Made in Chertsey 1932/42

By Alan Weguelin

                     INTRODUCTION

In the big looking glass, I see a thin, lanky seven-year-old, I am wearing my new school clothes, short trousers that are too long and boots that are too big. Mum always buys our clothes on the big side so that we grow into them. I am not happy with what I see.

"Who is going to look at you Alan"?

 My mother says the words in a kindly way, hoping to dispel my fear of 'standing out'. Unknowingly, it has the reverse effect, it makes me think that I am not worth a first, let alone a second look. I would remember these words for the rest of my life and always be on the edge of the stage just looking in—That is, until I discovered writing.

 After I retired, my daughter in law Edi, helped me to join a writing group. A month later I am on the stage of 'The Green Room', reading my first story to an audience, and making them laugh. When I left the stage, a man said. "That was out standing". Now I can't stop!

'Made in Chertsey' is a fictionalised account based on true events and the people in them. Of course, all of these events have a seed of truth in them. Some of these seeds will germinate and flower naturally, others will need the fertiliser of my imagination—before you ask, this fertiliser is non-organic.

 A few seeds fell on the wayside of my memory and were forgotten until another story that is well remembered, brings them back to life. The human brain is astonishing. 

Most of the characters in these stories have sadly passed away. My mother who was very fond of using a saying or a phrase to describe any person or situation would say.

"They were no nonsense people who said it as it was" or "They are the salt of the earth". There is no better way of saying it except with another (misquoted) saying.  "They were ordinary people who were extraordinarily kind".

Without some of them I doubt whether I would have survived to tell my story. I have used their names as a way of giving thanks to them, and to tell any of their living relatives just how important these friends were to my family. Like any town, there were dark corners, usually hidden behind nice curtains or a neatly trimmed privet hedge. I wasn't aware of any really bad people until a few years ago, it just goes to show how well it was covered up. 

Some of the stories are based on just a few seconds of a memory, such as seeing a young RAF airman go past in a car, he turned to look at me very briefly and I saw his badly burnt face, something I will never forget.

Other stories are not even mine I was too young to have any memory of them, I suppose they could be called family stories or even a saga. They would be told over and over again and stray further away from the truth at every retelling. I will say at the beginning of any story if it belongs to someone else, as in this next story by my sister Iris. It is a story that she gave me a few years ago, just before she died at the age of ninety-two.

 Because Iris's story is from the memory of an eleven-year-old child, she could not have known everything that was happening around her. As I have said before, it is part fiction but with a lot of truth. Her story is so important to me that I have made it Chapter one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Weguelin
• Release date: Mar 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393515593

Book preview

Chapter one, Iris tells her story.

The kitchen of the Weguelin's, it is April, Nineteen thirty-four. the place of course, is Chertsey.

The sharp ‘Ding-a ling’ of a bicycle bell rings, together with a shout that is almost drowned by the noise of spoons scraping on enamel plates. At the breakfast table six young children are hurriedly eating their porridge, almost as if it is a race. Outside, sitting on their bikes are Charlie Weguelin’s workmates, all anxious to cycle the three miles to their work at the Airscrew Factory.

Deirdre, the eldest child, looks up and watches her father fumbling with his buttons. Her mother, Ethel, is tucking his scarf around his chest. He must keep warm he has been off sick with the ‘flu for the last two weeks. The disease has left him still a bit groggy, but he needs to earn some money—no work, no money. Another shout comes from outside, more urgent this time.

Come on Charlie, it’s getting late, we’ll have to get a move on.

The family have all been laid low with this epidemic—as have most of the local families. It is not as bad as the ‘flu of 1918, but it’s still bad enough. There’s yet another shout from outside. He quickly kisses his wife and waves to the children. They hardly look up from their breakfast, apart from Deirdre, who gives him a sweet smile.

She and her Dad have the special bond that the first child always seems to have. Deirdre, the name suits her well, even at the age of thirteen she is tall and elegant, with alabaster white skin and jet-black hair, a beautiful young woman. How could she know that this day would haunt her for the rest of her tragically short life?

Her gaze lingers on the closing front door, she hears the snap of the garden gate latch and the men still urging Charlie to hurry, their voices fade, and all is quiet.

Her mother wipes the misty window and watches the group of men disappear around the top of the road. She turns to start readying the children for school, a well-rehearsed drill, each child helping the other. They are quickly dressed and out through the front door and on their way to school, it is all like clockwork.

The two boys are making a racket, Donald is just over three years old and is teasing his younger brother, so near in age, they are often taken for twins. Ethel hears The Airscrew factory hooter calling the men to work, Charlie will be there by now. She turns to look at the clock, and she feels a slight shiver as she sees the pack of sandwiches on the dresser. Smiling, she whispers to herself. Charlie, you'll forget your head one day.

The sandwiches are put on the marble slab in the larder. He will be back at midday, then she will see his sheepish grin as he passes the kitchen window—this is not the first time, and probably won't be the last. 

