Tom: The Life and Times of a Portsmouth Lad

By Tom Edwards

This book, Tom: The Life and Times of a Portsmouth Lad, is a story about the life and times of Tom Edwards.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jun 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796003925

Tom Edwards

Tom Edwards, originally from London, England, settled in Sacramento, California where he met his wife Jenna Edwards. Both work in the tech industry, Tom is a web designer and Jenna is a graphic artist, they share a passion for technology and embrace all the latest gadgets with gusto! The reviews of all the apps in their bestselling ebook 250+ Best Kindle Fire and Fire HD Apps for the New Kindle Fire User were written and researched by Tom and Jenna. Jenna also designed the book cover. Other than exploring new tech, Tom and Jenna enjoy spending time with their kids and cooking for friends.

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Tom Edwards.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-7960-0393-2

                eBook            978-1-7960-0392-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/13/2019

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty- Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Prologue

Synopsis Jane Sinclair

Epilogue

Tom Edwards - Biography

Acknowledgement is given for the research information gleaned from Google and Wikipedia – many thanks.

The basis of our contentment is not how we appear to others, but how we appear to ourselves.

PROLOGUE

The year of Tom’s birth was not an auspicious one, coming in as it did on the crest of the worst depression the world had ever known. England, reeling under the aftermath of the debilitating war of 1914/18, wallowed in the misery of enormous manufacturing reductions and an influx of thousands of returned ex-servicemen, a large proportion of whom were crippled mentally and physically by the excesses of dehumanising trench warfare.

The enfranchisement of women, merited by their inalienable claims to equality by their war-time initiation into the masculine domain, further exacerbated the unemployment problem as they scrambled for the once male dominated secretarial and junior administrative positions.

Post war nationalism in Europe had led to the setting up of trade barriers much to the disadvantage of a great exporting country like Britain and had dealt a severe blow to the two greatest export industries, cotton and coal. The collapse of the American economy which had run wild for a decade added further to the problems of a Labour Government still stigmatised by its handling of the T.U.C. initiated general strike two years previously.

The era was characterised by dole queues, soup kitchens and men marching in protest; their hob-nailed boots slipping on the gob covered cobble-stoned roads, hands in pockets and scarves wound around their pinched faces. The incumbent Labour Party dithered, proving once again that Drake was not unique when he played games whilst a crisis drew nigh.

The British closed ranks and threw out the Labour Government and elected a coalition National Government dominated by the Conservatives. Things did not improve much. It did not seem to matter how bad unemployment became, and at one time there were over a million out of work, the publicans were always busy. Two cheap pints on an empty stomach soon had the rafters ringing with `It’s a long way to Tipperary’ and `Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag’. They needed ‘one for the road’ to allay the pain when their wives caught up with them.

Tom of course knew nothing of these events. Secure in his embryonic isolation, floating in amniotic fluid, the only sounds that impinged on his world were the steady thump, thump of his mother’s heartbeat and a miscellany of gastric slurps. His ordeal had not yet started.

CHAPTER ONE

Tom was born in Stampshaw, Portsmouth, England in August 1929. At that time Portsmouth was an island which was joined to the English mainland by a narrow umbilicus scarred with tram tracks and overhead cables. The concrete parapets were punctuated at intervals with elaborate baroque structures supporting the meagre lights that glowed like ‘Toc H’ beacons in the inevitable fog and driven rain that often swept in from the channel. In the time of the press gangs the island was known as Spice Island, it being the major port for bartering the exotic spices brought in from the Caribbean. It gained city status in 1192 when Richard the Lionheart, who was on his way to the crusades, sanctioned it and bequeathed the star and crescent (two Muslim symbols) to be incorporated in the city’s crest; it also bears the somewhat enigmatic motto, ‘Heavens light our Guide’ which is also the motto of the Order of the Star of India.

