My Life Stroy Part 1 Very earliest memories
John Acton's Life Story Part 1
Very earliest memories (1)
I have heard that hypnotists can help your memories go back as far as your mother’s womb. One of my daughters once asked me to record some soothing music to play to her baby while still awaiting birth.. My mother was a good pianist: listening to her play was probably among my early memories. .
But my own earliest memory was undoubtedly her beautiful face and soft voice. I loved her intensely. She was very talented in amusing me, cooking wonderful meals and home dress-making. She taught me my ABC and how to spell my name and some simple two or three letter words. She also got me to say simple 'God bless........' prayers before going to sleep.
Coming back to my very earliest memories, I soon became aware of my Dad. His tall figure with a moustache and prickly kiss was so different from my Mum’s soft touch. I saw little of him during the week as he commuted daily to his job in the central Custom House , Lower Thames Street, London. I remember he used to pause briefly before he left in the morning. smile and say, ‘Have a really good play to-day John.’
Soon it was my four and a half years older brother Ken, who began to dominate my attention, as I crawled out of the ‘bawling baby’ stage. Once I had begun to speak a little more, we soon got talking and had great fun together, plus a little rivalry for Mum’s attention. He used to tease me at times with improbable stories.
One of these started with the hero seeing a swarm of little aeroplanes emerging from a cave on the beach. He asked me to agree it was a good start for a story. So it was, but I could never get him to tell me what came next. I also remember one time when Mum was trying to get me to eat a little cheese. I resisted. Then Ken offered me a tempting morsel. I tried it and yelled. I was later told it was very strong ‘Blue Vinny’.
As a toddler, I used to like walking under the kitchen table, (the actual one we use today, ninety years later). As I grew taller, I was close to bumping my head. My Mum told me to stop doing it, or I might get a nasty knock. Then she told me that if I hurt myself she would no comfort me. The inevitable happened: crying, I held out my pleading hands to her. But she refused to cuddle me for about five minutes. So I learned my lesson.
As I grew older my brother taught me all manner of things. We started gentle, wrestling. then ball games which turned into cricket and football, when I was old enough to accompany him to the nearby Plashet Park. I used to walk on my own when I was five, through this park to my first school, Milton High School , Principal Miss May L Dean M A.
My brother left the school in the term before I joined it. I well remember being taken to the school on his last day to meet the Principal. She looked at me and said, ‘Your brother was a good boy and I hope you will be the same.’ I must have looked a little uncertain so she asked me, ’Ken is not a bad boy is he?’ I thought for a moment, then said, ’Yes!’ The formidable Miss Dean was shocked as was my mother . I was also upset and endeavoured to explain that I agreed with her statement, ’Ken is not a bad boy’ so I said, ‘’Yes’. I maintained my reply was correct despite my mother’s and the Principal’s arguments. It was some months before I got used to answering ‘double negative’ questions.
It was a strict but happy school. After doing a test or exercise, we were supposed to sit up with folded arms! I enjoyed it and eventually secured a scholarship at eleven to any of the secondary schools around (including Brentwood Public). I eventually chise Wanstead County High School because my brother went there.
I am straying from my earliest memories and must confess my first deliberate and deceitful sin at the age of three or four. Every Christmas my parents hosted a family party that lasted until mid-night. My mother said I must sleep for a couple of hours otherwise I would be too tired to stay up for the party. So I was put upstairs to bed and Mum said I must not get up until the clock on the mantel-piece showed four p.m. She pointed to the hour hand and showed me exactly where that was.. I protested that I would not get tired, but she was very firm that I must rest.
You can imagine how frustrated I was in the middle of Christmas excitements, to be stuck in my bedroom. For a while I tossed around unable to sleep. I kept on looking at the clock to see how much longer I had to go. It was agony.
Suddenly a wicked thought came into my mind. The clock face had no glass. The hour hand was now on three. Dare I? There was only a small gap between three and four. I crept out of bed, reached up and pulled the hour hand down to four.. I rushed back to bed and called out to Mum. She came up to tell me to try and get back to sleep. But I pointed to the clock and said, “Look - it’s on four.”
She was bewildered for about thirty seconds. Then her face hardened. “Did you move clock hand ?” she demanded.
“No,” I said as innocently as I could manage with reddening cheeks. It was my first deliberate lie to my mother - God forgive me.. She was VERY cross. I collapsed and humbly admitted my guilt. While there is a semi-comic aspect to it,, I have never forgotten this shameful episode.
Me and brother Ken in his new
Wanstead County High School blazer
Very earliest memories (2)
Under the staircase of our house were first a small cupboard, then round the corner a plain wooden door. I was strictly forbidden to open it and go down the steep narrow stairs to the cellars below.
I think I should now a give brief description of our house at that time . It was a terrace house of typical design of the very early 1900’s in East London (pre- World War One). There were three bedrooms and a bath room (but no toilet) on the upper floor. The ground floor had a kitchen/living room and attached scullery with a copper washing basin, gas cooker and sink. There were also two reception rooms connected by folding doors. These could be opened to make one big room for Christmas or other special occasions. The flush toilet was outside the house in a small yard before the start of a narrow garden. So at bed-time we all had to use chamber pots (jerries). But the special plus feature, according to my Dad, were the two large cellars.. The first was completely given over to the receipt and storage of coal for our domestic fires. The second was my Dad’s special workshop. I will describe his activities later. Originally we had gas lighting but I well remember the change to electricity. My mother was given an electric vacuum cleaner and the noise terrified me. It took me ages to get over this fear.
I think I was probably five when I was first allowed to open the forbidden door and go down into the coal cellar. There under the coal chute was an untidy mass of irregular lumps of coal, The whole cellar was thick with black dust, except for a small swept path leading to a door to the second cellar, my Dad’s workshop. Some of the larger pieces of coal had shiny faces on which there were fascinating impressions of ancient ferns or other plants.
The arrival of the coal cart was always an exciting event. The cart was drawn by two enormous horses with eye shades (blinkers) and hanging nose bags for their food. Just occasionally they might eject a thick yellow gush of urine and also deposit clods of horse dung on to the road.. I felt sorry for he poor horses harnessed to the heavy coal cart with their blinkered eyes. They had no option but to relieve themselves in the street with everyone watching (or shuddering).
The heavy sacks of coal were stacked upright against a central board on the cart. The coal man would knock on the door and check details of the delivery. Then he would lever up the circular iron cover which was just in front of our bay window. Going back to his cart, he would manoeuvre a sack to the edge, heave it on to his back, and proceed to empty it down the coal hole. It was very arduous manual labour for the poor coalman.
We also enjoyed daily visits from the horse drawn dairy cart. The milk would be in a big churn, from which the dairy man would fill our personal pint or half pint pewter jugs. I heard him tell my Mum that Nelly (his horse) knew all the regular customer stops in the road. So she needed very little direction.
A bonus from all the horse-drawn traffic on the roads was actually the dung or horse droppings, My Dad made up a little trolley: a wooden box with two handles mounted on small wheels. My brother and I were sent off in the early morning with the trolley and two small shovels to collect dung for him. We really enjoyed that except when it was wet. We might see a cart going round the corner and dash hopefully after it. Dad was pleased if we managed to get a good load for he needed manure for his allotment as well as our garden.. He some times took us to his allotment (some distance away). We did token weeding and then tended to play around.
Ralph Henry Hitchcock Acton
My Dad worked as a clerical/executive in the old Custom House in the City. He was a skilled amateur carpenter, making shelves and big items in his cellar workshop, such as the splendid oak sideboard that eventually ended up in my brother’s house and was much admired. He was skilled in the photography of his day,, turning his cellar into a dark room and processing the glass plates to produce lovely photos. I remember seeing large stacks of used glass plates on his shelves. He also made early wireless sets from kits from simple crystal sets to early valve hook-ups. I remember hearing ‘Station 2LO’ being announced on the air. He mended our shoes and boots also in his cellar. He bought sheets of leather and cut them to size with a very sharp knife. He used an iron ‘last’ with three foot shapes which he passed on to me in later life. And, of course, he did all the painting and paper-hanging needed for the house. Cementing was yet another skill he acquired.
