Introduction: A Portslade Childhood by Roger Bateman
Welcome to a journey back to the Portslade of the 1940s and 50s—a world defined by the hum of the family laundry, the scent of coal dust, and the freedom of the Sussex Downs.
These memories capture a time of transition, nestled between the end of the Second World War and the arrival of the modern age. It was an era where the local High Street was the heart of the community, where rationing was a daily reality, and where a child’s imagination could turn a simple waste land into a "Pom-Pom Island."
From the rhythmic folding of sheets in the wash house to the roar of the crowd at the Saturday morning cinema, this is a personal look at a vanished way of life. It is a story of family, schooldays, and the small, vivid details that make up the tapestry of a mid-century British childhood.
About the Author This memoir was written by Roger Bateman, who has spent many years documenting the heritage of the local area as the author and curator of shorehambysea.com. His dedication to local history ensures that the stories of our towns and the people who shaped them are preserved for future generations.
Family Background
My maternal grandparents the Finches were the owners of a moderately successful laundry business and my paternal grandfather a goods clerk at Portslade railway station. My father was a carpenter and my mother worked in her parent's laundry. There was never any problem between the families concerning my parent's marriage which seems to have had the blessing of all concerned and their union was based purely upon love.
I have already written at length of my father, Maurice Arthur Bateman, in our family history but, until now, little of my mother. One of five sisters and one brother, Marie Georgina Finch was born in the laundry house at 1, Old Shoreham Road on 23rd January 1920—before it was renumbered as 31 shortly after. I cannot remember her talking an awful lot of her childhood except to say that her upbringing was quite strict but fair. Apparently there was not a great deal of affection given to Marie and the other children but her father was ailing and her mother had to manage the laundry business by herself. It probably didn't leave her much time to spend with her six children who to a large extent, had to help run the home.
Where We Lived
For the majority of their married life Mum and Dad had to depend on rented accommodation and it was in digs at 49, Wolseley Road, Portslade, at the corner with Stanley Road—an area of terraced Victorian houses—that I was born on the eleventh of September 1942. Grandma Finch had spare rooms in the main house at the laundry – number 31 Old Shoreham Road, Portslade, a large white Victorian building with angular bay windows at the front on the ground floor and small front garden – so we moved in with her. A few years later my uncle Frank gave up his job at his parent's laundry to move to a new job in east Brighton so we were able to move into his old flat at 29a, Old Shoreham Road next to and adjoining the laundry building which we also rented from Grandma Finch.
I cannot recall any local wartime incidents but my mother told me that when I was coming up to two years of age, during the weeks before the D-Day invasion of France a Scottish regiment was billeted in the town. Tanks and military vehicles were parked in all the country lanes and fields above Portslade and because some houses where the troops were billeted didn't have bathrooms the soldiers came to the laundry instead for a bath. As a 'thank you' for the billeting the regiment staged a 'beating the retreat' for the locals. Another time a German bomber that later dropped a bomb on Southwick flew across the laundry yard when Mum was under the archway and her father was in the yard. One of the gunners in the aircraft opened fire on what was obviously a civilian target and she saw bullets pounding the ground around her dad, luckily without hitting him.
The memories I have of these early years are mainly to do with the places we used to play in. By 'we' I mean my cousins. Although I was an only child I was rarely short of a playmate as Norman Finch lived next door at 29a before he moved with his father to East Brighton, Bob Dyke was just across the road at Melrose Avenue, and brothers Phillip and Richard Green lived at the Applesham Way house that we had to leave. We all also had a great playmate (but not a relative) in Rodney Way who again lived in Applesham Way (that always tickled us with his surname and his street name).
Where We Played
The Pom-Pom Islands and Street Games
In those days there was scarcely any traffic at all. Old Shoreham Road was quiet and half the width it is now since the road widening to create a dual carriageway for today's incessant stream of cars, buses and lorries. In fact my mum would often tell me that a few years before the war on a Shrove Tuesday when she was a young girl it was tradition for them to play skipping in a long line of girls all the way across that road.
One of our favourite playing areas was the wasteland immediately across the road on the eastern corner where Applesham Way met the Old Shoreham Road and the lodge for the old estate was before it was built on. Here there was long grass to hide in, together with a few trees that was ideal for us young cowboys and indians. There was also a lot of that type of grass that matured into what looked like the ears on wheat only smaller and this we used as darts to throw at each other. The inevitable happened one day when a dart hit me in the eye and poor Rodney Way who had thrown it was petrified he had blinded me! Apart from the initial pain, which didn't last long, I was left with a ghastly looking red eye of which I was extremely proud – I well remember milking my wound for all it was worth from the sympathetic glances and condolences that came my way in the days following.
On the same side of the road a little further westwards, was a length of grassed land with trees on which was cut through by driveways for the adjacent houseowners. This had the effect of cutting the strip of land into individual lots which we called 'the Pom-Pom' islands, to us they were real islands with shark infested seas in between and jungle trees for our camps in the branches.
I have often been told (I don't actually remember it) of an episode sometime during the latter part of the war years when Rodney and I somehow managed to wander off unnoticed. Apparently, it was raining, and we took off our shoes and tied them by the laces round our necks to wade through the street gutters until our frantic mothers realised our absence and sounded the alarm. We were eventually found by my granddad Bateman in Southwick almost a mile away.
Nursery Hedges and Industrial Laneways
On the south side of the main road but on the Portslade/Southwick border path that runs from the road down to Aldrington railway halt was a long length of thick privet hedge that was the edge of Fred Spyres' nursery. The privet was so mature and untrimmed that the bushes were virtual trees and we would spend many hours there climbing along the hundred-foot stretch without ever touching the ground. Mr & Mrs Spyres were our neighbours, a private couple with Sussex accents (not uncommon then) who ran their nursery on the land next door. In those days Portslade still had a few fields close to us and I remember once waking up to the noise of a cow that had escaped from one of these fields and was bellowing and trampling on the flowers in the Spyres' front garden.
Another popular playing area was behind the shops and houses on the south side of the road near the Southern Cross (the name for the crossroads that led up to the old village). In between old barns or outhouses and warehouses were unmade flint covered paths and lanes that also provided an exciting 'land' for us to explore.
