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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Inspirational
- Subject: Biography / Autobiography
- Published: 04/06/2022
Back from the future!
Born 1948, M, from Kent - garden of England, United KingdomBack from the future.
I was recently reminiscing with one of my old school friends, in fact the only one who I am still in touch with.
The way we came together again after sixty years is a tale in itself, but I will tell that particular story some other time - watch this space!
Well, Roy and I were looking back on what it was like to be a child in southern England back in the early 1950's, as the UK was clearing up and rebuilding, following the devastation of WW2.
We lived in Kent, the southern most part of England, known as the 'Garden of England,' as virtually anything will grow there, and famous for its agricultural produce and year long mild climate. Here we kids could roam freely, in the woods and fields, and this was good experience for later life.
The downside of Kent ( if there actually is one), is that it is the closest part of the UK to Europe, with France just twenty miles away across the sea. This made the county a dangerous place to live during the war, with much bombing and shell fire from the Germans, who had overtaken France and were now aiming to invade Britain. So as kids growing up in this warm and delightfully historic county, with its many fields, woods, rivers and streams to play in and around, for us it was adventure, with maybe a little peril, all the way.
There were many bombed houses, abandoned military camps and airfields, huge craters left after land mines had exploded, and areas which became our favourite, if somewhat dangerous, playgrounds.
We considered these to be the places for us to have adventures in, far from the sight of adults, who at this period had their own problems and often left us to play all day, trusting in our commonsense, and sending us off with a sandwich and bottle of water to sustain us for the day.
We explored all the possibilities of these places, and rumaged through the rubble of the buildings, climbed in and out of the craters and searched the ground of past military areas for buttons, badges, coins and other small items dropped by the masses of troops who had been stationed there in the build up to D day.
I often wonder how modern kids would survive in the same conditions, having to use their own creativity to invent things and activities to pass the time, and having to do without the gadgets with which they amuse themselves today.
Most of my friends, and myself, were very practical and good with our hands.
Our fathers were mainly employed in light industries, trying to bring the country back from near disaster after the war, and we learned from a young age about tools and how to use them.
My own father was a skilled gunmaker, working for the government at the large arsenal at Woolwich, a small town on the River Thames, just on the border of London, whilst my friends fathers and brothers were builders, woodworkers and mechanics or similar tradesmen. Few mothers worked.
Well, I say that, but you know, housework and looking after a family, attending to shopping, washing clothes, just being there for the family and its elderly members, and ready to help at any time, in sickness or in health, was probably harder work than that which our fathers did. The only difference being, was that it was unpaid, started as soon as the alarm clock brought them out of bed and then continued until bedtime, cooking, sewing and looking after the children and their wellfare.
Mothers and sisters - I salute you!
So we girls and boys of the early mid twentieth century grew up to be tough, practical and self sufficient, and we stayed that way for the rest of our lives.
The school year for us kids was punctuated by short 'holidays' between the terms, and a long summer holiday, of around six weeks, mid year.
In these periods we were on our own and, ready for adventure.
I was sometimes packed off by my mother to stay with my Aunt, who lived by the sea at Bexhill, a small and quiet seaside town in Sussex, the next county to Kent.
Here again I was left on my own for most of the day, which I spent roaming around the south downs, playing in the sea or on the beach or walking to Pevensey, where there was an interesting ruined castle to explore.
I made friends with a local family living in the same street as my aunt, the Andersons, who had a suprisingly large number of children of all ages, one of whom was about ten years old at the time and a great experimenter.
With Charlie Anderson I played with all sorts of stuff that today's health and safety people would have a heart attack over, if they were to see it.
Charlies father had a lot of old film stock for example. He would edit films, and the cast off and unwanted pieces of 35mm stock would be salvaged from the bin by Charlie.
In those days film stock was made from cellulose nitrate, a wonderful material just made for small boys to experiment with, as it was highly flammable. Just focusing the suns rays through a magnifying glass would ignite the film instantly, and it would blaze away quickly with a roar and much acrid smoke.
We would sit on the back step, delighting in the small but intense fires we could make from the film, together with chunks of coal and paper from the rubbish bin.
Then we invented our jet engine.
This was simply an aluminium or tin cigar tube, which we stuffed with shredded film and crushed OXO cubes, stolen from the kitchen cupboard. With a small hole pierced through the screw on cap, and three balsa wood wings, we would make a cigar tube rocket, which we launched from one of the corrugated channels of the asbastos roof of the garden shed. To ignite the rocket, we heated the tube with Charlies dad's parraffin blow torch until the film and OXO propellent inside ignited. We had much success with this, and to this day I wonder what the family in the house two hundred yards away along the road, made of the tiny alien rockets that landed so often in their back garden.