John Pounds, the cobbler teacher, had lived there and was one of many who taught children through the Ragged Schools Program, which he initiated; he was a shoemaker who provided one of the earliest well-documented examples of the movement. When he was 12 years old, Pound’s father arranged for him to be apprenticed as a shipwright. Three years later, he fell into a dry dock and was crippled for life. Unable to work as a shipwright, John became a shoemaker and by 1803 had his own shop in St Mary Street, Portsmouth. In 1818, known as the crippled cobbler, he began teaching poor children without charging fees; he actively recruited children and young people to his school. He spent time on the streets and quays of Portsmouth making contact and even bribing them to come with the offer of baked potatoes. He began teaching local children reading, writing, and arithmetic. His reputation as a teacher grew and he soon had over 40 students attending his lessons. He also gave lessons in cooking, carpentry and shoemaking. Pounds died in 1839.

Charles Dickens had roamed its streets and his birthplace is set aside as a museum.

Dickens left school to work in a factory after his father was thrown into debtor’s prison. Although he had little formal education, his early impoverishment drove him to succeed. Over his career he edited a weekly journal for 20 years, he wrote 15 novels, 5 novellas and hundreds of short stories and non-fiction articles. He lectured and performed extensively; was an indefatigable letter writer and campaigned vigorously for children’s rights, education, and other social reforms.

Tunnels still connected various public houses to facilitate the escape of men from the press gangs of old. Kings and queens had sailed from there; cannon balls were formed in the shot tower, still standing, and great admirals had paced the huge stone walls overlooking the harbour where the derelict hulks of old ships had once harboured the sorry mass of humanity awaiting deportation to Australia.

To Tom at that time, Portsmouth was the stuff of dreams, with the sea forts rising out of the ocean to the south, massive and protective, guarding the entrance to the Solent and the great naval base and dockyards; Spitbank Fort; No Man’s Land Fort; St Helens Fort and Horse Sand Fort. They could be seen quite clearly from Southsea, or sometimes from Portsdown Hill, when the weather permitted. Building began on the first Fort in 1861 and was completed in 1878 at a cost of 117, 964 pounds.

The Royal Marine barracks dominated the south-east corner where crowds gathered on a Sunday morning to hear the band and to give a resounding cheer when the drum major tossed the mace clear over the gate arch, catching it deftly the other side with hardly so much as an upward glance. Fort Cumberland, as it was called, was built in the early 19th century, and is a unique artillery fortress on the Eastney Peninsula, built to defend the entrance to Langstone Harbour. It was the last bastioned fort in England and the first to incorporate casemates in the curtain walls to house the garrison. It is the best example of defensive architecture in England - and possibly the best preserved in Europe. The site originally held a Tudor fort in the shape of a pentagon which was erected in 1746 by the Duke of Cumberland as a defence against a possible French attack. When Bonny Prince Charlie escaped to France it brought about the possibility of an invasion and the present fort was constructed. It was built by convict labour from the prison hulks moored in the harbour. The Royal Marine Artillery was based in the fort from 1823 to 1973. The site is now listed as an Ancient Monument and is open to the public. To the north the castellated silhouette of a line of six land forts stretched from right to left as far as the eye could see, following the crest of the South Downs at approximately 3,000 yards spacing. Farlington Redoubt and Crookhorn Redoubt (now demolished); Fort Purbrook; Fort Widley; Fort Southwick; Fort Nelson and Fort Wallington. Constructed in 1868 they were intended to repel an attack from landward, an attack that failed to materialise, earning them the sobriquet of Palmerston’s Follies; there were many other defences dotted around the harbour. To the south there were Lumps Fort; Southsea Castle; Point Battery and Hilsea Lines. On the Gosport Peninsula there were, Fort Monkton; Fort Gilkicker; Stokes Bay Lines; Browndown Battery and the various forts around Fareham- Gomer, Grange, Rowner, Brockhurst and Elson. Several of these are ruins and a few have been demolished.

Old Portsmouth with its shot tower and battlements groaned under the accumulative years of history. The old pubs structured from the solid oak timbers of long dead ships were full of scrimshaw, bottled ships and the bric-a-brac of several hundred years.

It was said that the bearded sailor on the front of the Players cigarette packet was offered a pound of tobacco for the use of his picture whilst drinking in the ‘Still and West’ pub at the harbour mouth. However there are many other versions of this story. Press gangs had once roamed these streets dragging protesting revellers to service in the Royal Navy. The most famous amongst the press gang leaders was a man called Andrew Miller and to this day old salts sometimes refer to the navy as ‘The Andrew’. There is a story of a young lad whose sixteen year old wife was having a baby – he went to fetch milk and was waylaid by the Press and did not return for several years. One has to wonder what happened to the woman and the child.

