Alan Samuel
GROWING UP IN CROXLEY GREEN 1940 - 1952.
(or The Ramblings of an Old Man)
(or The Ramblings of an Old Man)
My name is Alan Samuel and I was born on June 25th 1940, in the front bedroom of 62, Beechcroft Avenue (so I have been told). My first memories are influenced by my belief that war with Germany, and all that implied, was NORMAL. My later problems were coming to terms with brightly lit streets, shopping without a ration book, and not having to seek shelter from aerial bombing.
The other occupants of the house were my mother Joyce, father David, and my paternal grandfather Evan John Samuel. I later learned that my paternal grandmother, Frances, had died a few weeks before I was born.
My earliest memories are hearing the wailing of the air raid warning siren in the middle of the night, and being rushed from my cot to a makeshift bed under the stairs in pitch black darkness, blackout blinds at all the windows, and waiting anxiously for the all clear.
In the morning, typically, by the time I had been washed and dressed, milk had already been delivered by the electric float, and scrambled egg for breakfast had been made with a yellow powder out of a tin. Later, I learned that eggs were laid by hens.
After breakfast my parents would set off for work together, leaving me in the care of my grandfather. I remember him taking me out on to the raised veranda at the back of the house which gave views across Croxley Moor, and Croxley Mill on the other side of the canal. He showed me how to look through his binoculars at the mill roof to see if we could spot the men that operated the siren. There was also a searchlight which scanned the sky at night for enemy planes so they could be shot down. The garden was mainly given over to growing vegetables, and a brush and a shovel were kept close to the front door to gather up any manure dropped by the horses pulling their carts along the road outside. This especially was for the tomato plants that were my grandfather’s pride and joy.
My grandfather would clear the ashes from the grate, and lay paper, wood and coal to light a fire later. He had a gammy leg and walked with a stick, but it did not stop him doing his rounds as an agent for Kay's Mail Order catalogue. He would visit his customers once a week taking orders and collecting money, each day taking a different route. He was well known, and passersby greeted him by name, often stopping for a chat. I remember having a folding push chair, and he would take me in it on his rounds.
One route would take us down Beechcroft Avenue, past the abandoned building site on the corner of Valley Walk, and up to 282, Watford Road. This is where the 'Simpsons' lived. Bert Simpson, known to local children as Jesus, probably because of his long hair and straggly beard, had a horse which he kept in the field at the end of Sycamore Road. He made a living cutting clothes line props which he sold from his horse and cart. Ernie, his brother, cut logs and firewood, which Bert delivered. Dolly Simpson, I think was their sister, and gave piano lessons. Their house was a treasure trove of knickknacks, with always some novelty, an ornament or box for me to play with. Sometimes they had a little girl, Belinda, to stay with them, and we often played together.
Leaving the Simpsons, we would continue up Watford Road, past the Power petrol station on the left, and pausing to watch if someone was hand pumping fuel into a vehicle. We would call in at Standen's on the corner of Winton Approach for a newspaper, and then onto the post office in Pike's Stores. Grandfather would have letters and parcels to post, stamps to buy, and his pension to collect.
A little further on, down the hill on the left, we called in to the Croxley Laundry which was run by two ladies' who I believe were sisters, called the Misses Dorrofields.
Back to Winton Approach, with calls to make in Winton Drive, and Girton Way. Sometimes we had lunch in 'The British Restaurant', this was a canteen style restaurant situated in a hall in or near Malvern Way, where, during the war, a nutritious meal could be obtained at a subsidised price.
Eventually we would arrive at Croxley station, where, hopefully, Mr Grillo would be parked with his motorised tricycle, selling ice cream from a big tub fixed to the front. A tuppeny cornet would keep me happy as we returned to Beechcroft Avenue.
The other routes involved going up Beechcroft Avenue to Oaklands Drive, past the parade of shops on the corner of Watford Road, and then either along Watford Road towards the station, or along Frankland Road.
Just past the Station, a parade of shops in Watford Road included the fish and chip shop Duce and Davis. When older, I would hang about outside with my mates until one of the staff would call out "Anyone for scrumps?" Then there would be a scramble for the free bags of left- over batter.
Walking up New Road from the station, we would pass the Busy Bee on the left, which sold toys, and next door, a cake shop. On the opposite side of the road Mr. Mead sold fresh fish from a table outside his front door. Further along we passed a hardware shop, and opposite another parade of shops which included Evan's the barbers and Cross the chemists, and if I remember right, a tobacconist's. Turning right into Barton Way, we would make further calls. Then into Sherborne Way and then via Malvern Way and Lancing Way into Baldwins Lane. We would turn left up the hill until we came to Repton Way, and then back along Rugby Way and Barton Road to New Road again. A little further on we would call in on Mrs. Wren, who lived near the Guild Hall. The Co-op was on the corner of Dickinson Square, a large store with different sections and a dairy at the back. Almost opposite the Co-op there was a sweet shop called Wades, and a clock shop.
During the war years most shopping needed a ration book, children had a "green" ration book which entitled them to things like oranges and bananas, if they were available. During the war I only ever saw pictures of bananas, and thought that when peeled, the banana was already in round slices. I was most surprised to find it was not, and thought it was mushy and tasteless, I much preferred oranges.
Sweets continued to be rationed long after the war, and I was given my own coupons to use. I only bought sweets in very small quantities, never more than 2 ounces, to make sure the ration lasted.
We would then walk up New Road, past Gibson's the coal merchants on the left, until we reached number 54, which was a ladies' and gentlemen's hairdressers. Here I would find my mother and father who owned and worked in the business.
If we took the Frankland Road route, we would make calls in Gonville Avenue, Dickinson Square, Dickinson Avenue, and up to the cottages at the top of Scots Hill. A favourite shop here was Luxton's where, in later years I would buy my Guy Fawkes fireworks, to store under my bed. No age restrictions on buying fireworks in those days. We would finish by going up Yorke Road, past the big house, 'The Outspan', turn right into New Road, past the blacksmiths and so to number 54.
I could now either stay in the shop until closing time and return home with my parents or continue home with my grandfather. If I stayed, I would be put under the watchful eye of Mrs. Stoner, who lived in the house behind the shop. She had a side front door which overlooked the blacksmith's, and I would never tire of sitting on her doorstep and watching the blacksmith at work.
Of course shoeing horses was the main event, with every size horse from the riding school ponies to the big shaggy hoofed horses that pulled the barges along the canal. When there were no horses to be shod, the blacksmith was still busy shaping wrought iron into gates and other items, but what I really loved was to see him fit a new metal rim onto a cartwheel.
