Life of a London Lad

J Parsons P

Description

P J Parsons looks back over his life, firstly through the eyes of an eight-year-old lad living in London during the trauma of the Blitz. Now an eighty-year-old 'lad' living in retirement in Eastbourne, he recalls a lifetime of experiences, including national service in the RAF from 1950 to 1952 and two years as a galley boy on board a steamship trading on the Great Lakes. He also recounts humorous incidents from his time working as a volunteer with East and West Sussex Social Services. If the author may be said to have any ambition, it may well be the desire to find light relief and humour in the various seemingly fraught situations of life.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Gran Londres
• Memoir
• Greater London
• Grand Londres
• London

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 27 juin 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780722349700
• Langue: English

Extrait

Life of a London Lad
1932–Yesterday
P. J. Parsons
ARTHUR H. STOCKWELL LTD
Torrs Park, Ilfracombe, Devon, EX34 8BA
Established 1898
www.ahstockwell.co.uk




Copyright © P. J. Parsons, 2019
First published in Great Britain, 2019
P. J. Parsons asserts the right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright holder.
Digital version converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
By the same author:
Of Course Tennis
60s Singapore
Of Course Football



Dedication
To my daughter, Kim.
We miss you.



Foreword
The reader will no doubt be amazed at the amount of research which was undertaken in producing this book - research which was initially carried out by members of the medical profession who sought to discover whether the author did, in fact, show evidence of a brain cell.
For those who have either the slightest doubt or the least interest, results, which were anticipated in 1934, are not yet to hand.
Suffice to say that, in the opinion of some, the author has now progressed from being an immature young man into an equally immature old man, with delusions of becoming an author.



Prologue
Faced with the incessant demands of my readers, both of whom are family members, the decision to burst into print once again became difficult to resist and, therefore, once again the almost infallible memory is brought into play in describing some events which the reader will recognise as occurring back in the Dark Ages.
For the younger reader - namely, anyone under the age of seventy, with little or no first-hand knowledge of these earlier events, particularly of the Blitz and the years of World War II - imagination, family memorabilia and reference to older and sometimes wiser family members may help to fill in some of the gaps.
Part of the survival technique during the traumatic events of the war years was, for young and old alike, the pretence of carrying on as normal in what were anything but normal circumstances, which meant for at least one London lad seizing the opportunity to improve a food situation compromised by ration books and coupons, and to share and exchange various items in his shrapnel collection of enemy explosives with like-minded collectors among his pals.
For an older, more mature reader with some experience of the war years, recognition of the changes in society could well provide some food for thought, particularly in the interaction between fellow Londoners.
There was certainly in London at that time a general feeling of sharing your lot with others in the same boat, and conversation and humour sharing with total strangers was quite common, on an almost daily basis.
The reflective mood of the older reader may well be further provoked by the contrast with today’s London in times of comparative peace, where the technological advances in communication have enabled conversations to be held in almost any location or circumstance with a machine rather than a visible companion, presumably enhancing the belief that, apparently, distance lends enchantment - a modern action which can on occasion confuse an old-timer responding to a voice and an individual who is totally unaware of his existence.



1. The Entry
I was born, according to the family historians of the time, not to a fanfare of trumpets, but with the background chimes of the Bells of Bow in London.
This, apparently, conferred upon me a title which among some others was achieved without serious effort, or in this case awareness on my part, but at least had the benefit of being comparatively polite.
The combined effects of Bow Bells coupled with the noise of my own early desire to provide my parents with a non-musical alternative were, I later understood, instrumental in our relocation of the family to another part of London primarily with a desire to at least halve the melodious sounds of Bow Bells and my own bawls mainly connected to food and an early claim for attention - twin aspects, without the noise, of my character, which continued through to adulthood.
The first major event which affected my own and the family’s future, although barely recognised by me at the time, was the sudden demise of my father due to an illness described, in those days, as consumption - an event which occurred when I was three years old.



