Good Ere ‘Ennit

By Sid Elliott

This is a book about Sids life as he remembered it we follow him through a tough life in London with Mum, Dad, 9 other siblings and extended families. The part he played in World War 2 ( the first time he had ever owned underwear) through to meeting the love of his life and the birth of his 4 children, unfortunately he did not get to go further, it is an amusing read full of history and for his family now and future generations something to treasure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 26, 2010
• ISBN: 9781467005593

Sid Elliott

Sid was just an ordinary man who had, what we thought as an interesting life, he touched many people with his amazing outlook on life. A great husband and father to his wife and 4 children. He left us with his memories to pass on to his future generations.

Book preview

© 2010 Sid Elliott. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 1/29/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4490-5198-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-0559-3 (ebk)

Contents

MOVING ON TO NEW PASTURES

FOR KING AND COUNTRY OR PERSONAL GAIN

AND ON WE GO,

WHAT DOES THE WORLD HOLD IN STORE

WILL THINGS EVER BE THE SAME

SO IT’S ON TO ANOTHER STAGE OF LIFE

A DREAM, AN ILLUSION, OR WHAT!

THIS IS NOT AN ATTEMPT AT WRITING A STORY, BUT JUST A DESIRE TO PUT DOWN ON PAPER SOME OF THE MEMORIES, STARTING FROM MY CHILD-HOOD AND JUST AMBLING ON THROUGH THE YEARS. I HAVE MADE NO ATTEMPT TO COLLATE THESE MEMORIES OR IN ANY WAY TO RESEARCH THE PERIOD, I HAVE JUST SAT AND REMEMBERED. BECAUSE OF THIS, CERTAIN THINGS MAY APPEAR TO BE OUT OF SEQUENCE, OTHER THINGS MAY SEEMED TO HAVE HAPPENED DIFFERENTLY TO THE READER, ALL I CAN SAY IS THAT THESE ARE THINGS THAT I REMEMBER, AND THEY ARE AS I REMEMBER THEM.

I WOULD JUST LIKE TO SAY THAT IT IS TRUE I DO THINK IT’S BEEN GOOD HERE.

It’s really strange when one looks back on those dim and distant days of ones childhood. Days filled with so many memories. It is indeed really strange to be sitting here and attempting to recapture some of those memories of yester-year. We were, I suppose rather a large family, Mum, Dad, Granddad, and ten children. I, being number three son, honourable or otherwise was blessed with six brothers and three sisters. Going from the top, Reginald David, Ronald Alfred, Me, Kenneth Gordon, Pamela, Hilda, Peter, Jean, William and last but not least came Victor. Also living with us was mums father, our Granddad, whom I feel held a very special place in all our hearts.

I and my three brothers, and I think, one of my sisters were born in Hampton, Middlesex. I remember quite clearly as a youngster with Mum and my brothers and sister trundling off to visit mum’s parents at their house in Walton Road, East Molesey. I could only have been three or four years old at the time, but I can see now the stairs going up to the room at the back of the house, the large bed in which lay this very old lady. Who I of course now realise was Grand-ma, and at the time I had no idea that in the very near future she was to pass on. It was soon after this that we moved in with Granddad, seeing that he was now on his own.

My father was, and will always be held in very high esteem by me, he raised us to always respect other people’s points of view, but at the same time to think things out for ourselves. To form opinions and never be afraid to voice them. To give a days work for a days pay, and not to be ashamed to show respect and courtesy to others.

Dad served with the Rifle Brigade during the First World War, something he was really proud of, I can sit back and hear him now if you want to read the news of the world, then read my cap badge, not the one you buy for tuppence on Sunday morning. The thin green line, the pride of old England, The sharp shooters and the lady-killers. Gentlemen of the Rifle Brigade, men of other Regiments and Corps Dad was invalided out after having lost an eye in action. Inevitably this brought him the nickname of Nelson among many of his work mates. Although his given names were Reginald David, he was known affectionately as Curly, and as strange as it may seem although he has passed on, when ever we have a get together we all still refer to Dad as Curly. Yes there is no denying he was indeed special. As was Mum, she was always there to watch over us; to feed us with whatever was available, which quite often was not a lot. When I look back now I often reckon that mums in those days must have been gifted with an ability that could not be taught in any College or School of Learning, but had to be learned in that great school of life. They do not give certificates if you survive - you pass.

Sunday was beyond a shadow of doubt the highlight of the week; dinner was always a roast, followed invariably by apple pie and custard. The joint was purchased on a Sunday morning by one of us lads; we would run down to the butchers shop. Mum says please can she have a shilling joint and on receipt of same, home you would run. Vegetables were never too much of a problem; Dad usually worked an allotment, which provided a reasonable supply. Money was never plentiful, in fact I think it could be said to be in short supply at times.

Dad in those early days was a building trade worker, and then it tended to be almost casual labour. There was no wet time, no guaranteed time, and no statutory notice; in fact it was a pretty precarious game to be in. But having said that, if that was your game, that is what you did, when it was there to be done. I am sorry, I digress, I was talking about Mum. She was, beyond a shadow of doubt an angel, looking back I often wonder how she coped. As already explained money was often in short supply, and there were weekly trips into Kingston or Teddington to the pawnbrokers shop. Dads suit lasted him a long time, probably because it spent more time in Uncles, than on his back.

