Growing up in Lee-on-the-Solent Read online

  We used it as a play area: this also, in all probability, resulted in more building up of our immunities to goodness knows what diseases. Digging caves into the sandy sides of the ‘Dump’ and attempting to chop down trees on its rim were two popular activities. The choice of activity usually depended upon whether we had seen a film about lumberjacks or gold miners. On the opposite side of the road was a plot of land where Miss Walsh, who lived in a large house at the Anglesea Road end of Seymour Road, kept chickens. Miss Walsh also owned a large piece of land that ran from her house up to Anglesea Road. My sister Pat remembers being chased from it by Miss Walsh, who was wielding a pitch-fork.

  The Seymour Road rectangular plot was bounded on two sides by ‘ten foot ways’ and by Seymour Road and Anglesea Road on the other two sides. Most of it was overgrown with a plantation of brambles. There were a few trees in one corner, near to Miss Walsh’s house, and a row of trees where it was bounded by Anglesea Road. A group of us, fresh from our exploits of digging into the side of the dump, decided to dig a vertical mine shaft among the trees near Miss Walsh’s house. We ended up digging a hole about four feet in diameter and seven feet deep. I should point out that at both sites of our mining activities, the soil was very sandy and the digging was relatively easy, but with hindsight, was also seriously dangerous. A few days after we had completed our digging we discovered that the ‘lost gold mine of Lee’ had disappeared. Pat told me that Miss Walsh had found out what we were up to and ‘approached’ one of the parents, who had then filled in the hole.

  The row of about half-a-dozen trees which bordered Anglesea Road was about twenty feet high and faced three of the houses a few doors down from us. It was a very popular play area for us youngsters, particularly after any Tarzan film, but not so popular with two lady spinsters who lived opposite the trees. One day when we climbing through the trees, I reached the end of the short row and was demonstrating my prowess in getting down from a fairly high branch without climbing down. Of course I was showing off as usual. I had worked out that the further that I went out on the branch, the more it would bend and I would have less distance to drop. Not a good move! The branch broke and, as I was swinging at the time, I landed on my back. I was so winded that I was unable to speak, so someone ran to get my mum. When she arrived at the scene, she leaned over me and said in a worried but consoling voice: ‘speak to me Johnny, speak to me.’ Eventually I managed to speak .... I wished I hadn’t - she gave me a quite a hard smack for frightening her.

  We had a game which we played when it had rained and filled the roads with puddles. Using sticks, we would scrape ‘channels’ between the puddles, joining them up, and then we would scrape a channel to the edge, and off the road in places where the land was lower than the road - thus we constructed our own ‘lakes’ and ‘swamps’ by the roadside.

  There was a great deal more open space in those days. There were houses only on the east side of Anglesea road. That is, they backed onto Wootton Road. Also there were only a few bungalows on the north side of Gosport Road. Facing our house was what we called a ‘Green’, but in actual fact was just an overgrown uneven area of bushes and ditches: it was a first-rate play area. Looking from our upstairs front windows across the ‘Green’, the nearest house was in Cross Road, which was over two hundred yards away. To the left we could see the backs of the houses in Seymour Road.

  Apart from the lady who shared, among other things, her air-raid shelter, a couple of her neighbours in Brickland Terrace are etched in my memory. The terrace faced the side of our back garden so we were able to observe some of the things that went on in the terrace. At that time the Brickland properties had only outside toilets, and in the second house starting from the Gosport Road end, the ‘lady of the house’ was in the habit of emptying the chamber pot straight out of the front upstairs bedroom window. Dad pointed out to her in a rather forthright manner, as was his way, how unhygienic this was. He always called a spade a spade.

  Next in the terrace, the third one along, lived a Mr and Mrs Gibbs. They were well past middle age and she was a devout Catholic who attended church with a clinical regularity. Unfortunately Mr Gibbs had a mental problem, and he was frequently to be seen standing at the upstairs window during air-raids shouting out: ‘calling all German air bombers to bomb England’. He was a very sad case and no danger to anyone. His wife dedicated her life to caring for him.

  Returning to the story of the sailor and the air-raid shelter, I realise now that people were no more or no less moral than they are today and it would be unfair to be too critical of the behaviour of people at that time. It was a very uncertain period and many didn’t know if they or their spouse would be still alive the next day. After what, in some cases, was a matter of years of separation, many of the wives left behind would be in need of human companionship both emotional and biological, with all that involved. So I hope you will not think it too unkindly of me, in looking back and seeing the humorous aspects of some of the hanky-panky that went on, which of course as a child I didn’t understand.

  It was a couple of years before I became acquainted with the theory, and a decade after that before I fully passed the practical test. I remembering hearing the barber ask customers in a quiet voice if they would like ‘something for the weekend’. At the time I thought they were buying some sort of shampoo. That is, before I went on those educational trips to the Ranges, where some of those items, which had been used and discarded, were pointed out and explained to me. Condoms were known then as ‘French letters’ or ‘Johnnies’ and were only sold in chemists from under the counter or in barber shops. It would be a very brave unmarried young man who would chance going into a chemist’s to ask for a pack of ‘Durex’. In any case, it is most likely that he would have been refused.