The one other playing ground I can remember was also on waste land next to the shops on the other side of the Spyers' house. Although the grass area was safe enough we as children were inevitably drawn into exploring an empty water tank (in area about the size of a house) that was built during the war as a water supply in fire fighting if the need arose. The trouble was that people threw their old prams and rubbish etc., into this tank which with the shallow water lying in it created an evil smelling, damp atmosphere but we loved it.
Illnesses and Nightmares
It was around then that I contracted scarlet fever. I see the dictionary describes it as 'an acute contagious disease characterised by fever, a sore throat and a red rash on the body' but what I remember most was a constant earache, aching body and hallucinations that caused me to cry constantly and much distress to my poor mother. In those days death from scarlet fever was not unknown and was taken seriously enough to warrant visits from the local health officers and constant spraying of my room with disinfectant, the smell and the noise of the hand pump adding to the nightmares of my delirium. Thanks in the main to a devoted mother who must have been shattered by night after sleepless night attending to me I eventually came through the fever. One of the nightmares I can still recall – lying in my bed in my parent's room looking down the stairs and seeing a red indian chief in full head-dress walking slowly up towards me giving me a feeling of absolute terror. The source of my contagion (and others who had also gone down with the same fever) was traced to the water tank and it was shortly afterwards filled in.
Apart from this and childhood ailments, colds and chicken pox etc., I seemed to have been reasonably healthy then although I do recall my mother rubbing her gold wedding ring on my eyelids once to rid me of a stye that I had. I have since pulled her leg about that but she was still adamant it did good and in her defence I believe there is now some medical thought that contact with gold does in fact impart some beneficial aid to reduce the swelling.
Fear of the Dentist
Like many, I dread visiting the dentist and think this is down to some bad experiences in my younger life. The school dentist was never very gentle in any case and I remember that we all had to go from school to Sellaby House next door, a forbidding large victorian building where the dentist was for our check-ups and treatment. Our family dentist for a time was Mr. Buelth (what a strange name) who lived and worked in a bungalow at the top of Melrose Avenue and he also had a reputation for being heavy handed. My dislike of visits to the dentist were much later compounded when in my late teens I went for a tooth removal under gas in Southwick – I was given far too little gas and woke up with the dentist still pulling my tooth. The pain and the fright that I experienced then has left me with an almost phobic fear of the dentist ever since.
My own bedroom had wallpaper illustrated with nursery rhymes such as "Mary, Mary, quite contrary," "Simple Simon met a pieman," and "Little boy blue come blow your horn," the latter of which I insisted read "...come blow up your horn" which of course it didn't. A lovely room backing on to the laundry yard but even there I sometimes, like any child, had nightmares – one in particular was of a polar bear that lived in my cupboard. I had good dreams as well though and one that I often had was of a lovely fawn that in my dream lived across the road on the waste ground and this always gave me a wonderful sense of well being.
Life at Number 31
As I say, the rest of the house we shared with my grandmother Bella (Isobella). Sadly poor Bella was then suffering from ulcers on her legs and I can still smell the sickeningly strong disinfectant that pervaded the house. Halfway down the stairs was a box room full of odds and ends, boxes and unused furniture (with my interest in antiques now I would drool at some of the items there if I had the chance to go back) and this was another good playground for me. On the ground floor front were two living rooms, each with real marble fireplaces and a scullery at the back with a stone floor, porcelain sink, wooden draining board and ancient pre-war gas stove. Next to this under the stairs was the coal bunker which to my child's fertile and imaginative mind contained all manner of horrors and I always had to run past there quickly. The back door was of the old latch-door type and in a small courtyard was the old outside loo (in addition to the one upstairs) with a wooden box seat and cast iron cistern (some fifty years later I copied this when renovating our Victorian outside loo in Shoreham).
The Laundry
The buildings at 31 (previously no.1 before the 1936 renumbering) Old Shoreham Road had been used as a laundry since at least 1905 when the 'St.Aubyn's Hygienic Laundry' was run by the Misses Mullen. Arthur Bartle acquired the business for a while and by 1916 the laundry had been taken over by Slater and Son. The Finch family came from London and my grandfather Norman Percy Finch had his first laundry at 73, Payne Avenue, Hove from 1909 and by 1918 the business had become known as the 'Carlisle Laundry'. Norman must have purchased and moved to the Portslade laundry business shortly before 1920 as my mother was born there then.
My grandfather sounds to have been something of a flamboyant character and certainly looked it if the photos of him are anything to go by. At a period between the wars when that part of Portslade was only built up on the south side of the main road and still had the feeling of a small town, he provided work for many of the nearby residents and was involved in charitable fund-raising events and entertainments for the locals. He always wore jodhpurs which was probably for effect only as he wasn't known to have been anywhere near a horse ever. Sadly his health began to fail by the 1930's and he died shortly before I was born leaving the business to be run solely by his wife Isabella.
The Workings of the Wash House
The courtyard was surrounded by a wall about six feet high and incorporated a single storey office for the laundry business. Outside the courtyard was the laundry yard proper. The first building on the left was a soap store for the washing machines. This was a dark and gloomy place where a few old wartime helmets lay rusting and the smell of the soap, cheap blocks stacked like gold ingots, had their own unpleasant, unscented smell providing food in plenty for the mice (and probably rats) that were often caught in the traps laid out for them. This had a separate wall of breeze blocks built during the war outside its door and windows that was intended to shield it from the blast of any bombs that may fall nearby.
The remainder of the building along that side was tall, almost two storeys high, and made of lime mortar and flint. Obviously of some age it was probably once a barn or old farm building and, I have since discovered, appears on some of the older maps of the area. Here was the boiler, a massive iron or steel contraption that was so tall it went up into the roof timbers above – other washing machines of various sizes (all pretty ancient) filled the rest of the building.
At the very end of the yard was another old single storey building but renovated about the 20's or 30's with a new flat roof. This covered a considerable area and washed clothes were brought in from the wash house in large wicker trolleys on metal wheels. A huge press with a large drum for pressing sheets was manned by two or three ladies on either side feeding in damp sheets on one side, taking off the pressed items on the other then, a process that always fascinated me, an almost ritualistic folding of the pressed sheets that involved two or three of them in what looked like a slow square dance that was repeated time and time again with each sheet. Also here were individual benches, each with its own heavy flat iron, fuelled and heated by gas from long rubber pipes above that the poor laundry ladies had to lift and push all day long. I can still feel the heat, smell the steam and ironed clothes, the sweat on the ladies' faces, the whistle of the gas through the pipes and the thumps as they pounded their irons on to the benches.
