A Boyhood in Bampton

A Boyhood in Bampton

By Phillip Addison Recollections of growing up in an Oxfordshire village in the 1940s

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A Boyhood in Bampton Recollections of growing up in an Oxfordshire village in the 1940s

By Phillip Addison

A Bampton Archive Publication 3

A Bampton Archive Publication www.bamptonarchive.org

First published March 2014 Revised April 2015

Front cover shows the author during a church choir outing, c. 1947

BCA-15/A April 2015

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A Boyhood in Bampton

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Introduction These are my memories of Bampton in my childhood. No doubt I have forgotten to mention happenings and many people that deserve to be written about; to those who read this and feel that I have been careless in my recollections, or disrespectful to them or their families, I can only say that it was not my intention to write an accurate history of Bampton and its inhabitants, rather a flight of fancy and a nostalgic trip down memory lane for my own amusement and satisfaction. Chances are that this will only be read by my own immediate family so no one will be upset by the undoubted inaccuracies and omissions.

I intend trying the script out firstly on my wife, Margaret, and then to a chosen few to see their reactions. If favourable, who knows? If unfavourable, no-one knows!

Phil Addison

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Moving to Bampton

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was seven years old when we moved to Oxfordshire, so it must have been 1940, when Mum, my brother Michael (who was two years older) and I left our native home of Brighton to be nearer Dad, who was a flight-sergeant instrument maker with the RAF stationed at Brize Norton.

I don’t remember much about leaving Brighton; it wasn’t a particularly traumatic experience. I didn’t think Mum and Dad had done a good ‘public relations’ job when they told us we were only leaving Brighton temporarily and that we would return just as soon as Dad had won the war.

I can remember saying goodbye to my girlfriend who lived in the flat below ours; her name was Hilda Rolfe and we were engaged to be married. I gave her a kiss and my favourite possession - a beautifully carved wooden bear with its nose knocked off! I think that was the most poignant memory I have of that time. Years have gone by and I still think of both of them, but more often of the teddy bear than of Hilda I am afraid.

To begin with we lived with the vicar of Black Bourton, the Reverend Faulger, and his family. That didn’t last long because my brother and I were a little too boisterous for their children. I don’t think we were that bad but I suppose we were poles apart in upbringing and it must be said in mitigation that my brother and I had been released into a completely different world. We came from the confines of a flat with a small square of tired earth, which we called a garden, and were now living in an enormous house in the heart of the countryside with a garden that seemed to us like a park 9

in comparison. We were free! Of course, we went a little wild.

I remember Michael and me coming in one day from play - going into the lounge we found the eldest child (I forget his name) with an almost completed jigsaw puzzle spread out on the carpet. The temptation was too great for us to resist - we kicked the pieces all over the room which sent the little darling running to his mummy crying. It wasn’t long after that episode that the vicar’s lady said to Mum, “Mrs Addison, you are welcome to stay here for as long as you wish, you can have your baby here too (it was news to me) but I just cannot cope with your boys!”

Great jubilation! Dad had found us a cottage to rent over at the neighbouring village called Bampton and Mum and Dad decided to move with us! The rent was six shillings a week, unfurnished, and for ‘Jasmine Cottage’ that was an exorbitant price in those days.

Our furniture was still in Brighton so until arrangements could be made to collect it we moved in with the prospective landlords, Mr Jeffries and his sister, who lived next door.

They were a very ancient couple; Mr Jeffries must have been well over eighty and did nothing except sit in the parlour and smoke from his large selection of briar pipes all day long. Miss Jeffries was about the same vintage, but still had plenty of life in her and did everything about the house that was necessary.

Dad arranged with a haulage contractor called Oakey, from Alvescot, another nearby village, to pick up our chattels from Brighton. He did the job with a cattle truck because there were petrol restrictions in force, whereby removals were limited, but cattle could be moved any distance. Our new 10

Jasmine Cottage

home was No. 6 High Street, Bampton and was, much to Dad’s delight, next door to the New Inn (now Morris Clown).

The New Inn 11

Mum was quite pleased too because now she knew just where to find him at any time.

The Morris Clown

Jasmine Cottage (No. 6) was really quite large; there were two rooms on the ground floor at the front with a passage running between and a large kitchen and cellar at the back.

On the first floor were two bedrooms and above them were the attics, a great place for us kids to play. On the ground floor there was gas lighting and upstairs nothing! Mum must have spent a small fortune on gas mantles because the ceilings were so low they were constantly being knocked off by careless heads. Water was laid on tap to the kitchen but there was no sink, just a bucket.

The toilet or ‘privy’ was at the end of the garden and adjoined the one used by the Jeffries. It was a great place of entertainment if you happened to call when Mr Jeffries was 12

in residence. His trips down the garden were quite rare.

Quite close was the Baptist Chapel and I would often wonder when listening to their rendition of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ if they could hear us clearly!

The Baptist Chapel

The toilets were of the bucket variety so, therefore, needed emptying; there was a collection of shit every Thursday.

Horace Morse had the distinction of being Bampton’s bucket emptier. He toured the street with his horse and a twowheeled bowser trailer making his collections and it is rumoured that he knew the state of everyone’s bowels in 13

Bampton. He could tell just when anyone had changed from Clinch’s beer to Morland’s, or who had been eating too many duck eggs. My brother, Mike, and I used to carry the bucket out to the street to be emptied and it was quite a long trek down our garden, through the Jeffries’, and out to the street.

The bucket was nearly always full to overflowing and, because I was much smaller than my brother, the bucket used to tilt towards me when we carried it. Many were the times I went off to school with a boot full!

Horace Morse outside Jasmine Cottage

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School

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e had to start again sometime and the morning came when Mum took us for our first day at Bampton C. of E. School. It was raining hard and we were togged up in our shiny oilskin coats and sou’westers. ‘Daddy’ Fry was the headmaster and we were ushered into his study for him to record our particulars. Brother Michael was first and his name (which is not really Michael but Claude Albert - poor sod), age, previous standard etc. was entered in the register. Then it was my turn and ‘Daddy’ said to Mum, “and what’s her name?” We hadn’t taken off our sou’westers and to Mum’s mortification I had been mistaken for a girl! I remember whipping my headgear off in such a hurry to show him I was a boy that I nearly pulled my ears off with the elastic chin strap. I don’t think I ever wore it again.

My teacher was called Miss Farman. She taught the next class up from the infants who were taught by Miss Farmer, which caused some confusion.

Miss Farman called to a chunky boy, “Barry, show Phillip his peg”, which was where I was to put my accursed sou’wester and raincoat. That was my first introduction to Barry Taylor and the start of a friendship that lasted many years.

Barry Taylor

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Our appearance on the scene at Bampton didn’t cause much of a stir because with RAF Brize Norton just up the road there were quite a few servicemen with families living in the village.

There were also a number of evacuee children attending Bampton School so we were not the only strangers around.

As is the way of the world, then and now, the children had no trouble settling in and were accepted unquestioningly by the natives. For the adults it was more difficult and there was some friction. I can understand the locals’ attitude as it must have been annoying having strangers invading their privacy, drinking their beer and in many cases stealing their women. All things considered though, we all got along together quite well and Mum and Dad made a lot of friends with both service and civilian families.

My friends too were from varied sources and when I was younger my special playmate was Trevor Wilson. He was the son of a RAF warrant officer called ‘Tug’ and his wife Celia. Our families remained friends for many years.

Later I made friends with local lads; there was Bob Hunt, Barry Taylor, Robert Radband, Terry Rouse, Billy Daniels, Laurence Dixey and ‘Tandy’ Govier.

Bob Hunt

Robert Radband

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Laurence Dixey

Tandy Govier

Bill Daniel

Terry Rouse

These were my closest mates, but there were many more and we had a good healthy relationship between us all.

For a small community there was plenty for us kids to do.

We were out of doors at every opportunity and on reflection I can never remember being bored.

There was a thriving boys’ club night for seniors and juniors held in the old Grammar School, where we played darts, snooker, billiards and table tennis.

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The Grammar School

There was never any trouble, but plenty of the usual ‘horseplay’. I remember coal fuel was very scarce so the games rooms were heated by burning coke and wood logs. Us young kids discovered that by pissing on a coke fire it stank to high heaven and by doing it we wangled our way to an extra game. When your time was up you were hounded off the table, but by pissing on the fire just before your time expired the next set of players coming into the room were often so put off by the smell they waived their game!

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Boy Scouts

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here was the 1st Bampton Boy Scouts too. Tom Beresford, an ex-RAF pilot, was ‘Skip’ and did an excellent job. At one time we had four ‘patrols’, each with about eight boys, led by a ‘patrol leader’ and assisted by a ‘second’. When the scout troop was revived in Bampton we had difficulty in obtaining our uniforms, because no mums wanted to squander their precious clothing coupons on such things, even if they were obtainable. So we had to find out who were members of the scouts before the troop became defunct and scrounge what bits of their uniforms they had kept.

I remember knocking on the door of the Hirons brothers, Pat, Mike and Derrick who lived in Church View, and getting some items, then going to Vernon Cannon, the postman’s son, and begging for his cowboy hat.

Church View 19

Eventually, we got kitted out reasonably well, but we had no camping equipment and it was a long time before we had begged and borrowed (a scout does not steal) enough gear to go camping.

I remember well, going for my Venturers’ badge with Ray Applegate. He was ‘Fox’ patrol leader and I was his ‘second’.

The Venturers’ badge was one of the most difficult and, therefore, one of the most coveted badges obtainable.

Several parts were involved and one was that the candidate had to trek so many miles carrying equipment to camp overnight and return the next day to base. Ray and I chose to go to Charlbury; I am not sure why, perhaps it was because the mileage there and back was just about right to qualify for the badge.

That was some walk. The sun was blazing down and with heavy packs on our backs it was exhausting. At Minster Lovell we had to ask our way because there were no signposts about during the war; they had been removed to confuse the enemy if they ever invaded, though I doubt very much if Hitler would have been interested in visiting Charlbury. We finally got to our destination and pitched our tent in a friendly farmer’s field. It was quite late and I think we scrambled into our blankets and slept without even bothering about a meal, we were that tired.

Next day we breakfasted and afterwards made a drawing of the farm buildings; this was supposedly to be proof to our examiner that we had actually been where we said we had. We struck camp about mid-morning and set off for home, our shoulders still sore from yesterday and my legs so weak that I couldn’t control them. When a chap in a pick-up stopped and offered us a lift, Ray and I looked at one anoth20

er and there was a moment of indecision before we piled in, accepting a lift to Witney.

We had cheated a little because we were supposed to walk the whole way, but we justified it to ourselves by telling each other that Charlbury and back to Bampton was over and above the required mileage, and anyway we still had to walk from Witney to Bampton. I’m not sure if we eventually got our Venturers’ badge, but I did manage to make patrol leader status when Ray Applegate became Assistant Scout Master.

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The Church Choir

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joined the church choir - how angelic we all looked in our surplices and celluloid collars. The boys I remember being in the choir with me were Terry Rouse, Stan Green, Robert Radband, Barry Taylor, Frank Hudson, Wally Woodley and Donald Rouse.

St Mary’s Church Choir, Southsea, 1947

I don’t think any of us could actually sing, but we made a good attempt which seemed to satisfy the choir mistress and organist ‘Cis’ Taunt. There were a number of adults in the choir but I cannot recall many of their names. I do, however, recall Roy Stroud, Jack Bellinger and Warren Green.

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Roy Stroud

Warren Green

I was also a server at Holy Communion - that must have been where I got the taste for booze!

Gregory Bateman was the vicar and a right old tyrant with the boys he was too.

