Thread of Fate

By Reg W. Selfe

A friendship first made on a 1950s holiday, a document unsigned at the last moment, the suggestion made by a stranger, a photograph taken in Spain, all elements in a chain of events leading to a totally unexpected romantic encounter quite late in life.

This is the story of a childhood in the 1930s, taking us through carefree days at the seaside, when it is never too young to fall in love. An account of wartime on the east coast and day-to-day work behind a pharmacy counter in those long, dark years, is interlaced with notes on severe winters from a daily 80-year record kept by a dedicated amateur weatherman.

Along the way there are accounts of incidents of a supernatural nature, how a smoking habit may have saved a life which it took away in later years, encounters with fire, in one case a little too close for comfort.

 

Readers can form their own opinion as to whether the happenings set down in these pages are just a matter of random chance, or is there indeed a guiding thread of predestination leading to a totally unexpected change of lifestyle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398471450

Reg W. Selfe

Reg Selfe was born in Eltham, SE London in 1926, but moved to Holland-on-Sea in Essex six months later. The war years were spent in Clacton-on-Sea, where his mother ran a wool shop, and where his father, who was much older than his mother, died in 1944. In 1946, with his mother, he removed to London to continue his studies in pharmacy. After National Service in the Royal Army Medical Corps, he qualified as a pharmacist and was appointed to a managerial position in various branches of Boots the Chemists. After his mother died in 1982, he retired and returned to Essex to live near his brother and family.

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About the Author

Reg Selfe was born in Eltham, SE London in 1926, but moved to Holland-on-Sea in Essex six months later.

The war years were spent in Clacton-on-Sea, where his mother ran a wool shop, and where his father, who was much older than his mother, died in 1944. In 1946, with his mother, he removed to London to continue his studies in pharmacy. After National Service in the Royal Army Medical Corps, he qualified as a pharmacist and was appointed to a managerial position in various branches of Boots the Chemists. After his mother died in 1982, he retired and returned to Essex to live near his brother and family.

Dedication

To my stepdaughter, Karen, and her husband, Derick, who encouraged me to send in for publication what was originally written as a pastime.

Copyright Information ©

Reg W. Selfe 2023

The right of Reg W. Selfe to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398471443 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398471450 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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London

E14 5AA

Part One

1930s

Maybe it was in my genes to be dedicated to measuring the daily rainfall, as I have been told that when a baby, my mother found me sitting on the unmade road scooping up muddy water in my white woolly hat! (Or maybe I was practising dispensing).

A little later in life, an itinerant Sunday School teacher found me using my wellies to adjust the level of adjacent water-filled ruts and took me home to my father, suggesting that attendance at his classes might be a better option. My father was a religious man, but a believer in free will and said I would go when I wanted to!

I did, however, attend some sort of Sunday School as I remember Frank, my brother, older by five and a half years, patiently explaining to me it was about Jesus, not Cheese-us. Also, I recall an outing to Dovercourt, which with the greatest respect was not the most exciting of resorts!

I was born a Londoner in Eltham in 1926, but my family moved to Holland-on-Sea in Essex when I was six months old. My father had retired from his watchmaking and jewellery business in Greenwich, and in those days, wives didn’t generally work, so I enjoyed having both parents at home, as well as my brother Frank.

Photograph of our dog Ruff in front of our home on Preston Road.

My memory is of happy sunlit days walking to the sandy cliffs where we had a beach hut, and trailing along with Frank’s friends who regaled me with likely stories, all of which I believed, such as if I didn’t walk down and up a certain hollow on the way, I couldn’t get to the beach!

Our hut was perched halfway up the cliff and was furnished with deck chairs and a tea-making kit, including a methylated spirit ring for the kettle. The memory of that smell is evocative of those carefree times. Cliff erosion is nothing new and occasionally the hut was clobbered with falls and slightly moved.

The local boys had their own little groups or gangs, and many had wheelbarrows made from tea chests running on old pram wheels. Really posh ones were fitted with a front extension, swivelling axles and steering ropes. One day, a gang who were rivals of my brother kidnapped me, covered me up in their barrow and wheeled me off to an unknown destination. When they eventually let me look around, they said we were in Wales; it might look like Holland-on-Sea, but it was Wales. I believed them! I think they trundled me back around the corner and let me go home.