While on the subject of my Dad’s practical skills, largely connected with the cellar, I remember I was gradually allowed to use the work-bench and vice when I was old enough to start carpentry. But earlier than that when I was aged 7/8, I started making iron filings under the direction of brother Ken. As November 5th approached Ken started making fireworks in the shed at the bottom of our garden. We (for I was enlisted to help) rolled thin card or paper into stout tubes to fill with firework mixture. I dare not tell you the ingredients - it must be illegal to-day.
My brother needed lots of iron filings so as enhance the firey display when lit. It took me hours of hard filing a bar of iron held in a vice down in Dad’s cellar to make a reasonable amount of filings for his needs. It was a common practice for boys to make up a dummy Guy Fawkes on a small hand cart or push chair. They then went down the High Street asking people to ‘Give a penny for the Guy.’ Needless to say this was not allowable for us.
On November the 5th we had a glorious view from the back bedroom windows of all the bonfires, fireworks and parties being held in the neighbours’ back gardens. On Nov,. 6th we went and bought a few fireworks, especially rockets which we could not make ourselves,. Generally we paid only half-price or less by that date. On Nov., 7th we held our own bonfire with our own and bought fireworks. Sorry if this all sounds rather mean but in those days there was little loose change to go around. For example we could not afford toilet paper . My Dad would cut newspaper into small squares, pin them together at one end, so we could tear off what was required for personal use.
Very earliest memories (3)
Only this morning eating breakfast at our ancient table, I recalled a vision of my brother aged six or seven, sitting naked on the edge of the table. He was being washed by my mother. At the time I would have been on the floor near the iron kitchen stove, awaiting my turn. I think it must have been the first time I had seen him with a bare bottom and was fascinated. Our upstairs bathroom lacked hot water as well as no toilet. For our weekly bath, it was necessary to take kettles of hot water up the stairs. So most mornings, my mother would put some warm water into a bowl on the table, sit me on one end, with legs dangling, and wash me.
Our kitchen table has so many associated memories for me. About five years old I was given the job of sweeping the crumbs off with an old brass covered brush and matching brass pan.
[Do you believe me when I tell you that, nigh on ninety years later, I still get to do the same job with the same antique brush and pan and table - only the cloth is new. Also in our larger living room we always have the table centre section in place. But unlike my Dad, I do all my carpentry on this sturdy deal table. For example, I have made and fitted wooden book-shelves in every room in our present house. As fast as I made them, my wife Doreen went out and filled them up with second-hand classics. The table surface is thus engrained with a variety of scratches. I have preserved this historic patina with two or three coats of polyurethane varnish. But I must apologise for this lengthy digression in praise of our precious old table.]
I had various childish ailments such as chicken-pox etc. - nothing very serious. But shortly after I had started school aged five, I began to feel very feverish, hot, head aching and painful swollen legs. I was put to bed and the Doctor called out. I was told that I had a rheumatic fever and must stay in bed until it subsided. I was later told that I needed to rest afterwards for some weeks, as undue exercise could harm my heart.
So a downstairs bed was arranged for me in that special ‘front room’ that was ordinarily kept ‘spic and span’ for visitors. At first I felt very ill with the fever and could not eat, only sip a little liquid. After a few days, I remember waking up with no head-ache but feeling weak and hungry. As my mother came into the room, I asked her whether I could have something to eat. I can still see her joyful smile as she quickly asked me what would I like.
“Could I have a piece of bread and butter with marmalade ?” I answered.
“Yes, of course, Dear.” she answered, giving me a hug.
That was only the beginning of my recovery. My legs were still red and swollen. There were several weeks to endure, lying in that front room bed and missing school . To pass the time I was given early readers and illustrated fairy tales. I think I must have been given quite a lot of attention by my mother, but can remember very little of that time. But I do have a distinct memory of one picture. It showed storks flying at chimney level in some foreign country. But strangely, each stork was carrying a tiny baby wrapped in a cloth suspended from its long beak. My mother said that was how babies arrived in homes in that country. She did not seem very sure of the detail of this as I questioned her.
‘Where do babies come from?’ was a very big unanswered problem in my mind. I used to pester my Dad for an answer. He stoutly maintained that babies were born ‘under a gooseberry bush’. I sensed he was teasing me. I argued sensibly that it would be too prickly and pointed to our own bushes. I could get no help from my brother on this subject. When I got back to school after my lengthy illness, I soon got the answer. One of the boys my age gave me a crude simple description of the facts. (I remember his actual words but omit them as they might give offence.) I learnt that the baby grew in the woman’s tummy. When it was big enough, it came out of her tummy. I was thunderstruck and wondered whether the stork or gooseberry bush were not better ideas. Did I really grow in Mum’s tummy and come out of it? But with the help of Christmas carols and the Gospel stories, I gradually got used to the idea and realised why my parents were coy about the matter. So I stopped asking questions. In those days of long maternity frocks, children were kept in ‘a state of innocence’, I think it was called, for as long as possible. Might we have gone too far in the other direction these days?
Following my serious illness it was decided that I ought to have my tonsils cut out as a protection against other infections taking a hold. This involved a one night stay in a hospital for the operation. I struggled against the chloroform mask, but in a few seconds I yielded not to blackness, but to a vision of a room papered with row upon row of imitation green dragons.. Disturbing but not frightening. I was sore when I ‘woke up’ and was not happy with toilet in bed and other embarrassments. I was so pleased when Mum collected me. I believe they said, ‘I had been a good boy. ’
Back at school, I was doing well now, except that the teacher had to move me to the front of the class. It was short sight probably inherited from my father. My brother already had glasses and, to my sorrow, I was also doomed to become ‘Four-eyes’ in schoolboy parlance, for the rest of my life. Our local optician was Mr Olney, a charming man whom we saw regularly for the rest of our stay in Manor Park.. On one occasion brother Ken and I boarded the tram at Wanstead Flats and found him sitting nearby. When the conductor came by, Mr Olney insisted on buying two ‘tuppeny’ tickets for us, despite the fact that we needed only penny tickets to get to our home in Byron Avenue. We both agreed Mr Olney was a lovely gentleman.
Glasses reminds me of another matter, which disturbed my Mum particularly. Ken and I played happily together for most of the time, but we loved wrestling. In the schoolboy code at this time (including secondary school), wrestling was fine but arm-twisting or punching was way out of line. Ken, being so much bigger, could easily over-power me at first. But I learnt a lot and my puny muscles benefited hugely from the practice. This waa a great help to me later on when I had no big brother protection. My mother very much disliked our fighting and sometimes petty quarrels. She would often tell us to stop fighting or else she would tell our father when he came home from work. Things got really bad one day, when our expensive spectacles got broken. Dad was annoyed and we had a stern lecture, but no other punishment. From that day on, Ken and I agreed always to say to each other, “Glasses off ! ” before starting a wrestling bout.
.On another occasion I was playing in our garden,, bouncing a golf ball dangerously close to a kitchen window. I think Ken haad probably warned me, but suddenly the ball crashed through the glass! My brother was really terrified. What would Dad say ? I claimed it was an accident, but not very hopefully. Mum was very concerned. When Dad came in, she told him. He was cross and warned me never to do it again. Then that weekend my clever Dad measured up the window, stripped out the broken glass and old putty and went and bought replacement glass. Then he showed us how he fitted and puttied in the new glass.
In retrospect I think my Dad was a ‘softie’. certainly a patient man on the evidence above. Ken and I were fortunate to have such loving and capable parents.
Very Earliest Memories (4)
Indoor play-time. I believe I had an ancient Teddy at one time. But this somehow turned into a bedraggle Golly (black rag doll). I soon forgot them in favour of wooden bricks. I would build small
forts or castles and place my lead soldiers in position. I had been given a small spring-loading cannon which would fire a sizeable wooden shell. I confess I loved shooting shells at the hapless soldiers and knocking the forts to a shambles with great glee. There was a degree of skill involved. An excellent game which I can recommend for children, if only they can get hold of a decent cannon.