With Charlies dad's tool kit we made loads of stuff.
We carved catapult prods from the wood of orange boxes, using strips of rubber from old bicycle innertubes as the elastic, and cutting sections of an old leather Scout belt to be the stone pouch.
With these simple weapons we did target practice almost every day, shooting at bricks, tin cans from the rubbish bin and old bottles, which we perched on the same shed roof. Amazingly, to this day I am still a great shot with a catapult.
Our other great love at Bexhill was exploring the many disused air raid shelters situated around the town, and one of these, close to the old Bexhill West railway station ( still there, but without rails and now an antique shop ) became our secret camp.
We fitted this out with an old and very worn Persian carpet which we had found dumped on the beach, along with a large oil lamp with a stained glass shade - both of which would now probably make good stock for the current antique shop. To keep this dungeon like place warm we used an old dustbin type incinerator, which we had appropriated from the local allotment rubbish tip, and we connected the small chimney in the lid to a section of cast iron drainpipe which we had directed out of the concrete entrance to the shelter.
It was the ensuing smoke from us burning damp wood which gave us away!
The camp had been in use by us and a friend of Charlies for a week or so before we were discovered.
At the time we were sitting on the rug, and under the light of the old oil lamp we were making bows and arrows from bamboo bean canes that we had also 'found' on the allotment.
Engrossed in our work we did not notice the big black boots of the local policeman as he peered into the gloom of the shelter.
"Hello", he said, "whats going on here then?" In the typical policeman way.
We explained about our secret camp, and where the furnishings had come from, and to our amazement he was satisfied. He then started to take an interest in our bow making, and showed us a few tips to make them even better, which he had learned himself as a boy.
With a warning not to burn ourselves on the now red hot and glowing dustbin, he just said goodbye and left. No problem with our camp apparently.
He returned a couple of days later, bringing with him a bottle of lemonade ( another story), and told us that his Sergeant had said it was OK for us to use the shelter, but we had to get rid of our heating equipment - the dustbin!
Can you imagine the police today treating kids like that?
At Bexhill I taught myself to swim, made friends with the curator of the local museum, where I would stay for hours looking into the glass cabinets and display tables, soaking up the imformation passed onto me by the friendly curator, and also fell in love for ever with both real and model boats.
An elderly gentleman, and I use the word specifically, introduced me to the world of handcrafted model boats at the local boating pond in the town park. Today I feel that he was probably a lonely person, who saw me, as a young boy, being a substitute for maybe a lost son or a child he had never had. His name was Mr Bull, and he crafted the most amazingly detailed working models of old sailing ships. He taught me lots about how to sail, both models and real boats, his conversation being both detailed but easily understood by a child. He would trundle an old pram to the boating pond, in which he transported several large model ships. He would let me launch these onto the pond and we would sail them back and forth across the water to each other, adjusting the sails and rudder at each turn. This was how I first came to understand how sailing boats were trimmed, and worked with the wind and current.
For some years as an adult, I tried to locate him, but never could. I would dearly love to be the owner and custodian of one of his models, even today.
As an aside here, I will say that In later life I became a professional fine art restorer and conservator, and have the honour of having repaired and restored many model ships for many independant dealers, and for the National Maritime Museum, as well as Lloyds of London, for whom I have also made rope sennets for their collection of ships bells.
Would this have happened without the early influence of Mr Bull?
Mr Bull - In pace requiestat.
Back at my home near Chislehurst, I and my friends had an exceptionally wonderful place to spend a childhood.
A beautiful village, Chislehurst is a place noted for it's ancient man made cave system, twenty two miles of tunnels dug by hand in the chalk and flint over many centuries by the Druids, the Romans, Saxons, medieval flint and lime workers, seventeenth century fint knappers, and used in the 1940's as an air raid shelter for twenty five thousand Londoners during the Blitz. More recently the caves were used as a space for rock bands to perform, and today both a little known but fascinating tourist attraction, and a place to dress up to play life size dungeons and dragons.
Back in the fifties the caves were little known away from the village, and although open for sunday tours, were largely neglected.
An old chap was both the guide, watchman and ticket seller, and we were the bain of his life.
Being kid's we would find ways into the cave system, using ropes to climb down a dene hole, or sometimes sneaking in whilst the old chap was busy. We would take flashlights and matches to light our way in the pitch black of the caves and had tremendous fun being chased out by the watchman when he realised we were in there. Sometimes we would tag along behind a group of people being shown around and viewing the many curiosities, like the Druid altar, or the Roman carvings in the chalk walls. Without being seen we would emerge from the gloom of the tunnels and make scary noises behind them, or maybe touch them on the shoulder and merge back into the darkness, great fun! Well, it was for us.
