Memoirs of a Scoundrel

By Jim Davis

"I have no intention of boasting about, nor excusing, my life. I will tell it the way it is, the way I see it. However some of the names have been changed to protect the guilty."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447555407

Book preview

Chapter One

In the Beginning

Like all journeys, the beginning is a good place to start. October 12th 1939, not a very important day on a world scale, though it was for me. It was the day I decided to come into the world in number 20, Brants Walk, a two-bedroomed council flat on the Cuckoo Estate, London W7.

And if I had bloody well known what was in store for me, I think I’d have stayed where I was!

Of course bombs landing and sirens wailing was a part of my life from birth, but I only became aware of what air raids meant and why the sirens went off when I was between three and four years old. At first it was normal, it was what I was born into.

I lived on the middle floor of a three-storey block and each time the sirens started, I clearly remember being woken up and put inside the Morrison shelter that we had in our front room. Working class people didn’t have lounges in those days. I vaguely remember being frightened that the enemy, whoever they were, wanted to hurt us, and I didn’t know why.

Then came the first blow that turned all of our lives upside down, never to be the same again. My mum was still in bed, just six days after giving birth to my brother Sid, when my dad decided to leave her for another woman. How a man could leave his family with air raids happening daily I will never know. Still, it takes all kinds.

So there we were, my grandmother, aunt, mother, big sister, myself and baby brother living in a two-bedroomed flat with no money coming in. But we managed.

Mr Fowler, who lived on the top floor of our block of flats with his family, decided to look out for us, insisting that during air raids we took cover in his Anderson shelter in the garden. It was a great gesture for him to make since Anderson shelters had been designed for external use and were far safer than the Morrison.

Although the Anderson would not protect you against a direct hit, you’d have to be extremely unlucky to be injured inside one. Whereas the Morrison only gave protection against flying glass, or perhaps a collapsed ceiling, but not much else.

I say ‘we’ went into the shelter, all of us that is except mum’s sister Ivy, who flatly refused, saying, I am as safe in my bed as anywhere else, and if my turn comes, it will come wherever I am!

People never cease to amaze me. Talking to Ivy many years later, I discovered the bombing didn’t worry her unduly, and neither did cemeteries. Even in a blackout she wouldn’t turn a hair at taking a shortcut through a graveyard. But strong wind, now that was a different matter! Ivy feared wind of any force!

Mr Fowler’s garden was the farthest from the flats and the shelter was half buried in the ground with sandbags and such packed all over the top. It had ample room, and once inside it we felt safe and warm. During one night time air raid, we were all in the shelter when Mr Fowler’s son, Alan, and I needed a pee! As the raid seemed to be a little way off we were told to go outside. But halfway through relieving ourselves there were several huge explosions, only about 200 yards away from where we were doing our business. Needless to say we did a little more than intended!

We were very lucky that night - two houses had taken direct hits and all the occupants were killed. It is only now, after all these years that I realise just how lucky we were. A cluster of bombs falling out of the sky would only needed to be released maybe a second sooner or later than they actually were, for us to have copped it, and that would have changed the whole course of history. Well for some at least.

Between those unfortunate people and us were horse chestnut trees and more houses that had fortunately protected Alan and me from the blast.

Even though I was young, I learnt how serious war is, and also how confusing it can be. Whenever we heard anything about the Germans or the Italians it was as the ‘enemy’; they were dropping bombs to hurt or kill us and I didn’t know why. To me, they were very bad people.

Yet at the bottom of Mr Fowler’s garden, on the other side of a five-foot fence, a small estate of prefabricated homes were being built, and it was Italian prisoners of war doing the labouring. I don’t know what I expected to see when we stood on benches to peer at the ‘enemy’, but I remember being a bit frightened.

Who were these strange people, the enemy, and what on earth did they look like? When I found out I remember being confused - they looked like normal men. And what is more, they were very friendly, and gave the kids wooden toys they had carved. For their part, the local people gave the Italians cigarettes and other goods when they could. So there was a small amount of trading going on and from my own childish memory, I do not recall any antagonism between the groups. It’s funny how one remembers silly things sometimes, like the toy one of them gave me; I remember it like it was yesterday.

