Southend

The wives in their best bib and tuckers;
Men in suits, flat caps like their muckers.
I still have a copy of the 'official' photograph,
I look at it now and still have a laugh.

Photo taken, head count done, board the charabanc,
Police standing by, loved to have nicked the whole gang.
A box of sarnies on each of the couple of single-Decker bus;
Ladies, when they saw the many crates of beer, began to fuss.

Cackling of women, shouting at the men, could send you 'round the bend.
Where were we going? To the favorite stop of Londoners - Southend!
In fact, the full name of the resort was "Southend on the Sea";
Later, when we got there, I found the name a puzzle to me.

Oh! Yes it looked like the seaside when we first arrived.
All of the huts, ice cream, jellied eel, for which many dived.
Many opted for a trip on the paddle steamer as we arrived.
You know, the famous one of Dunkirk, that just survived.

Of course, it was a very great thrill; huge paddle, covering round,
To be on such a famous ship; to a museum anyway, still around!
Back to where we started, the men were all well oiled.
When I looked to see the sea, the trip for me was spoiled.

The sea had gone miles away; at least a tidy spell.
The beach, black, muddy, and my life, did it smell!
More whelks, jellied eels, some men feeling queer.
Something they'd eaten? Couldn't be that gallon of beer!

Fish and chips, wrapped in old newspaper;
Getting on the bus, what a caper!
Counting ten times got very wearing.
Drunks wives, crossed arms, glaring!

More sober ones tried numbers to tally.
Found the lot, onto the bus, there to rally.
Off we went, some heads were spinning,
Then all in the bus started the singing.

Even those who looked quite sick and pale
Put down themselves a lot more of the ale.
Stop! There's that bunch of trees we seek!
All men tumbled out to take a leak.

Ladies waited until the next nearest pub.
The men roused, more beer, that's lovely grub.
Again it took near half an hour; now too soon
To drag them from bar, the snug, even the saloon.

The two hour journey took four or more,
To pour out each by their front door.
Next time they took a trip down to the sea,
One thing was certain, you didn't see me!

The Outing

This rusty looking engine, could it be for real?
I think the way it worked was to spin a flywheel.
Against incoming tide we were really so slow,
But at about four knots, slowly we did seaward go.

We'd slowly make our way out off the Fludgers Arms.
A discharge pipe was there, we fished with no alarms.
Between the four of us we had no proper rods,
All made up of bits, all made of odds and sods.

We all had fishing reels; old ones made of wood.
Had to feel for a bite, of it became quite good.
Flat fish, Pollock, Flounders and four or five pound Codling,
Back home for supper this bounty we'd bring.

On their way back to our berth, someone would start a song,
It wasn't the fish, perhaps the rum, we'd fished for far too long!
Dad prepared the fish, mum cooked chips and fish in batter;
Chips fresh, but I'll never have fish again as good as the latter.

It must have been about this time, the dockers had their outing,
Of course, it could have been later in date, of that there's doubting.
I remember we all met outside the dockers canteen,
A more motley crew would be hard to be seen.

Our Gaff

Of our house, not much to be said;
Bricks and roof tiles, all in red.
Council owned, like all in our road.
Not much of a place, our abode.

On the door, a letterbox and rocker;
Key on a string tied on that knocker.
No fancy doorbell for you to ring,
Go around the back, walk right in.

Each side a small window, glass frosted well.
Bigger ones above, landing and my bedroom cell.
To the side was our back door,
The other opening to the ground floor.

To the right, a window four by four,
Letting light over the sink to pour.
Small window left there, it would seem,
To let out from bathroom all the steam.

'Round the corner, shoulder high wooden door
So coal man in his nutty slack could pour.
Next to the room where we did most living,
A six by four window, most light to us giving.

Two windows second floor to the beds
Where parents and sister made their z's.
Go in the door, one at the side, called back;
Kitchen sink, stove, a wood draining rack.

The stove, gas, old fashioned and grey.
When brand new, looked as if it had its day.
Above the sink was a cold water tap.
One other, above bath, where it was at.