The horse and cart would arrive and the cart would be supported on a wooden block. The horse would be taken out of the shafts and allowed to graze on nearby wasteland. The wheel would be removed from the cart, and any remaining metal rim removed, the wheel was then taken into the forge. A hoop of metal would be chosen from the selection hanging in the back of the forge, and repeatedly pulled through the furnace until it glowed evenly. Quickly, the blacksmith would position the glowing hoop over the wheel rim whilst smoke arose as the wood charred. Using long handled callipers the whole wheel would be lifted, by the blacksmith and cart owner, taken outside the forge, and dropped into a circular tank of cold water. Smoke was replaced by hissing steam, and the wheel would be left to cool. When cold, the wheel would be lifted out, and the new metal rim would have contracted tightly onto the wooden wheel forming an immovable bond. A bit of tidying up with a file and hammer, and the wheel was ready to be reaffixed to the cart. No doubt the owner would repaint the wheel later to finish the job.
On the way home we frequently called into 'The Toilet Shop', tucked away in a corner of the station building and run by a gentleman my mother always referred to as 'Fiddly Dick'. Coupons were not needed here, and there was always some luxury that was almost impossible to get hold of anywhere else. It was known as buying on the Black Market.
On the occasions I went straight home with my grandfather, we would get indoors and light the fire. Grandfather had a large sheet of metal he called a 'blower', when the fire was lit he would hold it in front of the grate to draw the flames up the chimney. If the fire was slow to light, he would also use a sheet of newspaper, which usually caught fire and had to be stamped out leaving scorch marks on the carpet and making my mother very cross.
With the fire going, grandfather would gather together any bits and pieces he could make use of, sit in his chair, light his pipe, and with me sitting on the floor between his feet we would make paper spills to save matches, tie bits of string together to make balls, cut squares of newspaper to.......but didn't we all do that?
After a while he would make up the fire using a variety of fuels to eke out the coal ration, anthracite, coke, or logs.
At about five o'clock he would say "better get supper started".
A large loaf of bread would be tucked under his arm and smeared with the thinnest possible layer of butter before being sliced. Tea was kept in 2 caddies:-
Red was for fresh tea leaves, straight out of the Brooke Bond packet.
(Tea bags were yet to be introduced).
Blue was for tea leaves that had been reclaimed from the pot and dried out in the oven.
Visitors had tea from the red caddie, family would have a mixture of both.
When my parents arrived home, mother would take over whilst grandfather laid the table.
After the meal we would listen to the wireless, a big wooden cabinet through which strange shaped valves glimmered dimly. We would listen to Tommy Handley in ITMA, Life with the Lyons, Billy Cotton, or Variety Bandbox; my favourite was probably the first broadcast game show, "Have a Go" with Wilfred Pickles, Mabel at the table, and the first catch phrase I remember "give her/him the money Barney". Afterwards the news, perhaps a speech from Churchill, and reminders of the wartime precautions we should be taking. When I was older, (and after the war), I would rush home to listen to each instalment of 'Dick Barton, Special Agent".
Some evenings, and at weekends, we would play the gramophone. This wooden piece of furniture had four elegantly carved legs, with a lid that lifted to expose two compartments. On the left a turntable with a horn that would need to be lifted up on a hinge. On the right a compartment containing a variety of records. Although my reading was in its early stages, I could identify every record from my own Disney recordings of Bambi and Dumbo, the Charlie Kunz piano medleys loved by my father, the Donald Peers recordings bought by my mother, and the dulcet tones of Ann Ziegler and Webster Booth, loved by them both. David of the White Rock by Mostyn Thomas was my grandfather’s favourite. There were also the Parlaphone Hungarian Dances, the floppy white jazz classic Saint James Infirmary, and the half inch thick one sided Death of Nelson. A large handle would be inserted in a hole on the left hand side of the cabinet to wind up the turntable spring. When the music began to slow, I would give the handle a few turns to speed it up again.
I remember being taken to theatres to see some of these stars live on stage. The Golders Green Hippodrome, was a particular favourite of my parents. I believe the proceeds always went to wartime charities.
Before I went to bed I would be given a bowl of bread and milk, a spoonful of sweet tasting sticky Virol, presumably packed with the vitamins I was not getting because of food rationing, then it would be "nos da", (goodnight in Welsh).
I remember my mother taking me to a clinic, I think in New Road, possibly the Guild Hall, to be weighed and given bottles of cod liver oil which I hated and orange juice concentrate which I loved. I must have been quite a sickly child as we had frequent visits from Dr. Ferguson, who prescribed a Friars Balsam steam kettle which stood on a Valor paraffin stove in my bedroom. Father turned the top of the stove upside down for more stability and the long fish tail kettle blew the balsamic steam into my room well into the night. I also had pink Thermogene pads tucked under my vest, and scalding hot Kaolin poultices slapped on as well. Before the NHS was implemented, father would leave 3 half crowns on the hall table for the doctor to pick up to pay the seven shillings and sixpence call out fee.
From time to time Nurse Dixon would call in, leaving her bicycle in our front garden while she looked me over and chatted to my mother, advising her how to make the best of the rationed food, and on one occasion, I remember, how to cook whale meat. My mother shuddered, and I am sure that was one of the rare occasions where her advice was ignored.
Croxley was well served with buses, and amongst my earliest memories is grandfather taking me to Watford market. After our usual visit to Pike's Stores post office, we would wait outside for a 321 or 351 bus to Watford. Grandfather would fold up the pushchair, no pushing your buggy straight on to the bus in those days, and negotiate with someone else in the queue to look after me as he needed both hands to haul himself onto the bus. When the bus arrived, the push chair would be handed to the conductor or clippy to stow away under the stairs. Grandfather would haul himself aboard and sit in one of the seats just inside the bus, facing the gangway, I would be taken further down the bus, or even upstairs to sit on my benefactor’s lap for the journey. I do not remember the buses being blacked out, but they did not have any lights on at night, and to stop the bus you needed to shine a torch onto your hand so the driver could see it.
My father loved Christmas, and now I know it saddened him that he could not always make it as magical for me as he would have liked. He need not have fretted, I knew no different, and a Christmas tree made of tied together pine tree branches was just as magical for me as the real thing. Toys were scarce, and second hand was often the solution. On one occasion I woke up to find an entire model village in my bedroom, I later learned it had been the centrepiece of a well known Watford store window display and father had had to wait for the store to close on Christmas Eve before it could be dismantled and transported home on the roof of his car. On another occasion a medieval fort appeared in my bedroom complete with towers, turrets, and a drawbridge. Soldiers of all kinds manned the fort and redcoats rubbed shoulders with kilted members of the black watch. King Harold sat on his throne with an arrow sticking out of his eye, and bicycle battery powered torch bulbs lit up the towers. How was I to know in medieval times electricity had not even been invented?