I remember him taking hold of Bob Hunt by the shoulders and shaking him so violently we thought his head was going to fall off, and all because he had turned up late for one of Gregory’s confirmation classes. We were all late but Bob was the only one who had the nerve, or was silly enough, to cheek him. Some of our choir members were bell-ringers too.

Reg Rouse was the captain and I joined but didn’t really get into the swing of it.

Terry Rouse the captain’s son, was a regular ringer but was such a short arse that he had to stand on a wooden box to manage the rope.

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Reg Rouse

Terry Rouse

For the uninitiated, a bell-ringer, or should one use the correct terminology - a campanologist - has to keep control of the bell rope by looping it in one hand whilst pulling with the other.

Bell-ringers Graham Taylor and Emma Somerfield

If one neglects to do this there is a very real danger of the slack rope entwining the ringer’s body and pulling him off his feet. It happened to Terry one practice session and he was taken off his wooden box and so far up in the air we thought he was going to disappear through the rope hole 24

in the belfry roof! He was fortunate to escape with a few bruises and a severe shaking.

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The Bampton Mummers

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t was through my association with the church that I joined Bampton Mummers. Gregory Bateman, the vicar, had asked Ted Hunt who was a pre-war player if he would like to form a new band of players and do his recruiting from the boys of the choir. Ted was in agreement providing his son, Bob, who was not a choir boy, got in on the act.

Robert Radband (l) as Turkish Knight and Terry Rouse as St George the Knight in 1946 Ted Hunt as Old Tom The Tinker in 1976

So the merry band was formed and we began practising our parts using the kitchen of Ted’s house as a rehearsal room.

I was given the part of Father Christmas.

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Bob Hunt had the best characters: Old Tom the Tinker and Bold Little John. Barry Taylor was the Doctor; Bill Daniels was Robin Hood and Jack Finney; Robert Radband was Turkish Knight and Soldier Bold; and Terry Rouse was St George the Knight and the Royal Aprussia King.

There were two acts, that’s why some players had double characters. Father Christmas and Old Tom the Tinker appeared in both acts so Barry and I only had one character to play. Although most of the lads played two different characters, they had one costume to wear; the most ridiculous was Bob Hunt’s costume for Little John and Old Tom the Tinker.

Bob Hunt in the Alvescot Air Scouts

It was women’s clothing consisting of a ‘poke’ bonnet, ankle-length dress, apron and shawl, all of it very old. Why Little John and Old Tom the Tinker should be dressed in 27

drag I don’t know, nor did anyone else; the whole thing was lost in the obscurity of time.

The word ‘Mummer’ is described as being “an actor in a folk play without words”, yet we spoke copiously at great length although not always understanding what we were saying.

Take this piece for instance: “In comes I, Old Tom the Tinker, I ain’t no small beer drinker, I told the landlord to his face the chimney corner was his place, there we sat and dried our face, old Tom Giles and I. Me face was black, me beard was long, me hat tied on with a leathering thong.

So if you please all you ladies and gentlemen would you give me a copper or two to get me beard cut and go to church on Sunday with.

As I was walking down a wide, narrow, straight, crooked lane I met a pig with a horse’s mane, I went down a bit further and came across a pig sty built with pancakes and thatched with apple dumplings. I thought it all very well for trade so knocks on the door, open flew the maid, the pig began to shake and the house began to roar, she asked me if I’d like to eat half a pint of ale and drink a piece of bread and cheese; I said no thank you, but just as you please.

I went a bit further and came across two old women a snip-snapping [gossiping]. One cut a barleycorn through a ten foot wall and knocked the bottom out of a cast iron pot and killed a poor dead dog; I has pity on this poor dead dog, so I turns him outwards, slap bang outwards, sat him on top of Buckland Hill a barking backwards.”

The Bampton Mummers confined their activities to a few 28

days before Christmas and we would do a few performances in each of the pubs (there were eleven of them in those days): The Elephant and Castle, The Wheatsheaf and The Horse Shoe (all in Bridge Street); The Eagle (Church View); The Talbot and The Lamb (both in Market Square); The George and Dragon (Cheapside); The Malt Shovel Inn (Lavender Square); The Jubilee and The New Inn (now The Morris Clown) (both in the High Street); and The Swan (Buckland Road).

The Elephant and Castle

The Wheatsheaf 29

The Horse Shoe

The Eagle

The Talbot

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The George and Dragon

The Malt Shovel Inn

The Swan

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We were also open to invitation to appear at any private house and were always well received.

I remember us going to give a performance at a large house called “Little Place” that was owned by a film director and they had a house full of guests, mostly connected with acting, so we had to give our best.

“Little Place”

We gave them the performance of a lifetime and they really appreciated our efforts by giving generously to our collection box and plying us with food and drink. At the end of the visit the lady of the house begged us to return on the following evening for a repeat performance - she was so insistent that we decided to rearrange our schedule to accommodate them. Next day, on the appointed hour we were at the door of “Little Place” looking forward to another evening of the company of fellow entertainers, eager to receive their praise and more eager still to receive the many goodies we anticipated being showered upon us. What a let-down! The door was opened by the lady of the house, who looked from one to the other questioningly. Someone said, “The Bampton Mummers, Madam” and she said, “Yes?” It turned out that 32

the day before she and all her guests had been so ‘blotto’ that they couldn’t remember us giving the performance of a lifetime and certainly she didn’t remember asking us back for a repeat!

Another memory of my Mumming days is when we gave a performance in the Women’s Institute Hall.

The WI Hall

The place was packed, with the children in the audience sitting in the front seats. I had barely got out the opening line of “In comes I, Old Father Christmas, welcome or welcome not”, when a shrill clear voice sounded around the hall. “HE’S GOT MY DAD’S BOOTS ON!”. The voice belonged to a little girl called Betty Court - I had borrowed her father’s beautiful flying boots especially for the occasion. Thank goodness I had my false beard on to cover my embarrassment.

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War and School

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’m afraid I have digressed somewhat and moved too rapidly. I was fourteen or so when I joined the Mummers so the year would be 1947. I would like to take you back once more to the time we first moved into Bampton in 1940 I was seven, my brother Mike nine, as mentioned previously.

Mum was heavily pregnant and was hoping for a girl. I wasn’t at all interested - I would rather have had a dog!

We were plagued by mice in Jasmine Cottage and Dad, more than anyone, waged war on them, for on one memorable occasion he had one run up his trouser leg - on the inside - which could have meant the end of Mother’s pregnancies!

One night Dad conceived (forgive the pun) a brilliant idea to catch the mice. We had a nut-cracker in the shape of a dog, the mouth of which opened by raising the tail - the nut was placed in the dog’s mouth and cracked by pushing down the tail - hey presto!

Dad’s brainwave was to have the tail propped up by placing a match box under it. A piece of string was attached to the match box at one end - the bait was also tied to the match box then placed in the dog’s mouth. The theory was that when the mouse snatched the bait the matchbox was dislodged, the tail came down and the mouth would close on the poor unsuspecting victim - ingenious. Brother Michael

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and I were not all that impressed but didn’t voice our doubts to Dad, not wanting to hurt his feelings. However, when he got us out of our beds the next day with an excited “come and see what we’ve caught in the mouse trap,” we were prepared to believe in his invention. Dad took us into his bedroom, where Mum was still lying, to reveal the catch - a beautiful baby girl who we were told was called Sally. The date was 31st December 1940.

War had been declared just over a year before, but at that time it was described as ‘the phoney war’. I remember when it was announced on the radio, we were still in Brighton and I went outside the house looking up into the clear blue skies trying to spot the invading hordes of Nazi paratroopers that I expected to fall immediately. I thought it was only a matter of minutes before the German soldiers would be breaking into our homes, eating our babies and raping our women folk.

I clearly remember what must have been the first air raid on the south coast. Mum was taking Michael and me to see Auntie Rita who lived in Port Slade. We were walking from the bus terminal when the air raid warning siren sounded - that alone frightened us almost to death - and in minutes the air seemed to be full of aeroplanes with engines screaming at full pitch.

Mum grabbed both of us by the hand and we ran. Suddenly, we were aware of thudding noises and terror welled up inside me as I realised it was the sound of bullets hitting the road behind us. Mum half dragged us down a narrow road between the houses and when we emerged at the other end a woman, in the doorway of a house opposite, seeing our plight, called out for us to shelter with her. We tumbled through the front door and Michael, stepping on the door 35

mat, slid right across the highly polished linoleum floor and crashed into the wall at the end of the room. I think it was the only time I laughed that day. The lady of the house ushered us at first into the ground-floor bathroom - she thought we would be safer there because there was less glass to fly around. Later we moved into the kitchen because there was more room to stretch out over the floor, and as the woman said as she stood dramatically at the window with arms stretched out in supplication, “Oh well, we are in God’s hands”. The raid didn’t last long, but whilst it did the noise was terrific and we saw quite a lot of the battle - at one point we saw a fighter - theirs or ours I couldn’t say - going down in a mass of flames. The ‘all clear’ siren went and with our thanks to the lady we continued on our way to Auntie Rita’s.

In the streets there was an air of great excitement and after the noise of the planes and sirens all seemed strangely quiet. When we arrived back at the place where we had started running, we saw a family with a picnic basket open in the road. They were digging machine gun bullets from the tarmac with knives and forks.

Back in ‘Bampton-in-the-Bush’ all was quiet although there was plenty of activity in the way of preparation. The whole area was saturated with soldiers and their equipment - roads were completely blocked with tanks, Bren gun carriers and other vehicles. There was feverish haste in the building of road blocks and pillboxes sprang up overnight. It seemed all-in-all a tremendously exciting time for us kids.

The air force at Brize Norton was busy too, flying all hours with a variety of aircraft and gliders. They were, as far as I can remember, attacked only once on that occasion. Dad came home afterwards with a brand new crown above his sergeant’s stripes, making him a Flight Sergeant. He kidded 36

us that he was promoted for bravery during the air raid.

We later learnt that during the attack he was cowering under a workshop bench with a little WAAF (Women’s Auxiliary Air Force). Another time Dad was seen swaggering down Bampton High Street with a parachute and harness over his uniform. In answer to our eager questions he said that he had cadged a lift in an aircraft from Grantham, where he was stationed temporarily, and because the pilot wouldn’t stop he had bailed out over Bampton. Of course, we believed him at the time but what had actually happened was that the aircraft had landed at Lyneham, Wiltshire and he had hitch-hiked from there. He had to carry the parachute because it was issued to him and would have to be returned to stores and wearing it was the simplest means of carrying it.

Dad used to cycle to and from the RAF camp at Brize Norton and once he came home with his eyebrow split wide open.

He began to tell us of some heroic deed he was involved in but gave up when he realised we had smelt his breath and he admitted he was under the influence and had gone over the handlebars. A regular Walter Mitty was our Dad! One glorious day I was idly watching a Wellington Bomber flying over and wondering what it was like up there when there was an explosion and it disintegrated before my eyes.

I was horrified to see bodies among the wreckage that was falling, seemingly in slow motion. The plane fell in fields in Weald. I cycled to the scene and was amongst the first to arrive, but not quite, for Graham Taylor, our patrol leader, was camping with his Boy Scout troop in the next field. It was a very close thing for them.

The fuselage was intact but burning fiercely. Ammunition 37

was exploding in the heat but no one seemed bothered by it. None of the crew survived. One poor chap I saw left the shape of his body in the turf about two inches deep before bouncing yards away where he was eventually covered with his parachute, away from the prying eyes of the hordes of people that were now arriving. The civil and RAF police were soon on the scene and they quickly cleared the civilians from the area. There were many such incidents during the war but in the country we saw nothing of the horror and devastation experienced by people in the cities.

