At the beginning of 1941
Turning of tide had begun
On the sea and in the Middle East land
Seems the Commonwealth got things in hand.
Then Germans did what no one should
Sand Britain's pride - the HMS Hood
Things began biting very hard
Now even clothes on ration cards.
Then joy, a tit for tat
Bismarck sunk, Huns take that!
Then in the middle of that year
An attack into Russia I fear.
Later on more of our ships went down
Sailors killed, if not trapped to drown
Dunedin, following mighty Ark Royal
The Barham, again war, an upward toil.
But now it appears Hitler made a big mistake
In freezing weather, failed Russia to take
Dad on leave said "it's the beginning of the end!
With arctic weather the Russians will just defend."
"Mark my words, in a month or so.
You just watch those Russians go!"
All our news was from the papers and wireless
What lies we were told, the truth was a guess.
When at home we'd sit around our radio.
No TV, no comics, board games for us, oh no!
The were light relief programmes of a kind
As some we enjoyed spring to mind.
"Workers Playtime" broadcast from a factory floor
Ignoring the siren, to busy yelling for more.
"Bandbox", I may have got the full name wrong
"I Thank You" Arthur Askey, with a funny song.
Billy Cottons band Funny, with ribald quips
Broadcast to airmen, soldiers, men on ships.
Another programme we thought comic and dandy
Plenty of catch-phrases - used by all when handy.
Char to host, Tommy Handley, "can I do you know sir?"
I was too young then to know what it might refer!
Many a show one singer featured in
Of course our beloved Miss Vera Lynne.
One programme might, or not, give us the blues
Was avidly listened to - the BBC news.
Mostly to me it always seemed so bad.
Every day, somehow, we'd been had.
Things at sea all going wrong.
Vera still singing a hopeful song.
At this time full rationing came into force,
Not that there had been much around before, of course.
We ask ourselves how come and why?
Only one battle won was in the sky.
To us the Yanks everything they sold.
What happens if we should run our of gold?
Roosevelt crafty; knew whenever the was was done -
Not Britain; but the US would be number one!
March 7, 2011
Transport
Transport whatever you were like
Meant riding on your old push bike
From the factories hundreds would ride
Among which the bosses car would glide.
Gradually thinning at each and every junction
Crude maybe, but fulfilling their function
Cars then were few and far between
In our street only the one to be seen.
It might give people today a bit of a start
Goods back then were delivered by horse and cart
The coal man as black as his socks
The horse and cart delivered nutty slacks.
Co-op groceries, a cart with rubber tyred wheel
The milk car had wheels rimmed by steel
The horse was never ever started or woad
As the milk deliverer got up the road.
When the milkman was about to run out of milk
The horse would take the strain, start smooth as silk
Slowly walking up our gravelled road
Gentle pulling its great heavy load.
Stopping exactly on the very spot
Where the milkman had delivered all he'd got
Breweries delivered beer by horse drawn dray
Beautiful shires, who says it wasn't a better way.
The public transport was by electric bus
Quiet, quick, cheap loved by all of us
Giving cows in nearby fields a fright
Noisy dirty steam trains, but what a sight.
Other goods were delivered by and large
By majestic graceful Thames sailing barge
Groceries bought, delivered by delivery lad
Gone today, makes you feel sad.
Papers and letters delivered through letter boxed door
That's what postman's leg were made for
Mum sees an old school c hum down the down
Ask for friend's address, brings a frown.
Can't remember, when I get home I'll have to see
Penny post it, you'll get it before you sit down for tea
In this method we were not alone
No one we knew had a telephone.
Meant riding on your old push bike
From the factories hundreds would ride
Among which the bosses car would glide.
Gradually thinning at each and every junction
Crude maybe, but fulfilling their function
Cars then were few and far between
In our street only the one to be seen.
It might give people today a bit of a start
Goods back then were delivered by horse and cart
The coal man as black as his socks
The horse and cart delivered nutty slacks.
Co-op groceries, a cart with rubber tyred wheel
The milk car had wheels rimmed by steel
The horse was never ever started or woad
As the milk deliverer got up the road.
When the milkman was about to run out of milk
The horse would take the strain, start smooth as silk
Slowly walking up our gravelled road
Gentle pulling its great heavy load.