It was similar to a table tennis bat, made of wood, with little carved chickens on the top and string connecting them all to a weight underneath, and as you swung the weight the chickens pecked the ground as if they were feeding. I was spellbound by this toy and played with it for hours, sad little sod that I was!

I am going to get ahead of myself briefly, but it’s as good a place to mention the Old Cuckoo Schools as anywhere else in my tale.

The two houses that I mentioned being bombed were on Cuckoo Avenue - a long, straight road with mature horse chestnut trees on a central verge. And, even now, when the trees are in blossom in the spring it is a beautiful sight. At the bottom of the road is the River Brent and at the top is a very large, imposing building with a clock tower. The name commonly used for this building is the Old Cuckoo Schools, but actually it is all that remains of The Central London District School, opened in the middle of the nineteenth century, 1856 to be precise. This large building was only the reception block of the school so the whole place must have been enormous. The purpose of the school was to take children from the workhouses of central London and Southwark.

There was only about eight hundred people living in Hanwell at the time and the school housed around 1,000 children plus teachers. So the population of the area more than doubled once the school opened with its full compliment of staff and pupils.

Most of the buildings were pulled down in 1933 to make way for the Cuckoo Estate, and you only have to see the size of the Cuckoo Estate to realise how large an area the school and its grounds were. It has been used as a community centre for many years now and housed the famous Hanwell Boxing Club where many amateur boxers trained before representing England.

Within the building there were small, creepy, winding staircases in addition to the main stairs. And underneath the whole building were cold, dark rooms that I suppose were used for storage at one time. But to us kids they were scary dungeons and we dared each other to go inside when it was closed because we had found a secret way in.

We were only between seven and eleven years old, going to Cubs which were also held in that building. We tried to act brave, but it scared us shitless when it was our turn!

Although I have not been back inside the building for many years, I still get that same creepy feeling as I pass by in the car, and my mind wanders way back to many years ago.

The Old Cuckoo School buildings are interesting in their own right, but the main reason for mentioning the place at all is that the most famous child ever taken from a workhouse to The Central London District School was the film star and much loved comic genius Charlie Chaplin. I know next to nothing about his life, but there can surely not be many people who have started off in more humble or difficult surroundings and, through determination and talent, went from being in a workhouse to become one of the most famous film stars ever.

It seems to me that, in contrast to Chaplin’s life, many people today believe they have a right to a share of benefits worked for so diligently by others, before ever putting anything into society themselves. I see neither logic nor benefit to our way of life through this, only the trouble we are making for future generations. Perhaps you have different views on that subject so I will move on.

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The Old Cuckoo School

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The Dungeon

The hardship of rationing was not really felt by us young children because we didn’t know we were going without – ‘What you have never had, you never miss’ is how the old saying goes and it is true.

Everything just seemed normal to us kids; at least it did for me.

The remaining years of the war were obviously very eventful, but of no interest to me because of my age. For me, they were much the same as those that had just past. Gradually, the tide of war started to turn in our favour and people began to sense that most of the bad news was nearly finished. I remember a feeling of happiness amongst people in general and that must have been because of how the war was progressing and the belief that it would soon be over.

The street parties we had at the end of the war, I have not seen the like of since. The Queen’s Jubilee celebration in 1976 didn’t come close. Flags and bunting were flying and the lampposts in the streets were painted red, white and blue. There was music and dancing in the streets, it was a joyful occasion that is imprinted on my mind forever.

Unfortunately, as one war finished another was about to start, because before the end of the war our mum had met, and became involved with, Wally Bilton.

At first we didn’t mind Wally, he seemed a jovial sort of person. But what a mistake that was, it turned out his cheerfulness was just a charade, which we soon found out to our cost. My mum got pregnant by him, and later gave birth to June. Wally subsequently moved in with us, after that is, he had been de-mobbed from the Army.

Wally had been a Sergeant in the Pioneer Corps. Whether true or not, the perception of most civilians in those days was that the Pioneer Corps is where squaddies considered none too bright were put. I guess that being the case, it suited Wally right down to the ground.

My intention here is not to denigrate the soldiers; they did their bit for the war effort. There were several reasons why a person might be drafted into that regiment, a good example being my old mate Leslie Sweetman. He had been called up and was fighting in France and was one of the soldiers evacuated from Dunkirk. As time went by he was making himself ready to be sent abroad again and that is when his mum decided to get involved.