We found plenty to laugh about though, like the time when Mum, Michael and I were sitting having dinner. There was a tremendous crash and the whole house shook. We all dived under the table, terrified, waiting for the next bomb to drop, but it didn’t, nothing happened and we waited and waited until finally I got fed up with the cramped conditions and went cautiously outside to see what was going on. As previously mentioned, we lived next door to The New Inn and between the two buildings was a gap for deliveries to the rear of the pub. All that had happened was that a brewer’s dray had lost a wheel and its load of barrels had collapsed against the wall of our cottage. Talk about shell shock!

Between Jasmine Cottage and The Morris Clown 38

There wasn’t a lot of food in the shops, but there was enough to survive and living in the country there was quite often a rabbit in the stew pot to augment the meagre meat ration.

On Mondays, Mum used to pool the Sunday leftovers with her friend, Audrey Court, who lived over the road from us.

They used to throw the lot into a large pot and the resulting bubble and squeak was shared between the two families rather like Jesus and the feeding of the five thousand.

Audrey Court

In September 1942, Granny Addison, from Brighton, was staying with us because another important event was imminent - Mum was expecting again. Dad was overheard saying it was the local brew that was doing it - Mum seemed to think it was the Bampton air! Whatever the cause, the outcome was the same - Sonia.

Gran brought her downstairs wrapped in a white shawl for 39

us kids to look over. I remember wondering who had the most wrinkles, Gran or Sonia. There was no doubt who had the strongest pair of lungs! Having babies during the war was great because expectant and nursing mothers had extra rations in the form of concentrated orange juice and cod liver oil. We allowed the girls to drink as much of the cod liver oil as they could, but I don’t suppose the poor mites tasted much of the orange juice.

When Sonia was born I was about nine years old and brother Michael was twelve, and he was now attending Burford Grammar School. I was in Miss Hobbs’ class - ‘Old Merle’ as we kids called her - in Bampton. Merle had about forty of us to teach - a pretty hopeless task it must have seemed to her.

We made her life a misery sometimes, but by God she could retaliate with feeling! To see Merle Hobbs charging down the aisle between desks, intent on punishing some unfortunate miscreant, would strike fear into the stoutest of hearts and when she reached her victim after trampling or pushing aside a dozen other children she would proceed to shake him or her (there was no distinction between sexes) until she became exhausted and would throw the evil doer from her like a rag doll.

Pupils took the grammar school entrance exam whilst under the tender care of Miss Hobbs and I believe the reason she had so many failures was because she shook so many of her charges’ brains out. The year I took the exam, which I was expected to pass with ease, not one candidate was accepted for a place. Most parents were like mine and received the news with a philosophical shrug of the shoulders to hide their disappointment. Some, however, took a different attitude; one girl’s mum for instance came to the school and hammered on the classroom door demanding an explanation from Miss Hobbs as to why her daughter had failed 40

the exam.

I used to sit next to Eileen Batts in class - she would help me with arithmetic and I would reciprocate by helping her when it came to drawing. We once had to do a drawing of the Coronation throne. I finished mine in no time at all but Eileen was struggling and asked me for help, so I drew hers too. When it came to marking, my drawing was given a ‘good’ and Eileen’s was ‘excellent’!

Laurence Dixey and I both used to vie for Eileen’s affections.

He lived down Buckland Road by Fisher’s Bridge and used to call for me with his younger brothers and we would run to school together. We would stop on the way at Constables bakery and get a ha’penn’orth’ (half-penny’s worth – 240d made £1) of lardy chippings.

Constable’s Bakery

These were pieces of lardy cake which had broken off and were delicious. We used to cram as much as we could into us during the run from the bakery to school. The rest we would stuff into our pockets before class.

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Tony Allam at Constable’s Bakery

When strawberries were in season, ‘Dicko’, as Laurence was nicknamed, would always bring a large one in for Eileen Batts, but because he was so shy he would ask me to give it to her. Sometimes I would eat it myself and sometimes I would give it to Eileen, but I never told her its origin. Poor old Dicko surely must have thought she was the most ungrateful girl.

Another girl in the class was Rita Elvis, an evacuee from London. She was a lovely little thing with a mass of freckles.

She put her hand in the air one day, indicating to Miss Hobbs that she wanted to be excused. As always, Merle ignored her and eventually told her to wait until playtime. Rita sat it out for a while and then raised her hand again and once more was told to wait, which she did for some time, then tinkle, tinkle, clouds of steam and Rita had pissed herself.

About this time Daddy Fry, the popular headmaster, retired.

The whole school was assembled for his farewell presenta42

tion and when he got up to say a few words he broke down and cried. I remember thinking I’d be darned if I would cry when I left school.

Mr Owens was the new headmaster and on his second day in office I assisted him in establishing a name for himself.

He caught me and a couple of others throwing stones and we had to report to his study for punishment. I was elected to go in first and had the doubtful distinction of being the first boy to be caned by him at Bampton. After the caning we had to join our class in the singing lesson and we were greeted with eager questioning from our classmates.

“How many did you get – did it hurt?” etc. We boastfully declared that we didn’t feel a thing, which we didn’t - for a few minutes - and then, WOW! Great stinging welts came up on our hands and we were thankful that the singing of the others disguised our own groans and moans of pain.

Our Mr Owens was re-christened that day by me - I called him a crusty old sod and the name ‘Crusty’ stuck and he was branded with it for the rest of his career.

Mr. J. L. Hughes Owens 43

There were some highly humorous times at school and if it hadn’t been for lessons I would have considered staying on. There was the time when one of the boys asked how the fire extinguisher in the woodwork room worked. ‘Tandy’ Govier told him the plunger had to be struck on the floor and the boy said, “What like this?” The extinguisher went off like a rocket with the poor unfortunate wretch hanging on grimly, trying to direct the jet to an area of the room that wouldn’t show to the temporarily absent woodwork master - Mr Jones I think he was called. The extinguisher looked as though it would still be going off at home time, so when someone shouted that the master was returning, it was hastily pushed into a large tool cabinet and the doors shut on it.

Tandy Govier

The misdemeanour was not discovered until the next lesson when ‘Jonesy’ went to the cupboard to issue tools and found the inside of the cabinet curiously stained and his prized collection of tools covered in rust. I cannot remember the outcome of this episode but it couldn’t have been pleasant.

How about the time that we were having PT in the classroom because it was raining outside? ‘Chippy’ was partner44

ing a girl in an exercise whereby they were sitting astride the bench-type double seat, facing one another with hands joined. First one, then the other would lean backwards in a see-saw action. They were doing well until Chippy, obviously carried away by enthusiasm, or whatever, leaned back and his flies burst open introducing a new and very alert member to the classroom!

Once we were gardening and had been paired off to work grubbing out some shrubs bordering the playground. My workmate was a John Smith, from Clanfield. I had a fork and was attacking the roots of our particular shrub with great gusto, working the soil loose so that John could shovel it out more easily.

The school gardens

I was raising the fork as high as possible and bringing it down with all my might. In mid-flight I turned to speak to the pair of boys working alongside and when I resumed in the downward stroke, looking as I did so for the target, I saw not the roots of the shrub but the back of John Smith’s neck!

45

He had gone down on hands and knees and was clearing the roots with his bare hands. I couldn’t hold back but must have shouted a warning for John pulled his head away in time. Unfortunately, he left his hands there and I drove the fork straight through one of them. We had quite a struggle getting his hand off the end of my fork, John tugging one way and me the other. All he said was, “Look what you’ve done”. I told him it was his own stupid fault, but from that day on he never gave me another ‘hand’!

Although we had christened Mr Owens ‘Crusty’ he wasn’t a bad sort really and I am sure he worked hard at this headship. Like all new brooms he made some sweeping changes and one of his best innovations, I think, was dividing the school into four houses. They were called, ‘Talbot’, ‘Leofric’, ‘Valence’ and ‘Horde’ and the respective colours were Red, Green, Blue and Yellow. The houses were named after Bampton’s Lords of the Manor in medieval times, I think.

For confirmation of this I would recommend reading Mr Owens’ very interesting book - “The Bampton We Have Lost”.

I have a personal vote of thanks to Crusty as he encouraged me in the only thing I was good at in school - art. Under his guidance and genuine interest I cultivated what talent I had been born with and although I have never produced any great works, the interest he instilled in art for me has remained ever since. I did once produce something which was exhibited in Oxford Town Hall. It was entitled “Addison’s Nightmare” and after the exhibition it was returned to Crusty and he had it hanging in his study for years.

We had an art competition at school for a bit of fun and the prize offered for the best drawing was a football. It wasn’t really much of a prize because it was extremely ancient hav46

ing been kicked around Bampton school for generations. It had no lace, which didn’t matter too much because it had no bladder either! (For the uninitiated I ought to explain that in my day footballs were inflated by blowing up an inner rubber bladder, the tube of which was tied and tucked under a tongue inside the leather casing; the hole was then laced up.) It was impossible to obtain such things as football bladders during the war years, so when it was duly presented to me, as winner of the competition, we stuffed it tight with newspapers and it served us quite well.

I wasn’t much good at football but did at one stage become captain of the Talbot House team (I think we must have taken turns). We played our matches in the field behind the school buildings, (Sandford’s field) but it wasn’t an ideal situation.

Sandford’s Field

There were goal posts but no nets and consequently the ball quite often ended up lost in the gardens of private houses. Along one side of the field there was a ditch where the 47

ball had to be retrieved at least a dozen times during the course of a game. Then one had the problem of ‘throwing in’ with frog-spawn running down the back of your neck.

Retrospectively speaking, the funniest thing was that every so often during any game on that field, the master would blow on his whistle temporarily bringing everything to a halt to enable an old man and his dog, or a little old lady and her shopping bag, to cross the pitch; our field was bisected from corner to corner by a public footpath!

Every school has its bully and Bampton was no exception.

Our bully was Tom Bishop. All the boys would speak the name with reverence and even the teachers walked in awe.

Our bully was different than the usual - our bully was a girl!

Tom came from a large family in Aston and had to fight to survive at home, so she kept herself in shape by knocking hell out of everyone at school.

Kids from the outlying villages of Brize Norton, Black Bourton, Clanfield and Aston came to Bampton School from the age of eleven. The ruling then was that transport had to be provided for any child attending school more than two miles away from home - the transport being bicycles. It was a constant bone of contention that the pupils from Aston didn’t qualify for bikes because they were about a yard short of the two miles. They either had to walk to school or their parents had to buy bikes out of their own pockets. There was the expected scrapping between the various village children and us Bamptonians regarded everyone else as foreigners and usurpers. Feudal wars were constant. My own particular war was fought with Frank Fitchett of Aston. We used to take turns beating one another up.

Bampton’s biggest fight, however, was waged against Weald.

Our gang, which was called the ‘New Road Gang’, had their 48

headquarters in the ‘dump field’. This was in the New Road area which is now called Pocock’s Close and The Pieces. In those days it was a disused gravel pit that had reverted to nature and sprouted dozens of willow trees. It was used as a metal dump and as a playground for the local kids. One day Bob Hunt and I, who were the youngest members of our gang, had been detailed to dig trenches whilst the elders were having a ‘pow-wow’ planning their next raid on Weald. We were industriously digging away, bemoaning the fact that we were not allowed to join the council of war, when suddenly Bob became silent. I looked up to see why, because usually nothing stopped him talking, and saw that he was transfixed by the sight of a face peering through the long grass. It was Ernie Hunt from Weald and between his teeth was a wicked looking butcher’s knife. We didn’t wait to see what he intended doing with it; we ran off as fast as our little legs would carry us to warn our leaders of the invasion. The war council listened to our tale then, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour; we all went home to tea.

Poor Bob Fearn, another member of our gang, couldn’t run as fast as the rest of us, as he was fat. He was captured during a skirmish and tortured by the Weald gang. When they released him he came back to our camp with tears pouring down his cheeks and rose hip thorns embedded in the palm of his hand.