Following on the wooden bricks, came Meccano, a major educational toy. I was always happy with this - see the early picture in Section One of Ken and myself with a Meccano model, my Mother watching while preparing the vegetables on our historic kitchen table. I used to save my pennies to add to my Meccano collection. I liked buying long bars to make big cars, etc. My best model was of a hammerhead crane mounted on wheels. I loved getting on my knees to push it all round the room by steering the cab. It would be about 18 inches tall and tended to over-balance when turning corners at ‘speed’. This aroused parental concern. I studied the problem and proudly produced my original solution. I put in an extra pair of wheels in the middle with an over-long axle. As I turned the crane on a right-hand bend, the middle wheels naturally veered to the left propping up the side which had a tendency to topple over. This was a great success. I asked my Dad whether I could get a patent for my invention. He merely smiled and gave me a pat on the back.
We also had basic train sets with clockwork engines. The best fun (though we did not really know this at the time) came from building up the inter-locking sets of rails, plus working in a couple of points and a cross-over.
My brother Ken rigged up a telephone connection between our two bed-rooms. He used the two ear pieces from an old head-set he had somehow acquired. He did this shortly after we were separated from sleeping in twin beds in the large back bedroom. My father gave up his hobby of breeding canaries in the whole of the middle bedroom. I only remember once seeing the floor to ceiling cage. This allowed my move to the ‘canary room’. I began to miss my brother’s company, so his telephone idea was a brilliant solution. Furthermore Ken had got hold of a wireless set, probably a crystal set, and began sending me exciting radio programmes. I well remember one. It was a drama series featuring Dr Fu Man Chu. The radio was stopped after a while, but the telephone link was allowed for quite a time.
Music. I expect those who know me, will be expecting this subject. I have already mentioned my mother’s lovely and expert piano playing. The piano was a French Thibouville-Lamy upright. It was kept in the front parlour, placed against the inner party wall of our hall. This was so as to minimise noise offence to our terrace neighbours. So long as I did not bang the keys with my fist or any object, I was allowed to use my fingers on it. I used to pretend I was playing, but no real music emerged from my scribbling.
When I was about four or five, I was allowed to use our wind-up portable gramophone. I was carefully shown how to allow the pick-up arm and needle to drop very gently on the outer rim, so as to get a hum before he music started. There was a great danger of scratching the record if the process was not done properly. Otherwise the record would be spoilt. I think I was allowed several tries on an already spoilt record. But I became qualified to to put on records of all kinds by myself. That Christmas I was given an HMV set of nursery rhymes in a special cardboard container, which I I still keep as a souvenir. One song I specially liked was ‘Laughing Ginger Brown’. The chorus was something like, ‘Ha ha ha ha ,ha ha ha ha, He, he he he he,’ screeching up and down . You can imagine my rendering, applauded when first sung, soon became annoying. Another pop song of this period, but not in my junior 7 inch diameter records, was ‘Goosey Goo’. In our Plashet Park was a bandstand from which one could hear military bands or small variety ensembles. That is where I heard something like, ‘When ever I see you, my heart goes Goosey, goosey , goosey goosey, goo!’
Once inside I could speed away with joyous ease. A favourite route was a round trip. I would go left from the entrance and then down and up a very large dip. This was supposed to have been caused by a Zeppelin bomb from World War One. Gradually turning right I would come to the outdoor Bowls Club, a favourite with my Dad and my Grandfather. Going on to the far corner I would reach the Public Library of great interest to me at a later age. Then turning right I would reach the far exit that led to my school. Crossing the main central avenue to the far right corner were the grass courts of the Tennis Club. My Dad and Mum were both members in my very early days. Coming back on the central Avenue, I would pass the Band Stage and so reach the Byron Avenue entrance. Then I might decide to try a few trips up and down the ‘bomb hole’ to see how fast I could go. Or maybe I might spot a lively game of football and wait for the invitation to join in.
We usually had a two weeks summer sea-side holiday. I can recall Weymouth, Isle of Wight (once) and more often Walton on the Naze. Some times my Dad would leave us for a week because of office work. We built sand castles, netted shrimps and crabs, paddled and attempted swimming (if it was warm enough) in our flimsy cotton one-piece swimming costumes.
My Dad was keen that we should learn to swim. So when I was nine or ten, he took Ken and me from home on early morning swimming expeditions. Setting out around 7 a.m., we went by tram to Wanstead Flats and then a long walk to Wanstead Park, where there was early morning swimming in one of the lakes. It was strictly reserved only for men and boys and finished sharply at 8a.m. It was not too deep and I could stand up and pretend to be doing my breast stroke. I was keen to learn. At home I used to balance on my tummy over the music stool and practice my arms and leg-kicks. The next summer when I was ten, I bravely took my feet off the bottom and swam a few strokes. I was so pleased as was my Dad. As the finishing time of 8 a.m. approached there would be a desperate flurry of mainly men to get in past the Keeper on duty. There seemed to be no rule about wearing a costume, although we and most people did. I remember seeing one or two desperate late-comers rushing in at two minutes to eight, flinging off their clothes wildly and jumping naked into the water.
Very earliest memories (1)
Mrs Daisy Acton (Nee Bates)
I have heard that hypnotists can help your memories go back as far as your mother’s womb. One of my daughters once asked me to record some soothing music to play to her baby while still awaiting birth.. My mother was a good pianist: listening to her play was probably among my early memories. .
But my own earliest memory was undoubtedly her beautiful face and soft voice. I loved her intensely. She was very talented in amusing me, cooking wonderful meals and home dress-making. She taught me my ABC and how to spell my name and some simple two or three letter words. She also got me to say simple 'God bless........' prayers before going to sleep.
Coming back to my very earliest memories, I soon became aware of my Dad. His tall figure with a moustache and prickly kiss was so different from my Mum’s soft touch. I saw little of him during the week as he commuted daily to his job in the central Custom House , Lower Thames Street, London. I remember he used to pause briefly before he left in the morning. smile and say, ‘Have a really good play to-day John.’
Soon it was my four and a half years older brother Ken, who began to dominate my attention, as I crawled out of the ‘bawling baby’ stage. Once I had begun to speak a little more, we soon got talking and had great fun together, plus a little rivalry for Mum’s attention. He used to tease me at times with improbable stories.
One of these started with the hero seeing a swarm of little aeroplanes emerging from a cave on the beach. He asked me to agree it was a good start for a story. So it was, but I could never get him to tell me what came next. I also remember one time when Mum was trying to get me to eat a little cheese. I resisted. Then Ken offered me a tempting morsel. I tried it and yelled. I was later told it was very strong ‘Blue Vinny’.
As a toddler, I used to like walking under the kitchen table, (the actual one we use today, ninety years later). As I grew taller, I was close to bumping my head. My Mum told me to stop doing it, or I might get a nasty knock. Then she told me that if I hurt myself she would no comfort me. The inevitable happened: crying, I held out my pleading hands to her. But she refused to cuddle me for about five minutes. So I learned my lesson.
As I grew older my brother taught me all manner of things. We started gentle, wrestling. then ball games which turned into cricket and football, when I was old enough to accompany him to the nearby Plashet Park. I used to walk on my own when I was five, through this park to my first school, Milton High School , Principal Miss May L Dean M A.
My brother left the school in the term before I joined it. I well remember being taken to the school on his last day to meet the Principal. She looked at me and said, ‘Your brother was a good boy and I hope you will be the same.’ I must have looked a little uncertain so she asked me, ’Ken is not a bad boy is he?’ I thought for a moment, then said, ’Yes!’ The formidable Miss Dean was shocked as was my mother . I was also upset and endeavoured to explain that I agreed with her statement, ’Ken is not a bad boy’ so I said, ‘’Yes’. I maintained my reply was correct despite my mother’s and the Principal’s arguments. It was some months before I got used to answering ‘double negative’ questions.
