

Gran did washing mainly for tradespeople and it was laborious work, at which she spent almost all day until well into the evening and sometimes at weekends. Almost everything had to be starched and the irons were of course, the old flat irons, heated over the coal stove or gas stove during hot days. When using the gas stove, my grandmother had to walk the length of a passage to a scullery, which contained  a gas stove and a sink, to change the irons as they got too cold to iron efficiently. This had to be done several times each hour and the irons had to be wiped on a piece of emery cloth to remove any marks or soot.

 

Washing was done in the sink with water heated in big iron kettles on coal or gas stoves. My grandmother considered herself lucky to have a sink to use, as many houses at that time did not have such a luxury and had to make do with a basin. Drying of the clothes in adverse weather was a problem and often had to be done inside the house. One of my brothers or I, collected and