Stopping exactly on the very spot
Where the milkman had delivered all he'd got
Breweries delivered beer by horse drawn dray
Beautiful shires, who says it wasn't a better way.
The public transport was by electric bus
Quiet, quick, cheap loved by all of us
Giving cows in nearby fields a fright
Noisy dirty steam trains, but what a sight.
Other goods were delivered by and large
By majestic graceful Thames sailing barge
Groceries bought, delivered by delivery lad
Gone today, makes you feel sad.
Papers and letters delivered through letter boxed door
That's what postman's leg were made for
Mum sees an old school c hum down the down
Ask for friend's address, brings a frown.
Can't remember, when I get home I'll have to see
Penny post it, you'll get it before you sit down for tea
In this method we were not alone
No one we knew had a telephone.
Chapter 11
Again, hardly knew grandparents on mum's side.
Her real mother only thirty-six when she died.
Died in child birthing, then a common thing;
For both mother and child, bells did ring.
With six children to devote all of his life,
Mum's dad had quickly to take a new wife.
From that moment she came, situation was bad.
The children hated the way she treated their dad.
But back to my story; it's what we're here for.
At a very early age I soon knew the score.
Often grandad would come 'round our place;
Always had a great smile on his face.
Sometimes a knock, and there he stood.
At times he wasn't feeling so good.
I liked him - he had a great sense of fun;
Told me stories of trains that he'd run.
Mum took me to the town station by trolley bus.
It cost a couple of pennies - rarely used by us.
We were off to see her dad on his puffer train.
Steam engined; big enough to take any strain.
Grandad up to the footplate gave me aid.
The memory of which will never fade.
Hot, levers, steam, and the whistle he let me pull.
What joy! What a day! My heart was full.
Smelly, dirty, the engine a wonderful tool;
Couldn't wait to tell all the lads at school.
Those trolley buses so quiet, fast and clean -
Overhead electric cable, now rarely seen.
White and green with council's crest.
Everyone agreed they were the best.
They didn't even need a railway track.
Dumped by council - never to come back.
Grandad "Pom" told me; I know partially true.
Otherwise I'd not pass it on to you.
Leading down to the town was bishop's hill;
On a bike you could climb it - with some will.
This hill was opposite the park land.
Red wall, its name in black; so grand.
Very early one morning, just about dawn,
Pom cycled up it, tired and worn.
When a German fighter fired at him with its machine gun.
No legitimate target - perhaps the pilot thought it fun.
The burst went over Pom into the wall;
With that and with no thought at all.
He cycled hard; he gave the raider no second chance.
Shot up the hill like a rider in Tour de France!
There after, every time I passed that hilly spot,
I could see the holes that almost got him shot.
When no longer young enough to "drive" mainline stuff,
On local work he drove a smaller local puff-puff.
On the way to, say, Felixstowe with his fireman first class,
They would throw bit of coal at game as they slowly passed.
A hit was picked up later; a pheasant or a rabbit for the pot.
They didn't succeed too often, but pleased with what they got.
A nice old man who I hardly ever saw;
Maybe more on him long after the war.
Her real mother only thirty-six when she died.
Died in child birthing, then a common thing;
For both mother and child, bells did ring.
With six children to devote all of his life,
Mum's dad had quickly to take a new wife.
From that moment she came, situation was bad.
The children hated the way she treated their dad.
But back to my story; it's what we're here for.
At a very early age I soon knew the score.
Often grandad would come 'round our place;
Always had a great smile on his face.
Sometimes a knock, and there he stood.
At times he wasn't feeling so good.
I liked him - he had a great sense of fun;
Told me stories of trains that he'd run.
Mum took me to the town station by trolley bus.
It cost a couple of pennies - rarely used by us.
We were off to see her dad on his puffer train.
Steam engined; big enough to take any strain.
Grandad up to the footplate gave me aid.
The memory of which will never fade.
Hot, levers, steam, and the whistle he let me pull.
What joy! What a day! My heart was full.
Smelly, dirty, the engine a wonderful tool;
Couldn't wait to tell all the lads at school.
Those trolley buses so quiet, fast and clean -
Overhead electric cable, now rarely seen.
White and green with council's crest.
Everyone agreed they were the best.
They didn't even need a railway track.
Dumped by council - never to come back.
Grandad "Pom" told me; I know partially true.