At the very end of the building was a quieter area where all the cleaned, pressed and neatly folded laundry was wrapped in shiny brown paper and tied with string, stacked on shelves awaiting delivery to their owners. Each parcel had a blue laundry book tucked under the string entitled 'Carlisle Laundry' and containing lists of the customers' laundering to date and the costs.
I would often wander into the laundry when my mother and aunts were working there, but had to be quiet and not distract the ladies, particularly when my grandmother was there as she was quite a strict employer, having as she did her own desk in the middle of the floor from where she could see most everyone in the building. However, on the occasions when grandma went for her breaks, the ladies would often have a laugh and a giggle between themselves and with me.
The Coal Yard and Childhood Scars
The yard itself was a coal yard where the coal was stacked into what seemed to me to be mountains in readiness to be fed to the boiler. Alongside the coal was wood used to get the boiler going before the coal was added which was mainly old, broken soapboxes. My cousins and I spent many a summer evening playing cricket and football in the coal yard and we did occasionally use some of the round soapboxes to sit on then bounce along in races between us. Coal dust was everywhere and every evening's play ended with the inevitable bath to clear the black dust from our dirty limbs. One football session ended up with Norman and I colliding. We both fell down and I badly cut my knee which the coal dust got into, leaving a black scar which is still there fifty years on.
Laundry Personalities
Among the laundry staff was a younger lady who I had a crush on. I was only about 7 or 8 at the time but she was very kind to me in my obvious devotion and would often call me ‘her boyfriend.’ ‘Big Frank’ was the man in charge of the washroom and also doubled as chauffeur to grandma at weekends when taking her out for a drive in the country. Her car was large, impressive looking and obviously expensive even then. Despite being a strict employer she never had any airs or graces and, mindful of the importance of husband and wife sharing each other's time at weekends, would often invite Big Frank's wife to accompany them on these trips. (Grandma’s son was ‘Little Frank.’) Another washroom employee was ‘Uncle George’ (they were all uncles or aunts to me but not related in reality) a tall, gaunt and cadaverous looking man.
The liveliest of the lot was Uncle Jack. Jack was a real character, a poacher in his spare time but likeable with a lovely raven-haired beauty of a daughter, Daphne, whom all us cousins admired. In later years Mum still talked of the time when a policeman came round to the laundry to question Jack. Not being happy with his replies the copper wanted to search Jack’s house so bluffing it out Jack gave him the keys. As he left through the front Jack leapt over the back wall, (he lived behind the laundry) retrieved the game carcasses then returned over the wall with the evidence before the policeman arrived.
Jack spent much of his poaching ferreting rabbits on the downs but gave it up altogether after being deeply upset by the suffering he saw the animals go through following the Myxamatosis outbreak – a man made disease that successfully reduced the rabbit population and the damage they did to crops but in a very cruel way that caused them lingering agonies. In fact Jack spent many hours humanely despatching them wherever he found them lying in their death throes even though he could not use the diseased carcasses.
Also working at the laundry then from time to time were mum’s sisters Aunt Dora, Auntie Dee, Aunt Bet. Her brother Frank was deliveryman in the smaller van and Uncle Bill (Bob’s dad) drove the larger van. Bob and I would often go with his dad on delivery/collection rounds, mainly Goring way I seem to remember where the more select houses were. I suppose that the laundry customers were the more well to do families and hotels that could afford the luxury of others laundering for them as round about us you could still see neighbours gardens full of washing drying on the lines on every Monday.
Uncle Frank was particularly exciting to go driving with – once when at the end of the seafront road west of Worthing we went round the roundabout so fast that the van went up on it’s two side wheels – before the days of seat belts! Mr. Hamlin, (an apt name for a butcher) who had a shop in Boundary Road and delivered our meat would also let me accompany him on his van rounds in Portslade. People were more trusting and trustworthy then.
My Part of Town
Eastwards from the laundry along the road down to Wolseley Road were terraced, victorian houses and a few small shops with their occupants that I recall were Edward Godley, a small, elderly man with a white moustache and a walking stick who must have been born around the 1860’s. There was Pembroke’s Store, a small grocers; Crabtrees had a chemists and ladies hairdressers; a café and Smarts the toy shop. My good mate Kenny Richardson lived nearer the corner end at number 47 and Charles Patching ran the ironmongers at number 53 on the corner with Wolseley Road.
I also remember one old lady that used these shops whose spine was so painfully bent, almost at right angles – a not uncommon sight in those days. Despite improving medical and nutritional improvements then there were nevertheless faces you could still see pitted with the ravages of smallpox and often people with legs in irons due to polio and rickets.
The Spyers sold off part of their land to the east in 1936 when shops were built along the roadside up to the Southwick boundary leaving a gap of wasteland in between (where the war time water tank was later installed. The shops I can remember (from west to east) were Findlaters, an off licence; J. Brown, newsagents where I once had a paper round (on one Sunday morning I was on my round and on delivering to the lodge across the road from us the lady came storming out of her house and really gave me a dressing down for being late. When she had finished I just about had the courage to tell her that the clocks had gone back one hour that morning but she never apologised); Tongues, grocers; Roffey’s the cobblers; the waste ground then Ray’s a needlework, knitting and babywear shop run by a rather prim (but pleasant) Mrs Fisher aided by her young assistant, Applesham Fruit Stores where Winnie Bray, a lady not well endowed with looks but with a lovely warm and cheery personality which probably made her more beautiful than most in any case. Everbody liked her and all were ecstatic for her when she eventually married one of the shop assistants along the road at Browns – her shop was then taken over by Mrs Hamper, the mother of Brian, a school friend of mine who lived nearby; finally Harringtons the bakers.
The Evolution of the High Street
All of these shops were busy, thriving businesses which all the local people used for their day to day requirements – in those days nobody travelled out of town to the supermarkets, there weren’t any. With the road widening of the 1970’s (long after I had left the area) all the houses south of the road (built around the 1880’s which then included the Police Station at number 13) were swept away as was the laundry and lorries now thunder through what was our front room. Tates Garage was built on the once open land of Spyre’s nursery field but the shops to the east were set well enough back from the old road to not even interfere with the newly widened road and so survived demolition.