When we did have a proper Christmas tree, we had coloured wax candles in little metal holders clipped to the branches. There must have been at least twenty, all alight with the flames inches from the flammable decorations. Today it would have been a safety officer’s nightmare, but then it seemed quite normal.
I do not remember my father without a car. Between 1940 and 1952 he had all sorts from an Austin Ruby 7 to a Daimler limousine. The first car I can remember was a Standard 8 which would be parked either behind the blacksmiths or garaged at the bottom of the garden of the house on the corner of Beechcroft Avenue and Valley Walk, number 22, I think. The Garage had an exit into Beechcroft Avenue. During the war it was not often on the road being jacked up on bricks with the wheels taken off and stored on the back seat. It had slatted vents over the headlights, and a white painted disc fixed to the back. The rear lights did not work - I believe the bulbs had been removed.
When occasionally father obtained some petrol coupons, the car would be put together and driven up to the Power filling station in Watford Road; more often, the petrol would come in gallon cans. The fuel would always be filtered through one of my mother’s old stockings in case it contained grit or other impurities which would clog the carburetor and stall the car.
Father came from Llanelli in South Wales, and once or twice a year we would go and visit our Welsh relations. He much preferred to drive if he could obtain the fuel. Cases would be tied on top of the car as the boot would be full of petrol cans for the return journey. Otherwise, we went by coach from Victoria, or train. At one time it was suggested I stayed in Llanelli with my Auntie Edith as an evacuee, but when Hitler started bombing the Welsh ports it was decided I was just as safe in Croxley Green.
My maternal grandmother was a widow living in Finsbury Park, London. We visited her often, almost always by train. It did not seem strange to me that none of the stations displayed names, or that a porter would walk along the platform hoarsely shouting out the name of the station, "Crusly, Crusly" was that "Croxley?" I did not need to hear the name of the station, I recognised the curve in the line as we approached Croxley. During the blackout there was minimum or no lighting in the carriage or on the platforms. The carriages had seats facing each other across a central gangway with a heavy door at each end which would swing wide as soon as opened unless restrained by leather straps which were often missing. As platforms could be on either side of the train, and impossible to see in the darkness, people were known to have tried to get out the wrong side and fallen on to the track, sometimes breaking a leg. The windows were painted black on the inside and there were pull down blinds on the doors. There were warning signs, just readable in the gloom. At four years old, I was becoming a competent reader and would read everything I could. In a crowded carriage, all seats taken and some standing, I just had to read out all these warnings in a loud voice. They usually began "Lookout in the blackout........", and on this occasion someone had scratched extra words into the black paint on the window. I cheerfully read this out as well "......thank-you for the information, but we can't see the bloody station". My mother screamed and dragged me onto her knee, a few muffled laughs, and I still did not know what I had read out that caused such offence.
I clearly remember my father buying me a blue balloon tied on to a wooden stick from a street vendor in London. I carried it carefully all the way to Croxley station. My father carried me up the stairs to the station entrance as there was quite a crowd. A young man with a group of mates smoking cigarettes burst my balloon with his cigarette, and laughed uproariously, I cried all the way home.
We often had visitors. I remember two gentlemen in full Royal Canadian Air Force uniforms visiting us, one was introduced to me as my Uncle Lawrence, the other his buddy. I was given a model airplane with a bomb underneath which could be released by tilting the plane forward. I never saw him again, and when I enquired in later years was told he was shot down and killed over Germany. More recently, I tried to find his name on a memorial, but could find nothing definite. He was not a 'true' uncle. The terms Uncle and Aunt were often used for cousins, more distant relatives, and even just friends.
Frances, my grandmother, and her sister had been sent to Canada as orphans when she was very young, under a government scheme. Frances came back to England, but her sister married a Canadian and stayed there. This connection still exists and we have visited their descendants in Canada, and vice versa. It was for this connection that each Christmas, we would receive a 'food parcel' from Canada. This was most exciting, and right at the top would be a huge lollipop. Whilst I took it away to pull the cellophane off, mother would search for the dried fruit and brown sugar, now she could make the Christmas pudding. Apart from jars and tins and packets of sweets and biscuits, there would be knitted garments, and often things we did not recognise. I remember father holding up a pair of rubber soled socks, we had no idea what they were, and we thought they must be inners for wellington boots. Who had heard of slipper socks in the war? At the bottom was always a pouch of tobacco for grandfather.
From the Autumn of 1944, I attended the Nursery School, held in Croxley Sports Pavilion.
Across New Road, from my parents shop, an alley led to the Nursery. I played in the sand pit, drew pictures, painted, and listened to stories. I remember someone asking the teacher if German children were as frightened of our bombs as we were of theirs.
"They are vermin", the teacher replied acidly "They must be destroyed in their nests". I remember feeling quite shocked, and for a long time could not get out of my head an image of German children having heads that looked like rats.
1945 and celebrations that the war was over. Red, white and blue bunting was hung from our front bedroom window, and a huge bonfire was built in Beechcroft Avenue outside Mr. Wilson's house, completely blocking the road. Our neighbours from "Coomblands", number 64, Mr. and Mrs. Owens, and their daughter Thelma, and Mr. and Mrs. Coleman and their son Nicki, from number 60, came round and we all hugged each other. Their older son was in the army and had been fighting abroad, and on more than one occasion Mrs. Coleman had been comforted by mother when she was worried about him.
The fire was lit to many cheers, but before long it spread to the tarred surface setting fire to the road in both directions. Buckets of water appeared to douse the flames, and for a long time a big white circle in the road reminded me of where the bonfire had been.
Shortly after this my father acquired a garden roller and seemed to spend all his free time pushing it up and down our back garden until it was flat enough to lay a lawn.
On my 6th birthday, my Uncle Dick arrived with a puppy for me which I called Scamper (shades of Enid Blyton?), and was to be a constant companion for the next 9 years.
A whole new range of walks opened up. Usually we started by walking down Valley Walk to the canal, turning left would take us to Cassiobury Park, turning right would take us down through Croxley Woods, and eventually to Rickmansworth coming out by The Picture House cinema. We could also cross the canal bridge by Croxley Mill and make our way across the moor to Moor Park.
We did these walks at all seasons, picking bluebells in Croxley Woods in May, and picnicking in summer. Croxley Green did not have a public swimming pool, but we did have the mill lock and this is where the more daring swam, A full lock enabled one to dive off the gates into water about 20 feet deep. The sides of the lock, however were slippery and slimy, and on several occasions people got into difficulties trying to get out and had to be rescued. The less daring of us fished for minnows and sticklebacks in the nearby overflow waterfall on the 'moor' side of the canal.