Otherwise I'd not pass it on to you.
Leading down to the town was bishop's hill;
On a bike you could climb it - with some will.
This hill was opposite the park land.
Red wall, its name in black; so grand.
Very early one morning, just about dawn,
Pom cycled up it, tired and worn.
When a German fighter fired at him with its machine gun.
No legitimate target - perhaps the pilot thought it fun.
The burst went over Pom into the wall;
With that and with no thought at all.
He cycled hard; he gave the raider no second chance.
Shot up the hill like a rider in Tour de France!
There after, every time I passed that hilly spot,
I could see the holes that almost got him shot.
When no longer young enough to "drive" mainline stuff,
On local work he drove a smaller local puff-puff.
On the way to, say, Felixstowe with his fireman first class,
They would throw bit of coal at game as they slowly passed.
A hit was picked up later; a pheasant or a rabbit for the pot.
They didn't succeed too often, but pleased with what they got.
A nice old man who I hardly ever saw;
Maybe more on him long after the war.
Chapter 10
Grandparents I hardly got to know.
Sometimes to dad's mum's place we'd go.
His mother - 70ish! So it was said
Took to and remained in her bed.
I asked my mum "What's wrong with her?"
"Nothing, but from that bed she won't stir."
Her hair was long - still black as jet.
I close my eyes; can see her there yet.
She still had grownup "boys" living there.
Trained them as if by whip and chair.
My mind's eye saw a black pointed hat -
There was no besom broom or black cat!
Her son's my dad; did as they were told.
All great big men, but with her not bold.
Her husband, my grandad, kept clear of the house.
After years with her, doubtless more of a mouse.
Once out of her sight, dad and he would talk.
From what I could gather he was a nice old sort.
Him and his brothers - and there were lots -
Worked as Dockers on the east coast docks.
He smoked a cheap small pipe made of wood;
Away from his wife, when he thought he could.
As I've said he seemed a nice old chap;
Always to be seen in a workers peaked cap.
Wore that cap both indoors and out.
Buried in it, I wouldn't doubt.
Weirdest thing though was his clothes!
From a bygone era, I suppose.
Worn by old East Enders, I would surmise.
I never saw him in anything otherwise.
Black suit; none too clean, and never pressed.
The only way I ever saw him dressed.
Sometimes he'd remove his jacket if it was warm,
But never his flat hat - that was always worn.
Pinstriped shirt; always without a collar;
Black waistcoat. But by strangest by far.
He always wore a tasselled white, silk scarf.
Taught to respect my elders, or I'd laugh.
The middle of it - at the back of his neck - was outside waistcoat placed;
Crossed on his chest; around the back; forward and tied up at the waist!
Also there a thick, heavy, buckled leather belt.
In the summer it's a wonder he didn't melt!
Both passed away during or just after the war.
That's a guess, because I saw them no more.
Sometimes to dad's mum's place we'd go.
His mother - 70ish! So it was said
Took to and remained in her bed.
I asked my mum "What's wrong with her?"
"Nothing, but from that bed she won't stir."
Her hair was long - still black as jet.
I close my eyes; can see her there yet.
She still had grownup "boys" living there.
Trained them as if by whip and chair.
My mind's eye saw a black pointed hat -
There was no besom broom or black cat!
Her son's my dad; did as they were told.
All great big men, but with her not bold.
Her husband, my grandad, kept clear of the house.
After years with her, doubtless more of a mouse.
Once out of her sight, dad and he would talk.
From what I could gather he was a nice old sort.
Him and his brothers - and there were lots -
Worked as Dockers on the east coast docks.
He smoked a cheap small pipe made of wood;
Away from his wife, when he thought he could.
As I've said he seemed a nice old chap;
Always to be seen in a workers peaked cap.
Wore that cap both indoors and out.
Buried in it, I wouldn't doubt.
Weirdest thing though was his clothes!
From a bygone era, I suppose.
Worn by old East Enders, I would surmise.
I never saw him in anything otherwise.
Black suit; none too clean, and never pressed.
The only way I ever saw him dressed.
Sometimes he'd remove his jacket if it was warm,
But never his flat hat - that was always worn.
Pinstriped shirt; always without a collar;
Black waistcoat. But by strangest by far.
He always wore a tasselled white, silk scarf.