However, the new, cheaper supermarkets were by then killing off local shops besides which prospective customers from north of the road were discouraged from crossing by the now heavily used dual carriageway and half of the parade was soon bought en bloc by a motor spares company with Tates garage in between with it’s entrance to the workshops behind. In its time our part of the road was never an attractive area but it did have life, it was my entire world for a time – Brighton was an occasional, long bus ride away (but only a 6d fare) and London a rare visit during laundry staff outings when the whole laundry (and us kids) would embark en masse in a hired charabane (we didn’t call them buses or coaches) to the Tower of London or Madame Tassauds Waxworks and always stopped halfway at Crawley. Things never stay the same, people move to brighter and better areas and my old patch is no longer alive in the communal sense. Apart from a busy garage it is simply an artery for the daily movement of commuters to and from what has now become a city.
Scruffy
When I was about six my dad came home from work one day with a small bundle under his arm – a cute black and white mongrel puppy. He soon grew to be a handsome, medium sized dog and his largely welsh collie heritage came to the fore in his markings and silky ears. ‘Scruffy’ as we called him was to become a much loved member of our family who inevitably accompanied us whenever we went out. Dad was really Scruff’s favourite as I suppose he looked on him as the leader of the pack.’ Mum was not a great animal lover and didn’t make a fuss of the dog as much as Dad and I, but she soon fell for his charms and Scruff would be beside himself with joy whenever she showed him affection.
With me he was more of a friend and equal and would often be with me whenever I went out to play. Ball in the courtyard was fun as I could bounce it off the high walls and both of us would compete in jumping for it. Scruff was inevitably the winner but then he would always let me grab the ball while it was still in his mouth and swing him round in circles off his feet which he loved. Racing in Rodney Way’s home made soap box cart was even more fun with Scruff running alongside us on his lead and even ended up pulling us along the flat after the downhill run. (In that same cart Rod and I, without Scruff, were racing down Applesham Way but ran into a car coming up the hill. Apart from bruises and grazes we were unhurt but the car was dented.
Scruff also took part in our other games becoming one of our make believe characters as we tracked each other through the long grass or ran around the trees as we climbed them. Poor old Scruff didn’t always appreciate that we were only playing and often got upset and growled at anyone pretending to fight me, nevertheless his protection was more than welcome during those rare occasions when bullying older children were about. He was also a much valued assistant at some breakfast times when I couldn’t finish my porridge and only had to leave it on the floor for him to wolf it down rapidly before Mum came back in the room.
Scruff rarely caused us any problems although when one of the local bitches was in season he somehow got to know and would escape through the front door at the slightest opportunity and head for her house. Mum or Dad would then be summoned by the miffed owners of the bitch but, as far as I know, poor Scruff’s desires were never satisfied.
Another time Dad was taking him out of the front gate for a walk and bumped into a passing alsatian and his owner. The surprised alsatian reacted by grabbing Scruff round the neck and dragged our poor dog across the road. Both Dad and the owner were unable to part them and at one time each had their dogs by their back legs so that the animals were suspended in mid air but still clamped together. For about five minutes Dad tried prising the alsatian’s jaws apart with a tree branch and then smashed it over the dog’s head breaking the branch but without being able to release the animal’s grip on Scruff. Just when we were beginning to despair of ever separating them the alsatian relaxed it’s grip, Scruff came free and promptly bit Dad for his trouble!
When out in the car during our weekend trips his favourite position was on the back seat of the car with his head over Dad’s shoulder and out of the open window where the slipstream made him squint. He was probably at his happiest when we went out in the country. On one camping holiday in Dorset poor Scruff was chasing rabbits and tore his leg on barbed wire. Dad took him to the local vet for stitches to be put in but, as he was an overly healthy dog then, had to give our pet a lot of gas to completely anaesthetise him. We brought him back to the camp site which was on the side of a hill but the slope was too much for our still half dopey dog and in trying to walk to the tent his back legs overtook his front and he ended up walking backwards!
Scruffy’s Adventures and the Downs
Many were the walks I used to take him on over the downs behind Portslade and Mile Oak up on to Thundersbarrow Hill where the lines of the field strips of a medieval settlement were still visible. We would sit for a while before returning and in my mind’s eye I can still see the views from that hill down to the coast and the sea beyond – Scruff one minute at my side with his lolling tongue occasionally licking my face then the next minute sprinting off into that lovely scene after some unseen (by me) rabbit where his happily bobbing white tipped tail would flicker in and out of the gorse in the distance.
Many years later, after a full and largely healthy fifteen-year life that dear dog had to be put down due to collapsed internal organs in his old age. We didn’t just cry, we sobbed. If there is such a thing as life hereafter then for me it won’t be heaven unless it includes dogs. Thanks for your love and companionship Scruff – is it too fanciful to imagine that I see you now, happily racing around the hills with my Dad?
Outings, the Wireless, ABC Minors and Toys
My grandmother organised works outings most years when everyone working in the laundry crowded into one charabanc and, if there were spare seats available, us cousins were able to go too. Inevitably, the venue was always London to see such places as the Tower of London and Madame Tassauds Waxworks. In those days journeys to London by road seemed to take longer and we always stopped at the Southdown Coach Station café at Crawley for a halfway break. Apart from the excitement of the journey and the wonderment of London I mostly remember the street vendors with boxes held in front of them supported by a leather strap round their shoulders. Some were selling sets of cigarette cards and I well remember the excitement of trying to decide which one of the beautifully coloured sets to buy with my limited pocket money.
Sunday School and the Bramber Outing
Before that when I was a little younger, Sunday mornings meant Sunday school which I attended with my cousin Bob to Abinger Hall down in Abinger Road. I don’t think I was ever too keen on going perhaps in part because the rituals beforehand involved a wash in the sink and the twisted, pointy corner of a soapy flannel being stuck up my nostrils causing a horrible stinging sensation. It was at the Hall we had our Sunday School Christmas parties (and later our school plays) and I remember my present from one party there was a miniature toy tricycle in multi-coloured plastic. We also had lantern slide shows here using a victorian brass and mahogany lantern with coloured slides that usually had a religious theme but occasionally were comic ones – nowadays these would sell for a fortune.