  There were unconfirmed stories about young men going through the shop door with such a purchase in mind, but when confronted by a female assistant, left with cough lozenges instead. It is hardly surprising that a number of my contemporaries a few years later ‘had to get married’, as the saying goes. In other instances there were secrets (which really weren’t secret within families) which involved additions to the family. Also there were occasions when some young men had to go before the ‘Beak’ for jumping the gun on the law regarding girls being sixteen years old. ‘Having carnal knowledge’ was the language used in those court cases, and getting the under-age girl pregnant, had sometimes been the result.

  After the ‘friendly shelter lady’ and her family moved out, not very long after the shelter episode, Mrs Wort moved into the house. Everyone knew her as ‘Dubby’ and I believe that she was related in some way to Mrs Cottrill. Her husband was serving in the army, and she had two young daughters - Freesia and Cynthia. Tragically Dubby’s husband - after having survived all the fighting - was killed in Europe shortly after the hostilities had finished. Apparently he died as a result of an accident when he was directing military vehicles.

  A Bunch of ‘Rattys’

  Throughout the war years, in the summer, my life - like that of many of my contemporaries - revolved around the beach, when we were able to get on to it. As a general rule, if the tide was in we would be ‘out’, on the beach. Many of us who had been influenced by the Tarzan films would often not wear shoes and became quite hardened to running barefoot on the shingle beach, and on the way there and back, adept at avoiding where dogs had done their business on the pavement. There were few canine restrictions then, other than the fact that all dog owners were required to have a licence for every dog that they owned. Dogs were supposed to be kept under control, but it was quite common to see dogs chasing the occasional car or one of the many cyclists. It was quite unusual to see a dog being taken for a walk on a lead.

  Apart from the Ranges, the Warren was also a great adventure playground, as illustrated by the hand-grenade fuse incident. On the Warren was an area known as ‘Hangman’s Hollow’ not far from Apple Dumpling bridge, where it was
alleged that a man had hanged himself and that his ghost haunted the area. I don’t know it this was just a story that was circulated to try to frighten off youngsters like us. If that was the plan, it failed miserably. Rather than being put off, the place became clothed in a more interesting mantle. Not far from ‘Hangman’s Hollow’ was a track which is now part of Sandhill Lane, and there was a ‘NO TRESPASSERS’ notice nailed to one of the trees alongside the track. No doubt you can guess what the three of us did. We were cautiously walking (or, to be more honest, quietly sneaking) along the track when we came to a cottage down in a dip. It looked very creepy. Of course it is now long gone, but it was near where the Alver Valley boardwalk is now situated. Well, we were just about level with the cottage when we realised that we had been spotted by what in all probability was the gamekeeper. He had a gun and was on his bike. I don’t think ghosts ride bikes and have guns. He chased us down the track. We ran hell-for-leather into the Warren and then dived over a bank and lay flat in a cornfield for about half an hour before venturing out. We didn’t chance our arm by going down that track again.

  The river Alver more or less formed the eastern boundary of the Warren, which we considered to be our ‘territory’. It happened that one day one of the gang came into possession of a tin bath about five feet long - either his mother had no further use for it or she didn’t know that he had taken it. Between us we carried it all the way to the Warren, and when we got to the river, each of us in turn stretched out in the bath and - with our arms over the side - paddled over and back across the river at a point where it was about ten feet wide. That adventure over, we carried the bath back to Elmore. The next day we reconvened and took the bath down to the beach and tried it in the sea. I was the first to have a go and fortunately I was wearing my bathers because, when I got into the bath, it promptly rolled over and sank, possibly because of the increased buoyancy in salt water. Whatever the reason we were ruddy lucky, because if it had turned turtle on the river Alver, one of us would have been dumped into smelly muddy water and would have had to clamber out over the smelly muddy banks and would have ended up looking like a smelly muddy ‘creature from the Black Lagoon’.

  It was later that same summer when we indulged in what, with hindsight, was a more foolhardy and dangerous water-based escapade. It took place in the sea at Elmore, near to where the bath hadn’t floated our boat, and it occurred shortly after we had seen a sunken treasure film. Four of us were in a dingy (I’ve no idea how we came by it) ready to re-enact what we had seen at the cinema. One of the gang, Denis, who lived in Seymour Road, was ‘chosen’ to be the diver. We tied a belt around his waist, to which we had attached some large stones. Then, with a rope tied round his waist and a long piece of garden hose held to his mouth, he jumped into the water. I am not absolutely sure whether he was a willing volunteer or not, and I think that it is reasonable to assume that it may have been an assisted entry into the water. The boat was in about ten feet of water at the time. After a couple of minutes we became a bit concerned because nothing seemed to be happening, so - with some difficulty - we hauled him back into the dingy. He was coughing and spluttering and obviously had not been able to breathe through the hosepipe several feet down. I have jokingly referred to his staring eyes after this, but it must have been quite scary for him.