Taught to respect my elders, or I'd laugh.
The middle of it - at the back of his neck - was outside waistcoat placed;
Crossed on his chest; around the back; forward and tied up at the waist!
Also there a thick, heavy, buckled leather belt.
In the summer it's a wonder he didn't melt!
Both passed away during or just after the war.
That's a guess, because I saw them no more.
Chapter 9
This chapter may not quite be in order.
Remember this is memory, not a tape recorder.
I recall when all blond and tousled haired;
Playing on sister's bed, we sometimes shared.
Playing, jumping and just messing about,
My three-year-old sister gave a shout!
In the window, glass shattered bullet holes;
Screaming under covers; buried like moles.
Mum rushed up, as usual very calm.
Checked we kids had come to no harm.
Looked out the window; who fired the round?
Spotted neighbour's kids before went to ground.
She marched to the house; used no soft soap.
Told the boys' parents that they must cope.
If she saw the rifle she'd call the police.
From that moment the firing must cease.
The parents quite clearly understood;
A quick smashing of the rifle's wood.
We kids at the window, watching the scene.
He got the biggest hiding there's ever been.
Mum took me in to the doctor to check my throat.
A few days later to school I took a note;
Tonsils out, don't worry my dear.
Teacher would visit, she made that clear.
At the op throat was very sore.
Had to eat dried toast - never, no more.
Things in my class were never the same;
Teacher promised to visit - she never came!
School dinner; they never did thrill.
Some of the stuff would make you ill.
Lady helpers who you might know -
An extra dollop "there you go."
Reconstituted spuds placed on your dish.
Grey, tasteless stuff, they called fish.
Greens boiled until limp and soggy.
Eat that lot, you'd feel groggy.
Meat we did get sometimes, of course.
Whale meat and rubbery, tough old horse.
Then of all the stuff dished up,
The meat that really took the cup.
For even that you said "thank-you madam".
That terrible stuff they called Spam.
To be honest, we would eat the lot,
The only hot weekday meal we got.
At home, one of my favorite - no wonder why.
Called, to be polite, a nice name "Pig's Fry".
This dish was made from inside of a pig,
All full of nutrients to make us big.
Try to buy it today and you are told
"Blimey! You must be very old!
It's put into tinned food for your pet.
I'm sorry, but Pig's Fry you'll never get!"
Shiny coats and great energy -
Our pets eat much better now than me.
Pets now fed better than me and you -
We'd better go back to vegetable stew.
Remember this is memory, not a tape recorder.
I recall when all blond and tousled haired;
Playing on sister's bed, we sometimes shared.
Playing, jumping and just messing about,
My three-year-old sister gave a shout!
In the window, glass shattered bullet holes;
Screaming under covers; buried like moles.
Mum rushed up, as usual very calm.
Checked we kids had come to no harm.
Looked out the window; who fired the round?
Spotted neighbour's kids before went to ground.
She marched to the house; used no soft soap.
Told the boys' parents that they must cope.
If she saw the rifle she'd call the police.
From that moment the firing must cease.
The parents quite clearly understood;
A quick smashing of the rifle's wood.
We kids at the window, watching the scene.
He got the biggest hiding there's ever been.
Mum took me in to the doctor to check my throat.
A few days later to school I took a note;
Tonsils out, don't worry my dear.
Teacher would visit, she made that clear.
At the op throat was very sore.
Had to eat dried toast - never, no more.
Things in my class were never the same;
Teacher promised to visit - she never came!
School dinner; they never did thrill.
Some of the stuff would make you ill.
Lady helpers who you might know -
An extra dollop "there you go."
Reconstituted spuds placed on your dish.
Grey, tasteless stuff, they called fish.
Greens boiled until limp and soggy.
Eat that lot, you'd feel groggy.
Meat we did get sometimes, of course.
Whale meat and rubbery, tough old horse.
Then of all the stuff dished up,
The meat that really took the cup.
For even that you said "thank-you madam".
That terrible stuff they called Spam.
To be honest, we would eat the lot,
The only hot weekday meal we got.
At home, one of my favorite - no wonder why.
Called, to be polite, a nice name "Pig's Fry".
This dish was made from inside of a pig,
All full of nutrients to make us big.
Try to buy it today and you are told
"Blimey! You must be very old!
It's put into tinned food for your pet.