The annual Sunday school outing was always anticipated with considerable excitement and one year took us by steam train from Portslade to Shoreham then up the branch line to Bramber. Before leaving station our curate Father John checked and closed the carriage doors but had difficulty closing ours because my fingers were in it! As he reopened the door to have another try at shutting it I removed my throbbing hand but did not make a murmur until he eventually was able to slam it shut – then I cried. I had recovered by the time we got to Bramber and completely forgot about it when we reached the castle grounds and joined in the laughter and fun as we children ran up and down the steep mound on which the keep once stood. In the grounds goats were also kept and although roped to a stake were able to roam and graze within the confines of the rope’s length. Perhaps one goat was tired of the noise of the invading children for, seeing my cousin Bob bent down before him, ran and butted him up the backside that sent poor Bob sprawling. Lovely times and a magical place of ancient, ruined walls to which in later years I was to take my own children and grandchildren.
Radio Serials and Saturday Mornings
Long before we had a car and I knew how to play games to amuse myself, Sunday afternoons could sometimes be terribly boring for me. If it was too wet to go for a walk or we were not due to go visiting relatives/be visited then there was only the wireless (not a radio in those days). My favourites on a Sunday were Family Favourites around lunchtime followed by half hour comedy shows such as Archie Andrews, Round the Horne, etc., Weekday evenings were a bit more exciting – ‘Dick Barton, Special Agent’ with it’s distinctive theme tune, and ‘Journey into Space’ a science fiction serial that was so frightening that I used to listen to it in bed with the covers over me! Children’s hour also had some good serials albeit less frightening and one that I became thoroughly fascinated by was the story of a man that kept being reincarnated at different periods during history. I don’t think I ever missed one episode and even now if I hear the haunting introductory bars of ‘Greensleeves’ (the theme tune of the series) I am back in my parent’s upstairs bedroom at number 31 sitting by the wireless but with my imagination many miles and years away.
Music was mainly the nursery rhymes and tunes my mother taught me although she did also get me to learn some of the more popular adult songs of the time. Casey would Waltz with the Strawberry Blond and the Band Played On’ was one I particularly remember as well as ‘Rose, Rose I Love You’ which used to amuse me because of it’s chinese sounding tune. Saturday mornings were always looked forward to as this was time for us all to catch the bus to the ABC Minors at the Granada along Portland Road in Hove where, under the watchful eye of Trish, Norman’s older sister, we would watch cowboys like Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers and the Cisco Kid as well as cartoons.
There was a bill board outside the house which the Granada used to advertise their forthcoming films and instead of renting the space they gave grandma free tickets which she often gave to us to see suitable films. We would also go to the more local cinemas in Portslade, the Rothbury, just off Boundary Road was one and the other, the Regent I think, but we knew it as the ‘flea pit’ as it was certainly a dirty and musty place at St. Andrews Road near the bottom of Trafalgar Road by the canal front. There was also a ‘home movies enthusiast’ in Wolseley Road and once a week he gave a free show to local kids in his front room where we would watch 1920’s and 30’s films of Charlie Chaplin, Laurel & Hardy and early black and white cartoons of Felix the Cat.
Financially we were never more than just about coping in the early years but, with Dad in full time work, Mum working from time to time in the laundry and only one child to care for I did perhaps get more than many other kids in the way of toys. The shortage of raw materials during wartime meant that toy tanks and cars were mostly of bakelite (a kind of hard plastic but run through with totally unrealistic mix of colours) and these were supplemented by wooden aeroplanes that my carpenter Dad made for me. Later on Dad even made me a magnificent wooden castle which, to my eternal shame I later gave away to a friend of mine - my father never said anything but he must have been hurt (sorry Dad, I wish I had it now.)
Post-War Toys and Local Fêtes
After the war metal Dinky cars and lead soldiers were the most desired by kids and I spent hours playing with mine. I also remember cheap propellers on twisted wire so that as you pushed the propeller up the wire it gained speed until it flew off the end and soared high into the air. Comics started to include simple free gifts to help improve sales and one was of folded paper in between two card sides and when you swung it down it would open up with a loud clap – during the week they were giving those away you could hear the claps all over town, but they never lasted long and soon fell to bits.
There were fairly regular church fetes on the green opposite St. Nicholas church and at Easthill Park a little further up the road. These always included lots of stalls, short horse rides and exciting, gaily coloured swing boats or chairs that two of you sat in and pulled on ropes to propel the chair higher and higher. One memory that still sticks in my mind is of a small model of the Mayor of Toytown (of the ‘Larry the Lamb’ stories) that my Mum bought there for me. It was beautifully crafted in coloured plasticine but probably lasted only days before I broke it up and used the plasticine for myself. My Mum’s friend’s child won a Bonny Baby contest at Easthill Park once (Angela Way, Rodney’s sister) and, being an only child, I remember the unusual (for me) sibling-like pride in holding the tot’s hand walking her round the park afterwards with everyone asking ‘Is she your sister?’
Food and Money
The quality and quantity of food during the rationing of the post war years was not particularly good and it was largely thanks to the efforts of my mother that what we had was mostly tasty and enjoyable. Whilst I normally had no problem in demolishing what was laid before me I did have difficulty with cabbage which in those days was steamed to a soggy death. I also often gave up on the huge plates of porridge although I do enjoy it now.
Bananas I have always hated, perhaps because they were never available during the war and of the substitute then for sweets I particularly abhored a sweet yeast extract that was dolloped into us by the spoonfull. On the better side were tiger nuts or ‘chufas,’ in fact small tubers of a spanish sedge which shrivel when dried and were sweet and nutty to the taste – even now I see they are still imported from Alicante in Spain to Shoreham and then on to London for processing. We also enjoyed liquorice sticks, actual twigs of a type of tree that tasted like liquorice which were chewed and sucked (but not eaten) until the flavour and juice had been extracted and you were left with a soggy mess of limp wood.
Rationing and Street Cries
Wartime concentrated orange juice was unusually delicious being dispensed in the same shaped bottles that we also had for medicine. Fresh eggs were in short supply and substituted by powdered eggs which were a bright yellow in colour and came in square boxes of dark brown greaseproof card. Milk then was always delivered to your door by milkmen at first still using horses to pull their carts and later electric open sided vans or ‘floats.’ Lying in bed of a morning you could hear myriads of clinking bottles in the distance getting louder as the float made it’s way towards your house – the milk bottles then were glass and the bottle tops were actually greaseproof cardboard – I always wonder how those tops managed to stay on. Other sounds I remember that we no longer hear were the cries of the costermongers and others who came round selling their wares from handcarts. The rag and bone merchant was a scruffy individual with a worn brown coat tied round the waist with string, a heavy, bouncing gait caused by a bad limp and an almost musical cry of 'Ragabawn.’ The fish man also toured the streets, mainly on a Friday I think as, for religious reasons, most people only ate fish on that day. For a few weeks during the summer the strawberry sellers would come round and the lack of traffic and traffic noise in those days meant their cries could be heard all over the nearby streets and each would have his own distinctive call or song.