Should you ever find yourself in Chislehurst, the caves are a super place to visit, now very secure from rampaging youngsters, but with lots to enjoy underground. Deep down in the darkness is a church, a dance floor and cafe' as well as a hospital, all built during the war to provide for the shelterers use and entertainment. It is said that the caves were the safest shelter during the war, and special trains were laid on for Londoners, to shelter there every night during the Blitz. Late in the war a baby girl was born in the caves, during an attack, she was named Cavina, a lovely tribute to the safety that the caves provided.
Do Look the Chislehurst caves up on the net, or better still, visit them yourself and experience them and the total darkness, the ghosts and echo's, just as we did as children.
The local woods became a playground where we built camps, climbed trees, waded in the small brooks and staged mini wars or played pirates, red Indians or cowboys.
At this period, it was quite usual for small boys to go equipped with bows and arrows, catapults, sheath or pocket knives, and even the odd airgun.
In mid October, we would have our pockets full of fireworks, which were sold for pennies in the run up to November the fifth, Guy Fawkes night. We would float these firework 'Bangers' in old bottles down the streams, fizzing away until they finally exploded in a shower of glass, or tie them onto our arrows and fire them high into the sky, or just throw them about - it amazes me that I still have all of my fingers.
Another of our favourite pastimes was to fish with old baskets begged from the greengrocer, or the large magnets salvaged from the back of radio loud speakers, and which we fastened to a rope. Of course, this was not to catch fish, but to salvage the interesting junk which had been thrown and dumped into the three ponds on Chislehurst common. After the war, many war souvenirs and relics had been dumped in the ponds, and our baskets and magnets pulled up many rusty old bayonets, guns, knives and other things. These would be taken into school and traded and swapped for other toys and things which we wanted. The baskets when pulled out would often also contain small wildlife, such as frogs, newts, tiny fish and dragonfly lavae, which we would transfer to jam jars and keep as 'pets' for a few days, or take to school in the hope of a nature study day being organised by our teachers.
Nobody that I knew ever got seriously hurt or hurt anybody else in these wild activities, and to this day I still have the old air pistol which became my companion on these adventures, sadly no longer working properly, but which used to be in my pocket constantly.
Incidentally, we never used actual lead pellets in our guns, they were too expensive to buy on our meagre pocket money, so we would make our own ammunition, using twists of paper containing tiny ball bearings taken from the moving parts of old bicycles.
In the long summer holidays, very few folk at the time could afford to go away, and if they could it would only be to the nearest seaside town, or to camp on a farmers field for a few days. There was no flying abroad to exotic places, and indeed it was not until the late sixties that I discovered the joys of travelling to anywhere exotic - and that was only to Calais in France for a few hours on the ferry from Folkestone, the return fare was about two pounds, if I recall correctly.
Our other great summer activity was building soapbox carts, and racing each other down the steep hills around the village. The cart would be simply built from a plank of wood with a swiveling steering bar at the front and scavanged pram or pushchair wheels and axles. We sat on the plank and steered with our feet, or laid along it and used our hands to steer. Most days we would return home from our races with scraped elbows or knees, or large rips and holes in our shorts and sweaters.
The girls were just as bad. My best friend, Patsy, would tuck her skirt up into the legs of her knickers to be like shorts and insist on racing the boys. As with us, she often had crashes and scraped her bare arms and knees, but I never saw her cry or complain, she would be back on the cart to continue the race without a thought for the blood soaking through the dirty handkerchief which she would tie around the wound, - Patsy was a tough nut in those days, and I hope that she still is today, and encouraging her grandchildren in their own adventures. What a girl!
The school year was punctuated with various fads. For example, in the colder months, the boys would race Dinky Toys, small die cast metal cars, along the school corridors, whilst the girls would form small groups of French knitters or play at Cats Cradle, using string or elastic bands to make intricate shapes between their fingers. Both boys and girls would get into Origami, although at that time we only called it Paper Making, where geometric boxes, animals, paper airplanes and boats and hats of all shapes and sizes were made. The paper airplanes would be flown from the upper school windows, with bets made about how far they would fly or how long they would stay in the air, whilst the paper boxes would be filled with water and thrown at each other until a teacher intervened, and made us clear up the mess.
Then the year would pass through playing with Marbles, small glass globes which we played various games with, and also cigarette cards, given in those days in all packets of cigarettes, and highly collectable for the themes which they ran as sets, such as steam trains, cricketers, football or national flags of the world, the list of subjects was endless. The cards would be used for games of skill, flicking them across the room to land into a square drawn onto the floor, or knocking down others leant against the wall, some of the rules of these games were bizarre. Skipping would take over the playground for a week or so, and then 'Two ball' would be next, the later being a skilled way of bouncing balls in various patterns and styles against a wall in juggling fashion. Then it would be whittling reed whistles and Kazoos, or making elastic band harps and other simple musical instruments on which we would try to play the favourite songs of the day.