Bob, his parents and younger sister Beth, were originally from Australia and after the war was over returned there.

We corresponded for a while and once he sent me a present of a boomerang, but it wasn’t an omen for he never came back - correction - I believe he did just once.

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The Benedikz family came to live in Home Farm, High Street.

Home Farm, High Street Bampton

They were Icelanders and Mr Benedikz was head of the Icelandic Shipping Legation in London. There were four boys in the family, Benedict, John, Lavefer and Thosey; and a fifth (another case of Bampton air) Peter, who was to come along later. Benedict was nicknamed ‘Bendgy’. He was what you might call eccentric and there were some that said he was barmy. He loved opera and would sing arias in a very fine tenor, anywhere and at any time. John kept his English name but his younger brothers were renamed Michael and David. John was about my age and we became good friends.

Home Farm was marvellous for kids, the house was a rambling old place and we were allowed to roam all over it. We were given free rein over the farmyard too - the Benedikz didn’t farm but let the buildings out to Reg Rouse who was just starting up his own farm after being farm manager to George Collins at Weald. One day John and I were in what 50

was once the dairy attached to the house. All sorts used to be thrown in there and amongst the paraphernalia was a traveller’s trunk. It was brass bound, very strong with multiple locks. It was big enough to hold a body and we were discussing whether it would be possible to stow away inside it. John was sure there was plenty of room, so I suggested he tried it out for size. In he crawled (the fool) and as soon as he was comfortable I closed the lid and fastened it so that he couldn’t get out. After a few minutes a muffled voice asked to be released and after a few more minutes (about ten), I thought I had better let him out because he was getting slightly agitated. It was then I discovered that the fastener was self-locking and there was no key. Panic stations!

Reg Rouse

My first instinct was to run and deny all knowledge of the crime when they found the body, but then sanity returned and I began to think constructively on ways to get him out.

In the entrance hall of the house the walls were decorated with antique swords and I grabbed one of these and began 51

trying to force the lock. All I succeeded in doing was to bend the sword. I finally decided to go to Mrs Benedikz and tell her John had locked himself in the trunk. She wasn’t upset about it until she realised she hadn’t got the key, and then it was her turn to panic. “Stop shouting John,” she said, “you will use up all the air,” then she began frantically searching the house from top to bottom looking for the key, but with no success. She sat down in the hall, exhausted, her panic stricken eyes staring at the wall for inspiration. I was about to tell her that I had already tried the swords when instead she reached for the telephone and dialled the Icelandic Shipping Legation. Mr Benedikz knew exactly where the key could be found and within minutes Mrs Benedikz was turning it in the lock. With trembling fingers she opened the trunk and John came slowly out, bent double with cramp, sweating buckets and gasping for air. I expected Mrs ‘B’ to clutch him to her bosom and comfort him, but instead she said, “you naughty boy,” and smacked him hard on his bowed head. I felt like explaining to her that it was me that ought to have been punished but, being a devout coward, I said nothing. Even so, John and I remained friends.

About this time I got myself a Saturday morning job with Gills the butcher as errand boy, delivering meat to the customers’ homes.

Jack Gills was loathed to take me on at first as he didn’t think I looked strong enough to manage the bike with a loaded basket. I can’t blame him for that because I was a sickly-looking thing in those days. I suffered quite badly with asthma and had the thin pinched look of all asthmatics. However, against his better judgement, I was taken on at sixpence for the morning’s work, plus whatever bits and pieces Jack could scrape up at the end of the morning’s trad52

ing - usually it was a couple of bits of liver and a few slices of ham or corned beef. Whatever it was, Mum was pleased to have it to augment the meagre rations.

The site of Mr Gills’ butchery business

On my first morning as an errand boy, Jack carried out the basket and it was so heavy that the back wheel of the bike came off the ground. I had to sit on the saddle clutching the railings outside the shop to counterbalance the weight.

When I set off I only got a few yards down the road and lost control. I fell off and the basket emptied its contents all over the High Street. Luckily the accident happened just outside Home Farm - the Benedikz’s - and John helped me to shovel all the meat back into the basket then carry it inside to sort it all out. What a job! Each joint of meat had the customer’s name and delivery note secured by a small skewer, many of which had become dislodged and we had to try to match them up correctly. Most of the joints had become ‘road soiled’ so we washed the gravel from them under the kitchen tap. Eventually, we got it all back together again and I was on my way once again, this time with my arse firmly 53

on the saddle. If any customers that day received a joint of beef and were invoiced only for a pound of mince they didn’t complain - at least I didn’t get to hear of it - so we must have done a reasonable job.

Dad had been on a visit to Brighton and came home with a beautiful puppy - its mother had been a pure bred Manchester terrier that had disgraced herself. We called the pup Suzie, but Mum said it ought to have been ‘Soona’ because she said it would sooner shit on the mat than go outside. We already had a tom cat called Tim. Michael and I thought of a novel way of getting the two off to a friendly start - he held Suzie and I held Tim and we rubbed their noses together. Tim didn’t really want to know, but submitted to the indignity, and just as we were thinking they were going to get along, Tim let out a wild yell and leaping from my grasp he fastened his claws on either side of my face, one on each ear, and hung there as I ran round and round the table screaming blue murder. Tim’s weight and my antics caused him to slide gradually down my face until he eventually slid off the end of my jaw, leaving bloody furrows in his wake.

Tim and Suzie never, ever hit it off. Suzie was willing to be friends but not Tim, he was always a bit wild and given to spending nights out on the tiles, so now he stayed away more than usual to keep out of Suzie’s way. When we eventually moved out of No. 6 High Street into a council house we couldn’t get Tim to stay with us. He kept going back to his old haunts and we finally gave up trying to keep him.

Often I would see him around and he would always make a great fuss over me, but he could never be ‘persuaded’ to change his lifestyle.

Then the Yanks descended upon the quiet of Bampton-inthe-Bush; they were billeted everywhere and anywhere 54

and were of all creeds and colours - mostly black. For the Bamptonians these were the first black men they had ever seen and, after the initial shock, they were accepted by everyone in the village with open arms - and by some with open legs too!

They were a good crowd and as far as I can remember they never caused any trouble, and were very generous to us kids with their ‘candy’. I made a particular friend of one of them.

I nicknamed him Pansy Potter because his hair stuck up and out just like a character of that name featured in my weekly comic the Beano. I used to have to take my comic to his billet, which was upstairs in the Women’s Institute Hall, where he and his mates would curl up laughing over Pansy Potter’s predicaments.

Once a week the soldiers would draw their rations of cigarettes and sweets. They used to queue across the floor of the WI Hall and most would have an ‘adopted’ kid on tow patiently waiting for candies or chewing gum. The Yanks were supposedly rationed but they wasted or gave away in a week more than the locals saw in a month. I remember once clambering on the back of a troop carrier parked in Broad Street; the floor was inches thick in all manner of goodies that they had just thrown away. There were biscuits, sweets, cigarettes, chewing gum and French letters (condoms) all still wrapped and, in the case of the latter, unused. Any boys that had older brothers, or fathers that they could broach on the subject, could make a fortune. They do say that there’s ‘money in muck’ and it’s as true a saying as ever it was.

Another memory that makes me smile is of the day three or four of us had been playing in the woods at the bottom of ‘Mount Owen’. We had started off back home when a thun55

derstorm struck so we belted across a field and dived into a Dutch barn for shelter from the torrential rain. We had been there a few minutes before becoming aware we were not the only occupants. There came a rustling high up in the stacked straw bales and a girl, who shall be nameless, appeared. At first we thought she was alone, but then, as our eyes became accustomed to the gloom, we saw that her companion was a ‘chocolate coloured’ soldier from the USA! He didn’t seem at all glad of our company and kept asking pointed questions like, ‘What time do you boys have tea?’

We got the feeling that he wanted us to leave and being boys we thought we would make him sweat a little. We told him our tea wasn’t until 5 o’clock, knowing full well that it was then only about 4 o’clock. He was equal to us though for his rejoinder was, “Well, it’s a quarter after that already!” “Hey you guys,” he said, “it’s almost stopped raining, if you run now you won’t get too wet.” Eventually, we tired of keeping him in suspense and left them to get on with whatever it was we had interrupted.

Jasmine Cottage was next door to the New Inn in High Street and, as I have said before, they had some American soldiers billeted in the outbuildings there. Michael and I used to sit on the dividing wall and watch the goings-on in the pub yard and if blackmail had been our business we could have retired by the end of the war! Our lips then were sealed (usually with American chewing gum) and I have no intention of telling tales now. In the uncertain and worrying time of war no blame can be attached to those who indulged in the odd indiscretion, especially when there was the incentive of a pair of silk stockings, chocolates or a carton of 200 Camel or Lucky Strike cigarettes.

There were always two guards posted outside the New Inn 56

yard’s double gates and Michael and I would spend a little time most nights trying to relieve them of their ‘candy’ ration. “Got any gum chum?” was always the opening gambit and invariably we would leave them with our mouths stuffed full. On one occasion we had tried without success to beg some chewing gum and were walking away when one of the sentries called, “Hey, have you guys got any sisters?”

When I said, “yes we have three”, they were all over us, digging deep into their pockets and emptying them of all the goodies they had. They wanted to know our sisters’ names and then, with eyes wide in anticipation, how old they were.

We were moving away from them when I answered that Sally was four, Sonia two and Jean a baby. I’m sure they would have shot us if we hadn’t been so quick in getting out of range!

I have just mentioned sister Jean’s existence almost in passing; the truth is I cannot remember the event of her birth at all. All I know is that she first opened her eyes in No. 6 High Street on 5th February 1945. Perhaps I didn’t pay much attention at the time because her arrival into the world was overshadowed by other more important happenings, that is, in the eyes of a twelve-year-old boy; or maybe I was getting used to Mum presenting us with a baby girl every two years. Had she produced a boy then I might have shown some interest.

Before continuing with events in 1945, I must record that in the previous year Dad had been discharged from the RAF as being medically unfit for active service. He had undergone major surgery at RAF Wroughton where the surgeons had removed a considerable part of his lung. Dad had always suffered from asthma; in fact he most certainly wouldn’t have been accepted for military service if there hadn’t been a war on. Now with limited lung capacity his breathing problems 57

worsened and on the 18th February 1944, 351092 Flight Sergeant Addison CA became a civilian again. However, he continued working as an instrument maker with the RAF so nothing really changed, except his clothes - he was no longer in uniform.

58

War is Over

O

n 7th May 1945 German envoys unconditionally surrendered - the war in Europe was over. VE (Victory in Europe) Day was celebrated throughout the country and not the least in Bampton-in-the-Bush. When the news of the German surrender was announced everyone, as if by pre-arrangement, gathered in the Market Square. The air was vibrant with frenzied excitement; I had never seen so many happy, smiling faces. The church steeple shook with vibration from the bell-ringers’ enthusiasm and the beer flowed faster than Mill stream. An airman took off his hat and went around the merrymakers collecting money in it, “for all the kiddies in the square” he cried and the crowd responded with magnificent generosity. When his cap was full to overflowing the airman marched off down Broad Street like the Pied Piper of Hamelin with all the kids following. As he walked he threw handfuls of money over his shoulder for us to scramble for; I think I picked up around twelve shillings and sixpence (62.5p) which was an enormous amount in those days.

It was a mad, spontaneous, wonderful day that still brings a warm glow of pleasure whenever I recall it. I wonder where that airman is now and if he remembers that day as vividly as I do. Wherever he is I would like the opportunity of saying a special thank-you for making VE Day so memorable for ‘all the kiddies in the square’.