Soon there came a day to move – the first of many in my life – to a newly built chalet bungalow further along the same road (newly built but HAUNTED – more of that later). My parents sensibly arranged for a horse-drawn removal van knowing how many motor vehicles we’d seen getting bogged down in the mud, wheels spinning uselessly. Animal lovers as all my family were, I remember my mother making much of the two beautiful horses.

And so, another new mini-era began, new surroundings, new neighbours. These included a group from a small private school who spent the summer in the next-door house, and who used to come in to play with us. At that time, my father made us sets of wooden stilts which included some with footrests near the ground for beginners but others higher up for the well-practised, which included me. Stomping around on the summer-dried mud along the paths gave a novel high viewpoint!

People often say that it is an illusion that our childhood summers were always sunny, but I know from my book of London Weather that summers in the middle 1930s recorded above-average sunshine, and my arms and face soon browned during the holidays.

Frank had not failed to notice that from a leafy opening across the road, two girls of about our respective ages sometimes emerged. He somehow contacted them, and we used to leave messages in a tin hidden in the hedge opposite. Their house lay well back from the road, and we got invited to join them in their garden. I remember their mother being quite strict and on hearing what she thought was a swear word (maybe damn), from the older girl she got sent in sobbing to make beds!

I liked Jo, the younger one, but my real first romantic feelings were for Betty (short for Isobel), whom I met at Holland Road School. Her house in the Grove (now Kingsway) had a large garden to play in, and one day, she showed me a secret way out to what was like a grassy nest against a hedge. Sad to say, we were promptly interrupted by a (to my eye) much better-looking boy with black curly hair. I sadly left such unfair competition, though she later asked why I went away as she had sent him off! Her family later moved to a house in Norman Road on the north side of Holland Road.

Funnily enough, I never minded going and calling for her accompanied by any of my best friends, and we would take her out together. Her home was quite near Holland Brook and I remember a day when she and I walked that way. The ground was very soggy, and we had to sit while she emptied the water out of her boots. When my parents asked where I’d been, I couldn’t understand why they laughed when I said, down the marshes with a girl.

School hours were 9–12 and 2–4, and I walked the half mile or so four times a day, coming home for lunch. Sometimes, I took a different route across the fields and was fascinated by workmen digging a trench with a mechanical digger. I still remember the pent-pent-pent, sound of its motor. My mother said I wanted my lunch in a red handkerchief just like the men had.

In the winter, it was nearly dark when school finished, and classrooms were lit by hissing gas lamps. Towards Christmas, we all sat in the hall by a tree decorated with lighted candles. Christmases were so wonderful in childhood. It may be more blessed to give than receive but receiving was a lot more fun! My parents were the blessed ones, Father Christmas had no part in it. Frank and I knew it was they who left our presents late at night on Christmas Eve, and we used to wake up early to have a look. There was the obligatory morning walk along the seafront with my father to stop me from getting over-excited, I think.

It was about this time that one of the teachers showed us how we could make a weather record by squaring up a sheet of paper and using a halfpenny to make a circle for a sunny day or a semi-circle to represent an umbrella. In my case, at least it set seed, and I used to ask my father why he tapped the barometer each day and where did the winds come from and where did they go? I was always fascinated by thunderstorms, and when he explained winds went to certain centres (not quite correct), I thought of all the storms coming together in one place and wished I could be there!

In my childhood, I was let to wander all over with my friends. Sometimes after dark, we might come across a night watchman by a hole in the pavement, with odorous red paraffin lamps around while he melted a pan of lead to repair pipes. Other times, we would go to see Mr Collett the chemist. He would entertain us by grinding up a powder with his pestle and mortar, producing crackling and sparks. Then there was Mrs Johnston who ran a hotel near the seafront. The Johnstons were not friends of my father, who was chairman of the local Ratepayers Association and I fancy they were opponents in some way. But she made the most delicious custard ice cream the like of which I’ve never since tasted! Then there was the ill-famed Mr Holman who sold sweets and would cut a toffee in half to get the weight right!

Little did I guess that I would one day join Mr Collett’s profession and find out what he had in that mixing bowl!