I am straying from my earliest memories and must confess my first deliberate and deceitful sin at the age of three or four. Every Christmas my parents hosted a family party that lasted until mid-night. My mother said I must sleep for a couple of hours otherwise I would be too tired to stay up for the party. So I was put upstairs to bed and Mum said I must not get up until the clock on the mantel-piece showed four p.m. She pointed to the hour hand and showed me exactly where that was.. I protested that I would not get tired, but she was very firm that I must rest.
You can imagine how frustrated I was in the middle of Christmas excitements, to be stuck in my bedroom. For a while I tossed around unable to sleep. I kept on looking at the clock to see how much longer I had to go. It was agony.
Suddenly a wicked thought came into my mind. The clock face had no glass. The hour hand was now on three. Dare I? There was only a small gap between three and four. I crept out of bed, reached up and pulled the hour hand down to four.. I rushed back to bed and called out to Mum. She came up to tell me to try and get back to sleep. But I pointed to the clock and said, “Look - it’s on four.”
She was bewildered for about thirty seconds. Then her face hardened. “Did you move clock hand ?” she demanded.
“No,” I said as innocently as I could manage with reddening cheeks. It was my first deliberate lie to my mother - God forgive me.. She was VERY cross. I collapsed and humbly admitted my guilt. While there is a semi-comic aspect to it,, I have never forgotten this shameful episode.
Me and brother Ken in his new
Wanstead County High School blazer
Very earliest memories (2)
Under the staircase of our house were first a small cupboard, then round the corner a plain wooden door. I was strictly forbidden to open it and go down the steep narrow stairs to the cellars below.
I think I should now a give brief description of our house at that time . It was a terrace house of typical design of the very early 1900’s in East London (pre- World War One). There were three bedrooms and a bath room (but no toilet) on the upper floor. The ground floor had a kitchen/living room and attached scullery with a copper washing basin, gas cooker and sink. There were also two reception rooms connected by folding doors. These could be opened to make one big room for Christmas or other special occasions. The flush toilet was outside the house in a small yard before the start of a narrow garden. So at bed-time we all had to use chamber pots (jerries). But the special plus feature, according to my Dad, were the two large cellars.. The first was completely given over to the receipt and storage of coal for our domestic fires. The second was my Dad’s special workshop. I will describe his activities later. Originally we had gas lighting but I well remember the change to electricity. My mother was given an electric vacuum cleaner and the noise terrified me. It took me ages to get over this fear.
I think I was probably five when I was first allowed to open the forbidden door and go down into the coal cellar. There under the coal chute was an untidy mass of irregular lumps of coal, The whole cellar was thick with black dust, except for a small swept path leading to a door to the second cellar, my Dad’s workshop. Some of the larger pieces of coal had shiny faces on which there were fascinating impressions of ancient ferns or other plants.
The arrival of the coal cart was always an exciting event. The cart was drawn by two enormous horses with eye shades (blinkers) and hanging nose bags for their food. Just occasionally they might eject a thick yellow gush of urine and also deposit clods of horse dung on to the road.. I felt sorry for he poor horses harnessed to the heavy coal cart with their blinkered eyes. They had no option but to relieve themselves in the street with everyone watching (or shuddering).
The heavy sacks of coal were stacked upright against a central board on the cart. The coal man would knock on the door and check details of the delivery. Then he would lever up the circular iron cover which was just in front of our bay window. Going back to his cart, he would manoeuvre a sack to the edge, heave it on to his back, and proceed to empty it down the coal hole. It was very arduous manual labour for the poor coalman.
We also enjoyed daily visits from the horse drawn dairy cart. The milk would be in a big churn, from which the dairy man would fill our personal pint or half pint pewter jugs. I heard him tell my Mum that Nelly (his horse) knew all the regular customer stops in the road. So she needed very little direction.
A bonus from all the horse-drawn traffic on the roads was actually the dung or horse droppings, My Dad made up a little trolley: a wooden box with two handles mounted on small wheels. My brother and I were sent off in the early morning with the trolley and two small shovels to collect dung for him. We really enjoyed that except when it was wet. We might see a cart going round the corner and dash hopefully after it. Dad was pleased if we managed to get a good load for he needed manure for his allotment as well as our garden.. He some times took us to his allotment (some distance away). We did token weeding and then tended to play around.
Ralph Henry Hitchcock ActonMy Dad worked as a clerical/executive in the old Custom House in the City. He was a skilled amateur carpenter, making shelves and big items in his cellar workshop, such as the splendid oak sideboard that eventually ended up in my brother’s house and was much admired. He was skilled in the photography of his day,, turning his cellar into a dark room and processing the glass plates to produce lovely photos. I remember seeing large stacks of used glass plates on his shelves. He also made early wireless sets from kits from simple crystal sets to early valve hook-ups. I remember hearing ‘Station 2LO’ being announced on the air. He mended our shoes and boots also in his cellar. He bought sheets of leather and cut them to size with a very sharp knife. He used an iron ‘last’ with three foot shapes which he passed on to me in later life. And, of course, he did all the painting and paper-hanging needed for the house. Cementing was yet another skill he acquired.
While on the subject of my Dad’s practical skills, largely connected with the cellar, I remember I was gradually allowed to use the work-bench and vice when I was old enough to start carpentry. But earlier than that when I was aged 7/8, I started making iron filings under the direction of brother Ken. As November 5th approached Ken started making fireworks in the shed at the bottom of our garden. We (for I was enlisted to help) rolled thin card or paper into stout tubes to fill with firework mixture. I dare not tell you the ingredients - it must be illegal to-day.
My brother needed lots of iron filings so as enhance the firey display when lit. It took me hours of hard filing a bar of iron held in a vice down in Dad’s cellar to make a reasonable amount of filings for his needs. It was a common practice for boys to make up a dummy Guy Fawkes on a small hand cart or push chair. They then went down the High Street asking people to ‘Give a penny for the Guy.’ Needless to say this was not allowable for us.
On November the 5th we had a glorious view from the back bedroom windows of all the bonfires, fireworks and parties being held in the neighbours’ back gardens. On Nov,. 6th we went and bought a few fireworks, especially rockets which we could not make ourselves,. Generally we paid only half-price or less by that date. On Nov., 7th we held our own bonfire with our own and bought fireworks. Sorry if this all sounds rather mean but in those days there was little loose change to go around. For example we could not afford toilet paper . My Dad would cut newspaper into small squares, pin them together at one end, so we could tear off what was required for personal use.
Very earliest memories (3)
Only this morning eating breakfast at our ancient table, I recalled a vision of my brother aged six or seven, sitting naked on the edge of the table. He was being washed by my mother. At the time I would have been on the floor near the iron kitchen stove, awaiting my turn. I think it must have been the first time I had seen him with a bare bottom and was fascinated. Our upstairs bathroom lacked hot water as well as no toilet. For our weekly bath, it was necessary to take kettles of hot water up the stairs. So most mornings, my mother would put some warm water into a bowl on the table, sit me on one end, with legs dangling, and wash me.
Our kitchen table has so many associated memories for me. About five years old I was given the job of sweeping the crumbs off with an old brass covered brush and matching brass pan.
[Do you believe me when I tell you that, nigh on ninety years later, I still get to do the same job with the same antique brush and pan and table - only the cloth is new. Also in our larger living room we always have the table centre section in place. But unlike my Dad, I do all my carpentry on this sturdy deal table. For example, I have made and fitted wooden book-shelves in every room in our present house. As fast as I made them, my wife Doreen went out and filled them up with second-hand classics. The table surface is thus engrained with a variety of scratches. I have preserved this historic patina with two or three coats of polyurethane varnish. But I must apologise for this lengthy digression in praise of our precious old table.]
Mum, me and Ken
I had various childish ailments such as chicken-pox etc. - nothing very serious. But shortly after I had started school aged five, I began to feel very feverish, hot, head aching and painful swollen legs. I was put to bed and the Doctor called out. I was told that I had a rheumatic fever and must stay in bed until it subsided. I was later told that I needed to rest afterwards for some weeks, as undue exercise could harm my heart.
So a downstairs bed was arranged for me in that special ‘front room’ that was ordinarily kept ‘spic and span’ for visitors. At first I felt very ill with the fever and could not eat, only sip a little liquid. After a few days, I remember waking up with no head-ache but feeling weak and hungry. As my mother came into the room, I asked her whether I could have something to eat. I can still see her joyful smile as she quickly asked me what would I like.