I distinctly remember one occasion; mum received an amount of cash weekly off of Granddad. What it was I must confess I have no idea, but anyhow I can hear Mum now. Dad would it be possible for me to have this weeks house-keeping in advance. A short period of hush, then Granddads voice saying, but Rose you are seven weeks in advance now. Needless to say he let Mum have the money but added, you must try to manage Rose. We were on occasions I reckon, a pretty rough shod little group, patched hand me downs quite often, but for all of that clean. Soap and water seemed plentiful, the old copper in the corner of the scullery, with a fire under, ensured an ample supply of hot water. A large tin bath and a lump of sunlight soap and you finished all aglow. Another thing I often think of, is sitting there cutting out insoles to fit inside of shoes because there was a hole in them. A temporary measure until Dad got hold of a bit of leather, and out would come his last and he would merrily snob away until once again we were well shod. Another of the jobs that befell us boys was the early morning trip to the local bake house, where we would purchase six pennies worth (2.5p) of stale bread. Depending who was on duty we would come away with anything from six to ten loaves in our pillowcase. On arriving home Mum would take each loaf, damp the top and put it in the oven for a while. When they were eventually taken out they smelt and tasted just like fresh bread.

As kids we used to walk, hike or just wander for miles, Box Hill, Telegraph Hill, Hampton Court Palace, and of course the tow path along the Thames. With a family as large as ours there was always a pram available, and this was always put to good use on our trips out laden with whatever we had managed to get from Mum in the way of food, bread and jam, maybe even a piece of Mums home-made cake or even bread pudding, a bottle of lemonade, made up with powder and water. Perhaps even a few apples, either windfalls or we would have had to go off on a scrumping trip. I am afraid to say that in those dim and distant days, depending on the circumstances either option was considered fair game. Also considered, as part of our standard equipment was our gramophone, complete with our one and only record, which we played continually during our trek into the unknown. Into our own special world of dreams and fantasies.

While on these trips, at the right time of the year we would collect blackberries. On arriving home Mum would prepare them and with some of the apples we had gleaned would proceed to make blackberry and apple jam. Our trips to Hampton Court were another of the highlights of our childhood; I honestly think we knew every nook and cranny. We wandered around the different parts of the building always finding something new. Not for us the guides and brochures, they cost money, but if you stood close to someone that had one, you could just listen and before very long you knew as much as the fellow who wrote the book.

Again while in the confines of this beautiful old building we were in a world of our own, Princes in our palace, just awaiting the start of another royal party, heirs to all we could see around. Life held no problems; we had left off all our fineries. Today we were going to mix with our subjects. Oh the dreams and memories of those childhood days. The grounds also hold many memories as we made our way from one section to another. The flower gardens, paved areas, everything laid out to perfection, statues, large vases all done in some sort of stonework, but all extremely effective to our young minds. Home Park at the back stretched right to the foot of Kingston Bridge. Twas a walk we often done.

It was while on one of these rambles that I saw a sight that I shall carry with me forever. One of the parks attractions was the Long Water which was put to good use by anglers, who I understand paid a fee for the privilege. Making my way along the bank I spotted a man struggling with his rod, I stood there watching him for about twenty minutes, when he eventually landed this monster fish. Never had I seen anything as big, he told me it was a pike and that he had been after it for ages. After a while he shook his Macintosh open, laid it open on the ground and placed his fish on it and wrapped it up. The head poked out of the top and the tail hung out of the bottom. Now whenever I hear people talk about the one that got away I have to think about this man and wonder if people believe him when he tells them about the one he landed.

Another of my vivid memories of our trips out, was that on crossing over Hampton Court Bridge from East Molesly, immediately on the left hand side stood the Mitre Hotel. Now to us young rag-a-muffins this was excellence of the highest order. To see the people arriving in their chauffeur driven cars, for him to jump out and open the car door and for them to alight dressed up to the eyebrows was indeed a sight to behold.

At week-ends and holidays there was an old royal mail stage coach which would arrive, always to the sound of the post horn being blown by the man on the back of the coach. The passengers on the coach would all be wearing period costumes, and as I have already said it was indeed a sight to behold. Just over the road was Hampton Court Green and it was here that one of the highlights of our life took place.

The Bank Holiday fairs were all held on the green, and for all us youngsters it was always a really great day. On the morning in question Mum would prepare sandwiches and an assortment of goodies, this would then be packed into the pram, us youngsters would all be checked over and given our orders. Aunty Ivy would arrive with our cousins, all suitably prepared for our day out.

I think I know exactly how those wagon masters must have felt when getting their train underway. But somehow Mum and Aunty Ivy always seemed to manage extremely well, and the family would eventually arrive at its destination. Now to most people this might not seem a difficult task, but I can assure you there were problems built into the journey.