On 6th August 1945 an American bomber released an atomic bomb on the Japanese town of Hiroshima which killed 78,000 people and injured as many more. On 9th August another was dropped on Nagasaki. The following day the 59

Japanese government sued for peace and on 14th August accepted the allied terms. VJ (Victory over Japan) was celebrated with tremendous relief, but the festivities didn’t reach the same proportions as those for VE Day. In Bampton the flags were out and a massive bonfire was lit in Market Square, but I don’t remember much jollification.

Perhaps the populace were beginning to realise that it was going to take many years of rationing and hardship to recover from the six years we had been at war. Perhaps too the obscenity and futility of war was becoming apparent, as the full casualty figures were being released. The British armed forces lost over 300,000 killed and many more wounded.

Over 60,000 civilians lost their lives. Astronomical though these figures are, they are only a fraction of those killed in the First World War. Take a look at Bampton’s war memorial, or any other, and you will see that in the First World War (to end all wars) many more lives were lost than in the Second World War (to end all wars). Yet it is said that the 1939-45 war was far more brutal than the 1914-18 war.

Today it is difficult to imagine the sufferings brought upon the Jews by Adolf Hitler and his Nazi regime. They set out to systematically exterminate the whole Jewish race because the Germans believed them to be sub-human. The horrifying fact is that they almost succeeded, for six million Russian Jews alone perished in Nazi concentration camps.

Sometime in 1946 an errand boy’s job became available at GW Thompsons, one of the four grocers in business at Bampton. The others were Duttons, Eeles and Knowles.

Thompsons had the building, reputedly one of the oldest in Bampton, where the Romany pub and restaurant is situated today.

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Thompson Family Butcher

Jerry Horne was the outgoing errand boy who now had a job on the land. Jerry had inherited the job of errand boy from his brother, Lewis, and now recommended me for the position to Fred Tongue, the boss. In those days, as today, it wasn’t what you knew, but who! Mum was instrumental in me getting the job too, for she threatened to take her custom elsewhere and not to settle what she owed into the bargain. That was the time when shops would let their customers have things ‘on tick’ and hope to be paid at the end of the week.

‘Freddy’ Tongue was adopted by the Thompsons’ as a young lad and had gradually taken over the business, although Mrs Thompson (Edith) was still actively involved. Fred took some convincing that I was man enough, but agreed to give me a trial. I used to work initially every evening after school and all day Saturday, delivering groceries, for the princely sum of seven shillings (35p).

61

.

The author on G.W. Thompson’s delivery bicycle

Fred was a bit of a task master, but having been an errand boy himself knew all the wrinkles. At the time I know I used to bemoan the fact that I never had as much free time as some of my friends had, but looking back I realise how much I enjoyed the life.

Besides Fred Tongue and Mrs Thompson serving in the shop there was Maurice Wilkinson, an assistant with whom I got on well. His favourite trick was to crack an egg into the vinegar measure and swallow it in one gulp - he reckoned they tasted just like oysters. I never could understand why the gentry would pay so much for oysters when they could get hens’ eggs that tasted just the same for a fraction of the cost from G.W. Thompson’s.

If there were no groceries to deliver I was allowed to work 62

in the shop and for this, Mrs Tongue, who Fred, but no-one else, called ‘Tiny’, would fit me out in a crisply laundered white apron, the hem of which would brush my shoes and the strings would go three times around my insignificant middle. However, I thought I looked the part and delighted in rushing about the shop acting important. I wasn’t allowed to serve the customers but would assist in getting up the orders for delivery and restacking shelves, etc. Getting the orders together was my favourite job. We used to assemble the articles on a long trestle table and tick them off the order form as we went along. When complete, the order was checked and then boxed ready for despatch. I used to try not to make any mistakes and it became a matter of great personal pride to have my orders checked with no items missing.

I remember the system well - the assembler would tick each item as it was ‘got up’, then when it was checked the tick was crossed. It was a matter of great amazement to me to find I had made up the orders with very few errors.

There were, of course, some jobs I loathed; the worst was weighing up the chicken mash. No matter how careful one was the dust would fly everywhere and with my asthmatic chest I would end up wheezing like a broken-down cob horse. I ought to explain about this chicken mash, it was basically corn meal. Most families kept a few hens down the bottom of the garden to augment their rations and were issued with a card in order to draw mash to mix with the household scraps the birds were fed on. We used to keep a few hens at home and I can still remember the revolting smell of old potato peelings and such, being cooked in the kitchen.

Delivering, of course, was my main employment and the 63

first job in the evenings was to collect the milk (just for the household) from Pinnock’s dairy in Weald. I used to look forward to going there just to be served by Brenda, the land girl. She had such an effect on me it’s a wonder the milk didn’t curdle. George Shears was the errand boy at Dutton’s next door and he and I would race to see who could get to the dairy and the beautiful Brenda first. I don’t think for a moment that she had any notion of the turmoil in our minds and the rivalry between us, but if she did, would she have felt flattered, or would she have laughed off the fantasies of a couple of 13 year olds? I remember one evening ‘milk-run’ in particular. I was late getting away from the shop and was pedalling like mad down Cheyne Lane towards the wooden bridge when I met George on his way back from the dairy head on! Our carriers collided with an almighty crash and he went one way and I the other. Poor George got the worst of it for he fell into the side with a ditch and was stung all over by stinging nettles.

It may be of interest to the reader to know of the other businesses trading in Bampton at this time. Continuing in the market square area around the Town Hall we had the previously mentioned ‘Constables the Bakers’.

Tom Constable 64

It was run by the founder T.A. Constable and his wife and ably assisted by sons Syd and Fred and two of three daughters (Mrs Tongue, at Thompsons’, was a Constable). Later Syd fell out with the rest of the family and worked on his own account with a taxi-hire business.

Next door to Constables’ was ‘Crusty’ Owen’s, the headmaster, and next to him was Dicky Lane’s house where he rented a room to Barclays Bank. Then came Knowles the grocer and over from him stood the Lamb Inn, nicknamed ‘The Tree’ because - you’ve guessed it - a large Ash tree stood in its grounds.

Rosemary House where the headmaster lived (once a gas showroom)

The landlady was Mrs Allum. (The Lamb Inn, or Tree, was removed to make way for the Market Square Garage, which was on the site for many years before eventually being pulled down, in turn, to make way for the present apartment buildings called Thornberry.)

Next to the Lamb was a garage, run by George Bullock and 65

his two sons, then came a private house and the Women’s Institute. Across from there, still keeping in the precincts of Market Square, was the Post Office which was run by Mrs Reynolds, an indomitable woman of regal splendour.

Barclay’s Bank

The Lamb 66

The WI Hall

Wheelgate House B&B and Biztro

67

The two postmen, as I remember, were the lovable George Dafter and Fred Cannons.

George Dafter

Fred Cannons

I think I am right in saying that Emmy Bishop and Audrey Court also worked there.

Mr Chandler, the saddler, had a thriving little business in the loft room over the garage of the next house, whilst next door lived ‘Whispering Grass’ alias Mr Hutchins, the village policeman.

Albert Chandler, the saddler and leather worker 68

He was called Whispering Grass because of his very soft voice. Apparently, he was under the regulation height for a policeman but got into the force because during the war years you could join anything if you were fool enough to volunteer. PC Hutchins used to make up for his lack of height by throwing his whispering voice about at night, chastising the local inhabitants to “put that light out” and by chasing us young delinquents round and round the town hall crying, “Come along you boys, it’s past your bedtimes.”

The next business was Gills, the butchers, where I had my first job. Bob Cox and Ernie Spurrett were Jack Gill’s two assistants, and there was a young lady called Winnie Brown who relieved the customers of their money and dealt with paperwork. Eeles came next, another family-run grocery business, and beside them was the Central Garage that became Barclays Bank.

J. Eeles

Dicky Lane was the manager there, a fussy little man who had a beautiful alto singing voice and used it with great effect in the church choir.

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Central Garage

The last building in the Square proper was, and still is, the Talbot Inn.

Talbot Inn

At the time of writing it was run by Horace Worth, who worked at RAF Brize Norton as a driver during the day and pulled pints in the evening.

The first house going down Bridge Street, on the right, was the home and surgery of Dr Atkinson, a very crotchety man 70

but a fine doctor. He drove an immaculate black Austin 12/6 of around 1934 vintage.

Box House

G.W. Thomson was over the other side of the road with Duttons the grocer and chemist next door. Opposite was, and still is, the Horse Shoe Inn and Captain Kidd was the landlord. Alongside was Arthur Hill’s antiques and collectables shop.

Dutton’s

The Horse Shoe

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Arthur Hill talking with customers outside his shop

I don’t believe he ever sold anything for the articles placed outside on display never seemed to change.

Opposite, a little further down, was Percival Money’s. His daughter Madeline was in my class at school and she had a younger brother Richard. Mr Money had his business making and repairing shoes for the gentry.

Percival Money 72

He was quite a high-class craftsman, but us ‘serfs’ used to have our hob nails repaired by Mr Smith in Weald.

Over the road and further down, on the other side, opposite Knapps farmhouse, was the Wheatsheaf Inn and Bill Cozier was the landlord. Just a few yards from there was Reason’s the butchers and opposite him was Bishop’s the newsagents.

Reason’s (now Pear Tree Cottage)

Bishop’s

Back over the other side was The Elephant and Castle which in those days had a thatched roof.

The Elephant and Castle 73

Next door, by Mill stream, was a little shop run by Mrs Rodgers and her daughters. They sold sweets and did the Sunday newspapers.

Mrs Rodgers

That concludes Bridge Street.

Let’s have a reminiscent stroll down the High Street. The first building of interest was another pub of course, the Jubilee, run at that time by a Mr Simms.

Jubilee Inn and Applegate’s

On the same side, two doors down, was Applegate’s, the greengrocer and sweet shop. Cyril and Ivy Applegate were the owners, Cyril running a taxi business as well. They had 74

two sons, Ray, who was brother Mike’s age and a lifelong friend, and Anthony who was only a babe. On the other side of the road was another shoe repairer, Cyril Clarke, that later became Paul Bovington’s fish sop.

Les Bovington showing off a salmon outside his shop

Back over the other side was Isaac Busby the draper. If my memory serves me right he was a German Jew, but whatever his race or creed, I remember him as a fine old gentleman with old world charm and courtesy.

I. E. Busby 75

The business was taken over in later years by Mr and Mrs King, still as a drapery store.

Over the road was the New Inn, now called the Morris Clown.

The New Inn

In those days it was kept by Smokey Joe and his ‘missus’; real names Reg and Gert Groves. Reg got the nickname Smokey Joe because of the smoked glasses he wore. No one knew why he wore them but it was generally believed that it was because of his honesty - wearing dark glasses preventing him seeing that he’d short measured his customers! As we lived next door to the New Inn, Mum and Dad were on good terms with Reg and Gert. They used to call Mum ‘Mrs 76

Claude’, which tickled her pink. I used to go round sometimes and help with small jobs like re-stacking shelves or sweeping out the bar. Once Gert gave me the job of squeezing shit from pigs chitterlings - a job I found revolting, but I’d do anything for a tanner!

That’s all there was down High Street, but we might as well go down Buckland Road now we’re that way.

First on the left was ‘Carrier’ Greens; he had an old bus that he used for the collection and distribution of just about anything.

Bill Green, known as Carrier Green

It was also used as a school bus for children living on the 77

outskirts of Bampton.

The next business was Jack Joyce’s the cabinet maker. He was also the coffin maker and a very fine tradesman who never had any complaints from the people he made boxes for. We mustn’t go past Percy Sheppard’s without calling in.

He had a smallholding on the right where he dabbled in a bit of everything. He was a marvellous character with a pretty wonderful family too.