“Could I have a piece of bread and butter with marmalade ?” I answered.
“Yes, of course, Dear.” she answered, giving me a hug.
That was only the beginning of my recovery. My legs were still red and swollen. There were several weeks to endure, lying in that front room bed and missing school . To pass the time I was given early readers and illustrated fairy tales. I think I must have been given quite a lot of attention by my mother, but can remember very little of that time. But I do have a distinct memory of one picture. It showed storks flying at chimney level in some foreign country. But strangely, each stork was carrying a tiny baby wrapped in a cloth suspended from its long beak. My mother said that was how babies arrived in homes in that country. She did not seem very sure of the detail of this as I questioned her.
‘Where do babies come from?’ was a very big unanswered problem in my mind. I used to pester my Dad for an answer. He stoutly maintained that babies were born ‘under a gooseberry bush’. I sensed he was teasing me. I argued sensibly that it would be too prickly and pointed to our own bushes. I could get no help from my brother on this subject. When I got back to school after my lengthy illness, I soon got the answer. One of the boys my age gave me a crude simple description of the facts. (I remember his actual words but omit them as they might give offence.) I learnt that the baby grew in the woman’s tummy. When it was big enough, it came out of her tummy. I was thunderstruck and wondered whether the stork or gooseberry bush were not better ideas. Did I really grow in Mum’s tummy and come out of it? But with the help of Christmas carols and the Gospel stories, I gradually got used to the idea and realised why my parents were coy about the matter. So I stopped asking questions. In those days of long maternity frocks, children were kept in ‘a state of innocence’, I think it was called, for as long as possible. Might we have gone too far in the other direction these days?
Following my serious illness it was decided that I ought to have my tonsils cut out as a protection against other infections taking a hold. This involved a one night stay in a hospital for the operation. I struggled against the chloroform mask, but in a few seconds I yielded not to blackness, but to a vision of a room papered with row upon row of imitation green dragons.. Disturbing but not frightening. I was sore when I ‘woke up’ and was not happy with toilet in bed and other embarrassments. I was so pleased when Mum collected me. I believe they said, ‘I had been a good boy. ’
Back at school, I was doing well now, except that the teacher had to move me to the front of the class. It was short sight probably inherited from my father. My brother already had glasses and, to my sorrow, I was also doomed to become ‘Four-eyes’ in schoolboy parlance, for the rest of my life. Our local optician was Mr Olney, a charming man whom we saw regularly for the rest of our stay in Manor Park.. On one occasion brother Ken and I boarded the tram at Wanstead Flats and found him sitting nearby. When the conductor came by, Mr Olney insisted on buying two ‘tuppeny’ tickets for us, despite the fact that we needed only penny tickets to get to our home in Byron Avenue. We both agreed Mr Olney was a lovely gentleman.
Glasses reminds me of another matter, which disturbed my Mum particularly. Ken and I played happily together for most of the time, but we loved wrestling. In the schoolboy code at this time (including secondary school), wrestling was fine but arm-twisting or punching was way out of line. Ken, being so much bigger, could easily over-power me at first. But I learnt a lot and my puny muscles benefited hugely from the practice. This waa a great help to me later on when I had no big brother protection. My mother very much disliked our fighting and sometimes petty quarrels. She would often tell us to stop fighting or else she would tell our father when he came home from work. Things got really bad one day, when our expensive spectacles got broken. Dad was annoyed and we had a stern lecture, but no other punishment. From that day on, Ken and I agreed always to say to each other, “Glasses off ! ” before starting a wrestling bout.
.On another occasion I was playing in our garden,, bouncing a golf ball dangerously close to a kitchen window. I think Ken haad probably warned me, but suddenly the ball crashed through the glass! My brother was really terrified. What would Dad say ? I claimed it was an accident, but not very hopefully. Mum was very concerned. When Dad came in, she told him. He was cross and warned me never to do it again. Then that weekend my clever Dad measured up the window, stripped out the broken glass and old putty and went and bought replacement glass. Then he showed us how he fitted and puttied in the new glass.
In retrospect I think my Dad was a ‘softie’. certainly a patient man on the evidence above. Ken and I were fortunate to have such loving and capable parents.
Very Earliest Memories (4)
Indoor play-time. I believe I had an ancient Teddy at one time. But this somehow turned into a bedraggle Golly (black rag doll). I soon forgot them in favour of wooden bricks. I would build small
forts or castles and place my lead soldiers in position. I had been given a small spring-loading cannon which would fire a sizeable wooden shell. I confess I loved shooting shells at the hapless soldiers and knocking the forts to a shambles with great glee. There was a degree of skill involved. An excellent game which I can recommend for children, if only they can get hold of a decent cannon.
Following on the wooden bricks, came Meccano, a major educational toy. I was always happy with this - see the early picture in Section One of Ken and myself with a Meccano model, my Mother watching while preparing the vegetables on our historic kitchen table. I used to save my pennies to add to my Meccano collection. I liked buying long bars to make big cars, etc. My best model was of a hammerhead crane mounted on wheels. I loved getting on my knees to push it all round the room by steering the cab. It would be about 18 inches tall and tended to over-balance when turning corners at ‘speed’. This aroused parental concern. I studied the problem and proudly produced my original solution. I put in an extra pair of wheels in the middle with an over-long axle. As I turned the crane on a right-hand bend, the middle wheels naturally veered to the left propping up the side which had a tendency to topple over. This was a great success. I asked my Dad whether I could get a patent for my invention. He merely smiled and gave me a pat on the back.
We also had basic train sets with clockwork engines. The best fun (though we did not really know this at the time) came from building up the inter-locking sets of rails, plus working in a couple of points and a cross-over.
My brother Ken rigged up a telephone connection between our two bed-rooms. He used the two ear pieces from an old head-set he had somehow acquired. He did this shortly after we were separated from sleeping in twin beds in the large back bedroom. My father gave up his hobby of breeding canaries in the whole of the middle bedroom. I only remember once seeing the floor to ceiling cage. This allowed my move to the ‘canary room’. I began to miss my brother’s company, so his telephone idea was a brilliant solution. Furthermore Ken had got hold of a wireless set, probably a crystal set, and began sending me exciting radio programmes. I well remember one. It was a drama series featuring Dr Fu Man Chu. The radio was stopped after a while, but the telephone link was allowed for quite a time.
Music. I expect those who know me, will be expecting this subject. I have already mentioned my mother’s lovely and expert piano playing. The piano was a French Thibouville-Lamy upright. It was kept in the front parlour, placed against the inner party wall of our hall. This was so as to minimise noise offence to our terrace neighbours. So long as I did not bang the keys with my fist or any object, I was allowed to use my fingers on it. I used to pretend I was playing, but no real music emerged from my scribbling.
When I was about four or five, I was allowed to use our wind-up portable gramophone. I was carefully shown how to allow the pick-up arm and needle to drop very gently on the outer rim, so as to get a hum before he music started. There was a great danger of scratching the record if the process was not done properly. Otherwise the record would be spoilt. I think I was allowed several tries on an already spoilt record. But I became qualified to to put on records of all kinds by myself. That Christmas I was given an HMV set of nursery rhymes in a special cardboard container, which I I still keep as a souvenir. One song I specially liked was ‘Laughing Ginger Brown’. The chorus was something like, ‘Ha ha ha ha ,ha ha ha ha, He, he he he he,’ screeching up and down . You can imagine my rendering, applauded when first sung, soon became annoying. Another pop song of this period, but not in my junior 7 inch diameter records, was ‘Goosey Goo’. In our Plashet Park was a bandstand from which one could hear military bands or small variety ensembles. That is where I heard something like, ‘When ever I see you, my heart goes Goosey, goosey , goosey goosey, goo!’