2. The War
To a young lad, the almost immediate effect of the outbreak of hostilities was the opportunity it allowed for extra unsupervised time away from parents and family, who were concerned with more serious matters and particularly the long-term effects.
News of the outbreak of hostilities followed, in my case, what was a fairly routine event - my search for something edible, preferably sweet.
Having somehow managed to acquire some hard cash, I had decided to try my luck with one of the local wall-mounted vending machines dispensing chocolate and chewing gum.
Upon returning from this successful expedition, I was greeted, or not, by the sight of various family members grouped around the wireless listening to an announcement by the prime minister, Mr Chamberlain, confirming the news that the German head of state, Herr Hitler, had not responded positively to the ultimatum issued by the British Government and that we were therefore at war with Nazi Germany. Without fully understanding the gravity of the announcement, the sombre mood of the adults suggested future troubles.
My own mind, however, was still brooding on the events of the previous day, when my favourite sweet-shop aunt had decided, in a fit of her usual generosity, to reward my elder brother and myself with unexpected presents - no doubt for our impeccable behaviour.
The presents selected for him were a Raleigh bicycle (a dream machine), and for me, a new three-piece suit, complete with waistcoat - choices which I was still struggling to understand.
An almost immediate effect of this announcement was a change in the school curriculum, where, much to my dismay, selected sports sessions were to give way, in time, to air-raid warnings and, sometime later, the issue and usage of gas masks together with subsequent fittings - an activity which enabled my chums to suggest that the constant wearing of a gas mask might at least have the benefit of improving my appearance.
For an adventurous and, for the most part, blissfully unaware London lad, these times were a riot of activity and movement, particularly when following an air-raid warning from either an air-raid warden or a moaning minnie - the air-raid siren.
Short-notice alternative shelter ranged from under the (very solid) oak dining-room table to the more spacious accommodation under the stairs.
These accommodation choices were on one occasion responsible for me acquiring the nickname, among others, of Pedro, when during a particularly unpleasant air raid - in this case, quite close - we had decided on option 2, under the stairs. Feeling a need to lighten the atmosphere, I had started to sing and whistle a popular song of that time: ‘Pedro the Fisherman’, made famous by the singing star Gracie Fields.
Posterity and my own convenient memory lapse are unable to confirm that my impromptu performance had the desired effect of relieving the gloom, although I do just recall that the endings of both the air raid and my tuneless musical rendition were greeted with almost equal relief.
A non-whistling memory from these times occurred during an air raid when option 3 was taken - beneath the solid dining-room table. The bomb blast having thrown my stepfather across the room, he quite defiantly, being quite shaken although not apparently stirred, made his way out of the room to be flattened by the dining-room door (almost equally heavy) - a performance which was almost immediately followed by the all-clear siren.
This particular episode was, as usual, followed by copious cups of tea, and, in my case, somewhat unkind suppression of humour at the double trouble sustained by my popular stepfather, who had remained, apparently, none the worse for wear.
The five-star option for shelter and alternative accommodation was, for me, the decamping to a nearby Underground station during a succession of air raids.
In my case, this meant the Piccadilly Line stations of Earl’s Court, Gloucester Road or South Kensington, where we would sleep on the station platforms in the company of relatives and fellow Londoners, sleeping packed in rows similar to today’s delayed airline passengers, sardine style.
To add to the scene of adventure, at least for the younger element, was the opportunity it provided to discover a malfunctioning slot machine dispensing bars of chocolate and packs of chewing gum while not requiring payment, which had the additional bonus of providing an antidote to the almost force-fed daily dose of a spoonful of cod liver oil and malt.
The generally convivial nature of these occasions, sometimes enlivened by semi-tuneful bursts of generally well-known songs, made sleep difficult at best, and one occasion provided a memory long after the actual event occurred.
The incident came when the loose-fitting nature of Uncle Ernie’s smile became apparent to the rest of the family while we were encamped at Gloucester Road Station. Uncle Ernie having heard an incredible joke, laughed so much that his ‘smile’ - in this case, a full set of dentures, c