Watching the barges navigate the lock was a favourite pass time. The narrow steam boats would often enter two abreast, and slowly ascend or descend as the sluice gates were cranked open or closed by hand by the bargee. The horses pulled wider barges, and were detached from the barges which had to be manoeuvered into the lock by the bargees with barge poles. They were then led up or down the steep slope to reach the higher or lower level. For the barges there were narrow steps right next to the lock itself. There was a bridge by the lock, but when the lock gates were closed it was more fun to run across the top of these to the other side. The bargees would shout at us and tell us it was dangerous, but that only added to the fun.
I remember well the bitterly cold winters of 1946 and 7, when the canal froze over and it was possible to walk across the ice to the other side. During these winters, we often suffered burst pipes, and tall Mr. Alcroft the plumber became a frequent visitor, sweating joints onto the burst lead piping.
In September 1945 I started school at York House Preparatory School for Boys at Money Hill Parade in Rickmansworth. Accompanying my grandfather on his rounds were restricted to the school holidays, a new era in my life had begun.
For the first year or so I was escorted to and from school by one or other of my parents. Then in 1947, they moved the business to 199, New Road, on the corner of Barton Way. Mr Alcroft fitted the ladies' and gentlemen's salons out, fitting the basins far too high for the little ladies in the ladies' salon. The garden had fruit trees, and a beautiful walnut tree with a striking curved trunk.
I was now deemed responsible enough to take myself to and from school, usually returning to the shop rather than straight home. On pleasant days I would walk with the 'train boys', boys who came to school by train from the direction of Moor Park or Chorleywood to Rickmansworth station. As the line was only electrified from London to Rickmansworth, a steam engine would be attached to pull the train to Chorleywood and on to Aylesbury, and this was always interesting to watch. Afterwards, often with a schoolmate, Malcolm Lockyer, I would walk through the park to Scotsbridge Meadow, along the River Chess, crossing at the stepping stones, and continuing up a footpath to Copthorne Road where Malcolm lived. I would continue by myself up to the Green, cross to the wrought iron gates that led into Croxley sports ground. Down past my old nursery, and on to Barton Way.
Frequently I would run errands for customers, but pass most of the time over the recreation ground. A group of us met regularly to play cricket in the summer, and football in winter, using the trees that flanked the path leading to the pavilion for the wickets or a goal. We were careful which trees we chose as often the ball landed in the back garden of a Barton Way house, and some occupiers were much more friendly in returning it than others.
The other lads were mostly from Harvey Road school, and would tease me about my 'posh' uniform. Before we all went home, my cap would be thrown high up into the branches of one of the trees, well out of my reach, and father would have to come and retrieve it. I used the ‘rec' a great deal on Saturdays and in the school holidays. In summer I supported Croxley Cricket Club, who had one armed batsman. He had a special device fitted to his arm stub that enabled him to hold the bat. In winter I supported Croxley Wanderers football club. Their goalkeeper 'Dodger' Beaumont, maybe the footballing relative, Roger Beaumont, mentioned by another contributor. I also became a Wolf Cub, and attended the weekly evening meetings in the Scout Hall, which was in Watford Road opposite Valley Road. I soon had stars on my cap and a sleeve full of badges. Before we returned home we were given a cup of hot-water-based, unsweetened cocoa, I am afraid I used to tip mine over the fence by the railway line.
My parents invested in some new Wella and Eugene Permanent Waving machines which became immensely popular and made my father extremely busy. He decided to employ a barber in the Gentlemen's department, the first of whom was Mrs. Rooney, a cheerful lady, who I remember wearing thick make-up, a musky perfume and tight skirts. Some men who did not want to have their hair cut by a lady barber, could still book an appointment with my father, but she attracted a whole new younger clientele into the shop. Her style of hairdressing was more suited to American G. I's. than RAF Brylcreem Boys. Before she worked in the shop my father had always cut my hair, she gave me a fashionable 'Boston', which my mother got my father to graduate out at the first opportunity. “You can't go to school looking like that”, she exclaimed.
An important sales item in barber shops in those days were contraceptives, and a lot of men felt uncomfortable buying them from a woman, but she was very good at putting them at their ease.
After her came Harold Sharman, a very smart man with a neatly trimmed ginger moustache. He lived in Sherborne Way, and was a much more traditional barber. Harold left about 1952 to open his own barber shop in Vicarage Road, almost opposite Watford football ground. I believe the business was very successful. His replacement was Giuseppe, a Sicilian sponsored by my father. He had great difficulties coming to terms with the British way of life, in particular Income Tax which he vehemently insisted "I no join". His life was ruled by the Pope, and he crossed himself every time he sold a packet of contraceptives, which unnerved many of the customers. In the end a compromise was reached when father put every packet into a small brown envelope.
In later years, he brought his family to live in the U.K. and the last I heard was that they settled successfully in North Watford.
(I feel the above needs further explanation:-
At that age, my idea of what contraceptives were used for was hazy to say the least. I was, however, acutely aware that men were shy of asking female shop assistants for some things, and equally, women of asking men. My mother would not go and buy certain things in a chemist's if a man was serving behind the counter. I would notice men walking up and down outside the shop for a few minutes before coming in to ask for a packet of contraceptives, or, if they were uncomfortable with that, a packet of three, or if they were young and brash, possibly, a packet of french letters. I do not remember the word 'condom' ever being used around that time, and in 1947, the last person one would be expected to face behind a barber’s shop counter would be a woman. Not once do I remember a lady asking to buy contraceptives in either salon.}
The old shop at 64 New Road re-opened as Sketchley Dry Cleaners.
I never saw my grandfather touch alcohol. My father enjoyed a drink and would often grab a lunchtime cheese roll and a beer at the Fox and Hounds nearly opposite the shop. He was friendly with the landlords Bill and Vi Tyson. The Fox and Hounds ran a Christmas Club, whereby, people could save so much a week, drawing it out a week or so before Christmas. Several customers would use this money to pay for their "Christmas perm", so the week before Christmas was very busy, the shop being open from 8. a.m to 8 p.m. or later, every day. There was a small garden behind the pub where I could play whilst my parents had a drink. We would also visit the Coach and Horses on The Green, which had a larger garden with tables and seats. When it was not nice enough to sit outside, the bar in the Guild House had a room that children could use inside, and an off license where I could buy my own arrowroot biscuit for a penny. I also remember visiting The Sportsman, The Artichoke, The Duke of York, and The Red House.