I'm sorry, but Pig's Fry you'll never get!"
Shiny coats and great energy -
Our pets eat much better now than me.
Pets now fed better than me and you -
We'd better go back to vegetable stew.
Chapter 8
One thing we had to do with my mother;
Visit "in service" friends, one or the other.
One old lady; she had no teeth.
Chin touched her nose from beneath.
Always she would sit in an old high-back chair.
Pointing to her wrinkled face, "kiss me there!".
I'd bravely brace myself and have a go;
Couldn't miss those bristles though.
Scared the very life out of me.
Soon they sat drinking cups of tea.
Mum gave me pencil and some paper;
Draw matchstick men - savvy old caper.
Another lady who I liked to visit
Where I wasn't just told to sit.
She had in a big polished brass-bound box,
A thing for which I would have given my socks.
Like a gramophone - I know not its name;
You wound it and it turned just the same.
The 'records' played were of tin
With lots and lots of holes punched in.
A fancy music box, I suppose it to be.
A magical thing it seemed to me.
Visiting just across from the church,
Older man, down steep garden would lurch.
Nothing wrong with his legs I could see.
He rolled from very many years at sea.
This was my mum's uncle; great-uncle to me.
He told me tales of when he was at sea.
Of dragging a field-gun from ship into China.
Ships of oak, men of steel; nothing finer.
Fighting the Chinese in the Boxer war.
I just sat there, listening with great awe.
From the women he would pardon.
Take me to the top of his sloping garden.
Ferns my height, or even higher;
Compost the tops - rest put on the fire.
Told me of ship Ganges when made of wood.
Just off the place where Ganges now stood.
He served as a boy's instructor 1908;
Off the ship, then through Shottey Gate.
He'd show me the picture of his wedding day.
Him and six sailor brothers, there on display.
Influencing me and shaping my life,
Long before I was able to take a wife.
Again I must remind you of dates and times.
Recollection, not history, in these rhymes.
Visit "in service" friends, one or the other.
One old lady; she had no teeth.
Chin touched her nose from beneath.
Always she would sit in an old high-back chair.
Pointing to her wrinkled face, "kiss me there!".
I'd bravely brace myself and have a go;
Couldn't miss those bristles though.
Scared the very life out of me.
Soon they sat drinking cups of tea.
Mum gave me pencil and some paper;
Draw matchstick men - savvy old caper.
Another lady who I liked to visit
Where I wasn't just told to sit.
She had in a big polished brass-bound box,
A thing for which I would have given my socks.
Like a gramophone - I know not its name;
You wound it and it turned just the same.
The 'records' played were of tin
With lots and lots of holes punched in.
A fancy music box, I suppose it to be.
A magical thing it seemed to me.
Visiting just across from the church,
Older man, down steep garden would lurch.
Nothing wrong with his legs I could see.
He rolled from very many years at sea.
This was my mum's uncle; great-uncle to me.
He told me tales of when he was at sea.
Of dragging a field-gun from ship into China.
Ships of oak, men of steel; nothing finer.
Fighting the Chinese in the Boxer war.
I just sat there, listening with great awe.
From the women he would pardon.
Take me to the top of his sloping garden.
Ferns my height, or even higher;
Compost the tops - rest put on the fire.
Told me of ship Ganges when made of wood.
Just off the place where Ganges now stood.
He served as a boy's instructor 1908;
Off the ship, then through Shottey Gate.
He'd show me the picture of his wedding day.
Him and six sailor brothers, there on display.
Influencing me and shaping my life,
Long before I was able to take a wife.
Again I must remind you of dates and times.
Recollection, not history, in these rhymes.
Chapter 7
As kids we spent most of our time out
Kicking at balls or just running about.
We played all sorts of games, whatever our whim.
In summer breaks though we'd mostly swim.
Summers then were always very hot.
Seems, looking back, that's all we got?
Mother gave us a threepenny bit;
Leastwise that's how I remember it.
We would walk two or three miles.
Laughing and playing - all full of smiles.
We would walk in threes and in pairs
Over to the scrub land; then called the Lairs.
Threepenny piece clutched in one hand
We knew the day was bound to be grand.
Soon, at the pool called "Piper's Vale",
To have a good time - couldn't fail.
The pool on the vale overlooking the river.