To the west, across the harbour could be seen the square tower of the old castle at Portchester, preserved from antiquity. A monument to Roman endeavour it was built in the third century as part of a series that were built along the south and east coasts to protect the Roman colony from the Saxons. The forts were collectively known as the ‘Saxon Shore Forts’. It was subsequently rebuilt by successive Norman marauders who built the church within the walls in the twelfth century. Later, during the Napoleonic wars the castle was home to 4,000 French prisoners. It was an interesting place where for thruppence a time you could stand in the ancient ramparts and dream of knights of old, sieges, and sonsy maidens.

In 1971 the wreck of the Carrack type ship, the Mary Rose, was discovered by diver Alexander Mc Kee, it was sitting on the sea bed in the Solent. He was subsequently awarded the OBE and his bust sits in the Mary Rose Museum and a copy rests in the library on Hayling Island.

The Mary Rose was the pride of King Henry V111and was a great blow to the Tudor Fleet when it sank in 1545 in the Solent with all hands. The wreck has provided hundreds of very important artefacts.

To the north Portsdown Hill is a chalk escarpment 120 metres high. It is an excellent vantage point providing views across the town and the Solent to the Isle of Wight. Its history goes back some 60 million years. Many fossil remains of sea urchins and other creatures have been found embedded in the chalk, proving that the chalk was formed in marine waters several hundred feet deep. When the chalk pits were excavated some years later they proved to be an irresistible attraction for boys intent on extracting shells and sharks teeth, which often proved to be a somewhat dangerous occupation.

Sailors and dockyard apprentices spent the warm evenings of summer strolling around the large square that fronted the guildhall steps, eyeing the girls and shouting evocative comments that made them blush but never-the-less ensured their return. The large stone lions at each side of the steps gazed at the oft repeated scene with stoic indifference. They were reputed to roar whenever a virgin passed.

The guild hall with its gardens at the rear and large asphalt square in front was a popular meeting place prior to the council authorising the construction of a massive black tinted glass monstrosity of an office block which completely ruined the setting.

But there! I have leaped ahead of myself. Let us return to the beginning.

Stampshaw was not the most elegant real estate at that time, sandwiched as it was between the dockyard that employed about a half of Portsmouth’s male population, and Whale Island, the home of the Royal Navy, which was the other major employer. The houses snuggled close to each other on steep roads that fell to the water’s edge. They seemed to lean back with dug-in heels as if to prevent them slipping into the harbour. The sun softened tar on the roads sagged in odd patches, like funeral drapes, which stuck to steel tipped boots and the hands and clothes of myriad children who were drawn to it like flies to a honey pot. The cobble-stoned edges strove valiantly to constrain the road and became the inheritor of an accumulation of dog-ends, expired matches, the dust and fluff bashed from door mats and other less salubrious detritus of humanity. The doors stood in terraced rows down the length of the road disappearing like marching troops over the brow of a hill. Doorsteps nudged the meagre pavement and proved an insurmountable obstacle for drunken matelots singing their way back to their ships in the early hours of the morning. The bottom two houses fought the encroachment of the occasional spring tide and mud with heavy timber boards that fitted into slots across the door jambs. The lower bricks were salt stained and had a scattering of minute crustaceans clinging precariously to the damp mortar.