Leslie’s mum had four sons, three of which were fighting overseas, so she wrote to the War Office begging them not to put all of her sons in combat situations and keep him in England, for her sake. Having one of your children risking their life is bad enough; having three fighting was tough, but all four would have been unbearable. Thankfully, the army must have agreed because her wish was granted and he was put in the Pioneer Corps (good old mum). That was his reason for being there, and there must have been many similar grounds for other people as well.

Pioneer Corps recruits were mainly used for manual work, repairing roads and the like and as labourers for the Royal Engineers. Another common job was to work in the ports alongside civilian Dockers.

But their main work was to guard the enemy soldiers we had captured, or in other words, prisoners of war. Wally was stationed at the camp where those Italians working on the pre-fabs were billeted. Funny as it might seem, ten or fifteen years ago I was talking to Leslie about Wally being in the Corps and also where he was stationed. Leslie said he too was stationed there and knew Wally; he accurately described him and finished by saying he was a miserable vicious bully. I thought to myself, ‘Well I never! It’s a small world!’

Before moving in with us permanently, Wally would often stay overnight during the week and most weekends, so we got a taste of what we had in store for us. He had frequent rows with my mum, which was frightening for us kids because that was something we had not had to endure before.

You might be asking why my mum put up with him, but Wally was a devious bastard. After a blazing row he would convince her that he felt insecure because of the way things were, but if he were to move into the household permanently they could get married and then things would be different. The war had only just ended, there was no money coming from my father and it was hard for a woman on her own trying to bring up four children. So, unfortunately, mum believed him. Or perhaps she hoped what he said was true. Of course it wasn’t, and she fell for it. He had achieved what he wanted and wormed his way in.

Before he took up residence my Grandmother and my aunt moved back to Notting Hill where they’d lived before the war.

That was because, once it was decided that Wally was going to move in with us, it was clear that a two bedroom flat was not suitable accommodation for four adults and four children.

In addition to that I found out many years later from my aunt Ivy that both her and my Nan did not like Wally. She said to me, He might have fooled your mum Jim but he did not fool me and your Nan, we could see what he was like. So there was really no alternative for them other than to go back to Notting Hill.

Chapter Two

Nanny Brown

Nanny Brown was a game old bird. It is probably only the love of a child remembering the good things, but at least I do have these memories. He real name was Topsey, and she rented one room in a large house in the Latimer Road area of Notting Hill. She cooked, ate and slept in the one room and shared a toilet with other tenants.

She was very thin and she wore her long, straight hair twisted around at the back into what was called a ‘bun’. Her hat, which she wore nearly all of the time, was kept in place by a pin pushed through both the hat and the bun. Her face, though very thin and looking as tough as old boots, nevertheless had a warm, loving look about it.

How Topsey paid for her upkeep I do not know. She died on the 9th of June 1950 when she was 66 so I presume by then she had a small pension from the Government.

Whatever her income was, it wasn’t much. But now and again she would manage to get the train fare from somewhere to visit us, and never failed to bring a few sweets for us each time she came even though I realize now that she must have left herself short in doing so.

I truthfully do not remember many highlights in my very young life, what with the situation at home with Wally Bilton, and I do not remember cuddles either. Big sister Chris may tell me otherwise, but I do not remember any.

Now and then I was allowed to go and stay with Nanny Brown, and they were memories that I truly treasure. It made no difference to me that that she only lived in one room or that there were no electric lights. But when it became dark she at least had gaslights on the walls that she used to ignite with matches. They didn’t give as good light as the modern electric light bulb, but they were better than nothing, and at least they also gave off a modicum of heat that helped to take the chill off the room.

There was no garden to make use of and there was a busy main road at the front of the house, but none of that mattered to me, I was just happy to be with my Nan.

For hours we used to sit side by side at the window watching the world go by, and I don’t ever remember being fed up. On the contrary, I was very happy in her company.

One of the highlights of the day for me was when the Public House opposite, turned out at night. That’s when we would sit and laugh at some of the things that drunken people did. And when there was a fight, which was frequent, we always had a ringside seat, but my Nan always made me come away from the window if things got too bad. If only she knew what I was going to turn out to be, she needn’t have bothered.

Then we would go to bed, and this bit touches my heart, it makes me very sad, yet at the same time happy. I cuddled Nanny Brown, and Nanny Brown cuddled me, this I do remember.

