There have been several rounds of slum clearance in Southampton’s history, notably when the area around Simnel Street was cleared in the 1890’s after the discovery of the body of Ellen Wren. I’ve written about Ellen and her unfortunate demise before, so I won’t repeat myself, but details can be found here if you missed it. More slums were demolished in the 1930s, mostly in a piecemeal fashion under rules brought about by the Housing Act of 1930. Others were not knocked down until the 1960s. Included in the latter were the houses of Northam Street, where my father-in-law, Albert Keates, was born. Seventh Daughter, the third book in my series, is set there. The book will probably be released at the end of the summer. In the meantime, I thought I’d share some of my research into the area.
I have always been a sucker for a footpath. Something about seeing those signs gets me all excited. This odd obsession has led me on quite a few wild goose chases in my time. It has led me astray, miles from where I wanted to be. Sometimes, it has caused me many miles of backtracking, or unnecessary detours. But, still, I cannot resist the lure of the footpath. Maybe it’s because there are no cars, and, generally, no people? Or it could simply be the anticipation of stumbling upon something strange or beautiful at the other end. Whatever it is, I’m hooked and on 15 April, with blue sky overhead, I needed a fix. Unfortunately, time, a lack of available transport and the need to knuckle down and do some work on my next book, meant I was going to have to keep it local.
My second year at junior school began with another horrible teacher. Her name was Mrs Thomas and I seem to remember her having long blonde hair and a fondness for velvet alice bands, although this may well be misremembered. She was very friendly with Miss Please and seemed to have taken discipline tips from her. There were raps across the knuckles with rulers, hair pulling and general cruelty. She was one of those, find a weakness and pick on it, kinds of teachers and public humiliation was her favourite weapon. Continue reading Memories of the late 1960’s – numbers, a Moon landing, loss and grief
The change from the relative simplicity of Infant School to the far more structured environment of Junior School was a shock to my system. For one, the building itself was far larger. The long, L shaped corridors, filled with more children that I’d ever imagined existed in the whole world, were daunting for a small girl of seven or eight. Something about the rows of doors made me feel like Alice in Wonderland and I half expected to come upon a white rabbit with a pocket watch or a glass table with a key. Unlike the little Infant School, this had two floors and three sets of stairs, one at each end and a giant staircase at the apex of the L, going up, then dividing into two directions. The classrooms were almost all upstairs, mine at the far end, nearest the back gates of the school. Continue reading Memories of the late 1960s – not fitting in
While some of my earliest memories are vivid and detailed, most are very vaguely fixed in time. Once I started school, dates began to mean something to me. My days were ordered into week days, weekends, months and years interspersed with long school holidays. There were also a few landmark events, dates that will never be forgotten. Continue reading Memories of the early 1960’s – landmark days and the passage of time
One of the most exciting things I was ever given was an old record player. Of course it wasn’t new, it came from Alex’s sister it law Penny, along with a stack of old 45rpm records, but I loved it. Alex explained that I had to be very careful not to scratch the shiny black discs or they wouldn’t work any more and, although I was only four or may even five, I did take care of those records and I still have them today although I have nothing to play them on. Continue reading Memories of the 1960’s – music
For a child Christmas is a magical time filled with tinkling sleigh bells, elves and anticipation. One of my most vivid Christmas memories is being allowed to help decorate the huge pine tree that had mysteriously appeared in the front room. Normally our time was spent in the back room where large French Windows looked out into the garden and the front room was kept for best, the door firmly closed. Continue reading Memories of the early 1960’s – Christmas
Sadly, there are not many of Commando Senior’s memoirs left. This one is about the weekend ritual of bath night and laundry day, something that seems quite an odd concept now when we have automatic washing machines and hot running water in our bathrooms and kitchens. Back in the first half of the twentieth century things were very different though. Continue reading random musings of a geriatric delinquent – the weekend ritual – first published 8 August 2014
Finally the day had come for me to go to school. There were special clothes, a grey skirt, white shirt and bottle green cardigan Mother had knitted, along with white ankle socks. Everything felt scratchy and new, not at all like the cotton dresses I’d been wearing. With the help of Tiny Dyer, a giant policeman wearing his tall black helmet to make him seem even bigger, we crossed the Main Road a little way down from our house along with a stream of other children I didn’t know. Amongst them was Libby, the girl with the curly blonde hair who lived on the corner at the top of The Crescent, tantalisingly close but too far away to play with. Everyone was wearing the same green jumpers and grey skirts or trousers. Continue reading Memories of the 1960’s – school days
This instalment of the memoirs of Commando Senior highlights the small pleasures that made life bearable for a young boy growing up in wartime England. There many not have been any of the fancy phones and games twenty first century children take for granted but there was plenty to amuse an inquisitive and resourceful lad. Come to that, there were a few things to get him into trouble too.
Shrapnel
One of the few pleasures available to a small boy during the war was collecting ‘shrapnel’ the remnants of shells, bullets and bombs. Shrapnel was a collective term for any such debris but unknown to me at the time it was, originally, the most dangerous part of an exploding shell, invented by Major General Shrapnel, a citizen of Southampton, living at a house in Rockstone Place.
Major General Henry Shrapnel
Splinter
At about ten years of age, in Miss Page’s class at Central, I lazily ran my hand along the bottom of a fixed blackboard, resulting in a wood splinter under the nail of my right ring finger. It was long enough to reach past the first knuckle joint. Miss Page had me soak it in a cup of water, which made matters worse.
At noon, when I went home, Mum took one look and sent me to The Royal South Hants hospital, a journey of some mile or so. There was no A&E in those days but a friendly porter/reception man kindly took me to a nurse. After consulting a doctor, she cut my nail away sufficiently to allow forcep purchase on the other end of the splinter and pull it out. I recall it hurt more coming out that it had going in. A dab of iodine and I was on my way back to school.
Such was the world back then. A generation earlier, Dad had been sent, equally alone, to have his tonsils removed under general anaesthetic and allowed to walk home after recovery. Imagine this sequence of events happening today! A ten year old with a medical need, sent home and then to hospital, treated and returned to school unaccompanied and with the added danger of enemy action or a tonsillectomy similarly treated.
Royal Southants Hospital
Cycling
About mid war, I was allowed much more freedom than an eleven or twelve year old would have today. A favourite outing on my old Hercules sit up and beg ladies bike, was to take it to Hythe on the ferry and cycle home by road, stopping en route to eat cold baked beans, from the can, at the roadside.
Hythe Ferry
Pocket money
During the latter part of the war an American Serviceman was murdered in St George’s Cut, off the lower part of East Street. Being somewhat of an entrepreneur, I guided interested visitors to the scene for tips. When the bloodstains faded I repainted them. Unfortunately this rather spoiled the effect.
Music
Given the electrical problem at the flats we rented a landline service from Redifusion. A boon to the younger generation (mainly me), as well as the HomeService, Light Programme and, classical, Third Programme, Radio Luxembourg was also available. This provided the ‘pop’ music of the day, content not yet available on ‘Aunty Beeb.’ Occasionally the American Forces Network also provided up to date content, it was many years before the ‘pirate’ stations, such as Caroline, forced the BBC to cater for younger people.
It seems to me the children of today could learn a lot from their counterparts in the 1930’s and 1940’s. The main lesson is that fun doesn’t have to cost money and it certainly doesn’t come with a charger cable.