The house itself, a mirror image of the one adjacent, had a narrow passage that linked the front door to the kitchen, seeming to by-pass the parlour and thereby indicating its status. The parlour cringed behind lace curtains, tightly drawn, to keep the street at bay with true Victorian primness; a mandatory aspidistra sat on the ‘what-not’ with dusty, resignation, its leaves undisturbed by either people or draft. A faint odour of stale cigars emanated from the sagging, antimacassar draped furniture as a vague reminder of the festivities of the previous Christmas - or was it his older brother’s christening, some sixteen months earlier? A few musty books, mostly children’s, sat awry in a bookcase piled high with the forgotten treasures of past infrequent holidays spent at Brighton, twice, and Hayling Island, four times, it being nearer. There were also shells and coloured stones from Southsea beach, a thruppenny ride on the bus, where the multitude fought for sitting space on the minute patches of sand dotted between the hard shingled beach and the sea wall. This was where you could hire an incredibly unmanageable deck chair for a penny an hour and watch the men with their trousers rolled up to their knees paddling at the water’s edge, knotted handkerchiefs covering their bald spots. The women mostly sat, red arms and faces glistening with oil, knees akimbo with dresses tucked between their legs in a most saucy manner, gossiping and tending to the children who dashed around in sagging sand filled bathers, either shrieking or throwing a tantrum.

Cluttered haphazardly between the stones, shells and dried sea horses were framed photographs, some sepia, of strong looking Victorian ladies in cloche hats, some draped in haggard looking fox furs complete with head and claws. The men, for the most part moustached or bearded, stood with stern, unsmiling faces, heads tipped back; presumably to prevent the stiff winged collars from slicing into their necks; boys in sailor suits, girls in flounced dresses and ribbons. By the side of the door was pinned a long, dried and wrinkled, piece of seaweed which was supposed to indicate by its moist texture the imminence of rain. Its usual state suggested only a prolonged and catastrophic drought. Opposite the parlour a flight of creaky stairs led up to the three bedrooms. Only one was large enough for a double bed, a dresser and a curtain hung space for clothes; this was his Mum’s room, where the occasional thump of a kitbag hitting the floor heralded the return of his father from the sea. One of the other two rooms contained a single brass bed, which was jealously guarded by Tom’s sister, seven years his senior, and the other shared by Tom and his brother, a scenario heavily loaded with conflict potential. The kitchen which was located at the end of the passage in dim cluttered warmth was the hub of the household. It had a coal fired stove, table and chairs, an open fireplace with a mantelpiece overflowing with pipe racks, vases, a biscuit tin for the rent money and a miscellany of hairpins, matches and pegs for the airing line that was draped under the mantle shelf. On the sideboard stood an Ekco (EK Cole) wireless, it had four, eight- inch valves in the back with large heating sections at the top. You had to wait a few seconds whilst it warmed up before it worked. It threw off as much heat as a radiator. Over all was the steady ‘tic, toc’ of the wall clock that seemed in quieter moments to set the pace for the heartbeat of the house. There was no bathroom but a large galvanised tub that served the purpose hung on the outside toilet wall. Saturday night was bath night and the kids were tubbed in descending order in front of the fire. Tom being the youngest, and consequently the last, usually came out dirtier than he went in.

Tom’s father was a merchant seaman whose lineage was shrouded in mystery. It would appear that his mother had been ‘in service’ to a rich (oft stated as ‘titled’) family in Brighton and had been put in the family way by her employer’s son. There were vague whisperings of having been bought off, but the truth of the matter never surfaced. If she had money nobody ever saw it; she died penniless without telling anyone who the father was. He, Tom’s father, appeared from time to time, long enough to leave his wife pregnant, or as Tom’s mother was wont to say He sailed in, unloaded his cargo and sailed off!

These were the days prior to Alvin Toffler’s Future Shock, when families lived close together. He had two aunts in the same street, one in the next road and his mother’s parents lived a few streets away, close enough for them to pop in from time to time for a cup of tea and to brush up on all the local gossip. His mother’s maiden name was Budd and her parents either had a great sense of the ridiculous or perhaps some puckish whim drove them to name their various daughters Olive, Ivy, Holly, Rose, and Lily. His mother, fortunately, escaped this botanical prerogative and was named Alice, which by some arcane juxtaposing became ‘Midge’. Her brother, John, disappeared into the vast hinterland of Australia in 1937, where presumably he was consumed by natives, or whatever happens to white people in that country ‘beyond the black stump’.

Tom’s recollection of Stampshaw was vague; he did recall his mother relating a tale about a cat. Apparently it was called ‘mamma’s-dowasy-prettious’, how it acquired that name nobody knew for sure. Apparently it became very ill and the services of naval gunner was utilised to shoot it. The back yard was full of old iron sheets and debris and the cat was placed in front of it and the gunner duly did his job. The cat disappeared and concerned that it might be injured and in pain they spent the whole day pulling out all the debris hoping to find it. The following day it returned for his dinner to a repentant household.