Percy Sheppard

Mum used to send us down to Percy every now and then to have our hair cut and we’d sit in the kitchen and Percy would hack away. I swear that he used the same clippers on us as he used to shear the sheep. Percy had a very bad stutter, 78

but never minded anyone laughing at him or with him. He used to tell some hilarious tales. The trouble was if it was a long tale he happened to be telling, it would take Percy twice the normal time to put it over on account of his stuttering, and he wouldn’t stop cutting until he had finished the story. Consequently, you might easily come out of the kitchen completely bald! I still laugh when recalling one time when Percy was cutting my hair and he let off a tremendous fart.

His younger daughter, Pat, was in the room at the time and he called out to her, “Yer P-p-p-p-Pat, catch that and bottle it and I’ll give you a t-t-t-t-tanner” [sixpence / 2½p].

Just over Fisher’s Bridge was the Dixey domain.

The Dixey family (l-r Laurence, Percy, Derek, Arthur, Ted and Ruth)

Mr and Mrs Arthur Dixey had one girl, Ruth, and four boys, Ted, Laurence, Derek and Percy - a grand family. Mr Dixey was a gardener of some note who sold quite a lot of his produce at the door. Lettuce and strawberries were his specialities and he would advertise his wares with prices in chalk on a slate hanging outside the house. The next cot79

tage belonged to Mrs Jane Buckingham, oft-times called ‘Kissy,’ and any Bamptonian will remember her well. She sold what passed for fish and chips from a caravan, set up in the Market Square. I don’t wish to comment much on the quality, but it depended on how hungry you were, how fresh the fish was and whether or not Mrs Buckingham had recently added more fat to the fryer - this she apparently did at least twice a year.

Sometimes she would ask one of us kids to give her a hand chipping potatoes. She had a hand-operated machine to do the job and one put the peeled potato into the jaws of the contraption, the lower part of the jaw having a grid, gave a mighty heave on the handle and hey presto! Chips would fall into the barrel beneath - fingers too were a possibility.

The trouble with pulling that handle was that the caravan used to rock and that, in turn, would set the carbide lamps a spluttering and flickering so violently that they would practically go out. Sixpenny worth of chips was payment for the work and, if you were lucky, two shakes of the vinegar bottle. Everything was in short supply in those days so Mrs Buckingham zealously guarded both salt and vinegar and they were placed out of reach of the customer and doled out by her only.

Fish and chips never tasted quite right if they weren’t wrapped in newspaper, but any kind of paper was difficult to obtain. We used to tear all our newspapers into ‘handy’ sized squares, thread quantities of the sheets together with string and hang them on the back of the privy door.

Consequently, Mrs Buckingham was always desperate for newspaper and if you could manage to take her an armful you were a friend for life, but she didn’t want any with string threaded through the corner! Having written that, I have come to the staggering conclusion that the reason we have 80

so much graffiti in toilets today is because we no longer have newspapers to read in there!

To continue - over the road from Mrs B’s was another pub called the Swan. The landlady was Emmie Sollis. There must have been a Mr Sollis once because there was a daughter Rose, but I never knew him. The Swan was a really ‘Olde Worlde’ pub with no bar.

Mr & Mrs Sollis at The Swan in 1963

Mrs Sollis would carry the beer into the flag-stoned floor of the parlour and set it down on the scrubbed deal tables. It was a popular venue on a summer’s evening when the villagers would stroll down to the Swan and sit outside quaffing their shandies.

On the land adjoining the Swan, Henry Long made hurdles and gates and sold logs by the barrow or pram load.

81

That was the extent of Buckland Road - beyond that was a jungle!

Fisher’s Bridge was a proper bridge in those days; a real steep, hump-backed affair with grand arches underneath, not the flat uninteresting thing they have there today. At the end, nearest the village, was a footpath that followed the course of the brook which would wind round the back of the Swan and twist its way across the fields to join the River Thames. In the third field across, the brook was deep enough to make a nice safe bathing place where the kids cavorted before graduating to swim in the river.

Another favourite spot for bathing was the ‘Isle of Wight’ not the one off Portsmouth, the one down Buckland Road I’m talking about. It’s situated about one and a half miles from Bampton just near the turning for Cote. At the river, the older boys swam in the area around the bridge where they could jump and dive from it. On the first bend of the river, those that weren’t quite so confident, or competent, could swim in reasonable safety but the most popular spot was ‘Sandy Beach’ in the second field from the road. It was a great place where the river banks had collapsed so that they formed a gradual slope to the water’s edge. The ‘beach’ was actually gravel but the poor country bumpkins didn’t know any different so they called it sand. Of course, coming from Brighton, I knew what a sandy beach really looked like!!

Dad came swimming with us one day and he was standing on a high bank watching me showing off in mid-stream. He called out enquiring if it was very deep just there - actually it wasn’t more than about four foot six, but for effect I stopped swimming, and holding one hand over my nose and the other high above my head, I went down on my knees giving the appearance it was quite deep. Too late, I realised 82

why Dad had wanted to know the depth - he intended diving in! All I could do was watch in horror as he leapt from the bank in a spectacular dive. When he surfaced with blood pouring down from the gravel rash on his chest he called me something that was more a reflection on his actions than mine, he implied that he and Mum weren’t married!

If you went down the lane on the other side of Fisher’s Bridge, through the spinney, it brought you into a field at the back of the Grange. It was called Menzies, why I don’t know. We used to swim there too occasionally, but the water was slow moving and very muddy. Wherever you bathed you had to be wary as there was the constant fear of weeds that would entangle your legs and render them incapable of movement. There were also whirlpools and undercurrents that could be treacherous, but by far the most dangerous threat to the unwary swimmer was cow-shit. Great rafts of it would float downstream and heaven help anyone taking a deep breath at the wrong moment! It got so bad that at one time we had a lookout posted; when he spotted some getting near he would shout ‘shit’ and we’d all duck under the water until the danger had passed.

Back in the ‘city centre’ behind the war memorial was Lavender Square.

Hytor in Lavender Square 83

Doctor McCartney lived and had his surgery there and the only other building of note was another pub called the Malt Shovel Inn.

Malt Shovel Inn and landlord Jack Kent

The inimitable Jack Kent was the landlord. I don’t know when Jack served his last pint, but I do remember him as a very old man laboriously climbing from the cellar with a pint of foaming ale held in a large dirty hand with a large dirty thumb inside the glass to prevent him spilling the contents because of the shakes. I have been told that his nose used to run and he would try to catch the drips in the beer mug to make up for the amount he had spilt carrying it up from the cellar. This, of course, was hearsay and even if it was true, it didn’t deter his customers; perhaps they appreciated the added flavour.

There was another building in the Square - an old cottage opposite the doctor’s - and in it lived Mr and Mrs George Dafter, a lovely old couple who really deserve a mention.

They had TEN children, five boys and five girls.

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George Dafter snr

I only knew the boys who were George, Fred, Bernard, Eric and ‘Pussy’. I don’t know Pussy’s real name, but maybe they couldn’t think of one for him after choosing for all the others.

Up through the lane between the Women’s Institute and Doctor Mac’s and into Broad Street, facing you there used to be a garage. The Applegates took it over, after leaving the greengrocery business, in around 1945 and the Hughes bought it from the Applegates.

Just around the corner in Church Street, Horace Morse, the ‘sanitation disposal conveyor’ (shit-merchant) stabled his horse. Horace loved that animal and kept it in style, well bedded and beautifully groomed. The leather of the harness gleamed and the decorative brasses glittered. Sometimes 85

Horace would allow us lads to help in the stables.

Hughes Garage (previously Applegate’s)

One task I remember vividly was operating the chaff machine. Barley straw was fed into it and chopped up by turning a great wheel that needed two of us ‘little-uns’ to rotate it. There were no monetary rewards for these jobs from Horace, although he did once offer me a ride on the back of the muck truck, which I didn’t accept, not having a clothes peg on my person at the time. Over the road, in the George and Dragon, Ted Horne was the popular landlord. I’ve heard it said that he pulled the best pint of bitter in Bampton.

Going up Broad Street, on the left, Bob Kean had an antiques business; he also had a lovely daughter Elizabeth, who I was head over heels in love with. I used to spend all my hard-earned money on antique weapons in the forlorn hope of seeing her. I was at a disadvantage as a suitor though because Elizabeth attended Burford Grammar School and I 86

was still at Bampton. This gave a clear field to my arch rival Terry Rouse who was also at Burford, the rotten little sod!

‘Kizzy Lean’ in 1948

We had a craze in those days of reversing the first letter of a person’s Christian name with that of the surname, back-slang we called it. Elizabeth (Lizzy) Kean, therefore, became ‘Kizzy’ Lean and in her particular case the name Kizzy stuck with her for years. Back-slang was all the rage and we became so proficient in the art of speaking it that we could gabble away in front of our parents and they really wouldn’t have a clue what we were saying. Even though I didn’t win the affections of Kizzy, I still have some items that I purchased from her dad all those years ago. One is a sword of the Aberdeen Volunteers which fairly recently I’ve researched. This was possible because of the engravings on the blade. An antique Scottish weapons’ expert authenti87

cated it as having been the sword of Lt. Col James Hadden who served with the Aberdeen Volunteers from 1796-1808. I paid seven shillings and sixpence (37.5p) for it in circa 1947.

I value it now at £300.

Next to Kean’s was Robey’s dairy, but I don’t think he appeared on the Bampton scene until about 1946.

The Old Dairy

He certainly didn’t qualify as a native. There was nothing else of great interest in Broad Street, although I ought to mention that Cis Taunt, the music teacher and choir mistress, held court in one of the cottages. I remember going there for my audition to join the church choir. I went along with Barry Taylor, who was already a member, and Cis had me singing ‘Polly put the kettle on’ solo. After the recital Cis said that I would do and for the rest of the evening she had Barry and me running up and down the scales like scalded cats.

Had we continued on up Church Street, where Horace had his stables, we would have come into Church View and facing us, the Old Grammar School. I don’t think it was ever used as such, but it was a useful building for meetings etc.

The Scouts used the top floor and the Youth Club the ground floor, on a permanent basis. Once a week Cis Taunt and 88

Gregory Bateman held choir practice there and once a year the dentist that visited all the schools in the area held his practice there. I wouldn’t like to say which session created the most noise; I would think the dentist’s was probably the more harmonious!

The Eagle pub, in Church View, was run by Ernie Martin and his wife. Apart from beer they sold sweets which I would never buy because they displayed them uncovered in the shop window. That in itself wasn’t a crime for everything was unwrapped in those days. The problem was they owned an enormous ‘marmalade’ tom cat and it used the window as a sun lounge and would stretch itself full length over the sweets, taking the occasional lick from the nearest lollipop!

That wasn’t all of the Martins’ enterprises, for in the room over the pub was a Roman Catholic chapel.

Mrs Lucy Martin at the RC altar upstairs in The Eagle

For publicans, Ernie and his wife were a pious couple - they didn’t even approve of alcoholic drink! I went into the pub 89

out of curiosity as soon as I thought I looked old enough to indulge. There was no bar as such, just a small flag-stoned room and despite it being mid-winter, no fire in the grate.

Tandy Govier, who was my first drinking partner, and I sat down in the cold bare room and when Ernie appeared, asked for two ‘Xmas Ales’, a special brew that Morrells had brought out that year. “Sold out”, said Ernie; “OK, two bottles of College Ale”, we said. “Sold out”, said Ernie. There was no Guinness either so we eventually settled for a light ale apiece, but before he served them he shuffled in with an old oil stove to give us a little comfort. Eventually, we had our drink but when we asked for a refill Ernie refused on the grounds that we had had enough. Perhaps it’s a good thing he didn’t serve us with any more because we were laughing so much we wouldn’t have managed to keep it down.