Elastic band guns, made from a match box and a clothes peg, etc etc, would follow on over the year. we all amused ourselves with these simple things, there was no internet or online games in those far off days, and rationing at the time made real toys very scarce or unobtainable.
Sliding down the school banisters was also a good indoor sport, until one got caught doing it. A sharp slap on the palm of the hand with a wide wooden ruler was the usual punishment, and it really did hurt, leaving a bright red patch for several hours. Teachers would be sued or find themselves in court for doing such stuff today!
In the winter playground we would make slides on the icy concrete, or fight with snowballs if it snowed. Snow would be pushed down our necks, or sometimes piled above a slightly open door to catch a child or, if really lucky, a teacher as they passed through.
All playtimes would end with the ringing of a bell, and it was considered a great honour to be chosen by the teacher to be the child to ring it.
Chislehurst was the village that Richmal Crompton lived in when she was writing the 'Just William' stories. I never actually met her, but knew exactly where she lived, and we kids used to hang around her gate in the hope of seeing her.
Some of her stories are set in The Old Barn, a meeting place for William and his friends, The Outlaws.
Well, when I was a boy, the old barn actually existed, along the lane which leads to Hawkwood in Chislehurst. Sadly it is long gone, but for many years the foundations still could be seen. I often wonder if they are still visible in the field today, but I have not been to Chislehurst since my mother died, and now live about forty miles away in deepest Kent.
I am sure that Richmal Crompton found her inspiration for William and his cronies in the local kids just like us, albeit kids alive much before us, as she started writing about William in the 1920's. The Just William stories really do reflect the kind of British children that we were in the early 1950's though, and I and my contemporaries had more or less the same adventures and attitude to life as the fictional characters in her books.
If you wish to have an enjoyable and humorous read to pass the time, and to visit a real and unobstructed childhood as it used to be, I really do recommend that you read some of these stories yourself. You will find yourself lost in an era when things for kids were possible and unrestricted by adult interference.
Great days, just like my own.
Today, I have these tales of William on my iPad, narrated by a well know actor, and often listen to them in order to dissolve the stress of modern news and the other minor upsets of modern daily life.
So there you have a little bit of my early life, I hope you enjoyed it, and if about the same age as me, I hope that you also had and enjoyed the same freedoms and experiences which made you the person that you are today.
Copyright Ken DaSilva-Hill 2022.
No reproduction in any media without the authors specific written permission.
Back from the future!(Ken DaSilva-Hill)
Back from the future.
I was recently reminiscing with one of my old school friends, in fact the only one who I am still in touch with.
The way we came together again after sixty years is a tale in itself, but I will tell that particular story some other time - watch this space!
Well, Roy and I were looking back on what it was like to be a child in southern England back in the early 1950's, as the UK was clearing up and rebuilding, following the devastation of WW2.
We lived in Kent, the southern most part of England, known as the 'Garden of England,' as virtually anything will grow there, and famous for its agricultural produce and year long mild climate. Here we kids could roam freely, in the woods and fields, and this was good experience for later life.
The downside of Kent ( if there actually is one), is that it is the closest part of the UK to Europe, with France just twenty miles away across the sea. This made the county a dangerous place to live during the war, with much bombing and shell fire from the Germans, who had overtaken France and were now aiming to invade Britain. So as kids growing up in this warm and delightfully historic county, with its many fields, woods, rivers and streams to play in and around, for us it was adventure, with maybe a little peril, all the way.
There were many bombed houses, abandoned military camps and airfields, huge craters left after land mines had exploded, and areas which became our favourite, if somewhat dangerous, playgrounds.
We considered these to be the places for us to have adventures in, far from the sight of adults, who at this period had their own problems and often left us to play all day, trusting in our commonsense, and sending us off with a sandwich and bottle of water to sustain us for the day.
We explored all the possibilities of these places, and rumaged through the rubble of the buildings, climbed in and out of the craters and searched the ground of past military areas for buttons, badges, coins and other small items dropped by the masses of troops who had been stationed there in the build up to D day.
I often wonder how modern kids would survive in the same conditions, having to use their own creativity to invent things and activities to pass the time, and having to do without the gadgets with which they amuse themselves today.
Most of my friends, and myself, were very practical and good with our hands.
Our fathers were mainly employed in light industries, trying to bring the country back from near disaster after the war, and we learned from a young age about tools and how to use them.
My own father was a skilled gunmaker, working for the government at the large arsenal at Woolwich, a small town on the River Thames, just on the border of London, whilst my friends fathers and brothers were builders, woodworkers and mechanics or similar tradesmen. Few mothers worked.