As well as listening, I liked to dance to the music and also noisily sing at times. Imitating a screechy operatic Soprano once, I saw my Mum and faltered to a stop. ‘ Do go on . That's quite good !’, she said to my amazement. I remember singing once at a Milton High School concert for parents. I was asked to sing 'Soup of the evening, beautiful soup,' the Mock Turtle's song by Lewis Carroll. I was encouraged to screech it up and down, dragging each word out slowly in mournful fashion. This caused great fun, hearty applause from the audience. and boosted my ego.
Outdoor Activities
The convenience of being close to Plashet Park cannot be under-estimated. It was safe and from the age of five, I walked through it to school every day. I could play with Ken, school friends or boys I did not know. The camaraderie (a word I didn’t know then) was really great. If I was alone or with two or three friends, we could hang around on the edge of a game of football. Within minutes , a break would occur and the Captains would assign us to a place in their teams. Exactly the same would happen with scratch games of cricket, usually played with a tennis ball against a chalk-marked wickets on one of the trees lining the central pathway through the Park. Brother Ken taught me how to do over-arm bowling, especially off-breaks which was a useful gift when I started secondary school cricket.
I was not allowed a cycle in Manor Park. The High Street trams ran on surface land rails with dangerous ruts which were a trap for cycle wheels. Cost may also have been a factor. However I was allowed a scooter when I was maybe eight or nine. This became my pride and joy. I loved walking it (maybe just a little glide when no one was watching) a few yards down Byron Avenue and then across one quiet road to the Park entrance.Outdoor Activities
The convenience of being close to Plashet Park cannot be under-estimated. It was safe and from the age of five, I walked through it to school every day. I could play with Ken, school friends or boys I did not know. The camaraderie (a word I didn’t know then) was really great. If I was alone or with two or three friends, we could hang around on the edge of a game of football. Within minutes , a break would occur and the Captains would assign us to a place in their teams. Exactly the same would happen with scratch games of cricket, usually played with a tennis ball against a chalk-marked wickets on one of the trees lining the central pathway through the Park. Brother Ken taught me how to do over-arm bowling, especially off-breaks which was a useful gift when I started secondary school cricket.
Once inside I could speed away with joyous ease. A favourite route was a round trip. I would go left from the entrance and then down and up a very large dip. This was supposed to have been caused by a Zeppelin bomb from World War One. Gradually turning right I would come to the outdoor Bowls Club, a favourite with my Dad and my Grandfather. Going on to the far corner I would reach the Public Library of great interest to me at a later age. Then turning right I would reach the far exit that led to my school. Crossing the main central avenue to the far right corner were the grass courts of the Tennis Club. My Dad and Mum were both members in my very early days. Coming back on the central Avenue, I would pass the Band Stage and so reach the Byron Avenue entrance. Then I might decide to try a few trips up and down the ‘bomb hole’ to see how fast I could go. Or maybe I might spot a lively game of football and wait for the invitation to join in.
We usually had a two weeks summer sea-side holiday. I can recall Weymouth, Isle of Wight (once) and more often Walton on the Naze. Some times my Dad would leave us for a week because of office work. We built sand castles, netted shrimps and crabs, paddled and attempted swimming (if it was warm enough) in our flimsy cotton one-piece swimming costumes.
My Dad was keen that we should learn to swim. So when I was nine or ten, he took Ken and me from home on early morning swimming expeditions. Setting out around 7 a.m., we went by tram to Wanstead Flats and then a long walk to Wanstead Park, where there was early morning swimming in one of the lakes. It was strictly reserved only for men and boys and finished sharply at 8a.m. It was not too deep and I could stand up and pretend to be doing my breast stroke. I was keen to learn. At home I used to balance on my tummy over the music stool and practice my arms and leg-kicks. The next summer when I was ten, I bravely took my feet off the bottom and swam a few strokes. I was so pleased as was my Dad. As the finishing time of 8 a.m. approached there would be a desperate flurry of mainly men to get in past the Keeper on duty. There seemed to be no rule about wearing a costume, although we and most people did. I remember seeing one or two desperate late-comers rushing in at two minutes to eight, flinging off their clothes wildly and jumping naked into the water.

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Grandfather, Grandmother Acton and son, my Uncle Edgar
Very Earliest Memories (5)
Grandparents
My paternal grandparents also lived in Byron Avenue at No.146 This was quite a distance from the Plashet Park end where we lived at No. 12.
My grandfather, John Henry Hitchcock Acton, was a very lively character who, despite little formal education, had worked his way up in Slazengers (the Sports firm) to become Works Manager. He and his father, John Elon Hitchcock, were recruited by Ralph Slazenger at the very beginning of the famous firm, for their skill in bentwood furniture making.
On 21.1.1904 my grandfather, described as a Tennis Bat Maker (sic), was made a Freeman of the City of London. At the same time he changed his name by deed poll by adding Acton at the end of his previos name, John Henry Hitchcock..
Because we lived so near, I often saw him and he would tease me a little - ask me how I was getting on with my Gazinters (a crude reference to division sums). He would ask about school and also boast about how Suzanne Lenglen (a French tennis star) insisted that he must personally string her tennis racquets. [Just a few years ago, we discovered that my grandfather had patented an improved racquet, with additional layers in the connection between head and handle, so as to give greater flexibility in action. This almost certainly helped Suzanne win Wimbledon in the early Twenties.]
I saw less of his wife (formerly Alice Crook) as she died in 1936. My one particular early memory was being taken down to see her by my Dad. She was a very large lady sitting in an arm chair. She chatted and smiled at me. Then she said to Dad, “Look at his heavy shoes, Ralph. You ought to buy him a nice pair of light shoes.”
I felt sorry for my Dad, knowing how hard he worked in the cellar, mending all our family shoes with good stout leather, and giving a smart finish with some sort of special sealing wax. So I waggled my feet and said, “My shoes are fine.”
There followed some friendly arguments between my Dad and Grandmother. I remember no more except that I had a strong impression that my Dad was pleased with me.
My Mother’s parents were George Hare Bates (Farvie) and Anna Elizabeth Bates (formerly Best). They were married at Islington in 1885. I did not know my grandfather George Hare Bates, as I understand he died a few months after I was born. But when grandmother Bates came to live near us when I was about eight I think, I formed a very strong attachment to Nan as I called her. I loved her dearly.
Mrs Anna Elizabeth Bates (formerly Best)
Nan lived in a rented room sometimes as close as No.10 Byron Avenue. Apart from clothes, all her possessions were in a suitcase under her bed. I could visit her on my own and she would show me her treasures, mostly old photos of her family, some in uniforms of the first World War, and a special pet sheep dog with woolly hair all over its face. She would often visit our home and sometimes mind me; if need be. She had very litle money and existed on a small pension. Yet she gave us generous presents. I had a lovely illustrated educational book given me each Christmas. It was usually one of “The Wonder Book” series with funny Heath Robinson drawings on the end papers..
She also told me stories from her early life in Sturminster Newton. How her father, a GPO worker, caught trout in the streams. Sometimes he would see Thomas Hardy, the famous novelist, out walking. Thomas was no snob and would say the odd word to her father when they passed by. She also gave me an agonising account of what happened when her father shaved at the kitchen table, with all the family sitting round in a deadly hush. No one dare make a cough or fidget in case the sharp razor slipped. That was one of her early memories.
My Nan was very faithful in visiting family graves in the City of London Cemetry just by the Wanstead Flats.. In the Autumn she would come back from such a visit with a load of lovely shiny conkers concealed in a large handbag. She said that collecting them was against the rules but she knew I would like them .
Very Earliest memories (6)
First Piano Lessons.
Much to my surprise, my Mother did not give my first piano lessons. She tried just once, I think to give me the basic note names on the ledger lines. Then she felt it would be better if I had a proper teacher, So she engaged a pleasant young lady, Miss Doris Long, to give me a weekly half-hour lesson. There is some doubt about the date, but I think I was just eight at the time. This went quite well for a few months, until I began to get tired of the daily practice involved. I thought of giving up and confided in my Mum. She was very gentle and sympathetic, but encouraged me to give it another try . So to please her, I tried harder to improve. I gradually got better and even enthusiastic! I would try playing the C Major scale with my fingers on the breakfast table cloth.