Throughout the war we had always enjoyed a small supply of rationed sweets thanks to a confectioner down the road in Fishersgate that the family used and to whom we remained faithful in peacetime. My Dad would cycle back from his work at the latest building site, as always smelling delightfully of freshly sawn pinewood and regularly once a week with a bag of sweets.
Pounds, Shillings, and Pence
Not that I was much concerned with money during my younger years, I only knew it to be something that your parents gave to you and you in turn gave to the shopkeeper for things that had been listed on a scrap of paper that you also passed over. Sometimes you were given some money back (change) and sometimes you got praised for bringing the shopping back but I gradually came to understand the different values of copper and silver coinage if only for the sweets, comics and toys they could buy. Decimal coinage has only been introduced in fairly recent times (1960’s) but already the pounds, shillings and pence of my youth is being forgotten. Based on the currency brought to Britain by the Romans, there were four farthings to a penny, two (of course) halfpennies to a penny, twelve pennies to a shilling and twenty shillings to a pound. A farthing would often be enough to buy a small amount of sweets; there were angular sided three penny pieces called ‘threpney bits’; sixpences that looked like todays silver 5p; one and two shilling pieces known as one or two ‘bob’ and half crowns that were worth two shillings and six pence. There were one pound notes (not coins) and even the half pound was a ten bob note.
A little later as I grew older money, or rather the lack of it, became more pertinent especially one November when Rodney and I wanted to buy fireworks for bonfire night. We managed to scrounge some old clothes to make a guy but did not have any material to pack the body so we took turns at dressing up in the old clothes and with a mask and gloves on sat absolutely still while the other collected the money. Whether passers by were impressed with the realistic guy or were simply amused by the lengths we had gone to I don’t know but we certainly managed to collect enough for a decent firework display.
Infants School
The carefree days of infancy were all too soon interrupted by the disciplined life of education. Why did I need to go? – after all was said and done I could already sing ‘Casey would waltz with the strawberry blond’ so what else could school teach me? I vaguely remember feeling terribly nervous at the time but soon fell in with the day to day regimen of school life.
St. Nicholas Infants School at Portslade still stands on the north east corner of the Southern Cross crossroads – a fairly new building then (1947) which my father himself had helped build. The school Headmistress was Mrs. Houchen, a matronly, grey haired lady who for some reason I would follow about whenever I saw her – perhaps because I was still then a little unsure of school life. She was never anything but kind to me but being pursued by a five-year-old whenever she came out of her office at playtime must have been a little wearing. Finally she had a brainwave and tied a piece of string round her wrist and mine before proceeding on her school rounds. My embarrassment at the laughter of the other children on seeing this did the trick and I never troubled her again.
Of the other teachers most seemed to be kind as far as I can recall, except for one, Miss Spicer who suffered from a short temper, a physically spiteful nature and over zealousness when disciplining her pupils. On one occasion when she was reading to the class I rested my head with my hands over my mouth and became totally engrossed in the story. Unfortunately another child near to me made a noise and the teacher, wrongly assuming it to be me, dragged me out in front of the class and slapped my legs vigorously. Another time, probably my fault, one of the pupils had been sick and I, not having seen vomit before, peered over the desks whereupon Miss Spicer grabbed me by the collar, dragged me over to the foul smelling mess and shook me by the neck violently until I thought I would choke. Oh the injustices of life – but there again she probably didn’t treat me any worse than she did any of the others.
The happier memories of infant school were the school plays which were really more like musical pantomimes where we all sang and danced together. Once, in the school hall, we were dressed up in yellow and blue crepe paper costumes with hats as children of ‘the old woman who lived in a shoe’ with parents in the audience but I would insist on embarassing my poor Mum by continually waving at her! For some reason the school’s Christmas play and carols were performed at Abinger Hall rather than the school hall and I still have a picture of me somewhere when I was in the choir with the rest of my year’s classmates during one performance in the Hall. I also found out that there were also other songs to learn and remember ‘Little brown seed, Oh little brown brother are you awake in the dark?’ as well as:-
‘Caw, caw, caw, busy Mister Crow,
Mrs Crow is helping,
Flying to and fro.
so there was something to this education lark after all!
Junior School
The progression to junior school distance wise could not have been easier – it was next door to the infant school. St. Nicholas Junior School was built in victorian times and with flint walls and a very church like appearance which was not surprising as it was a Church of England school with once weekly, weekday services at nearby St. Nicholas church included as part of it’s curriculum. There was still much evidence about then of war time.
precautions. I well remember the wail of air raid sirens that were still being used although, I think, more as a local fire alarm and as practice during the cold war period with Russia when the government of the time reckoned that by hiding under the table we would be immune from atomic bombs! Most of the defensive pill boxes in case of invasion still dotted the countryside and even at school the damp, dark air raid shelters still stood in the playground.
Unlike my first day at the infants, this time I was more excited than fearful of attending the junior school – it was after all the bigger boys (and girls) school and we would get to wear the impressive black and silver uniform and cap. The teachers there were in the main firm but fair and included no frightening individuals like the dreaded Miss Spicer. I never felt other than comfortable there – Mrs Wells was strict but had a kind nature; Mr Elder was a tall, gaunt man who I think suffered as a prisoner of the Japanese during the war, Mr. Ternouth, the headmaster who only had the need to cane me a couple of times (for talking during class) and Mr Eastwood, a likeable, thick set man (since researching the street directories of the time I see that the occupant of nearby number 13 of our road during the 1930’s was a William Eastwood but I can’t recall that my teacher was one and the same or even a relative.)