To satisfy the inquisitive mind, perhaps I ought to explain how my mate Tandy came to be called so. It was a curious fact that all the nine Govier children had nicknames - none was called by the name they were christened with except, I think, Edie. Arthur was nicknamed ‘John’, Alfred was ‘Mick’, Francis was ‘Ben’ and Edward was called ‘Farmer’. Elsie was called ‘Tish’, Alan was ‘Charlie’, Ivor was ‘Juma’ and Thomas Peter was called ‘Bill’ or ‘Tandy’. I’ve no idea how all the others came by their ‘noms de plume’ but I do know about Tandy. When he was a toddler, and learning to talk, he had great difficulty sounded his ‘esses’. In the household they had a sandy-coloured cat, and one day when young Thomas saw it approaching he said to his mum, “Here tums dat Tandy tat.” For revealing this I will probably have lost a life-long friend. Incidentally, today he is no longer Tandy but ‘Bill’. Thomas Peter - Bill??

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Bike Rides

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ne day I came out of Dr McCartney’s house, after delivering the groceries, and found Tandy Govier waiting. The practice was that he would accompany me on my rounds and then when my work was finished we would go straight off to whatever we had planned for that evening.

That particular day we were discussing the forthcoming summer holidays and trying to think of something different and exciting. I said, “How about cycling to Brighton?”

Tandy said, “Yeah, okay”, making it sound casual and not really thinking that we would actually get round to doing it. The more we thought about it the more enthusiastic we became and by the end of the evening it was definitely on.

I went home and told my parents of our intentions, expecting some opposition but didn’t get any, and when I saw Tandy next day he said that it was okay with his mum and dad too. So we began our preparations. We both had bikes, of course. Tandy’s was a fairly new, drop-handled, threespeed tourer, ideal for the job, but mine was an old ‘Bitsa’ (bits of this and bits of that). Dad and I had built it out of scrap and I had painted it up so it looked quite good - and it worked well too. The only real problem was that it was a single-speed, fixed-wheel drive, which meant that I was unable to freewheel - okay on the flat, but it could be disastrous going down a very steep hill. Being unable to stop peddling, the rider had to depend heavily on brakes to keep the leg motion controllable and prevent the machine running away.

However, we were very determined to go to Brighton and didn’t bother too much about such technicalities. The morning of our departure came; Tandy was supposed to be call91

ing for me because our house was ‘en-route’. When he hadn’t arrived by the pre-arranged time, I set out for his house. I met him on the way; he was struggling along with a suitcase balanced on his handlebars! I said, “Bloody hell Tandy, you’re not going to cycle all the way to Brighton, one hundred odd miles, like that, surely?”, indicating that my gear was stowed away in saddlebags. “No, I’m not stupid,” he said, or words to that effect. “Let’s go to your place and I’ll explain.” Whilst we were emptying the contents of his suitcase into the saddlebags on his bike, he explained that he hadn’t told his parents that we intended cycling to Brighton because he was sure they wouldn’t let him. He told them we were going to cycle to Bampton and Brize Norton railway station, leave our bikes there, and catch a train to Brighton.

At last we were off, with a promise to ring the Benedikz’s (they were the only people we knew with a phone who would pass on a message) when we got to Guildford and let our folks know we were okay. Before getting to Guildford we became convinced that we had taken the wrong road. We had a map of sorts but it was old and badly worn and because it was soon after the war when sign posts were removed (to confuse the enemy if they invaded) we were never too sure where we were. We had left Nettlebed and knew from the map that the next place of any importance should be ‘IWYFORD’ but on asking our way from several people, no one knew of such a place. It wasn’t until we rode into ‘TWYFORD’ that we discovered that the map was folded over the letter ‘T’ giving the appearance of an ‘I’. From then on it was plain sailing and although we had, at one stage, felt like turning back for home, by the time we got to Guildford we felt good and knew we were over halfway; it was now prudent to continue to Brighton rather than turn back. So, at Guildford the proud message went out, “We are carrying on.”

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We arrived at my Auntie Edie and Uncle Charlie’s place in Moulsecoomb about 9.00pm - not a fast time, but quite respectable for a couple of fourteen-year-olds with no experience of long-distance cycling. We were only too pleased to have arrived at our destination on the same day we had departed!

We had a grand holiday; one highlight I remember was being marooned on the West Pier nearly all day because of torrential rain. We whiled away the time robbing the amusement machines. One in particular we figured deserved to be cheated because no one had ever seen it give up any of its prizes. It consisted of a revolving glass-covered table which was littered with cheap goodies like salt and pepper pots, egg cups with cigarettes inside, etc. Pushing a penny in the slot activated an arm which swept across the table and if you were lucky - very, very lucky - it would sweep an article into a pocket of the machine accessible to the player. Tandy and I employed the services of a middle-aged man to help in our crime (justifiable) - he was the lookout, but didn’t have a lot to do as there were very few people around because of the rain. When it came to a share-out of the ‘booty’ our partner in crime got mostly salt and pepper pots and we, because of the heavy work involved in tilting the machine, kept all the cigarettes. Short-sighted really because the cigarettes were stale, probably having been in the machine for years, and only went up in a puff of smoke, whereas the condiment containers are probably still in use today!

Sometime after our trip to Brighton, Tandy and I cycled to Weston-Super-Mare. This time, Ray Applegate and Philip Knowles came with us. The ride was uneventful but we arrived there in almost total darkness and, because we were exhausted, pitched our tents on the first bit of grass we 93

felt underfoot. We fell into our blankets, exhausted, falling asleep almost immediately. It seemed to me only seconds and we were awake again. It wasn’t morning, something had disturbed our sleep. It was a rumbling noise that seemed to increase in intensity as we listened. Soon it because a mighty roar and the very earth we lay on began to shake; was it an earthquake? Wide awake now we stumbled out of our tents just in time to see the late express train to Paddington roaring past - we were camped only feet away from the railway lines!

On the last day but one of an enjoyable holiday, we were fooling around on the downs when I fell awkwardly and twisted my ankle. It was so bad I couldn’t walk and it soon became obvious that I wouldn’t be able to cycle nearly one hundred miles the next day. I was going to have to stay there until I was fit to travel. I didn’t mind too much but the problem was that, because we had expected this to be our last day at Weston-Super-Mare, we had spent every penny we had. We decided to go to the police station and ask their advice. They were very helpful and sympathetic and offered two suggestions. I could go home by ambulance and put my bike on the railway, or they would try to organise some more cash through our parents so that we could all spend a few extra days on holiday. We, of course, opted for the latter and the police told us to return the next day to see if they had managed to do anything for us. It transpired the next day that they had phoned the Bampton police station, who called on our parents and explained our plight. Our parents paid the ‘necessary’ into the village police station and they in turn phoned Weston-Super-Mare, letting them know the amount to pay us. It was a great arrangement all round, but at the time it was rumoured that Tandy’s parents and mine were reluctant to contribute as they didn’t particularly want us home anyway! When our second lot of money ran 94

out and the swelling in my ankle had gone down, my pals put pressure on me to twist the other one, but I refused on the grounds that it was too painful. When we finally had to leave Weston, we left it as late as possible before setting out and, consequently, we were in darkness by the time we reached Bath. It was then that near disaster occurred.

We were riding down Box Hill, near Bath; it was dark and we were miserable and tired. A car coming up the hill blinded us with its headlights and caused all four of us to run off the road on to the grass verge. We all fell off our machines and ended up groaning and swearing in an untidy heap.

Philip Knowles was doing more groaning than the rest of us - he had chosen a milestone to break his fall and had flattened it. He got little sympathy from the rest of us and we bullied him into remounting his machine and away we went, still with a daunting fifty odd miles to go. We finally reached Bampton about 3am, absolutely shattered. I slept until about midday then decided to see if the others had recovered. I saw Ray Applegate first; his dad had got him back at work in the garage. I then called at Knowles the grocers shop round the corner to see how their moaning son was; he was in hospital with a broken collar bone!

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1947 - Living in Fox Close

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round this time, which I’m guessing was 1947, we were allocated one of the new council houses being built in Bampton. Mum had been to the site when they were at the foundation stage and had confidently said, “I’ll have that one.” Sure enough, that’s the one we got, No. 1 Fox Close. After the privation we suffered at No. 6 High Street, our new residence was paradise by comparison. Whereas we had one primitive bucket toilet half a mile down the bottom of the garden at No 6, we now had two flush toilets indoors! Where we had a single tap and no sink at No 6, we now had taps a plenty, with hot as well as cold water. Whereas before the move we let the dirt and grime build up on our bodies until it got so thick it flaked off, we now had a bath. Then there were the electric lights - wonder of wonders! At No 6 there was a gaslight downstairs only, but upstairs we had to use candles - the change was fantastic. Mum recalls that we all went around the house turning on the taps, flushing the toilets and switching the lights on and off for weeks after we moved, just for the novelty.

Our next-door neighbours at Fox Close were the Browns; there was Bill, the head of the family, his wife Millie and her sister Rose and a clutch of children. Bill was of the rough-diamond variety with emphasis on the rough. He could be a demon in drink but a good neighbour none-the-less. When he had been down to the pub he would frequently come home singing his head off but he was just as likely to get belligerent and then we could hear him letting rip and creating hell. Often we would express our annoyance at the disturbance by banging on the dividing wall, but it had no effect on Bill, he just used to bang back! Mind you, sometimes it 96

was a reverse situation and our family would be the culprits.

I remember on more than one occasion Bill Brown and my dad singing a duet together - through the living-room wall.

The problem was Dad’s favourites were ‘Sussex by the sea’ and ‘We’ll gather lilacs in the spring again’. Bill didn’t know the words to these so he would accompany with ‘To be a farmer’s boy’ or ‘Show me the way to go home’.

We had a fair-sized garden but it never got cultivated properly. Us city folks didn’t know how to go about the job to begin with - Dad wasn’t fit to do any digging and Mum was too busy with the housework to spend much time on the estate!

I can never remember brother Mike handling a fork except at the dinner table and I wasn’t a lot of help, although I did once build a rockery. I lost interest when Dad remarked that it looked more like a “blooming war memorial”! We had the odd patch of cultivated garden where we grew the usual vegetables, but mostly it ran wild. At one point it was suggested by a well-meaning visitor that we could let it out for ‘rough shooting’. Actually the nearest we got to pheasants was chickens - we had about half a dozen Rhode Island Reds at the bottom of the garden. They used to supply us with about one egg a week - between them! The original idea was to keep a chicken until it had stopped producing eggs economically and then have it on the dinner table. In fact, we used to keep our chickens until they had forgotten what shape an egg was, let alone be capable of laying one! Only when they were old and infirm and about to die anyway did our Mum pass sentence, and even then we had to get an outside executioner. Bill Brown would climb over the fence and say, “Which one missus?” Mum would point out the condemned bird and then beat a hasty retreat down the garden path and into the house, leaving Bill to his ‘fowl’ task. Bill was an absolute expert when it came to killing chickens; he would 97

stalk his prey then, very swiftly, his arm would shoot out and the chicken’s neck would be nicely between his fingers - a twist of the wrist and in the same movement Bill would throw the bird to the ground to lie there, dead as a doornail and hardly a twitch. It was my job then to take the carcass round to Lottie Brooks, who would pluck and draw it for a shilling. She always used to say, “There ain’t much on this ‘un, weren’t worth doing.”

There was an occasion when we had an old hen that was practically begging to be killed. Mum used to call it ‘Arthritis Annie’. For some reason Bill Brown wasn’t available to put it out of its misery so Tandy Govier and I convinced Mum that we could do the deed. That poor bird, how she suffered; we really didn’t have a clue. First Tandy had a go, then I took over, but instead of breaking the neck we were trying to strangle it. Before she finally expired all the neck feathers were gone and most of the flesh was too! The neck was stretched so long she looked more like an ostrich than a chicken. We had to chop the head off before taking it to Lottie or she would have reported us to the RSPCA. In 1947, at the age of fourteen, I left school. I had a very good report from Crusty Owens, the headmaster, and his colleagues, but no qualifications at all. I was interviewed with the rest of the leavers by the visiting careers officer and he was of the opinion that I ought to be looking for work where I could use my artistic talent. He had one job on his books that he thought might suit - a small soft toys firm in Witney was looking for someone to design their products.