I did so well that it was suggested (by my teacher or Mum?) that I should enter a local piano competition. My memory is now validated by hard evidence. It was called an EISTEDDFORD, held at the United Methodist Church, Katherine Road, Forest Gate, E7 and I won my very first certificate (Third Class) on 31 May 1930 at the age of Nine and a half.. The Adjudicator was Doris Hill LRAM,ARCM. I also have her report where she noted ‘Fingers too flat, good start, poor middle section but good on the whole plus a recommendation to study touch.’ She gave me 75 marks out of 100.
It was a very accurate assessment - my touch needed expert tuition. I use to love trying to play quickly but the fingers in my hand would tense and cramp up badly.
Miss Long did her best but my progress was erratic.
I believe it was that Summer that my mother and I went for a few days on a trial holiday. We took a train to Clacton and then a short bus ride South to the village of St. Osyth (locally known as Toosey). We stopped for two or three nights in a rented upper room in an ordinary house. We shared the house toilet but had to wash in our bedroom using a wash bowl and water jug on a side table.. Our objective was the St, Osyth beach chalets some two and a half miles away: a long walk there and back each day. We visited a previously contacted chalet (wooden beach bungalow) to see whether this form of holiday would suit for our family holiday. I tried out the swimming from a sandy beach which was good. However, I remember being embarrassed by having to change in the kitchen with no privacy. We gave Dad a good report and I think we booked for week’s holiday in August staying at a rented chalet.
In the Summer of 1931, I think it was, my mother developed a severe illness affecting her gall bladder. A difficult removal operation was safely achieved , but Mum needed a few weeks of recuperation in a nursing home at Walton on the Naze (on the cliffs at the Naze end). My grandmother, Nan, was asked to look after me. Further and excitingly more, Nan took me to stay at her sister’s boarding house in the prestigious Prittlewell Square in Southend on Sea.
I shared with my Nan a ground-floor room and bed at the back of the main house, just by the tradesman entrance. I was instructed to call her sister (the owner) Auntie Annie. She was a live-wire little lady dressed in black with a high lace band propped around her neck. In earlier days she had acted as a Nanny to the children of various well-to-do people. Some of these contacts were now her long-term paying guests. She seemed very much in control of her business.
She was old-fashioned (as also was my Nan) and kept a pet talking parrot in her kitchen near he back door. I often heard her talking to it. One morning, just as I was getting up, I heard and saw the baker enter and knock on Auntie’s kitchen door just ajar.
“Not to-day, thank you,” I heard Auntie say. But later on, I heard Auntie asking my Nan if she had seen the baker call as she needed a loaf. I quickly said I had heard Auntie say “Not to-day, thank you.” There was an explosion of laughter as we realised that the parrot was to blame. Apparently this was not the first time it had happened.
I liked the gardens and band-stand in the square. I also remembered the piles of spent tea leaves in the back garden. This was because interesting colonies of black ants nesting amongst them.
Auntie liked talking to me. She had no piano available for me to play. Once she produced a few pictures (classical prints) to show me. One had lots of cherubs dancing around in the nude. “Are they not naughty boys to go around without clothes?” she asked me mischievously
“Oh – Annie !” gasped my Nan in embarrassment.
I wondered what to say so mumbled, “ I don’t think so.” The subject was quickly dropped. I remembered Nan taking me to the local cinema in Manor Park once. In the interval between the main picture and B Movie, there used to be a short live performance of some sort. On that occasion a row of dancing girls came on. They all wore shorts and were quite decent in my opinion. But my Nan was really upset which puzzled me. [ When a few years later I played piano in the 1937 film “Talking Feet,” where there were two or more lines of high-kicking girls, I shudder to think what my Nan would have thought if she had seen it.]
My Southend holiday soon finished following my mother’s successful recuperation and return home. But she had to take things easily and not do too much walking. My brilliant and loving Dad decided that Mum deserved a car. Firstly he engaged a Mr Wright, who owned a Riley, to give my Mum driving lessons. Then, probably on his advice, Dad bought her a second-hand baby Austin Seven saloon with number plate, “VX 8181”. Within a month or two, for there were no driving tests required then, we were all being driven around to exciting places. Mum was at the wheel, Dad alongside and Ken and I squashed in the back seats with spare luggage. I think Ken was all right but I had to learn to cope with car sickness. The car was kept in a garage space at the back of the grocers on the High Streeet corner as it intersected Byron Avenue. The grocery was famed for supplying kittens for anyone who needed them (not us). Also they would give a penny for returned empty bottles and sell broken biscuits at a cheap price. Strangely my Dad, despite his all-round skills in carpentry, DIY, photography and office work never took up driving. My Mum, however, soon became a good and confident driver. The nearest she came to an ‘incident’ was when she followed a tram at the High Street and Romford Road crossing. She suddenly discovered that tramway workmen had cut away the tarmac inter-fill between the rails ! There was no warning and the little Austin Seven wheels bumped crazily about eight inches up and down, with us perforce doing the same. But Mum kept her nerve, did not stop and carried on to the Wanstead Flats. Some have made fun of the baby Austin Seven, calling it within my hearing, as little more than a motorised pram. But it did us very well and could reach 40 mph on a level clear road.
Reverting to the subject of my piano studies,, I recently rediscovered a little note book which my Mum was keeping about me. It was a brief record of my progress in music studies and also school work.. She noted that my piano lessons were very irregular. After a year or more Miss Long told Mum that I had reached her (Miss Long’s) standard and needed a higher qualified teacher. Mum and I both remembered how we had been impressed by Miss Doris Hill. So Mum made enquiries at the Metropolitan Academy of Music , Forest Gate,where Miss Hill was employed. She received a glowing testimonial. This led to my becoming a pupil of Miss Doris Hill on 2nd December 1932. I was within ten days of my twelfth birthday and had started at Wanstead County High School the previous September. I was deemed fit to travel on my own to school and piano lessons.
[My life story is continued in a new post titled, "JGA LIFE STORY Part 2 - From Dancing fingers to Talking Feet (1932 - 1937) ]
Very Earliest Memories (5)
Grandparents
My paternal grandparents also lived in Byron Avenue at No.146 This was quite a distance from the Plashet Park end where we lived at No. 12.
My grandfather, John Henry Hitchcock Acton, was a very lively character who, despite little formal education, had worked his way up in Slazengers (the Sports firm) to become Works Manager. He and his father, John Elon Hitchcock, were recruited by Ralph Slazenger at the very beginning of the famous firm, for their skill in bentwood furniture making.
On 21.1.1904 my grandfather, described as a Tennis Bat Maker (sic), was made a Freeman of the City of London. At the same time he changed his name by deed poll by adding Acton at the end of his previos name, John Henry Hitchcock..
Because we lived so near, I often saw him and he would tease me a little - ask me how I was getting on with my Gazinters (a crude reference to division sums). He would ask about school and also boast about how Suzanne Lenglen (a French tennis star) insisted that he must personally string her tennis racquets. [Just a few years ago, we discovered that my grandfather had patented an improved racquet, with additional layers in the connection between head and handle, so as to give greater flexibility in action. This almost certainly helped Suzanne win Wimbledon in the early Twenties.]
I saw less of his wife (formerly Alice Crook) as she died in 1936. My one particular early memory was being taken down to see her by my Dad. She was a very large lady sitting in an arm chair. She chatted and smiled at me. Then she said to Dad, “Look at his heavy shoes, Ralph. You ought to buy him a nice pair of light shoes.”
I felt sorry for my Dad, knowing how hard he worked in the cellar, mending all our family shoes with good stout leather, and giving a smart finish with some sort of special sealing wax. So I waggled my feet and said, “My shoes are fine.”
There followed some friendly arguments between my Dad and Grandmother. I remember no more except that I had a strong impression that my Dad was pleased with me.
My Mother’s parents were George Hare Bates (Farvie) and Anna Elizabeth Bates (formerly Best). They were married at Islington in 1885. I did not know my grandfather George Hare Bates, as I understand he died a few months after I was born. But when grandmother Bates came to live near us when I was about eight I think, I formed a very strong attachment to Nan as I called her. I loved her dearly.