My grandfather died just after Christmas in 1948. I was considered too young to attend the funeral, but I was still on Christmas holiday from school, and watched the hearse depart from our upstairs bedroom window. I was taken downstairs to greet the returning mourners, most of whom had travelled up from South Wales. Some I had never seen before, and some I would never see again.
Mr. Kelly, a solicitor who had offices near the The Pond in Watford, came to read the will. Things got off to a bad start when my mother offered those arriving back a glass of sherry. Aunty May complained loudly that it was disgusting to serve alcohol on such a sad and solemn occasion.
I was whisked upstairs again and remember raised voices coming from the front room where the mourners were assembled. After Mr. Kelly left the grumbling continued, mostly in Welsh. Gradually the mourners departed, many with an air of disappointment.
I was christened in All Saints Church, Croxley Green. I have been told a goldfish bowl was substituted for the font because it had suffered war damage, but I have been unable to verify this. As a family we went to church occasionally, especially at Christmas and Easter.
I remember always looking forward to the fun fair that used to set up opposite the church. I would stop there on my way home from school, and although it would not open until later in the evening, no one seemed to mind me wandering around. I occasionally helped on the stalls, and on one occasion, when I must have been about 10 years old, was given charge of the 'Roll a Ball" stall. It was dark when I said I ought to be going home, and I was given a bronze three penny bit, (equivalent to about £1.00 today). Walking towards home down Watford Road, a car slowly coming towards me started flashing its lights and stopped. It was father looking for me. Where had I been? I hadn't been to the shop, I had not been home, and mother was having hysterics on the stairs worrying what had happened to me. I never understood what all the fuss was about, I had had a great time and earned some pocket money.
In 1951 we moved house to Great Missenden, where my parents took over a hairdressing salon previously run by a Miss Marchant, and we lived in the spacious flat attached. My mother ran the Great Missenden business and my father drove down to Croxley most days to look after the shop in Croxley Green, now employing more staff as he was not there himself all the time. I became a 'train boy' until the summer of 1952, when I left York House to attend a school more local to our new home.
In 1964 Hertfordshire County Council acquired the site at 199 New Road for the new Croxley Library. The business moved again, this time opening as a unisex salon in what had previously been Mrs. Davies' wool shop, I think at 101 New Road (or close by).
My parents finally sold it as a going concern in 1968, and ended their association with Croxley Green.
The other occupants of the house were my mother Joyce, father David, and my paternal grandfather Evan John Samuel. I later learned that my paternal grandmother, Frances, had died a few weeks before I was born.
My earliest memories are hearing the wailing of the air raid warning siren in the middle of the night, and being rushed from my cot to a makeshift bed under the stairs in pitch black darkness, blackout blinds at all the windows, and waiting anxiously for the all clear.
In the morning, typically, by the time I had been washed and dressed, milk had already been delivered by the electric float, and scrambled egg for breakfast had been made with a yellow powder out of a tin. Later, I learned that eggs were laid by hens.
After breakfast my parents would set off for work together, leaving me in the care of my grandfather. I remember him taking me out on to the raised veranda at the back of the house which gave views across Croxley Moor, and Croxley Mill on the other side of the canal. He showed me how to look through his binoculars at the mill roof to see if we could spot the men that operated the siren. There was also a searchlight which scanned the sky at night for enemy planes so they could be shot down. The garden was mainly given over to growing vegetables, and a brush and a shovel were kept close to the front door to gather up any manure dropped by the horses pulling their carts along the road outside. This especially was for the tomato plants that were my grandfather’s pride and joy.
My grandfather would clear the ashes from the grate, and lay paper, wood and coal to light a fire later. He had a gammy leg and walked with a stick, but it did not stop him doing his rounds as an agent for Kay's Mail Order catalogue. He would visit his customers once a week taking orders and collecting money, each day taking a different route. He was well known, and passersby greeted him by name, often stopping for a chat. I remember having a folding push chair, and he would take me in it on his rounds.
One route would take us down Beechcroft Avenue, past the abandoned building site on the corner of Valley Walk, and up to 282, Watford Road. This is where the 'Simpsons' lived. Bert Simpson, known to local children as Jesus, probably because of his long hair and straggly beard, had a horse which he kept in the field at the end of Sycamore Road. He made a living cutting clothes line props which he sold from his horse and cart. Ernie, his brother, cut logs and firewood, which Bert delivered. Dolly Simpson, I think was their sister, and gave piano lessons. Their house was a treasure trove of knickknacks, with always some novelty, an ornament or box for me to play with. Sometimes they had a little girl, Belinda, to stay with them, and we often played together.
Leaving the Simpsons, we would continue up Watford Road, past the Power petrol station on the left, and pausing to watch if someone was hand pumping fuel into a vehicle. We would call in at Standen's on the corner of Winton Approach for a newspaper, and then onto the post office in Pike's Stores. Grandfather would have letters and parcels to post, stamps to buy, and his pension to collect.
A little further on, down the hill on the left, we called in to the Croxley Laundry which was run by two ladies' who I believe were sisters, called the Misses Dorrofields.
Back to Winton Approach, with calls to make in Winton Drive, and Girton Way. Sometimes we had lunch in 'The British Restaurant', this was a canteen style restaurant situated in a hall in or near Malvern Way, where, during the war, a nutritious meal could be obtained at a subsidised price.
Eventually we would arrive at Croxley station, where, hopefully, Mr Grillo would be parked with his motorised tricycle, selling ice cream from a big tub fixed to the front. A tuppeny cornet would keep me happy as we returned to Beechcroft Avenue.
The other routes involved going up Beechcroft Avenue to Oaklands Drive, past the parade of shops on the corner of Watford Road, and then either along Watford Road towards the station, or along Frankland Road.
Just past the Station, a parade of shops in Watford Road included the fish and chip shop Duce and Davis. When older, I would hang about outside with my mates until one of the staff would call out "Anyone for scrumps?" Then there would be a scramble for the free bags of left- over batter.
Walking up New Road from the station, we would pass the Busy Bee on the left, which sold toys, and next door, a cake shop. On the opposite side of the road Mr. Mead sold fresh fish from a table outside his front door. Further along we passed a hardware shop, and opposite another parade of shops which included Evan's the barbers and Cross the chemists, and if I remember right, a tobacconist's. Turning right into Barton Way, we would make further calls. Then into Sherborne Way and then via Malvern Way and Lancing Way into Baldwins Lane. We would turn left up the hill until we came to Repton Way, and then back along Rugby Way and Barton Road to New Road again. A little further on we would call in on Mrs. Wren, who lived near the Guild Hall. The Co-op was on the corner of Dickinson Square, a large store with different sections and a dairy at the back. Almost opposite the Co-op there was a sweet shop called Wades, and a clock shop.