Tom never really got to know his grandparents. He did remember his grandmother squatting in the gutter to piddle; nobody seemed to care as she arose leaving a small puddle from which steam arose. There were no public conveniences at that time and the relieving of bodily functions were tolerated. He also remembered when his grandmother died and his grandfather put his head into the gas oven and joined her a few weeks later. He really must have missed her. The ladies in the clan lived to a great age, around one hundred and six. Even at a young age Tom recognised that his mother was a very attractive woman and he often wondered why she had married his dad – who in all honesty was no great catch. His sister took after her mother and was never short of beaus. Her easy, long-suffering nature was proof against the incessant teasing of her brothers. His brother, Ken, was a head taller than Tom and had a gentle nature and accepted life with humour and kindness. Tom, in later years was to wish he was more like him – instead of having a constant drive for adventure he would happily sit in a chair in front of the fire and read a book.

A new council estate opened up in Cosham, a small village to the north of Portsmouth on the mainland. His mother applied for one of the new houses, and to her delight her application was approved. The house came complete with bathroom and a garden. Very posh!

Half the street turned out to gawp as the meagre trappings of frugal living were bundled onto the back of a large cart for the long journey out of Portsmouth. Tom’s mother and sister caught a bus to their new council home and the two boys sat on the tailboard of the horse drawn cart with a large bag of ‘dusties’ - a conglomeration of sticky sweets and broken biscuits that were sold at thruppence a bag - to pacify them during the trip. The ancient cart-horse clattered over the cobbled stones and the iron wheels grated and screeched with each turn. At every rise in the terrain the driver would jump down from his perch and tug at the horse’s halter. Each additional effort caused the animal’s belly to rumble in a most distressing manner and its bowels to empty with a gratifying ‘plop’. The road seemed to be punctuated at irregular intervals with steaming mounds which the kids tried to hit with rolled-up sweet wrappers.

Cosham started as a Saxon village in the 6th century. It was called Cossa’s ham, which meant Cossa’s village or estate. However until the 19th century Cosham was only a small village.

At the time of the Doomsday Book in 1086 England was divided into areas called manors. Cosham was part of the manor of Wymering and at that time Wymering was a larger village than Cosham, which was a hamlet with a population of probably less than 250.

Cosham consisted of a single High Street on which were located the entire business and commercial enterprises that serviced the whole area; mostly rural; it seemed to have more than its fair share of bucolic characters who stamped around the timber floored shops in their hob-nailed boots and corduroy trousers, pipes smouldering close to their cheek and smelling of hay and earth; not your archetypical Arcadian. There was also the occasional inbred simpleton leering with spittled lips, bent over in grotesque distortion, carphologically absorbed with his fly buttons. The village had that inchoate appearance as if it was waiting to be discovered and turned into something permanent. The grocery shop was full of barrels of haricot beans, sugar, flour and dog biscuits; boxes full of tinned corned beef, sardines and candles. It seemed as if the owner was either too tired to unpack or was poised on the verge of flight. You took a bag and using the scoop provided you took the amount that you wanted and gave it to the grocer who weighed it and fixed a price. Some of the older ladies would exasperate the man by turning the tray over to ensure that there was not a weight stuck to the bottom. Half way down the high Street was the Droke; an old Roman road that once ran all the way to London – parts of it were still in good condition.