Well, I say that, but you know, housework and looking after a family, attending to shopping, washing clothes, just being there for the family and its elderly members, and ready to help at any time, in sickness or in health, was probably harder work than that which our fathers did. The only difference being, was that it was unpaid, started as soon as the alarm clock brought them out of bed and then continued until bedtime, cooking, sewing and looking after the children and their wellfare.
Mothers and sisters - I salute you!
So we girls and boys of the early mid twentieth century grew up to be tough, practical and self sufficient, and we stayed that way for the rest of our lives.
The school year for us kids was punctuated by short 'holidays' between the terms, and a long summer holiday, of around six weeks, mid year.
In these periods we were on our own and, ready for adventure.
I was sometimes packed off by my mother to stay with my Aunt, who lived by the sea at Bexhill, a small and quiet seaside town in Sussex, the next county to Kent.
Here again I was left on my own for most of the day, which I spent roaming around the south downs, playing in the sea or on the beach or walking to Pevensey, where there was an interesting ruined castle to explore.
I made friends with a local family living in the same street as my aunt, the Andersons, who had a suprisingly large number of children of all ages, one of whom was about ten years old at the time and a great experimenter.
With Charlie Anderson I played with all sorts of stuff that today's health and safety people would have a heart attack over, if they were to see it.
Charlies father had a lot of old film stock for example. He would edit films, and the cast off and unwanted pieces of 35mm stock would be salvaged from the bin by Charlie.
In those days film stock was made from cellulose nitrate, a wonderful material just made for small boys to experiment with, as it was highly flammable. Just focusing the suns rays through a magnifying glass would ignite the film instantly, and it would blaze away quickly with a roar and much acrid smoke.
We would sit on the back step, delighting in the small but intense fires we could make from the film, together with chunks of coal and paper from the rubbish bin.
Then we invented our jet engine.
This was simply an aluminium or tin cigar tube, which we stuffed with shredded film and crushed OXO cubes, stolen from the kitchen cupboard. With a small hole pierced through the screw on cap, and three balsa wood wings, we would make a cigar tube rocket, which we launched from one of the corrugated channels of the asbastos roof of the garden shed. To ignite the rocket, we heated the tube with Charlies dad's parraffin blow torch until the film and OXO propellent inside ignited. We had much success with this, and to this day I wonder what the family in the house two hundred yards away along the road, made of the tiny alien rockets that landed so often in their back garden.
With Charlies dad's tool kit we made loads of stuff.
We carved catapult prods from the wood of orange boxes, using strips of rubber from old bicycle innertubes as the elastic, and cutting sections of an old leather Scout belt to be the stone pouch.
With these simple weapons we did target practice almost every day, shooting at bricks, tin cans from the rubbish bin and old bottles, which we perched on the same shed roof. Amazingly, to this day I am still a great shot with a catapult.
Our other great love at Bexhill was exploring the many disused air raid shelters situated around the town, and one of these, close to the old Bexhill West railway station ( still there, but without rails and now an antique shop ) became our secret camp.
We fitted this out with an old and very worn Persian carpet which we had found dumped on the beach, along with a large oil lamp with a stained glass shade - both of which would now probably make good stock for the current antique shop. To keep this dungeon like place warm we used an old dustbin type incinerator, which we had appropriated from the local allotment rubbish tip, and we connected the small chimney in the lid to a section of cast iron drainpipe which we had directed out of the concrete entrance to the shelter.
It was the ensuing smoke from us burning damp wood which gave us away!
The camp had been in use by us and a friend of Charlies for a week or so before we were discovered.
At the time we were sitting on the rug, and under the light of the old oil lamp we were making bows and arrows from bamboo bean canes that we had also 'found' on the allotment.
Engrossed in our work we did not notice the big black boots of the local policeman as he peered into the gloom of the shelter.
"Hello", he said, "whats going on here then?" In the typical policeman way.
We explained about our secret camp, and where the furnishings had come from, and to our amazement he was satisfied. He then started to take an interest in our bow making, and showed us a few tips to make them even better, which he had learned himself as a boy.
With a warning not to burn ourselves on the now red hot and glowing dustbin, he just said goodbye and left. No problem with our camp apparently.
He returned a couple of days later, bringing with him a bottle of lemonade ( another story), and told us that his Sergeant had said it was OK for us to use the shelter, but we had to get rid of our heating equipment - the dustbin!
Can you imagine the police today treating kids like that?
At Bexhill I taught myself to swim, made friends with the curator of the local museum, where I would stay for hours looking into the glass cabinets and display tables, soaking up the imformation passed onto me by the friendly curator, and also fell in love for ever with both real and model boats.