Classmates and Social Contrasts
Of classmates some were real pals like my mate Andrew King; Terry Piedot (pronounced ‘Peedoh’ – a name that fascinated me), Harold Wilmshurst, Ian Jennings and Tony Parsley just friends. Some I felt sorry for and one of those falling into this category was X, a blond, painfully skinny lad, shy, very quiet and I often tried to draw him out of his shell but he seemed to prefer his own company. X’s clothes seemed to hang on him and his shoes looked two sizes too big. I later realised that he must have belonged to one of the poorer Portslade families that seemed to include thes and thes who had to rely on charity for their clothes or hand-me downs from much larger brothers. It was not unusual in those days for some children to attend school during winter without a coat or adequate warm clothing and although they all seemed to have ill fitting shoes many often had no socks. Some were like X, but others seemed to have a chip on their shoulder (who could blame them) and tended to ridicule us luckier ones whose parents could afford reasonable clothes.
The clothing then, like the food, was still rationed so much of it was still of the low wartime quality although some better material was starting to creep in. The winter underwear of the time, although warm, caused me and countless others much discomfort and itching due to the coarseness of the material it was made from. We often thought that the rough rubbing of the vests against out soft, young skins generated the heat and I remember a feeling almost of joy when we were able to get the soft and gentle cotton vests.
Although I managed to steer clear of any bullying most of the time whilst at St. Nic’s I did fall foul once. I think I retaliated to a punch rather than running and got drawn into a fight with Ron Newton, an agressive boy who most either avoided if they could or, even if they didn’t like him, would suck up to him pretending to be his friend to avoid being bullied. Much to my surprise I managed to hold my own to begin with and remember being increasingly cheered on by others thinking that there might be a chance of Ron being bettered for once. Inevitably though his strength told in the end and I got a beating. Strangely enough however Ron more or less looked on me as a friend after that (without me having to suck up to him) and was never again threatening – at least not to me.
The School Shield and Houses
A new innovation then was the introduction of ‘houses’ or teams. There were four houses each with their own colour and each pupil belonged to one of them, I think I belonged to the greens. Whenever any of us got a gold star stuck in our exercise books by the teacher or a ‘V.G.’ marked against an English composition or sums etc., house points were awarded. On school sports days we wore bands the colour of our house and if we won a race or game of football we were also given house points and the house with most points at the end of each term won. The houses were named after the patron saints of Great Britain so the reds were St. George, the blues St. David, the greens St. Patrick and the yellows St. David although when Dad was asked by the school to utilise his talents to carve a wooden house shield that was to be presented to each term’s winning house he had to show the saints as flowers/plants of the country they represented, eg., a rose (England) for the reds, a daffodil (Wales) for the yellows, a thistle (Scotland) for the blues and a shamrock (Northern Ireland) for the greens. That shield when finished was magnificent and I still wonder what happened to it when some years ago they stopped using the school for day to day teaching and turned it into a teacher training centre.
School plays were, and probably still are, a necessary part of a child’s education but by now I had come to detest dressing up, acting, singing or dancing in front of an audience. However, perhaps my reticence showed and whilst those more outgoing than me were given the limelight with leading parts I managed to avoid anything more stressful than minor roles and even they were bad enough. There is a picture of the actors and actresses in my class play all dressed up with me at the end (wait for it) in tights, paper uniform, cardboard helmet and cardboard axe – oh, the ignominy of it all even with the camera as far away from me as it was I think you can just see me grinding my teeth!
Girls generally then were just girls, that is they did not seem very interesting. At playtime when the boys got together for their more boisterous games they inevitably left the girls to themselves and the latter seemed to prefer it that way having their own more gentle amusements. Some names I remember such as Margaret Hobbs who lived in Trafalgar Road and Marion Sherwood – of course, the latter inevitably became known to us as Maid Marian of Sherwood Forest.
Towards the end of my time at junior school sex started raising it’s ugly head, albeit a relatively naïve and innocent head. Young invited me round to the lanes between the wharehouses one day after school to ‘show me hers if I showed her mine.’ We only looked but I think both of us were suitably unimpressed. Apart from that and I were never pals as such but neither did we ever feel embarrassed about the episode nor did we actually talk about it – it was simply inquisitiveness and for us just part of our education.
At other times after school or at weekends we sometimes went up to Easthill Park where us boys would play ‘kiss-chase’ with the girls – the main targets being the more attractive girls in the class such as Pat Folds, Pat Hack and Angela Darling (she was a darling too!). Again, a relatively innocent pursuit as it never involved more than a chase and short tussle followed by a quick peck on the cheek. The girls were always ready to play but they were also equally determined to avoid being kissed, handing out punches and even kicks to us poor lads. I don’t think that any of the girls I chased were particularly fond of me but at least I had one admirer in another girl who hit me painfully on the head with her torch – because I didn’t chase her!
Cousins at School
I can’t remember playing football at this school but do recall at least one cricket match played at Portslade Recreation Ground or ‘the rec’ as we called it. It was between two classes but just the boys (the teachers never seemed to include the girls so perhaps they had their own girlie games). I was at my usual nondescript position on the boundary out of harms way when at the end of one over the teacher, Mr. Eastwood, tossed the ball my way and told me to bowl. Bowl? I didn’t know how to bowl properly and my knowledge in that area was limited to a kind of mini cricket played between two players in the coal yard at home. Nevertheless, with my first effort I gritted my teeth, ran furiously to the crease with my arms flailing as I thought I’d seen the men do it but in reality looking more like a mobile windmill. I let the ball go at a furious speed but almost straight down to the ground so that it immediately lost it’s impetus and slowly trundled along towards the waiting batsman. The latter, more used to proper bowling that bounced up to a decent enough height to hit, lashed out at my trundling ball, missed and the ball ever so slowly just about managed to nudge the wicket and dislodge the bails. In one over I dismissed at least four of the better batsmen the same way. Mr. Eastwood was not impressed, didn’t think it was proper bowling and never used me again but for once, as far as my own side was concerned, I was the hero of the day.
Sports days were not my scene either and I would inevitably come last or near last in any race I was instructed to partake in. But again, like cricket, I was destined to have just one moment of glory. Our sports days took place at Mile Oak at north Portslade, parents were invited and, for me, having an audience only served to make it all the more nerve racking and an uncomfortable ordeal. One of my races was the hurdles but out of six competitors that started, five tripped and fell by half way through and I found myself the sole remaining runner and winner! During the final few yards I remember feeling so surprised that I was winning I got the giggles right up to the finish line. This small moment of brief glory is captured forever in a snapshot of me in that race jumping a non-existent hurdle as the cross-cane had fallen off. That may have been sporting of me but I am sure it was just excitement and I probably didn’t even realise it wasn’t there!