  It was also about this time when there were several of us in a ‘borrowed’ rowing boat on a moat that was a ‘tributary’ of the river Alver. We were near where the river went under the military road which is now Browndown Road. The moat ran parallel to and on the sea side of Browndown Road from the Alver River towards Lee-on-the-Solent for a couple of hundred yards, almost to the Small Arms School gates. It has long since been filled in and overgrown. On the opposite side of the road, the level of the land was much lower and was a swampy marsh which was later filled in and became the Kingfisher caravan park. At that time the road, which belonged to the military, was closed one day each year to ensure that it remained under their control. There were no pavements and although the road had been covered with tarmac at some time in its distant past, it was in a very poor state of repair with numerous potholes which resulted in a number of accidents. This military road, which was the main road from Gosport to Lee-on-the-Solent, ran on the sea side of the main building of the Small Arms School and even to this day, nearer to Lee, remnants of it can still be seen on the other side of the wire fence alongside the Lee end of Privett Road.

  There we were, a bunch of ‘Rattys’ from ‘Wind in the Willows’, just messing about in a boat. A soldier walking along the road and heading back from Gosport to the Small Arms School called out to us: ‘Hey lads how about a lift?’ The leader of the gang called back ‘OK’ and we rowed to the bank of the moat. The soldier clambered aboard, nearly capsizing us in the process, and we rowed him the couple of hundred yards or so to the end of the moat near the Small Arms School. He could have walked the distance in half the time it took us to row it, but it was just a bit of fun. As he left, he complimented us on our rowing, but in reality, we weren’t all that good.

  Considering the fact that most of us learnt to swim by being thrown into the sea, it was surprising that, to the best of my knowledge, there were no drowning incidents among my peers when I was growing up, although it was a close call for at least one or two of some of those that I was with in the summer of 1945. A gathering of a couple of dozen of us boys and girls were having a day on the beach near the present-day sailing club, when some American sailors in an engine-powered whaler pulled onto the beach near us. Their ship must have been one of a small fleet that was anchored out in the Solent. One of them called out and asked if anyone fancied a trip in the boat and about six of us said that we would. Although there were almost a dozen girls in the collection of youngsters on the beach, none of them opted to go in the whaler. We realised later that the presence of the girls was the most likely reason why the Americans had invited us for a trip, and we recalled a popular joke of the time which said that when the American servicemen came back after the war they didn’t recognise the place - because all of their girlfriends had left school. I’m sure it’s not true ... well not entirely sure because there were rumours. However, when we were about a quarter of a mile out to sea, the sailors said that they had to get back to their ship and told us to jump off. It was a very close call for two of the group, who could only just swim, but we all made it back to the beach safely.

  A Village of Two Halves

  For Mum, as for many housewives at that time, the only way to keep food cool was by placing it near the fine wire mesh that formed the small window on the outside wall of the pantry. Therefore shopping was more or less a daily chore for most housewives, who would do their shopping mainly in the High Street. Generally it would be very busy with people queuing to be served at the butcher’s, fish shops, grocer’s and greengrocer’s. Shopping took a lot of time. Only one or two people would be served at time, and the serving process was very slow and laborious. In most of the shops the goods would be displayed behind the counter (also some would be kept out of sight under it), and it was never a case of the purchaser choosing their own food items. The person serving would ask the customer what they wanted, how much or how many, then, if and when necessary, ask the customer to pass over their ration book to make sure that they had enough coupons. The proprietor or assistant would tear out the appropriate number of coupons or cancel them, more often than not with an indelible pencil, select the items, do the weighing, if necessary work out the cost, take the money and ring it up on the till, hand the customer their change if there was any, wrap the purchase (often in newspaper) and hand it over. If more than one item was purchased, the person behind the counter would work out the cost, sometimes on a piece of paper, which meant that the customer was always at the mercy of the arithmetic of the shop assistant. The whole process was extremely time-consuming, which was the main reason why so many queues were very long.

  It was very important for shop
pers not to forget early-closing day, because shops, as required by law, would close at 12.30pm or 1pm. If a shop failed to close on the specified day the owner or manager would be taken to court and fined, and they would also risk their licence to trade being withdrawn.

  Early-closing day rules continued into the 1950s. In December 1952 the proprietor of ‘Valentines’, one of the shops in the Parade opposite Lee Tower, was fined £1 for ‘failing to close their shop on early closing day’. In Lee-on-the-Solent early closing day was Thursday, so if anything was forgotten on that day it was a case of going without, or taking a bus ride to Gosport or Fareham where early closing was on Wednesday.

  During the war it was the general belief of the residents who lived in the east end of the village, that all of the better-quality groceries and cuts of meat were put on one side (under the counter) for the better-off residents who lived at the west end of the village, and this unequal treatment gave rise to a certain amount of resentment. ‘As if they didn’t have it cushy enough already’ was the often-heard complaint. The discontent about the preferential treatment was not just idle speculation and suspicion based on jealousy, but based on the observations of those ‘Eastenders’ who were in the employ of the ‘Westenders’, and the shop assistants who worked in the High Street. Despite the country being at war, Lee-on-the-Solent was still a village of two halves.

  Deference reigned supreme. Many of those favoured in the shops were officers’ wives, who formed the main clientele of the upmarket Hove-to tea-rooms which was the first establishment in the High Street on the left as you entered it from the west or Milvil Road end.