An elderly gentleman, and I use the word specifically, introduced me to the world of handcrafted model boats at the local boating pond in the town park. Today I feel that he was probably a lonely person, who saw me, as a young boy, being a substitute for maybe a lost son or a child he had never had. His name was Mr Bull, and he crafted the most amazingly detailed working models of old sailing ships. He taught me lots about how to sail, both models and real boats, his conversation being both detailed but easily understood by a child. He would trundle an old pram to the boating pond, in which he transported several large model ships. He would let me launch these onto the pond and we would sail them back and forth across the water to each other, adjusting the sails and rudder at each turn. This was how I first came to understand how sailing boats were trimmed, and worked with the wind and current.
For some years as an adult, I tried to locate him, but never could. I would dearly love to be the owner and custodian of one of his models, even today.
As an aside here, I will say that In later life I became a professional fine art restorer and conservator, and have the honour of having repaired and restored many model ships for many independant dealers, and for the National Maritime Museum, as well as Lloyds of London, for whom I have also made rope sennets for their collection of ships bells.
Would this have happened without the early influence of Mr Bull?
Mr Bull - In pace requiestat.
Back at my home near Chislehurst, I and my friends had an exceptionally wonderful place to spend a childhood.
A beautiful village, Chislehurst is a place noted for it's ancient man made cave system, twenty two miles of tunnels dug by hand in the chalk and flint over many centuries by the Druids, the Romans, Saxons, medieval flint and lime workers, seventeenth century fint knappers, and used in the 1940's as an air raid shelter for twenty five thousand Londoners during the Blitz. More recently the caves were used as a space for rock bands to perform, and today both a little known but fascinating tourist attraction, and a place to dress up to play life size dungeons and dragons.
Back in the fifties the caves were little known away from the village, and although open for sunday tours, were largely neglected.
An old chap was both the guide, watchman and ticket seller, and we were the bain of his life.
Being kid's we would find ways into the cave system, using ropes to climb down a dene hole, or sometimes sneaking in whilst the old chap was busy. We would take flashlights and matches to light our way in the pitch black of the caves and had tremendous fun being chased out by the watchman when he realised we were in there. Sometimes we would tag along behind a group of people being shown around and viewing the many curiosities, like the Druid altar, or the Roman carvings in the chalk walls. Without being seen we would emerge from the gloom of the tunnels and make scary noises behind them, or maybe touch them on the shoulder and merge back into the darkness, great fun! Well, it was for us.
Should you ever find yourself in Chislehurst, the caves are a super place to visit, now very secure from rampaging youngsters, but with lots to enjoy underground. Deep down in the darkness is a church, a dance floor and cafe' as well as a hospital, all built during the war to provide for the shelterers use and entertainment. It is said that the caves were the safest shelter during the war, and special trains were laid on for Londoners, to shelter there every night during the Blitz. Late in the war a baby girl was born in the caves, during an attack, she was named Cavina, a lovely tribute to the safety that the caves provided.
Do Look the Chislehurst caves up on the net, or better still, visit them yourself and experience them and the total darkness, the ghosts and echo's, just as we did as children.
The local woods became a playground where we built camps, climbed trees, waded in the small brooks and staged mini wars or played pirates, red Indians or cowboys.
At this period, it was quite usual for small boys to go equipped with bows and arrows, catapults, sheath or pocket knives, and even the odd airgun.
In mid October, we would have our pockets full of fireworks, which were sold for pennies in the run up to November the fifth, Guy Fawkes night. We would float these firework 'Bangers' in old bottles down the streams, fizzing away until they finally exploded in a shower of glass, or tie them onto our arrows and fire them high into the sky, or just throw them about - it amazes me that I still have all of my fingers.
Another of our favourite pastimes was to fish with old baskets begged from the greengrocer, or the large magnets salvaged from the back of radio loud speakers, and which we fastened to a rope. Of course, this was not to catch fish, but to salvage the interesting junk which had been thrown and dumped into the three ponds on Chislehurst common. After the war, many war souvenirs and relics had been dumped in the ponds, and our baskets and magnets pulled up many rusty old bayonets, guns, knives and other things. These would be taken into school and traded and swapped for other toys and things which we wanted. The baskets when pulled out would often also contain small wildlife, such as frogs, newts, tiny fish and dragonfly lavae, which we would transfer to jam jars and keep as 'pets' for a few days, or take to school in the hope of a nature study day being organised by our teachers.
Nobody that I knew ever got seriously hurt or hurt anybody else in these wild activities, and to this day I still have the old air pistol which became my companion on these adventures, sadly no longer working properly, but which used to be in my pocket constantly.