During the war years most shopping needed a ration book, children had a "green" ration book which entitled them to things like oranges and bananas, if they were available. During the war I only ever saw pictures of bananas, and thought that when peeled, the banana was already in round slices. I was most surprised to find it was not, and thought it was mushy and tasteless, I much preferred oranges.
Sweets continued to be rationed long after the war, and I was given my own coupons to use. I only bought sweets in very small quantities, never more than 2 ounces, to make sure the ration lasted.
We would then walk up New Road, past Gibson's the coal merchants on the left, until we reached number 54, which was a ladies' and gentlemen's hairdressers. Here I would find my mother and father who owned and worked in the business.
If we took the Frankland Road route, we would make calls in Gonville Avenue, Dickinson Square, Dickinson Avenue, and up to the cottages at the top of Scots Hill. A favourite shop here was Luxton's where, in later years I would buy my Guy Fawkes fireworks, to store under my bed. No age restrictions on buying fireworks in those days. We would finish by going up Yorke Road, past the big house, 'The Outspan', turn right into New Road, past the blacksmiths and so to number 54.
I could now either stay in the shop until closing time and return home with my parents or continue home with my grandfather. If I stayed, I would be put under the watchful eye of Mrs. Stoner, who lived in the house behind the shop. She had a side front door which overlooked the blacksmith's, and I would never tire of sitting on her doorstep and watching the blacksmith at work.
Of course shoeing horses was the main event, with every size horse from the riding school ponies to the big shaggy hoofed horses that pulled the barges along the canal. When there were no horses to be shod, the blacksmith was still busy shaping wrought iron into gates and other items, but what I really loved was to see him fit a new metal rim onto a cartwheel.
The horse and cart would arrive and the cart would be supported on a wooden block. The horse would be taken out of the shafts and allowed to graze on nearby wasteland. The wheel would be removed from the cart, and any remaining metal rim removed, the wheel was then taken into the forge. A hoop of metal would be chosen from the selection hanging in the back of the forge, and repeatedly pulled through the furnace until it glowed evenly. Quickly, the blacksmith would position the glowing hoop over the wheel rim whilst smoke arose as the wood charred. Using long handled callipers the whole wheel would be lifted, by the blacksmith and cart owner, taken outside the forge, and dropped into a circular tank of cold water. Smoke was replaced by hissing steam, and the wheel would be left to cool. When cold, the wheel would be lifted out, and the new metal rim would have contracted tightly onto the wooden wheel forming an immovable bond. A bit of tidying up with a file and hammer, and the wheel was ready to be reaffixed to the cart. No doubt the owner would repaint the wheel later to finish the job.
On the way home we frequently called into 'The Toilet Shop', tucked away in a corner of the station building and run by a gentleman my mother always referred to as 'Fiddly Dick'. Coupons were not needed here, and there was always some luxury that was almost impossible to get hold of anywhere else. It was known as buying on the Black Market.
On the occasions I went straight home with my grandfather, we would get indoors and light the fire. Grandfather had a large sheet of metal he called a 'blower', when the fire was lit he would hold it in front of the grate to draw the flames up the chimney. If the fire was slow to light, he would also use a sheet of newspaper, which usually caught fire and had to be stamped out leaving scorch marks on the carpet and making my mother very cross.
With the fire going, grandfather would gather together any bits and pieces he could make use of, sit in his chair, light his pipe, and with me sitting on the floor between his feet we would make paper spills to save matches, tie bits of string together to make balls, cut squares of newspaper to.......but didn't we all do that?
After a while he would make up the fire using a variety of fuels to eke out the coal ration, anthracite, coke, or logs.
At about five o'clock he would say "better get supper started".
A large loaf of bread would be tucked under his arm and smeared with the thinnest possible layer of butter before being sliced. Tea was kept in 2 caddies:-
Red was for fresh tea leaves, straight out of the Brooke Bond packet.
(Tea bags were yet to be introduced).
Blue was for tea leaves that had been reclaimed from the pot and dried out in the oven.
Visitors had tea from the red caddie, family would have a mixture of both.
When my parents arrived home, mother would take over whilst grandfather laid the table.
After the meal we would listen to the wireless, a big wooden cabinet through which strange shaped valves glimmered dimly. We would listen to Tommy Handley in ITMA, Life with the Lyons, Billy Cotton, or Variety Bandbox; my favourite was probably the first broadcast game show, "Have a Go" with Wilfred Pickles, Mabel at the table, and the first catch phrase I remember "give her/him the money Barney". Afterwards the news, perhaps a speech from Churchill, and reminders of the wartime precautions we should be taking. When I was older, (and after the war), I would rush home to listen to each instalment of 'Dick Barton, Special Agent".
Some evenings, and at weekends, we would play the gramophone. This wooden piece of furniture had four elegantly carved legs, with a lid that lifted to expose two compartments. On the left a turntable with a horn that would need to be lifted up on a hinge. On the right a compartment containing a variety of records. Although my reading was in its early stages, I could identify every record from my own Disney recordings of Bambi and Dumbo, the Charlie Kunz piano medleys loved by my father, the Donald Peers recordings bought by my mother, and the dulcet tones of Ann Ziegler and Webster Booth, loved by them both. David of the White Rock by Mostyn Thomas was my grandfather’s favourite. There were also the Parlaphone Hungarian Dances, the floppy white jazz classic Saint James Infirmary, and the half inch thick one sided Death of Nelson. A large handle would be inserted in a hole on the left hand side of the cabinet to wind up the turntable spring. When the music began to slow, I would give the handle a few turns to speed it up again.
I remember being taken to theatres to see some of these stars live on stage. The Golders Green Hippodrome, was a particular favourite of my parents. I believe the proceeds always went to wartime charities.
Before I went to bed I would be given a bowl of bread and milk, a spoonful of sweet tasting sticky Virol, presumably packed with the vitamins I was not getting because of food rationing, then it would be "nos da", (goodnight in Welsh).
I remember my mother taking me to a clinic, I think in New Road, possibly the Guild Hall, to be weighed and given bottles of cod liver oil which I hated and orange juice concentrate which I loved. I must have been quite a sickly child as we had frequent visits from Dr. Ferguson, who prescribed a Friars Balsam steam kettle which stood on a Valor paraffin stove in my bedroom. Father turned the top of the stove upside down for more stability and the long fish tail kettle blew the balsamic steam into my room well into the night. I also had pink Thermogene pads tucked under my vest, and scalding hot Kaolin poultices slapped on as well. Before the NHS was implemented, father would leave 3 half crowns on the hall table for the doctor to pick up to pay the seven shillings and sixpence call out fee.