This part of the house red brick, not nice.
In the winter time was as cold as ice.
Cold body, cold feet, I am telling you.
Mum lit the oven, she just had to do.

Above the sink on the tiled window sill,
A tin can holder, I can see it still.
Soap bits in it, mum would give it a few swishes,
Our liquid soap to wash up the dishes.

Bathroom, a copper, fired by coal or mainly wood.
No sink, an iron bath, clawed feet on which it stood.
Each week mum would do her major wash.
No machines, soap powder, all that tosh.

She would fire up copper till it got hot;
In bits of soap, sheets, towels, most all we'd got.
Sometimes after this I was left in charge,
But I was trained for the job, albeit large.

Poked and stirred with the copper stick
Until the water turned white and thick.
Into the the bath which was very near,
Rinsed till water ran quite clear.

Sort stuff out, ensure they didn't tangle,
Then put the lot through the mangle.
Hang on the line, what a lovely sight,
Flapping there, sheets a brilliant white.

Our fireplace, black, with its swinging arms.
Had to 'Zebbo' it, to add to its charms.
This our living room; a cheap sideboard
Where what valuables we had were stored.

In the corner a wind-up gramophone;
Told to leave that well alone.
We lived there for twenty-five years,
Knew no different, just like our peers.

Thus ended forty-seven, no more to tell.
After that winter, probably just as well.
Snow now, way into nineteen forty-eight.
School, or just wandering with a mate.

Often we would take off on our bike,
To other end of town, quite a hike.
Under or near a bridge on river, gipping,
Fishing for 'sticklebacks' go gripping.

The river then, more or less a stream,
In those days was remarkably clean.
With rod, net or what-me-not,
In jam jar the things we got.

A story I remember from that time of day,
As shoe and sockless we would carefree play.
This river, to the Orwell, then down to the sea
Was how Ipswich got its name to be?

In Saxon times the river had no name,
Told here's how Ipswich had got to fame.
The local headman was very well known,
In those far-off days, even before the phone.

The village he headed was called his name,
A wick before the the name of village ever came.
Then it was always known as 'Gyppes Wick'.
Over the ages, this evolved to Ipswich.

This is how the name Ipswich came told to me,
True or not, well just wait and see.
I also remember, dad took me to watch the town,
Third division south, no further to go down.

I remember only one player, bald, was called Mac.
Looked old, tubby, played at fullback.
Didn't go often, town wasn't that good,
Not much of a crowd, alone where we stood.

My swimming, no training, certainly no mentor,
But I kept winning, up front and center.
I was quite fair at freestyle, my best breaststroke;
Keep just behind first lad, then go for broke.

Sometimes dad would take me evenings to fish.
Very rarely would we catch any to put on a dish.
Then one day dad, proud as he could be,
He had acquired a boat, we could fish at sea.

He showed me a clinker-built heavy barge tender.
"Dad, you'll never row it!" as it bumped on its fender.
"Don't worry, boy. It has an engine, a Stanley,
That does the work an' takes us to sea!"

To make it heavier, as if he could somehow?
He built a lock up cab right in the bow.
Got it berthed, old Felixstowe, river Derwent.
Never asked how; method was probably bent!

It was quite some time before I had my first trip,
His stevedore mates were often out on his ship.
One day he asked me if I would like to go,
Four of us, just as well if we had to row.

One had a car, took us all to the river;
Packed sarnies, a bottle of rum for their liver!
We got to the boat, boarded, ready to go,
Single cylinder 'Stanley' progress was slow.

1947

All this time, mum, to help bring in some more cash,
Off to her work, morn afternoon, night would bash.
She cleaned offices, shops, ladies houses part-time;
Anything to bring in a few more dime.

Off on her bike, day and night she'd ride.
I know she would have loved to stay by our side.
But dad's money was so very poor,
She had to work to make some more.

In March forty-seven, biggest floods ever seen,
School leaver's age was raised to fifteen.
Elizabeth gave our country a welcome boost;
Phillip, new hubby married, home to roost.

During this year, for me quite a change.
Got long trousers, they did feel strange.
Then I also became a scouting boy,
Helped them win the swimming cup, to their joy.