Something else that was interesting about her, she played the harmonica very well. So well, I am told, that she won competitions for doing so.

Sometimes she entertained me with her playing and I don’t remember any of the other tenants objecting.

My granddad, Walter Brown, died in 1928 while my Nan was only forty-six and she never remarried. On his death certificate it says he was a general dealer - the ‘Del Boy’ of his day - and you will soon understand why I say that. Nan and Granddad used to be good tinsmiths. They would buy sheets of tin, cut it up, then bend and solder it, making oil cans and the like which they sold to hardware shops and market places.

It was not easy, but they scratched a living, thanks mainly to my Nan. It was she who learned how to be a tinsmith from her father who did it for a living. My Granddad liked a drink, given the opportunity, and so I think the main person that held everything together was my Nan.

One day they had been out selling their wares and were walking back home with the little money they had earned, when they came to a pedestrian underpass with toilets.

My Granddad said, Wait here a minute, Topsey, I want to go to the toilet. My poor Nan, she waited all right, for quite some time, then she just happened to catch sight of him sitting on the top deck of a bus going the other way! How she must have felt I can only guess; desolate and very hurt I would imagine. He had not gone to the toilet, but instead had gone through the tunnel, out the other side and onto the bus with every penny they had earned that day. (If he weren’t already dead I swear I’d kill him). Where was he going? Down the pub, of course. Then, when he had spent it all on booze, he would go home - the bastard! If only she was here today, I could have made her life so much easier. If. There, I’ve said that little word again that has so much meaning.

One other thing that she did frequently was to go to the coal yard with an old pram to get, in today’s terms, 100 kilos of coal, and push it two miles or more to the home of one of her daughters, my aunt Ivy. That must have been hard work for her, especially as she probably only weighed seven stone when wet.

Life was not kind to her, it was hard, but I don’t ever remember seeing her miserable. She was as tough as old boots and just got on with things, but then I suppose she had no choice because she was on her own. Looking back, my old Nan had more balls than many men I know.

Her three daughters, Annie (my mum) and Aunts Ivy and Alice, all had council houses. Her son, Walter, named after his dad, was married and living in Salisbury, Wiltshire. He must have been an interesting person because he was one of the first men to volunteer for the 1st Airborne Division in the Second World War and was one of those whose exploits were told in the film A Bridge Too Far, but that is another story. A brave man that’s for sure, but why did those children of hers let her live in one room on her own?

That is a question I am afraid will remain unanswered.

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A faded memory of Nanny Brown

Chapter Three

An Unforgettable Christmas

For some time before Wally Bilton moved in, there had only been four of us in the flat - my Mother, Chris (eight years my senior), myself and Sid (three years younger than I). It was a time of relative happiness. Then, in 1945, June was born. You would have thought having a child of his own would have mellowed him, but it didn’t. He was still a miserable, vicious bastard, but much worse now. He had his feet under the table, so to speak, and obviously felt more able to vent his rage without the likelihood of any repercussions. Though on rare occasions he would seem jolly, the dark side of his nature was always evident.

For a short while he would seem to be in a happy frame of mind, but then, without any warning, he would change into pure evil. For us it would have been preferable if he had remained in the black mood all of the time. At least then we knew where we stood with him. It’s easier to live with a person who is consistent, but how do you handle one who is smiling one minute then in a black, violent rage the next? He constantly rowed with my mother, which was bad enough, but he would also vent his rage on Chris and me for no reason other than we were there. For some unknown reason it was not quite so bad for Sid, probably because he was a lot younger than us, but it was still not good for him, not by a long shot.

My mother had a wicked tongue on her when she got angry and would not cower down from Wally. She gave as good as she got and did all she could to protect us. You couldn’t ask for more than that.

I was not aware of this at the time but Chris told me many years later that he frequently tried to make sexual advances towards her. Even if I had known, I would not have been able to do anything, I was too young. Chris never told my mum the full extent of his advances; we believe she would have knifed him had she found out.

So to the best of Chris’s ability, she tried never to be in the house with him on her own, because of course she felt vulnerable. He was a big, powerful man, but luckily he didn’t try or get the chance to force himself on her, so at least that was something to be thankful for.