From time to time Nurse Dixon would call in, leaving her bicycle in our front garden while she looked me over and chatted to my mother, advising her how to make the best of the rationed food, and on one occasion, I remember, how to cook whale meat. My mother shuddered, and I am sure that was one of the rare occasions where her advice was ignored.
Croxley was well served with buses, and amongst my earliest memories is grandfather taking me to Watford market. After our usual visit to Pike's Stores post office, we would wait outside for a 321 or 351 bus to Watford. Grandfather would fold up the pushchair, no pushing your buggy straight on to the bus in those days, and negotiate with someone else in the queue to look after me as he needed both hands to haul himself onto the bus. When the bus arrived, the push chair would be handed to the conductor or clippy to stow away under the stairs. Grandfather would haul himself aboard and sit in one of the seats just inside the bus, facing the gangway, I would be taken further down the bus, or even upstairs to sit on my benefactor’s lap for the journey. I do not remember the buses being blacked out, but they did not have any lights on at night, and to stop the bus you needed to shine a torch onto your hand so the driver could see it.
My father loved Christmas, and now I know it saddened him that he could not always make it as magical for me as he would have liked. He need not have fretted, I knew no different, and a Christmas tree made of tied together pine tree branches was just as magical for me as the real thing. Toys were scarce, and second hand was often the solution. On one occasion I woke up to find an entire model village in my bedroom, I later learned it had been the centrepiece of a well known Watford store window display and father had had to wait for the store to close on Christmas Eve before it could be dismantled and transported home on the roof of his car. On another occasion a medieval fort appeared in my bedroom complete with towers, turrets, and a drawbridge. Soldiers of all kinds manned the fort and redcoats rubbed shoulders with kilted members of the black watch. King Harold sat on his throne with an arrow sticking out of his eye, and bicycle battery powered torch bulbs lit up the towers. How was I to know in medieval times electricity had not even been invented?
When we did have a proper Christmas tree, we had coloured wax candles in little metal holders clipped to the branches. There must have been at least twenty, all alight with the flames inches from the flammable decorations. Today it would have been a safety officer’s nightmare, but then it seemed quite normal.
I do not remember my father without a car. Between 1940 and 1952 he had all sorts from an Austin Ruby 7 to a Daimler limousine. The first car I can remember was a Standard 8 which would be parked either behind the blacksmiths or garaged at the bottom of the garden of the house on the corner of Beechcroft Avenue and Valley Walk, number 22, I think. The Garage had an exit into Beechcroft Avenue. During the war it was not often on the road being jacked up on bricks with the wheels taken off and stored on the back seat. It had slatted vents over the headlights, and a white painted disc fixed to the back. The rear lights did not work - I believe the bulbs had been removed.
When occasionally father obtained some petrol coupons, the car would be put together and driven up to the Power filling station in Watford Road; more often, the petrol would come in gallon cans. The fuel would always be filtered through one of my mother’s old stockings in case it contained grit or other impurities which would clog the carburetor and stall the car.
Father came from Llanelli in South Wales, and once or twice a year we would go and visit our Welsh relations. He much preferred to drive if he could obtain the fuel. Cases would be tied on top of the car as the boot would be full of petrol cans for the return journey. Otherwise, we went by coach from Victoria, or train. At one time it was suggested I stayed in Llanelli with my Auntie Edith as an evacuee, but when Hitler started bombing the Welsh ports it was decided I was just as safe in Croxley Green.
My maternal grandmother was a widow living in Finsbury Park, London. We visited her often, almost always by train. It did not seem strange to me that none of the stations displayed names, or that a porter would walk along the platform hoarsely shouting out the name of the station, "Crusly, Crusly" was that "Croxley?" I did not need to hear the name of the station, I recognised the curve in the line as we approached Croxley. During the blackout there was minimum or no lighting in the carriage or on the platforms. The carriages had seats facing each other across a central gangway with a heavy door at each end which would swing wide as soon as opened unless restrained by leather straps which were often missing. As platforms could be on either side of the train, and impossible to see in the darkness, people were known to have tried to get out the wrong side and fallen on to the track, sometimes breaking a leg. The windows were painted black on the inside and there were pull down blinds on the doors. There were warning signs, just readable in the gloom. At four years old, I was becoming a competent reader and would read everything I could. In a crowded carriage, all seats taken and some standing, I just had to read out all these warnings in a loud voice. They usually began "Lookout in the blackout........", and on this occasion someone had scratched extra words into the black paint on the window. I cheerfully read this out as well "......thank-you for the information, but we can't see the bloody station". My mother screamed and dragged me onto her knee, a few muffled laughs, and I still did not know what I had read out that caused such offence.
I clearly remember my father buying me a blue balloon tied on to a wooden stick from a street vendor in London. I carried it carefully all the way to Croxley station. My father carried me up the stairs to the station entrance as there was quite a crowd. A young man with a group of mates smoking cigarettes burst my balloon with his cigarette, and laughed uproariously, I cried all the way home.
We often had visitors. I remember two gentlemen in full Royal Canadian Air Force uniforms visiting us, one was introduced to me as my Uncle Lawrence, the other his buddy. I was given a model airplane with a bomb underneath which could be released by tilting the plane forward. I never saw him again, and when I enquired in later years was told he was shot down and killed over Germany. More recently, I tried to find his name on a memorial, but could find nothing definite. He was not a 'true' uncle. The terms Uncle and Aunt were often used for cousins, more distant relatives, and even just friends.
Frances, my grandmother, and her sister had been sent to Canada as orphans when she was very young, under a government scheme. Frances came back to England, but her sister married a Canadian and stayed there. This connection still exists and we have visited their descendants in Canada, and vice versa. It was for this connection that each Christmas, we would receive a 'food parcel' from Canada. This was most exciting, and right at the top would be a huge lollipop. Whilst I took it away to pull the cellophane off, mother would search for the dried fruit and brown sugar, now she could make the Christmas pudding. Apart from jars and tins and packets of sweets and biscuits, there would be knitted garments, and often things we did not recognise. I remember father holding up a pair of rubber soled socks, we had no idea what they were, and we thought they must be inners for wellington boots. Who had heard of slipper socks in the war? At the bottom was always a pouch of tobacco for grandfather.
From the Autumn of 1944, I attended the Nursery School, held in Croxley Sports Pavilion.
Across New Road, from my parents shop, an alley led to the Nursery. I played in the sand pit, drew pictures, painted, and listened to stories. I remember someone asking the teacher if German children were as frightened of our bombs as we were of theirs.
"They are vermin", the teacher replied acidly "They must be destroyed in their nests". I remember feeling quite shocked, and for a long time could not get out of my head an image of German children having heads that looked like rats.