Mrs Anna Elizabeth Bates (formerly Best)
Nan lived in a rented room sometimes as close as No.10 Byron Avenue. Apart from clothes, all her possessions were in a suitcase under her bed. I could visit her on my own and she would show me her treasures, mostly old photos of her family, some in uniforms of the first World War, and a special pet sheep dog with woolly hair all over its face. She would often visit our home and sometimes mind me; if need be. She had very litle money and existed on a small pension. Yet she gave us generous presents. I had a lovely illustrated educational book given me each Christmas. It was usually one of “The Wonder Book” series with funny Heath Robinson drawings on the end papers..
She also told me stories from her early life in Sturminster Newton. How her father, a GPO worker, caught trout in the streams. Sometimes he would see Thomas Hardy, the famous novelist, out walking. Thomas was no snob and would say the odd word to her father when they passed by. She also gave me an agonising account of what happened when her father shaved at the kitchen table, with all the family sitting round in a deadly hush. No one dare make a cough or fidget in case the sharp razor slipped. That was one of her early memories.
My Nan was very faithful in visiting family graves in the City of London Cemetry just by the Wanstead Flats.. In the Autumn she would come back from such a visit with a load of lovely shiny conkers concealed in a large handbag. She said that collecting them was against the rules but she knew I would like them .
Very Earliest memories (6)
First Piano Lessons.
Much to my surprise, my Mother did not give my first piano lessons. She tried just once, I think to give me the basic note names on the ledger lines. Then she felt it would be better if I had a proper teacher, So she engaged a pleasant young lady, Miss Doris Long, to give me a weekly half-hour lesson. There is some doubt about the date, but I think I was just eight at the time. This went quite well for a few months, until I began to get tired of the daily practice involved. I thought of giving up and confided in my Mum. She was very gentle and sympathetic, but encouraged me to give it another try . So to please her, I tried harder to improve. I gradually got better and even enthusiastic! I would try playing the C Major scale with my fingers on the breakfast table cloth.
I did so well that it was suggested (by my teacher or Mum?) that I should enter a local piano competition. My memory is now validated by hard evidence. It was called an EISTEDDFORD, held at the United Methodist Church, Katherine Road, Forest Gate, E7 and I won my very first certificate (Third Class) on 31 May 1930 at the age of Nine and a half.. The Adjudicator was Doris Hill LRAM,ARCM. I also have her report where she noted ‘Fingers too flat, good start, poor middle section but good on the whole plus a recommendation to study touch.’ She gave me 75 marks out of 100.
It was a very accurate assessment - my touch needed expert tuition. I use to love trying to play quickly but the fingers in my hand would tense and cramp up badly.
Miss Long did her best but my progress was erratic.
I believe it was that Summer that my mother and I went for a few days on a trial holiday. We took a train to Clacton and then a short bus ride South to the village of St. Osyth (locally known as Toosey). We stopped for two or three nights in a rented upper room in an ordinary house. We shared the house toilet but had to wash in our bedroom using a wash bowl and water jug on a side table.. Our objective was the St, Osyth beach chalets some two and a half miles away: a long walk there and back each day. We visited a previously contacted chalet (wooden beach bungalow) to see whether this form of holiday would suit for our family holiday. I tried out the swimming from a sandy beach which was good. However, I remember being embarrassed by having to change in the kitchen with no privacy. We gave Dad a good report and I think we booked for week’s holiday in August staying at a rented chalet.
In the Summer of 1931, I think it was, my mother developed a severe illness affecting her gall bladder. A difficult removal operation was safely achieved , but Mum needed a few weeks of recuperation in a nursing home at Walton on the Naze (on the cliffs at the Naze end). My grandmother, Nan, was asked to look after me. Further and excitingly more, Nan took me to stay at her sister’s boarding house in the prestigious Prittlewell Square in Southend on Sea.
I shared with my Nan a ground-floor room and bed at the back of the main house, just by the tradesman entrance. I was instructed to call her sister (the owner) Auntie Annie. She was a live-wire little lady dressed in black with a high lace band propped around her neck. In earlier days she had acted as a Nanny to the children of various well-to-do people. Some of these contacts were now her long-term paying guests. She seemed very much in control of her business.
She was old-fashioned (as also was my Nan) and kept a pet talking parrot in her kitchen near he back door. I often heard her talking to it. One morning, just as I was getting up, I heard and saw the baker enter and knock on Auntie’s kitchen door just ajar.
“Not to-day, thank you,” I heard Auntie say. But later on, I heard Auntie asking my Nan if she had seen the baker call as she needed a loaf. I quickly said I had heard Auntie say “Not to-day, thank you.” There was an explosion of laughter as we realised that the parrot was to blame. Apparently this was not the first time it had happened.
I liked the gardens and band-stand in the square. I also remembered the piles of spent tea leaves in the back garden. This was because interesting colonies of black ants nesting amongst them.
Auntie liked talking to me. She had no piano available for me to play. Once she produced a few pictures (classical prints) to show me. One had lots of cherubs dancing around in the nude. “Are they not naughty boys to go around without clothes?” she asked me mischievously
“Oh – Annie !” gasped my Nan in embarrassment.
I wondered what to say so mumbled, “ I don’t think so.” The subject was quickly dropped. I remembered Nan taking me to the local cinema in Manor Park once. In the interval between the main picture and B Movie, there used to be a short live performance of some sort. On that occasion a row of dancing girls came on. They all wore shorts and were quite decent in my opinion. But my Nan was really upset which puzzled me. [ When a few years later I played piano in the 1937 film “Talking Feet,” where there were two or more lines of high-kicking girls, I shudder to think what my Nan would have thought if she had seen it.]
My Southend holiday soon finished following my mother’s successful recuperation and return home. But she had to take things easily and not do too much walking. My brilliant and loving Dad decided that Mum deserved a car. Firstly he engaged a Mr Wright, who owned a Riley, to give my Mum driving lessons. Then, probably on his advice, Dad bought her a second-hand baby Austin Seven saloon with number plate, “VX 8181”. Within a month or two, for there were no driving tests required then, we were all being driven around to exciting places. Mum was at the wheel, Dad alongside and Ken and I squashed in the back seats with spare luggage. I think Ken was all right but I had to learn to cope with car sickness. The car was kept in a garage space at the back of the grocers on the High Streeet corner as it intersected Byron Avenue. The grocery was famed for supplying kittens for anyone who needed them (not us). Also they would give a penny for returned empty bottles and sell broken biscuits at a cheap price. Strangely my Dad, despite his all-round skills in carpentry, DIY, photography and office work never took up driving. My Mum, however, soon became a good and confident driver. The nearest she came to an ‘incident’ was when she followed a tram at the High Street and Romford Road crossing. She suddenly discovered that tramway workmen had cut away the tarmac inter-fill between the rails ! There was no warning and the little Austin Seven wheels bumped crazily about eight inches up and down, with us perforce doing the same. But Mum kept her nerve, did not stop and carried on to the Wanstead Flats. Some have made fun of the baby Austin Seven, calling it within my hearing, as little more than a motorised pram. But it did us very well and could reach 40 mph on a level clear road.
Reverting to the subject of my piano studies,, I recently rediscovered a little note book which my Mum was keeping about me. It was a brief record of my progress in music studies and also school work.. She noted that my piano lessons were very irregular. After a year or more Miss Long told Mum that I had reached her (Miss Long’s) standard and needed a higher qualified teacher. Mum and I both remembered how we had been impressed by Miss Doris Hill. So Mum made enquiries at the Metropolitan Academy of Music , Forest Gate,where Miss Hill was employed. She received a glowing testimonial. This led to my becoming a pupil of Miss Doris Hill on 2nd December 1932. I was within ten days of my twelfth birthday and had started at Wanstead County High School the previous September. I was deemed fit to travel on my own to school and piano lessons.
[My life story is continued in a new post titled, "JGA LIFE STORY Part 2 - From Dancing fingers to Talking Feet (1932 - 1937) ]
posted by John Acton at 1:49 PM
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