Television and Cars
The 1953 Coronation
During our last year or so sharing grandma’s house my parents bought a television set partly because they wanted to see the 1953 Coronation. As I say, we were not well off but we were one of the first in our part of the road to get a ‘telly. Unreliable contraptions then and only in black and white the quality of the picture left a lot to be desired. Often ‘snowy’ in appearance the picture always broke up with electrical interference when a car passed by outside and often the signal from the nearest transmitter would stop altogether for various reasons leaving you with long breaks of an hour or more without a picture. Due to the lack of technology and mobility of the cameras the programmes themselves were very unimaginative and inevitably seemed to involve boring discussions or musical concerts.
I can’t remember any school outings except once when we went on a class walk from the school to St. Helen’s church at Hangleton. This was in the 50’s and in those days Hangleton was not built up at all with, apart from Hangleton Manor, nothing but fields and countryside. It was during that trip that I began to get sweet on Gwyneth and spent most of the walk by her side. Gwyneth Claffey was a delicate, pretty girl with Welsh ancestry who had lost her father at an early age so my admiration was tinged with sadness and pity for her. Being so young it was never anything more than a crush but I still kept loosely in touch afterwards and in my late teens even took her out on one of my first dates. To my eternal shame I just didn’t know how to treat a girl then and in fact even invited my cousin Bob with us – no wonder she never came out with me again. In recent years I have since seen Gwyneth in Shoreham and she now has striking silver hair but still with a pretty face.
My parents by now also had a car, initially an ancient 1930’s Austin Ruby that they parked in the coal yard and, because they couldn’t afford to run it all the year round, kept it under a tarpaulin sheet in the winter. One spring, when unwrapping the car to use once again, we discovered toadstools growing on the damp leather seats. We later progressed to a Riley Kestrel, a sporty looking saloon that Dad couldn’t get on with, swapped it for a Vauxhall Victor and eventually an Austin Cambridge. All this enabled us to enjoy trips out at the weekends in summer in convoy with other Aunts and Uncles to places like Cowdray Park, the heath and woodland near Parham Park and Ashdown Forest where we picnicked, walked and played cricket all day.
Mum didn’t drive and during the week when Dad was working we either walked or used the bus to go everywhere. There were however the rare occasions when in an emergency, perhaps an urgent visit to the doctor or hospital, it was necessary to get somewhere quickly and we would have no choice but to pay out for a taxi. Our nearest taxi driver was Mr., a jewish chap from Poland who lived in either Wolseley or Abinger Road and was inevitably always available at short notice. The man was a martyr to his wind and his unfortunate condition was well known to those of us who had used his services before. Rides in his taxi were always accompanied by squeaks, whooshes and downright raspberries and God help the passenger who didn’t keep the window open even in bitter midwinter. Poor Mr. was perhaps never fully aware of the effect of his flatulence nor why his business never really succeeded after passengers had got to know him. I can still see his distinctive red and white car as it drove along the Old Shoreham Road with his passengers noses poking out of the windows.
One special day my parents took me to the Festival of Britain in London in 1951 although it was too big and sprawling for a nine-year-old youngster to take in at one go. Apart from the lovely life sized working models of outrageous contraptions by Ronald Searle the exhibition didn’t do a lot for me but the journey to London alone was exciting enough to go on. I was later to learn that my future wife also visited the Exhibition that year – it is most improbable that we both went on the same day but it is lovely to imagine we did, I would love to have seen her as a child.
Although Mum’s brother and sisters would often gather for christenings, weddings and the occasional party there are few photos of them shown together. Even this snap doesn’t include them all. Taken in the coal yard in the 1950’s with the ground floor flat behind.
The Coronation itself on our TV was an all day broadcast and our room was packed with Aunts, Uncles and cousins with sandwiches and drinks laid on. It was an exciting family gathering but after an hour or two us children soon got bored with the proceedings and drifted in and out of the room to play in between the more interesting moments. Nevertheless, to begin with it was all very exciting and new and there were a few compensations for us youngsters in children’s programmes such as ‘Muffin the Mule’ and ‘Mr. Turnip,’ string puppets accompanied by their stooges, real people – Annette Mills was with Muffin and Humphrey Lestoq with Mr. Turnip – who did all the talking and told the stories. Things soon progressed however and exciting serials started appearing. ‘The Quatermass Experiment’ a science fiction series really meant for adults terrified us all and us cousins would sit huddled together for reassurance whilst Cliff, the oldest cousin of our group, peered fearfully from behind the settee. Perhaps the most exciting of those early broadcasts was the 1953 Cup Final between Blackpool and Bolton now known as ‘the Matthews Final’ following Stanley Matthews’ dazzling display during the match. Again, there were a good number of visitors that day including my teacher Mr. Eastwood as I think he had some connection with one of the teams and may even have been a northener himself.
We moved into the flat at 29a around in the late forties/early fifties when I was still at junior school so must have been under 11 (we had to pass the 11 plus exam in those days to progress to the grammar school, fail it and we were sent to the comprehensive.) The Dales lived in the ground floor flat beneath us, a pleasant but quiet couple who in the main kept to themselves and rarely seemed to socialise with anyone. That flat had steep stairs that seemed to rise for ever and a front living room, parent’s bedroom at the back overlooking the flat roof where I would later use to sunbathe, then my front bedroom, our bathroom and back kitchen abutting grandma’s main house but suspended over the access used by the laundry delivery vans in driving in and out of the coal yard for overnight parking (we called it the archway). I enjoyed our meals in the kitchen which looked over the coal yard and laundry but was a little in fear of the bathroom window that looked out on to nothing but a dark well above the archway below and the roof skylight above.
Moving to Newtimber Drive
Sometime during my senior schooling we moved from the flat to a semi-detached bungalow at Newtimber Drive, just up the road off of Melrose Avenue. I had always felt sorry for my father that although he had spent his working life building houses for others he was never able to afford to buy his own. This changed with the move to the bungalow when Dad managed to get a mortgage with the Woolwich Building Society. It was only a two bedroom property built shortly before the war but it was only twenty years old then and actually had a garden – something that up until then I had only enjoyed in my cousins’ or friends’ homes.
End of the Portslade reminiscences
Do you remember the shops on Portslade High Street or the Saturday mornings at the Granada? Share your own memories in the comments below!
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