To reach our destination, Bushey Park it was necessary to proceed from Walton Road by various roads to the Molesly side of Hampton Court Bridge, then over the bridge, passing the Mitre Hotel (you can bet the mail coach was in) cross the road, pass the green, (with fair in full view) then on round the corner to the entrance to Bushy Park. It possibly does not sound all that difficult, but I can assure you that on a Bank holiday Monday, with anything from six to eight children of various ages, and the usual sort of holiday crowd, this was, I can assure you no mean feat. But of course we arrived, a quick roll call, all present and correct, our tree selected and base set up. We kiddies would be off over to the paddling pool, or play chasing, and generally muck about, we were only young but of course we all knew the score, it was also Dad and Grand-dads day out as well and of course, Uncle Berts. Now they would all drop into the public house just by the park gates, and join the rest of us at about two thirty. Of course by now us children would have all had our eats, and would be patiently waiting for Dads arrival, the big moment arrives and with hand held out we would stand waiting for our few coppers and the highlight of our day, our actual trip to the fair ground. We were given a time to be back, and I remember always just before we ran off Granddad would say hang on you had better have this and another few coppers would be pocketed.

Then merrily we would make our way to the fair-ground, the coppers we had would of course only allow for a couple of rides, but you can rest assured that a really fantastic time was always had. Of course as well as the swings and roundabouts there was always plenty of sideshows. Freaks of nature were one of the many attractions that would be on show, and I must confess that many was the time we were chased all over the green for bunking into a tent without paying.

The Fat Lady, The Wild Man from Borneo, The Head without a body, Dancing Girls from far away places, Witch doctors with all their mumbo-jumbo, The Worlds Strongest Man and Boxing Booths, all collected together for our entertainment and edification, at least that is what the man said. All this and the shouts of the fair ground people calling one and all to try their luck on the Coconut Shy, the Hoopla, Darts, come on you lucky people, spin the wheel, a winner every time. The hubbub of the crowd, the laughter, the backchat and banter going back and forth, all adding to the merry atmosphere of our Bank Holiday outing.

Darkness begins to fall and on come the lights, and suddenly it’s just like you have been transported to a new magical fairyland, your own world of make believe. But all to soon the time has come for us to say farewell once again to our little dream world and to wend our weary way back home. Where after a cup of cocoa (which by the way was Dads speciality, if the spoon stood up in it, it was ready for drinking) it was off to bed. Reg, Ron, Me and Ken all in the one bed topped and tailed (that is two at the top and two at the bottom) and my two sisters in their bed in the other corner. At this time there were only six children and we all shared the front bedroom of 139, Granddad had the middle room, and Mum and Dad had the back bedroom. Yes the room from my earliest memories of the house that was to be our home for so many happy years.

Another really happy period and place was under the railway bridge, just where it crossed over the river mole, before the train pulled into Hampton Court Station. We used to pitch our tent there for the weekend, the tent by the way was usually an old blanket, or if we were really lucky a piece of tarpaulin sheet. It was here we met the River Boys, they were all grown up, but they came down from London most weekends during the summer. They would arrive sometimes late Friday night, but mostly on Saturday morning. Always in three or four punts, and their young ladies, who on reflection and of course now being older, were beyond a shadow of doubt all worthy of page three titles. I must admit it was some years later that my eldest brother Reg told me that they were all young Jewish boys. I only mention this in passing, not from any racial viewpoint, but it seems strange on looking back that all the time we had known them it had never registered. To me they were just people that came down to our back yard for weekends to get away from it. One apparently became a well-known boxer; another was a wrestler, the others in business. We would run errands for them, keep our eye on the punts and their gear. Yes they were good days, and very pleasant memories.

Another of our very many haunts, one that has, over the years taken quite a pounding from the feet of the Elliott clan, has got to be the tow walk along the banks of Old Father Thames, from Hampton Court to the ferry point opposite Hampton. It was here that I think it must have been the local council had placed a changing hut for the use of all and sundry. It was I suppose by present standards rather surprising how much swimming was done in the river in those days. It was understandable, it cost you nothing. On one side of the tow path run the river, on the other was Hurst Park Race Course, where on race days we would make ourselves available, and when the punters pulled into the field just opposite the entrance, we would offer our services, watch your car sir, and hopefully at the end of racing a few coppers for our trouble. Mind you on a good day if the punter had a good day there might be a bit of silver for our trouble. I still remember being at the races one day, Dad, Grand-dad and Uncle Bert were also there plus Mum, Aunty Ivy, Aunty Hilda and the rest of the family. I was given the dubious honour of picking a horse, and a bet would be placed on it. The horse, Rolling Stone, a rank outsider, could not win if the other mounts decided to run the wrong way. It had to happen, odds of twenty to one, Sids special romped home a clear winner. My first tip, and strange as it may seem my last ever winner.

But back to our river, the most popular part I must say was adjacent to the Molesley Cricket Ground. We played football and cricket in the car park of the club; the football could be anything that could be kicked around, cricket stumps old pieces of broomstick and the bat, more often than not would be cut from an old piece of wood. Although these things are all part of my childhood memories, I must confess that sport was never one of my high points. In fact to be truthful, I was ruddy useless, and when sides were being picked you could bet I would be last