In the centre of the high-street stood the Waverley Cinema which showed mostly silent films; Felix the cat, Charley Chaplin and cowboy episodes. One notable series was, ‘The perils of Pauline’, which always ended with Pauline in an impossibly dangerous position which made it essential to go the following week to see what eventuated. The crowd were often incensed with episodes where, typically, Pauline had been thrown into a pit of poisonous snakes – the next episode would start off, ‘Having got out of the pit, Pauline…’ On Saturdays it was packed with the sixpenny crowd of council-house kids blowing half their pocket money. For an additional two pence (tuppence), you could extract from a machine a small round cardboard cylinder complete with two Woodbines and two red topped matches with which you could add to the already oppressive fug of unwashed bodies, camphor blocks and bodily emissions. At the rear of the hall was a raised platform reserved for the ‘Blue Men’; the waifs and strays of the First World War who were housed in the Queen Alexandra Hospital on the slopes of Portsdown Hill. Their blue serge suits denoted their war-blown brains and shattered nerves. They paid tuppence for the privilege, as if in some obscure way this would prove an antidote for a nation’s guilt or perhaps a salve to the national conscience. On the stage, to the left, was a piano at which sat a bunned and bespectacled matron who watched the screen with animated mien, her skinny bottom bouncing with the pressure of her feet on the pedals; her flying hands striving to keep pace with Tom Mix and his merry men as they pursued the baddies across the screen. A somewhat difficult enterprise when carried out whilst dodging half chewed apple cores, banana skins and a miscellany of items thrown from the floor and brought in for that purpose. As the cowboys fired their six-guns there would arise the joyous cries of, ‘one!’ ‘Two!’ ‘Three!’… ‘Twelve!’ ‘Thirteen!’ .…All interspersed with cries of, ‘sit down and shut up’; and more raunchy expressions.

At regular intervals the manager would walk up and down the aisles wielding a spray of air freshener in a vain attempt to dominate the miasma that seemed destined to overpower the weak and infirm. It was sometimes difficult to see how the owner managed to keep the place profitable as the number of bodies passing the ticket office bore no relationship to the number inside. It was generally accepted that one of the gang would pay to get in and ‘bag’ several seats and as soon as the lights went out he would sidle into the toilet and open the emergency door for the rest who would stumble blindly into the blackened interior like new-born puppies, treading on feet and crawling over bodies trying to find a seat before the manager, who was also the projectionist, dashed down from his lofty room to catch them.

In later years there were to appear the ‘Odeon’ at the north end of the street and the ‘Carlton’ at the south. Defiant to the end the manager of the Waverley erected a sign which read ‘The best of the sandwich is always in the middle.’ The cinema was later converted into a Fire Station. The Odeon was the first cinema to have an organ that rose up out of the stage and occasionally had light entertainment during the breaks. Ted, Mick’s future husband, had a sister Adele who sometimes sang there under the banner, ‘The Golden Voice of Adele’.

Just below the house was a church sitting in splendid isolation in the field. In an attempt to gather flock to his church the pastor ran a film show on Thursday evenings. There was no charge but you were supposed to give as much as you could afford. The show consisted mostly of Felix the cat, Donald Duck and Popeye. The pastor turned the handle of the 8mm projector and occasionally paused a fraction too long and there would appear on the screen a large burnt patch and a smell of burning plastic, which caused the pastor to call for somebody to turn on the lights whilst he fixed the problem. On one occasion it could not be fixed and he sent everyone home telling them to take their money from the tin – Tom had not put anything in the tin when he entered but he took a farthing out. He felt so bad about it that when the next show was due he contributed all his pocket money.

CHAPTER TWO

These were halcyon days for Tom; he roamed the area like a friendly animal wandering into people’s gardens and houses, invariably dragging back some memento unbeknown to its owner; a door mat here, a boot scraper there, other children’s toys. His mother was forever apologising to her neighbours. It got to the stage that whenever they espied his sturdy shape ambling in their direction, his fair, basin-cut hair reflecting the sun, there would be a dash to collect any moveable object, nail it down or tie it up. This, no doubt, was to prove the embryonic stage of his later mania for collecting. Cosham nestled with its back in the foothills of the Portsdown Hills and its south side half a mile from the shores of Portsmouth Harbour, known locally as the ‘Tide’. The gorse covered hills rose with beautifully undulating gentility to a height of several hundred feet. In winter its snow covered slopes were hatched into chaotic patterns by the runners of wooden sledges and the tumbling bodies of shrieking children. On one occasion his brother, Ken, was making a particularly fast descent when his sledge hit a bump which precipitated him through the air to land on a broken bottle which gave him a bad cut on his rear end. He steadfastly refused to let anyone see it, apart from Tom who stuck a large plaster on it; he was known from there on as Scarface. In the summer its pristinely green aspect emphasized the hideous desecration caused by two chalk pits hacked into its face by contractors favoured by a nepotistic council.