Incidentally, we never used actual lead pellets in our guns, they were too expensive to buy on our meagre pocket money, so we would make our own ammunition, using twists of paper containing tiny ball bearings taken from the moving parts of old bicycles.
In the long summer holidays, very few folk at the time could afford to go away, and if they could it would only be to the nearest seaside town, or to camp on a farmers field for a few days. There was no flying abroad to exotic places, and indeed it was not until the late sixties that I discovered the joys of travelling to anywhere exotic - and that was only to Calais in France for a few hours on the ferry from Folkestone, the return fare was about two pounds, if I recall correctly.
Our other great summer activity was building soapbox carts, and racing each other down the steep hills around the village. The cart would be simply built from a plank of wood with a swiveling steering bar at the front and scavanged pram or pushchair wheels and axles. We sat on the plank and steered with our feet, or laid along it and used our hands to steer. Most days we would return home from our races with scraped elbows or knees, or large rips and holes in our shorts and sweaters.
The girls were just as bad. My best friend, Patsy, would tuck her skirt up into the legs of her knickers to be like shorts and insist on racing the boys. As with us, she often had crashes and scraped her bare arms and knees, but I never saw her cry or complain, she would be back on the cart to continue the race without a thought for the blood soaking through the dirty handkerchief which she would tie around the wound, - Patsy was a tough nut in those days, and I hope that she still is today, and encouraging her grandchildren in their own adventures. What a girl!
The school year was punctuated with various fads. For example, in the colder months, the boys would race Dinky Toys, small die cast metal cars, along the school corridors, whilst the girls would form small groups of French knitters or play at Cats Cradle, using string or elastic bands to make intricate shapes between their fingers. Both boys and girls would get into Origami, although at that time we only called it Paper Making, where geometric boxes, animals, paper airplanes and boats and hats of all shapes and sizes were made. The paper airplanes would be flown from the upper school windows, with bets made about how far they would fly or how long they would stay in the air, whilst the paper boxes would be filled with water and thrown at each other until a teacher intervened, and made us clear up the mess.
Then the year would pass through playing with Marbles, small glass globes which we played various games with, and also cigarette cards, given in those days in all packets of cigarettes, and highly collectable for the themes which they ran as sets, such as steam trains, cricketers, football or national flags of the world, the list of subjects was endless. The cards would be used for games of skill, flicking them across the room to land into a square drawn onto the floor, or knocking down others leant against the wall, some of the rules of these games were bizarre. Skipping would take over the playground for a week or so, and then 'Two ball' would be next, the later being a skilled way of bouncing balls in various patterns and styles against a wall in juggling fashion. Then it would be whittling reed whistles and Kazoos, or making elastic band harps and other simple musical instruments on which we would try to play the favourite songs of the day.
Elastic band guns, made from a match box and a clothes peg, etc etc, would follow on over the year. we all amused ourselves with these simple things, there was no internet or online games in those far off days, and rationing at the time made real toys very scarce or unobtainable.
Sliding down the school banisters was also a good indoor sport, until one got caught doing it. A sharp slap on the palm of the hand with a wide wooden ruler was the usual punishment, and it really did hurt, leaving a bright red patch for several hours. Teachers would be sued or find themselves in court for doing such stuff today!
In the winter playground we would make slides on the icy concrete, or fight with snowballs if it snowed. Snow would be pushed down our necks, or sometimes piled above a slightly open door to catch a child or, if really lucky, a teacher as they passed through.
All playtimes would end with the ringing of a bell, and it was considered a great honour to be chosen by the teacher to be the child to ring it.
Chislehurst was the village that Richmal Crompton lived in when she was writing the 'Just William' stories. I never actually met her, but knew exactly where she lived, and we kids used to hang around her gate in the hope of seeing her.
Some of her stories are set in The Old Barn, a meeting place for William and his friends, The Outlaws.
Well, when I was a boy, the old barn actually existed, along the lane which leads to Hawkwood in Chislehurst. Sadly it is long gone, but for many years the foundations still could be seen. I often wonder if they are still visible in the field today, but I have not been to Chislehurst since my mother died, and now live about forty miles away in deepest Kent.
I am sure that Richmal Crompton found her inspiration for William and his cronies in the local kids just like us, albeit kids alive much before us, as she started writing about William in the 1920's. The Just William stories really do reflect the kind of British children that we were in the early 1950's though, and I and my contemporaries had more or less the same adventures and attitude to life as the fictional characters in her books.
If you wish to have an enjoyable and humorous read to pass the time, and to visit a real and unobstructed childhood as it used to be, I really do recommend that you read some of these stories yourself. You will find yourself lost in an era when things for kids were possible and unrestricted by adult interference.
Great days, just like my own.
Today, I have these tales of William on my iPad, narrated by a well know actor, and often listen to them in order to dissolve the stress of modern news and the other minor upsets of modern daily life.