As we drew near in anticipation we'd quiver.
Clutching our towels, all thin and worn;
We were the luckiest kids ever born.
At the turnstiles we paid a penny a piece.
Banter between us never did cease.
Plimsolls, short flannels, shirts on the floor -
Very worn - mum couldn't afford more.
On "cozzy"; clothes into a locker stuffed.
Down to the poolside - we were so chuffed.
The pool was in the open air.
Water could be cold, to be fair.
Each of us stuck in a toe.
No matter the cold, in we'd go.
Up the five-metre board we would climb,
Bearing in mind I couldn't swim at the time.
I would jump to land near the pool's side.
At four or five; fear I just had to hide.
If I miscalculated, I just gave a shout;
The bigger boys would soon pluck me out.
Other bigger boys to the middle threw me in.
On that very day I soon learnt to swim.
The pool, privet hedged, on three sides bound;
Shingle "beach" up from the pool on the ground.
At the top 'tween beach and building, a patio
Was there when we got hungry, that we'd go
For a penny-a-cup of strong hot Bovril.
Feeling cold we would drink our fill.
Another cup in the afternoon;
Made our way home very soon.
Although light till late; had to be home by five.
Threats by mums, "Be late and you'll be skinned alive!"
Spent all that energy, we were starving, of course.
Laid before us, we would eat a scabby horse.
Talking of which, it was often our fate
To find horse meat on our plate.
One dish that made me go quite pale
Was when dished up meat from a whale.
Soon your appetite it would spoil,
Tasted just like cod liver oil!
Then when rations seemed so very poor.
Whatever, we would always ask for more.
If mum found dried fruit, that was very good.
Spotted dick or maybe treacle pud.
Two things for eating I didn't want to know;
Was frogspawn-like stuff, called sago.
Tapioca, other stuff with a funny name;
To eat it - I just wasn't game.
Kicking at balls or just running about.
We played all sorts of games, whatever our whim.
In summer breaks though we'd mostly swim.
Summers then were always very hot.
Seems, looking back, that's all we got?
Mother gave us a threepenny bit;
Leastwise that's how I remember it.
We would walk two or three miles.
Laughing and playing - all full of smiles.
We would walk in threes and in pairs
Over to the scrub land; then called the Lairs.
Threepenny piece clutched in one hand
We knew the day was bound to be grand.
Soon, at the pool called "Piper's Vale",
To have a good time - couldn't fail.
The pool on the vale overlooking the river.
As we drew near in anticipation we'd quiver.
Clutching our towels, all thin and worn;
We were the luckiest kids ever born.
At the turnstiles we paid a penny a piece.
Banter between us never did cease.
Plimsolls, short flannels, shirts on the floor -
Very worn - mum couldn't afford more.
On "cozzy"; clothes into a locker stuffed.
Down to the poolside - we were so chuffed.
The pool was in the open air.
Water could be cold, to be fair.
Each of us stuck in a toe.
No matter the cold, in we'd go.
Up the five-metre board we would climb,
Bearing in mind I couldn't swim at the time.
I would jump to land near the pool's side.
At four or five; fear I just had to hide.
If I miscalculated, I just gave a shout;
The bigger boys would soon pluck me out.
Other bigger boys to the middle threw me in.
On that very day I soon learnt to swim.
The pool, privet hedged, on three sides bound;
Shingle "beach" up from the pool on the ground.
At the top 'tween beach and building, a patio
Was there when we got hungry, that we'd go
For a penny-a-cup of strong hot Bovril.
Feeling cold we would drink our fill.
Another cup in the afternoon;
Made our way home very soon.
Although light till late; had to be home by five.
Threats by mums, "Be late and you'll be skinned alive!"
Spent all that energy, we were starving, of course.
Laid before us, we would eat a scabby horse.
Talking of which, it was often our fate
To find horse meat on our plate.
One dish that made me go quite pale
Was when dished up meat from a whale.
Soon your appetite it would spoil,
Tasted just like cod liver oil!
Then when rations seemed so very poor.
Whatever, we would always ask for more.
If mum found dried fruit, that was very good.
Spotted dick or maybe treacle pud.
Two things for eating I didn't want to know;
Was frogspawn-like stuff, called sago.
Tapioca, other stuff with a funny name;
To eat it - I just wasn't game.
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