In the period between his awareness and his first day at school Tom remembered little; the aroma of warm blankets in a vinyl hooded pram; the smell of melted tar at the side of the road; his mother always there to comfort him when he was hurt.

He remembered the excitement when, just before Christmas, lorries would appear on the normally traffic-free estate with the ‘toffs’ distributing manna in the shape of a cardboard box about eighteen inches square and four inches deep containing a bag of sweets, a small Christmas pudding, an apple and orange and a small bag of nuts. All of these arranged around a toy of some description, usually a tin aeroplane or a train for the boys and a doll or a tea-set for the girls; this was supplied by the Lord Mayor’s Fund. Tom asked his mother why they were given them and his mother told him it was because they were poor; until then he hadn’t realised that they were.

About a mile away at the edge of the harbour was the municipal ‘tip’. This tip, with its constant umbrella of shrieking, tumbling seagulls and crows, was the cornucopia that supplied the raw materials for a miscellany of sledges, carts, hoops, wild-west wagons and a whole range of products dredged from fertile imaginations and honed by necessity. It also provided the discarded motor tyres that his father hacked into shape to nail onto the bottom of his children’s boots in a vain attempt to repel the cold and wet of the melting slush of winter. The nails were hammered through the sole and bent over, thick cardboard inserts kept the nails from puncturing their feet. You could always tell the kids whose boots were repaired this way because they suddenly gained a half an inch in height and had a tendency to rock their way to school.

Tom remembered the occasional ‘get together’, usually at New Year or someone’s birthday when the family wore paper hats and played games. Nelson’s Eye was always popular, where everyone was sent out of the room to be blindfolded and brought in one at a time and treated to a brief history of Nelson’s great battle where he lost his eye. They were then entreated to ‘feel the socket’ as their finger was jabbed into half an orange. Tom wondered why the girls always screamed so much when they did the same thing at every party; forfeits; spin the bottle; sardines - a favourite of the older boys and girls where they were jammed together into a small cupboard for a few minutes - and pass the balloon between your legs, or passing a matchbox from nose to nose always went down well. The kids were kept busy the week beforehand with packs of coloured paper slips and a bowl of flour paste gluing the slips into chains and hanging them from the picture rails and the centre lamp shade.

All pastimes seemed to be activated by some extraterrestrial alarm clock. Every activity had its season and rarely overlapped by more than a few days. ‘Conker’ season started early November; the horse-chestnuts were separated from their spiky case and treated to some personal, arcane process to harden them for the conflict that lay ahead. A hole was carefully burnt through the centre using a red hot skewer and a leather bootlace threaded and knotted. Every kid in the street had his champion conker and challenged all to a contest. One would hold his conker out, dangling from its thong and the other would take a mighty swing at it. The conker that disintegrated lost. If a conker had won previous challenges it became a ‘oncer’ a ‘twoer’ and so on. If a conker smashed a ‘fiver’ it became a ‘sixer’. The gutters became clogged with the shattered dreams of would-be world champions.

The nearest anyone got to being a world champion was when Charley Manderson from up the road embarked on a demolition derby and swinging a fearsome looking conker proceeded to shatter the dreams of all and sundry. It was after he splattered a fourteener, previously considered unbeatable, all over its owner’s shirt front that suspicions were aroused. In spite of Charley’s protestations his conker was forcibly prised from his grubby paws and smashed with a hammer. It turned out to be a stone complete with a hole through it that he’d found on Southsea beach.

Chestnuts followed soon after, just prior to Christmas. The chestnut woods were only a mile away and small figures staggering under sacks of chestnuts could be seen scuttling erratically across the hill, like intoxicated dung beetles. The chestnuts were split and set on top of the fire grate where they slowly arched and opened emitting a most delicious aroma. Tom discovered that if he put enough spittle on his fingers he could snatch one before his mother raked them off onto a plate. Games were simple and cost nothing; a shoe box covered with coloured tissue and a peephole cut in the end became a scene of enchantment when