With me it was different. He filled me with terror. One day I was sitting on a chair, not aware I was doing anything wrong. He was raking cinders from under the fire with a flattened metal poker, shaped like a hockey stick. Suddenly he spun round fast aiming at my head with that poker. Was it me throwing myself backwards or him pulling away that made the poker narrowly miss my face? I will never know. But if it had hit me I am sure I would not be telling this tale now.

I don’t think I am being paranoid when I say Wally seemed to hate me more than the others. To illustrate this I will tell you a little Christmas story.

Christmas was not a time of wonder like it is for many children nowadays. Well not for me it wasn’t. I should have known better, but when each Christmas Eve came round we all got excited about the impending visit from Father Christmas. I really don’t know, or understand why I got excited, because he never left me anything that I ever wanted. Maybe I was just a slow learner, or perhaps an eternal optimist thinking this year would be different, but it never was. Still, we went to bed, hardly able to sleep because of the expectation of his visit.

We each had an old nylon stocking hanging on the end of our bed, and we frequently woke and reached out our hand to feel if anything had been put inside them.

Eventually one of us would exclaim, He’s been! There’s stuff in the stockings!

Why the bloody hell we got excited I don’t know because it was the same every year; an apple, an orange and a bar of chocolate. I don’t remember getting anything else, perhaps I did, but nothing I can remember. Those were the items in the stocking; but we did get something bigger as well, and whatever that turned out to be it made us excited just to unwrap it.

One particular Christmas I remember vividly, sums up for me what Christmas was like - a lot of expectation, but not a lot of substance.

Each year Mum and Chris used to put up paper chains and other decorations and really made the place look festive. Unfortunately, Wally would be around to put a damper on things. But with all the festive paraphernalia, we still couldn’t help but get excited. Also Mum always cooked a nice dinner, followed by Christmas pudding and custard.

A sixpenny piece was put inside the pudding and the lucky person, if you can call them that, who found the money, kept it. Many times it would be in your mouth before you found it. So take just a moment to think of all the grubby hands that sixpence had been through, and even worse what about all of the trouser pockets where that little coin snuggled up against sweaty balls. Aaaargh!

There must be many other places of interest, or not, depending on your point of view, where it could have been, and that bloody thing was put in our food!

Even sadder, if the sixpence wasn’t in your piece of pudding you were disappointed. I will say no more about the life and travels of a sixpence, I will leave that to your imagination but I do hope I have not put you off your dinner.

This particular Christmas, I thought, was going to be different, because after finding our stockings we went into to the front room for the bigger presents.

Wrapped up in the corner was a lovely, big, red junior sized three-wheeled bicycle for June. Next to that was a red, factory-produced scooter with large wheels that even had a brake operated by the foot. That was wrapped also and was for Sid.

I then expectantly looked about the room for mine. I was only about nine or ten years old at the time, so foolishly I thought my present was going to be just as nice.

I was given a small piece of card about the size of a packet of cigarettes. It was a savings card.

A small amount of money was paid into a toyshop each week for spending at Christmas. The amount of money on that card was for my present, but I had to wait until after the holiday period for the shop to open again before I could spend it.

It was not a happy time watching June and Sid playing with their lovely new toys while I was sat clutching a piece of cardboard waiting for the holiday to be over. To say I was disappointed was a bit of an understatement.

To make matters worse, when I showed my displeasure I was told I was an ungrateful little sod, so I had to grin and bear it. Those few short days seemed to go on forever, but eventually the wait was over and the shop reopened. It was now my turn to get excited and I went there full of anticipation to get my long-awaited present.

Once there, the feeling of exhilaration soon vanished, because the shopkeeper showed no interest helping me to choose something reasonable, he just kept asking me what I wanted. So of course knowing what June and Sid received, I foolishly thought I would be able to get something similar and repeatedly asked for things that were too expensive.

The shopkeeper was a no good prat. I was only a small kid on my own, and instead of him helping me he just wanted me out of his shop and persuaded me to buy a dartboard. Now I ask you, what the bloody hell does a kid of ten want with a dartboard?

I remember walking back home, with the dartboard tucked under my arm, feeling really dejected. I was not the happy little fellow that I had been on my way to the toyshop, but I learned a valuable lesson that day, which was not to expect too much from anyone, at any time.

Nowadays, I