Scouts were not quite my cup of tea,
So I joined sea cadets, never off to sea.
I don't think I was long with them either,
Just not right, scouts or sea cadets neither.

Spent too much time marching up and down,
Either in the hut, or in some little town.
I don't suppose it happens in schools now,
Seemed a regular affliction then, somehow.

The real poor kids got covered in 'nits'.
It gave the rest of us the blinkin' ****?
Getting them in class seemed to be a curse,
We got a regular visit from the 'nit' nurse.

Didn't matter if you had them or not,
If she found in the class, she treated the lot.
Horrible stuff was put on your head,
Killed the little blighters dead.

Oldsters reading this I bet would catch,
All giving their heads a damn good scratch.
Sister and I never seemed to get ill,
A nasty cough maybe, if you will.

German fever and, of course, the mumps,
All things seemed to bring out various bumps.
Nothing broken I can recall,
Even resulting from a heavy fall.

Of course we had a scrape or bruise;
Running, climbing, just as we'd choose.
One thing I did that hurt like a wason fire,
When running in woods, ran into barbed wire.

Five centimeter scar from that wooded tour,
Last act for me of the Second World War.

Winter

Winter was coming, cooler, earlier dark.
No wandering to play in the local park.
We played more games under our street lamp.
Too cold? Earlier to our homes we'd tramp.

No TV then, at which we could look.
The radio; or read a history book.
Often, quite early we would go to bed,
Pulling the covers over our head.

This wasn't because we were none too bold,
But because the bedroom was freezing cold.
We'd go out during the day, we wrapped warm as we could.
Only to get mushrooms; look for chestnuts in local wood.

Let me explain what we poor had to wear;
Short trousers, grey flannel, we didn't care.
I wore no underwear till about this time.
All trousers were line, as were all mine.

I had two pairs of  'strides' as dad would say.
One pair playing and any 'working' day.
The other pair for best, was all I had.
No 'hand me downs' no brother; too big a dad.

Shorts were the same; cotton for best.
Maybe two, or flannels, made up the rest.
Stockings, or long socks, say what you will,
All my clothes a drawer would not fill.

I had a school tie and a silly school cap.
Never wore them and that was that.
Lastly a coat, made from a thin blanket, a jacket,
A 'lumber jacket' cheap, didn't cost a packet.

Footwear, I was in the same boat too.
What I had just would have to do!
Secondhand boots, acquired by my mum,
I was pleased with them, I'll tell you chum.

I was pleased with them, they fitted of course.
More metal on soles than the milkman's horse.
Studs on soles, with a 'blakey' on each heel
Sparked! Made a noise; how good did I feel?

When the snow began, off sledging to the park go,
But the sled runs were no good, too much snow.
After a few minutes, we had had enough,
Realized the weather was far too tough.

Before we got home, things got beyond the norm,
We had big winds, then a snowstorm!
I made my way to school next day;
Still snowing, half the kids had stayed away.

This the winter of forty-six and seven,
The snow must just about emptied heaven.
Got up next day to about two foot of snow;
Mum "Wrap up well, then out you can go!"

Sister in liberty bodice, dress, jumper, stocking;
Once outside we found the cold was shocking!
No winter gear, no hat, gloves, socks to my knees.
Within a few minutes, felt that I would freeze!

"Mum" I said "I'm cold, my hands, my knees and my ears!"
"I'll see what I can do. Come in again my little dears."
She put her stocking on me, dad's socks for gloves,
Scarf over my head, sister done too. "If you must, out loves."

All this extra stuff, went out, it was just no good!
We began freezing just where we stood.
Still it snowed; overhead the sky was so black,
Dad had cycled to work, only just made it back.

We stayed indoors, radio, reading, playing a game
But confined by the fire, warm but not the same!
Early to bed, it might seem to be alright,
But having to lay there, freezing all night.

Early next morning, I must have slept,
Crawled out of bed so cold, I nearly wept.
Scraped ice from the window so I could see,
But what I saw quite astonished me!

Normally I'd see the light across the street,
But my window was covered, snow fifteen feet!
The front of our house was covered by a drift,
Dad battled all day, all that snow to shift.