So there you have a little bit of my early life, I hope you enjoyed it, and if about the same age as me, I hope that you also had and enjoyed the same freedoms and experiences which made you the person that you are today.
Copyright Ken DaSilva-Hill 2022.
No reproduction in any media without the authors specific written permission.
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Lillian Kazmierczak
05/05/2022Ken that was a heartwarming story of your childhood! Your mother was much more relaxed than mine! What fabulous adventures you had as a boy and actually lived through them. LOL! you and your friends should have patented your fishing magnet as they are all the rage now!. As always, I enjoyed every word of this story and will be deep diving Chislehurst caves and Richmal Crompton tonite!
Congratulations on short story star of the day!
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Ken DaSilva-Hill
05/14/2022Hi Lillian, sorry for the delayed reply, I have been away canal boating in Wales with no internet connection. First, thanks for your comments.
Richmal Crompton - a writer who really got to the gist of what it was to be a small boy in a big adult run world. Her stories of William are still readable, enjoyable and very humourous today, around a hundred years after she started to write them. In my opinion they also illustrate the changing social order in the UK over the near sixty years that she was writing them. Over here the BBC still to this day run them on a regular basis, narrated by well know actors and many of them are also available on CD.
Chislehurst caves - one of the most fascinating places around London that most tourists miss as they stick to Buck house and central London’s well known spots. London and it’s surroundings are rich in unknown but worthwhile delights, have a look at Quex museum, the Hellfire caves at West Wickham ( even visited by Ben Franklin), the Petrie collection, or Brooklands, the spiritual home of motor racing, for example. Around here in Kent we are spoilt for choice, we could do a castle a week and not get them all into a year, let alone all of the other weird and wonderful places such as Margate Shell Grotto or the Ship inn at Dymchurch, close to the RHDR railway, the tiniest scheduled public railway in the world.
If you ever come to the UK get in touch, I can show you amazing stuff!
Ken
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Kevin Hughes
05/05/2022Aloha Ken,
The accent, location, and experiences might be different, but the childhood was the same as mine. Like, you, I am down to only a few friends who knew me as a child...and still know me now. It was a different time. Loved it.
Smiles, Kevin
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Ken DaSilva-Hill
05/14/2022Hi Kevin. You know, I am getting to the age when I long for the simpler but more exciting stuff that we did as kid’s, and I am actually endeavouring to introduce the children of friends to some of them too. So magnet fishing has been resurrected, as has doing back yard woodwork, playing with old toys, of which I have a large collection, and generally having fun. To me it seems worthwhile to get children away from the plink and buzz of electronics and to be more hands on with real tangible stuff. I imagine that you probably feel the same way!
Well thanks for your comments.
In friendship, Ken
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Gerald R Gioglio
05/05/2022A really wonderful piece of work, Ken. Lots of overlaps with my kid experiences during the 1950s in America. Learning to be "tough, practical and self-sufficient," indeed. Anyway, enjoyed the story immensely. Hey, I recently posted "Boy Talk" here, you may wish to check it out. Best, Jerry
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Ken DaSilva-Hill
05/14/2022Hi Gerald, in my view kid’s are the same all over the world, full of confidence, imagination and creativity, sadly often curtailed by the social conditioning that they receive from parents, school and media.
I like children to be children. Their honesty and interest in their surroundings and capabilities is like fresh air. We all need to remain kid’s throughout our lives, as true joy is really everything!
Ken
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JD
05/04/2022You packed a lot of life and learning into this story about your childhood after the war, Ken. What adventures you had. It is important to document these kinds of things so that future generations can know how childhood used to be. Thanks for sharing your life with us. Happy short story STAR of the day! :-)
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V K NAAGESWARAN
04/24/2022what a lovely stotry and what a lovely presentation! After reading the story, i had a feeling of 'Time Travel' which feeling only few writers could create! given that the author is only 2 years younger to me makes me feel envious of him - I wish I too had such a writing still! I have got the story narrated by one of my narrators in my own story sharing group and her style has added value to it at our level!! I am unable to copy paste the link here. Perhaps I could do it when have the whatsapp ID or Email Id of the author. My whatsapp Number is +919444155877 and my email ID is kmuvkn@gmail.com
Kudos to the author of the story!
V K Naageswaran
Chennai, South India
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Ken DaSilva-Hill
05/14/2022Hi V K, I am glad you enjoyed the tales, there are many more and I am still having adventures even today. Life is about experiences in my view, both small and big, and I am sure that wherever we hail from on this tiny planet, we can all share in the joy of having them, as really we are all brothers and sisters wherever we hail from, and all have interesting stories to illustrate our lives.
Regards, Ken
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