She puts some more coal on the kitchen fire and replaces the fire guard, then lifting the boys down from the table, she sits them on the little seats that are on each side of the hearth fender to keep them warm. The kitchen has the only fireplace in the house, and the two boys soon make it their favourite spot.

The sharp sound of the school bell rings, the four older children will be filing into school, it is nine o’clock, but then there is a softer sound from further away, the mournful sound of the funeral bell, first a muffled tone then a full one. Another funeral, probably another ‘flu victim, one of many in recent weeks.

She pauses for a moment thinking of poor Mrs. Thompson, and that young boy, the same age as Bernard, both from Cowley Avenue, just a street away. Another shiver, more intense this time, as she thinks how easily it could have been this family. She hesitantly does the sign of the cross—not a thing that she has ever done before, both she and Charlie have always been free of any religion. Looking down at the two boys she thinks out loud. Should I have let Bernard go to school? he so wanted to see his friend's, but he was still a bit pale

Pulling herself together, she grabs the huge pile of washing from the table. Today is washday. She fills the copper tub that is built into the corner of the scullery, a handful of soda, a quick stir with the copper stick, bleached white by years of boiling soapy water as is the heavy wooden lid that she puts on top.

Into the firebox goes the 'Daily Herald', the headlines do what headlines are designed to do, they catch her eye. 'More ‘flu deaths in London'. She quickly piles on some sticks of wood and puts a match to the paper and watches the headline burn away, if only it was as easy to stop this horrible disease. Working quickly, as if to change the subject of her thoughts the copper is soon filled with the days wash, and the firewood is crackling and blazing.

Now best of all, some bread on a long fork, toasting so quickly on the flaming firewood that it burns the crust, but all the better for that. Donald is at the scullery door he can smell the toast and is licking his lips at the thought of some dripping on toast. For a few moments the boys will be happy, having something so nice to eat is one way of keeping them quiet.

Ethel sits back in her armchair, green velvet cushions with lovely, curved mahogany woodwork, a hand-me-down from Charlies family, as was the huge picture of ‘The Charge of the Light brigade’. Family legend has it that a member of Charlies family was actually there on that day.

On the dresser is the green alarm clock, a wedding present from her sister Tina. She winds it up and sets it right to St Peters Church bell, it’s already ten O’clock. 

The water in the copper is already bubbling, out comes the washboard, a quick scrub on the collars and cuffs of Charlies shirts. She takes a deep breath, that clean smell of 'Sunlight' soap, there is something special about washday, it's a fresh start for the week.

Looking around the kitchen, with the sun shining through the window, the steam from the copper is lit-up as it drifts slowly across the room and over the dresser. It shows the dust that has laid there for these last few weeks, she thinks of spring cleaning—not today though, perhaps next week.

Her neighbour, Mrs. Salmon taps on the kitchen window as she passes, she holds up the cake she is bringing round for a chat and a cup of tea. They have been friends for nearly six years since they each moved into their newly built council homes, just two doors apart. They take turns to make a pot of tea most mornings.

Rosy Salmon is a very large lady, the name suits her well, her full face is always flushed with the effort of just being so big. Ethel opens the kitchen door ready for her friend to come through. Rosy, with a huff and a puff has just one thought on her mind, to sit in that lovely green chair.

Hello Effie, is it me or is it very warm today?

She takes aim at the chair and drops into it with a sigh, a puff of dust flying from the cushions joins the smoke and steam caught in the sunlight.

There’s a nice seedy cake for you Ethel.

The tea is soon ready, and they settle down for the local gossip. The subject for today is the very thing that Ethel was trying to avoid. There has been another poor soul taken by the 'flu, an old lady from Ruxbury Hill. No one knew she was ill, and she lay there helpless for days.

That wouldn’t happen around here, would it Effie? we know everything that goes on.

She laughs at the comment she has made, but it is quite true. Rosy is one of those people who knows everyone, and everyone knows Rosy. She drinks her tea, twisting the cup around so that the tea leaves can be read, something she does with every cup of tea that she drinks. For once she does not say what can be seen in the bottom of the cup.

Realising her friend is a bit quiet, Rosy searches for something to say.

Do you know Effie? I have never seen how you spell you name.

Ethel is relieved for the change of subject.

It is spelt just as it is pronounced, Weg-ue-lin. It's a German name and some people do have trouble with it, so I just say its Waglin, most people know us like that anyway.

Rosy laughs, I don't know about it being from Germany, Effie, it sounds more like Chinese to me. The laughing stops as they hear the sound of a bicycle clattering against the garden fence, Ethel is at first startled, and then she frowns, saying.

That sounds like Charlie, I just hope they haven't closed the factory again like they did last week, I don't know what we will do if they have.

Putting the kettle back on the hob as she goes to open the back door. 

There is a gentle knock on the front door, leaning back to see who it is. Rosy says. He's at the front door, Effie.

For once her rosy cheeks lose their flush, instead of Charlie standing there, it is a policeman—It was a few years ago during the war, that the very same man, then a