Still the snow, all day wafted down,
Flakes were bigger than a silver crown.
Dad remarked "Surely there can't be much more!"
As he clung and stamped inside back door.

That second night turned on the radio
Trying to find when the snow would go.
They said the snow, from Russia it came.
Dad said "Why don't the **** take it back again?"

I cannot remember, but winter seemed so long.
Talk about White Christmas, as in the song.
Lots of things then came to a halt,
Everyone blaming the snow as the fault.

But every time it snows in our land,
Things just seem to get out of hand.
But eventually got back on the track.
Pity really, school took us all back!

Senior School

That long, sultry summer now at an end,
Off to the seniors school, to main road, 'round the bend
Many hundred girls and boys, a frightening place.
In those days not one coloured face!

What learning would this new place bring?
Thinking about their sort of discipline
After a few weeks, found much the same.
Little education, more of the cane.

The cane administered to the naughty sort.
Answer: don't do it, or don't get caught!
Boys and girls treated just as one.
Caught and disciplined for what they'd done.

Don't go home for sympathy and tell your mum.
You must have deserved it, gave you another one.
This sort of discipline never bothered us.
Either toe the line, if not, make no fuss,

One teacher who wouldn't upset the lesson's flow.
Before he started, caned six of us, "Off you go!"
"But sir" we said "we've done nothing wrong!"
"Ar, but I know you will before long!"

I believe each lesson was only twenty minutes or so;
By the time we'd start it was time to go.
Dancing taught, marching forming mixed rings;
We hated girls! They thought us smelly things!

We tried hard in this stupid useless class.
Wrong? Size twelve slippers tanned your arse.
Teachers seemed useless; don't know where they got them.
Sent them to our missed school; started at the bottom.

There another rough game was played.
To play, volunteers we were never made.
Ten to a team, first boy bent, held window sill,
The rest of the team, same behind, and still.

The others leapfrogged over as far as they could.
More and more, as long as the first team stood.
If all ten got on, with no collapse,
The first team were the winning chaps.

First team collapsing under the weight,
They'd had it, try again at a later date.
"British Bulldog" was it the name of this rough?
A couple of goes, all had had quite enough.

Flicking of ciggy cards to a wall,
Nearest one took the cards - yes, one and all!

Childhood - 11+

This year, my last in the junior school just down the street,
Where I knew practically every one in there I'd meet.
Teachers began to talk of an exam called the eleven plus,
And for them, who seemed not to care, they made a fuss!

I asked my mum "What is all this to-do?"
She told me it is so important for you.
Like the teachers, it may decide your future career,
But your past results show you have nothing to fear.

I continued in, lead up to exams, to come in the top three.
Sailed through exams, they never bothered me.
Pass and you will go to the Ipswich Grammar;
There to "Uni", that was just the hammer.

I began to think, fail this one
Future life will be over and done.
Although our form were mostly working class,
Some were very bright; I knew a lot would pass.

Came the day, at desks in the assembly hall,
A strange atmosphere to one and all.
We all did the various test papers.
No calculators, ticked in box capers.

I must admit I was nervous as hell;
I knew I'd pass, but not all that well.
When I got home and told my dad,
"Past work will count, don't worry lad!"

It turned out twenty-two of our class passed.
Earlier results didn't count, just this last.
So many passes and just a few to go, we all knew,
Despite results, all was decided by an interview!

Now, I ask you, when you were just eleven?
Did you know what you wanted at twenty-seven?
Good at drawing, art I decided to select;
My future to be an architect.

Next question, "What was it, my father's job?"
I told him, nervously, a coughing sob.
"My father is a docker, please sir!"
"What kind of doctor?" slight smile infer.

He did this as he ticked the entry box,
I didn't have the guile then, like a fox,
"No sir! Not a doctor - a docker!" I said.
He crossed the papers with ink of red!

So my future was decided right then
When he crossed that paper with that pen.
So I was destined to just the senior school,
Education would not be a future tool.

Looking back, most couldn't afford the uniform;
That then was obviously quite the norm.
At the most, only two or three finally went;
All their dads was a white collar gent!