Although the job appealed to me, Dad thought I was worth something better and arranged an interview with a firm of architects on Church Green, Witney, who were looking for a trainee. I never even got inside the building - they said they wouldn’t consider me because of my lack of education. So it 98

was back to the errand bike until something else turned up.

Then Fred Tongue at CW Thompsons took me on full-time, kitted me out with a new apron to make me more presentable and even allowed me to serve in the shop (the customers I dealt with were only those that Fred didn’t mind losing).

I wasn’t permitted to serve the ‘prestige’ customers like the Countess Munster.

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Working at MG in Abingdon

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ometime in 1947 I started work at the MG car company in Abingdon. Tommy Beresford, my old scout master, travelled there to work each day and he arranged for me to have an interview and gave me a character reference.

I was taken on as a works apprentice, not indentured to any particular trade but expected to work at a variety of different jobs throughout the factory, the idea being to settle eventually in a position suitable to myself and the company. It was a marvellous opportunity for a young lad and I’m afraid that at the time I didn’t appreciate it fully. MGs was a very ‘happy’ factory - there had never been a strike in all its history and the workers from top management to tea boys were content with their lot.

My first job at the MG factory was in the Rectification Department; that was where completed cars had any faults rectified after being road tested and inspected. I took over the job of tea boy and general factotum from a chap called Frank Giles. Frank was considered experienced enough now to be capable of working full-time on the shop floor.

He spent a few days showing me how to make twelve cups of coffee into twenty-four simply by adding boiling water, and how to make buttered rolls into ham rolls. This miracle was achieved by ordering from the canteen just half the quantity of ham rolls required and buying buttered rolls in their stead, then the ham was shared overall. Not a very honest way of carrying on but to a poorly paid apprentice the temptation to make a few bob was irresistible. I think too that the canteen staff knew what was going on and always helped us by being over-generous when they filled the rolls.

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Matter of interest - I was paid the handsome sum of twenty-four shilling a week when I started at MGs - £1.20 by today’s comparison. Out of that I had to make a contribution to the family budget and pay something to Tom Beresford towards the cost of petrol.

Tom Beresford drove a Morris 8 of about 1938 vintage. His brother-in-law, Alby Aldsworth, and I were his passengers from Bampton and we picked up Lou Sheridan at Standlake to complete the load. Tom was an ex-RAF pilot and he drove that little old car as though he was still flying, same speed and same altitude even when we took the bridges at Newbridge!

One winter’s morning, when the roads were so icy it was dangerous even to be on them, we were bombing along at our usual rate of knots, late as usual, when just before Marcham we went into a tight spin in the middle of the road. The spin gradually grew larger and at one point Lou Sheridan decided he was going to bail out. He opened his door and would have gone if Tom hadn’t held him back. Round and round we went, Alby and me in the back seat filling our pants and Tom desperately trying to regain control. At a safe distance, on either side of us, other cars had stopped and were waiting patiently for the end of our performance. It came with a sickening crunch - we finally hit the high grass verge and almost toppled over. The steering was damaged so we had to push the car into a field and thumb a lift into work. Tom was able to go out to it later and make the necessary repairs to get us home.

In between fiddling the tea money, I used to make a nuisance of myself assisting the mechanics. I was with a chap called Peter Jones one day when I learnt to drive - backwards! We were fitting sidelights to MG TCs. They had 101

been out of stock when the cars were made and we were now making good the deficiency. When cars had been fitted with sidelights Pete had to drive them to a position in readiness for despatch. The unfinished cars were parked nose to tail in a cul-de-sac so had to be reversed out. Whose idea it was that I should drive I do not know, but have a go I did and at the end of the day was quite proficient at driving, but only backwards. I learnt to drive forward when I moved from the Rectification Department to Despatch. Jack Sparrow (honest, that was his name) was the foreman in Rejects and he allowed me to drive all over the factory and I was in clover. My old foreman, George Morris, wouldn’t let me sit in the driver’s seat, let alone drive any of the cars, and he had a fit the first time he saw me driving.

On one occasion I brought a car back to Rectification from Despatch because of a fault underneath and I had been told to drive it straight on to the ramp for an inspection to be made. I lined it up nicely and approached cautiously, but either my foot slipped on the accelerator, or I panicked, because the car leaped forward and I took the ramp at about 50mph. Incredibly, and very fortunately for me, I managed to stop the thing in just the correct position. It must have looked a competent piece of driving skill for a young lad of sixteen, for George Morris and several others watched with amazed admiration. I climbed out with studied nonchalance, but I’d had the fright of my life. Then George called me over and asked if I had been in full control and I said, “Of course, why?” All he said was, “Just stop being a showoff, Phillip my lad”.

One apprentice I knew wasn’t so lucky; he had taken a car to the Trim Shop for some upholstery repairs to be made. The Trim Shop was situated above the stores and access for the cars was by a lift. The poor, unfortunate lad waited for the 102

repairs to be carried out, jumped in and drove straight on to the lift, as he thought; only it wasn’t there! Someone had used the lift to take another car down and had left it at the bottom. The outcome of this mishap, and another where an apprentice tried to take a short cut through a brick wall, resulted in a ban on employees driving unless they were in possession of a current licence and had written permission from the management to drive on company premises. I was one exception. I was allowed to continue driving because I would have been of little use to Jack Sparrow in Despatch if I couldn’t. At sixteen I had the distinction of being the youngest permitted driver at MGs. My job in the Despatch Department was to prepare the cars for collection, kitting them out with tools, literature and ‘owners’ handbooks, etc. Usually, the cars were collected by drivers employed by a car collection distribution company, but quite often a car would be collected by the purchaser in person. Then I would have the job of painting temporary number plates. We had quite a few celebrities’ cars to prepare. There was Gordon Richards, the champion jockey.

He had a Riley 2.5 litre saloon with an enormous horse and jockey mascot on the bonnet; and I remember preparing film star Gene Tierney’s MG 1.25 litre saloon. I got a great thrill sitting in the seat of that one.

I mentioned the Trim Shop at MGs and that reminds me of another story about an apprentice. There were two places in the factory that I and many other male workers were not keen to enter - personally I’ll admit to being terrified. One was the typists’ pool where the girls would sit either side of a long room supervised by a lady sitting at her desk at the far end. To walk through that room required a lot of courage for as soon as you stepped through the door the clacking from the typewriters stopped abruptly and a dozen pairs of 103

eyes would fix on you and follow your progress down the aisle between the desks to the supervisor, then follow you all the way back again - very unnerving and no mistake! The other place I avoided if possible was the afore-mentioned Trim Shop. The girls there were more physical in their attentions than those in the typists’ pool. One poor apprentice lad was pounced on and pinned to the ground. He was de-bagged and then his ‘credentials’ were smeared with thick black Bostik adhesive. His girlfriend spent the whole of the dinner hour that day in the back of a Riley saloon car, sponging him clean with petrol; afterwards he was stuck with her for life!

From the Despatch Department at MGs I was transferred to the Drawing Office; my boss was Sydney Enever, the Chief Designer. He was an absolute wizard on the drawing board and a gentleman to boot. My job in the Drawing Office was to look after the master drawings and to process and issue copies. I was expected eventually to become a draughtsman but regrettably, although I had the opportunity to attend the polytechnic on day release, I didn’t take it up. It was my decision; I knew I hadn’t sufficient mechanical interest to make engineering draughting a career, and I certainly didn’t have the aptitude for mathematics that the job would require.

I was seventeen years old when I decided against becoming a draughtsman. I didn’t really know where I was going, but did know that it was time I had some sort of career mapped out. The armed forces beckoned quite strongly. I had always fancied myself in uniform; the Royal Air Force, in particular, because Dad had been a member and brother Mike was still serving, having enlisted at sixteen as an apprentice.

Conscription was still in force in 1950, so I would have had to ‘join-up’ anyway for two years; why not, I reasoned, become a volunteer and reap the benefit of a regular’s pay-packet?

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Another reason that convinced me I should volunteer was that my mate Tandy was about to be conscripted. He was three months older than me and would, therefore, get his call-up papers that much sooner than I would. I volunteered in plenty of time so that Tandy and I would go into the service near enough together.

I had notification of my pre-call-up medical date before Tandy had his, and duly trotted off to Oxford and presented myself to the board of doctors. When I stripped off for the examination the doctor could hardly contain his laughter and called three or four other ‘quacks’ over to share the joke.

They stood around discussing my physique, shaking their heads and talking together in undertones. I suppose I did look a pitiful sight - I was quite tall, but only 9.5 stones in weight. Had I waited to be conscripted, there is no doubt that I would have failed the medical but because I had volunteered they gave me every consideration.

At one stage of the procedure it was suggested that I would only be accepted in a low grade for army service, but I was adamant that it was the RAF or nothing for me - I was determined to fly that aeroplane! They soon dispelled any aspiration I might have had to become aircrew when it was discovered that I was colour blind. I never had the slightest suspicion of this, although I had often wondered that at school I always seemed to spoil my drawings when it came to colouring. The chap who did the testing for colour blindness said that had there been a war on I would have achieved my ambition to be a flier because people with the affliction made excellent bomb aimers. Apparently targets that were camouflaged, although difficult to detect from the air by the normal sighted, stuck out like sore thumbs to a colour-blind person!

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However, not selfish enough in my desire to fly to wish for World War III, I said I would settle for anything they had on the ground. If I couldn’t pilot an aeroplane, perhaps I could drive a lorry? Actually, with my nil educational qualifications, there was no chance of me ever becoming a pilot, but at the current stage of the proceedings I’m describing - the medical - they were unaware of and unconcerned with an applicant’s standard of education. Their job was either to accept or reject physically and grade accordingly. I was finally passed fit, grade 3, which is not very much better than being classed disabled!

The next step was the educational and aptitude tests. I had very little going for me in either respect, but could read and write and in those days not much else was required initially to enter the services. As it was, my prospects of advancement in the RAF were not good, but the service had an excellent education system and the opportunity for further education was limitless. A trade was the next thing to settle for and the careers officer thought, because of my background as an MG apprentice, I ought to go into the motor transport branch of the service. A driving job quite appealed to me so I agreed with him, but then he said that I would have to go on a mechanics course before I could become a driver.

This wasn’t strictly true for there were thousands of drivers in the RAF that hadn’t qualified as mechanics beforehand; it was because there were no vacancies for drivers but plenty for mechanics that he made that suggestion. To me it seemed a means to an end, so I nodded my head again. I was in! Well almost… I still had to go through the formalities of actually signing on and being sworn in and accepting the King’s shilling, but to all intents and purposes I was committed to five years’ service to King and Country. Some weeks later I had made the irreversible decision to join the 106

RAF; my mate Tandy went up to Oxford for his medical and FAILED!!

***

My grateful thanks to Trish Cassidy for her encouragement and for transcribing my scribble into print.

And to Janet Rouse for her guidance and kind support.

Two lovely ladies.

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The author with sisters. (l to r) Sonia, Sally and Jean.

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The author’s mother, Ethel Addison

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The author’s father, Claude Addison on Brighton Pier

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The author’s brother, Claude

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The author’s mother, Ethel

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Claude snr. with Sonia and Jean

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l-r Jean, Sonia, Sally and Claude snr.

Claude snr. and daughter Sally on her wedding day - April 14th 1964 115

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