About that chalet bungalow we had moved into, with its two attic bedrooms and adjoining windows, between which Frank, one afternoon when my parents were out, guided me on an expedition climbing out of one into the other via the tiled roof. Of course, this was spotted by a woman across the road known as the local busybody. She came over and told my mother, calling it, her public duty. Mother, however, turned her away saying something about it was more like being a nosey parker! All the same, I think Frank got a wigging.

Though the house was recently built, odd things already happened before we moved in. My father had the key and went in for preparations from time to time. He was puzzled by finding the cupboard-like door which gave access to the loft which surrounded the attic rooms unlatched and laid aside, even though he was sure it had been left closed. Only one couple had previously occupied the place, and the man had died… Was that of significance? Also, our two girlfriends had briefly lived there. Jo said the bedroom had a funny smell because she was once sick there!

Having stairs was a novelty to my brother and myself after our previous address. There was an odd-shaped low projection in the angle, with a polished wooden top. Could it have some secret content sealed in it? Don’t be silly, it’s just a seat, said my parents (Why a seat on the stairs?). Children like to imagine spooky mysteries, but one night there was something different…

One of Frank’s prized possessions was an old Imperial typewriter, which he kept on our room’s windowsill. That night, I woke up to hear the keys tapping away, and clearly recall putting my hand out to feel my brother’s sleeping back beside me – so he was not responsible! I waited to see if the little bell pinged at the end of the line, but it never came. I still wonder whether there might have been a message if the paper had been left in. I was curious but not fearful – perhaps because Frank was with me. I remember being far more terrified when younger by the pattern of trees projected on my bedroom wall by streetlamps because I thought it was a skeleton!

Another time, my mother and I were baffled by a loud clicking sound from an old metal trunk containing some of my toys. We took everything out, but there was nothing to account for the sound. It started again when we put them back!

The most startling thing that happened involved my father. Now he was the last person to associate with anything abnormal, and he would always act as a kind of counterbalance to any fanciful flights of my mother’s mind. Yet one afternoon, he was in the house alone washing up, when out of the corner of his eye he saw an arm reach behind him as if to lift a coat off a peg. He said, Was that you, Frank?. But it wasn’t Frank, nor any of us. He said nothing about this for months in case my mother had taken it as an omen, but eventually told her.

We lived in that house for two years, only later putting together these incidents, so at the time, they did not impinge on our life in general. We had a reasonably sized garden and could build a sort of house with the always available tea chests and some blankets. We had to cope with the odd earwig! The times I enjoyed most was when we had a kind of family roughhouse, and the dog joined in with gusto! I have a photograph of that house, but it is still there, so will not identify it.

Frank was interested in all things electrical. He even once tried to receive an early type of television, which consisted of a spinning card disc with a spiral series of little holes which did the scanning.

Mostly, though, it was telephones, and he was fortunate to have someone at the other end – me. We even had a line up to the tree! Meccano was another part of our life. In time, our own basic sets or upgrades given at Christmas or birthdays, (they were quite expensive), were augmented by those of friends who had moved on as they became older and included both clockwork and electrical motors. I can remember model battleships, mechanical diggers and Big Ben. Frank had a crystal radio set and headphones, which he once went to sleep in bed still wearing and was gently removed by our mother.

As children, we had little idea of what went on between our parents, but after Frank, who loved experimenting, hid a microphone in the kitchen, I was disconcerted to catch my mother saying, I can’t go on…. Frank made no comment, but I think he learnt that eavesdropping was not just a game. Maybe my mother, who was many years younger than my father, felt that the time had come to venture into something new, and not long after we were travelling around Essex by train looking for suitable premises for her to open a knitwear shop. We passed stations with strange names like Billericay and used waiting rooms with roaring fires burning. Ever after when sitting around our hearth a good blaze was a station fire.

One day, I found myself in Romford (I think), in an upstairs sitting room playing with the owner’s baby, while my dad was along the street seeing an agent to sign papers. There did not seem the kind of lightness as in our seaside home, and when he returned to say to mother, I hope you won’t be disappointed, but I had my pen out, then something made me stop and I put it away, she said. I’m so glad – I couldn’t live here! He had remembered that the next-door house had a crack in the wall, which the estate agent said was caused by a gas explosion, but a doubt suddenly crossed his mind.

The few inches between the pen and that piece of paper held our entire destiny! After all these wanderings, we finally came