1945 and celebrations that the war was over. Red, white and blue bunting was hung from our front bedroom window, and a huge bonfire was built in Beechcroft Avenue outside Mr. Wilson's house, completely blocking the road. Our neighbours from "Coomblands", number 64, Mr. and Mrs. Owens, and their daughter Thelma, and Mr. and Mrs. Coleman and their son Nicki, from number 60, came round and we all hugged each other. Their older son was in the army and had been fighting abroad, and on more than one occasion Mrs. Coleman had been comforted by mother when she was worried about him.
The fire was lit to many cheers, but before long it spread to the tarred surface setting fire to the road in both directions. Buckets of water appeared to douse the flames, and for a long time a big white circle in the road reminded me of where the bonfire had been.
Shortly after this my father acquired a garden roller and seemed to spend all his free time pushing it up and down our back garden until it was flat enough to lay a lawn.
On my 6th birthday, my Uncle Dick arrived with a puppy for me which I called Scamper (shades of Enid Blyton?), and was to be a constant companion for the next 9 years.
A whole new range of walks opened up. Usually we started by walking down Valley Walk to the canal, turning left would take us to Cassiobury Park, turning right would take us down through Croxley Woods, and eventually to Rickmansworth coming out by The Picture House cinema. We could also cross the canal bridge by Croxley Mill and make our way across the moor to Moor Park.
We did these walks at all seasons, picking bluebells in Croxley Woods in May, and picnicking in summer. Croxley Green did not have a public swimming pool, but we did have the mill lock and this is where the more daring swam, A full lock enabled one to dive off the gates into water about 20 feet deep. The sides of the lock, however were slippery and slimy, and on several occasions people got into difficulties trying to get out and had to be rescued. The less daring of us fished for minnows and sticklebacks in the nearby overflow waterfall on the 'moor' side of the canal.
Watching the barges navigate the lock was a favourite pass time. The narrow steam boats would often enter two abreast, and slowly ascend or descend as the sluice gates were cranked open or closed by hand by the bargee. The horses pulled wider barges, and were detached from the barges which had to be manoeuvered into the lock by the bargees with barge poles. They were then led up or down the steep slope to reach the higher or lower level. For the barges there were narrow steps right next to the lock itself. There was a bridge by the lock, but when the lock gates were closed it was more fun to run across the top of these to the other side. The bargees would shout at us and tell us it was dangerous, but that only added to the fun.
I remember well the bitterly cold winters of 1946 and 7, when the canal froze over and it was possible to walk across the ice to the other side. During these winters, we often suffered burst pipes, and tall Mr. Alcroft the plumber became a frequent visitor, sweating joints onto the burst lead piping.
In September 1945 I started school at York House Preparatory School for Boys at Money Hill Parade in Rickmansworth. Accompanying my grandfather on his rounds were restricted to the school holidays, a new era in my life had begun.
For the first year or so I was escorted to and from school by one or other of my parents. Then in 1947, they moved the business to 199, New Road, on the corner of Barton Way. Mr Alcroft fitted the ladies' and gentlemen's salons out, fitting the basins far too high for the little ladies in the ladies' salon. The garden had fruit trees, and a beautiful walnut tree with a striking curved trunk.
I was now deemed responsible enough to take myself to and from school, usually returning to the shop rather than straight home. On pleasant days I would walk with the 'train boys', boys who came to school by train from the direction of Moor Park or Chorleywood to Rickmansworth station. As the line was only electrified from London to Rickmansworth, a steam engine would be attached to pull the train to Chorleywood and on to Aylesbury, and this was always interesting to watch. Afterwards, often with a schoolmate, Malcolm Lockyer, I would walk through the park to Scotsbridge Meadow, along the River Chess, crossing at the stepping stones, and continuing up a footpath to Copthorne Road where Malcolm lived. I would continue by myself up to the Green, cross to the wrought iron gates that led into Croxley sports ground. Down past my old nursery, and on to Barton Way.
Frequently I would run errands for customers, but pass most of the time over the recreation ground. A group of us met regularly to play cricket in the summer, and football in winter, using the trees that flanked the path leading to the pavilion for the wickets or a goal. We were careful which trees we chose as often the ball landed in the back garden of a Barton Way house, and some occupiers were much more friendly in returning it than others.
The other lads were mostly from Harvey Road school, and would tease me about my 'posh' uniform. Before we all went home, my cap would be thrown high up into the branches of one of the trees, well out of my reach, and father would have to come and retrieve it. I used the ‘rec' a great deal on Saturdays and in the school holidays. In summer I supported Croxley Cricket Club, who had one armed batsman. He had a special device fitted to his arm stub that enabled him to hold the bat. In winter I supported Croxley Wanderers football club. Their goalkeeper 'Dodger' Beaumont, maybe the footballing relative, Roger Beaumont, mentioned by another contributor. I also became a Wolf Cub, and attended the weekly evening meetings in the Scout Hall, which was in Watford Road opposite Valley Road. I soon had stars on my cap and a sleeve full of badges. Before we returned home we were given a cup of hot-water-based, unsweetened cocoa, I am afraid I used to tip mine over the fence by the railway line.
My parents invested in some new Wella and Eugene Permanent Waving machines which became immensely popular and made my father extremely busy. He decided to employ a barber in the Gentlemen's department, the first of whom was Mrs. Rooney, a cheerful lady, who I remember wearing thick make-up, a musky perfume and tight skirts. Some men who did not want to have their hair cut by a lady barber, could still book an appointment with my father, but she attracted a whole new younger clientele into the shop. Her style of hairdressing was more suited to American G. I's. than RAF Brylcreem Boys. Before she worked in the shop my father had always cut my hair, she gave me a fashionable 'Boston', which my mother got my father to graduate out at the first opportunity. “You can't go to school looking like that”, she exclaimed.
An important sales item in barber shops in those days were contraceptives, and a lot of men felt uncomfortable buying them from a woman, but she was very good at putting them at their ease.
After her came Harold Sharman, a very smart man with a neatly trimmed ginger moustache. He lived in Sherborne Way, and was a much more traditional barber. Harold left about 1952 to open his own barber shop in Vicarage Road, almost opposite Watford football ground. I believe the business was very successful. His replacement was Giuseppe, a Sicilian sponsored by my father. He had great difficulties coming to terms with the British way of life, in particular Income Tax which he vehemently insisted "I no join". His life was ruled by the Pope, and he crossed himself every time he sold a packet of contraceptives, which unnerved many of the customers. In the end a compromise was reached when father put every packet into a small brown envelope.
In later years, he brought his family to live in the U.K. and the last I heard was that they settled successfully in North Watford.
(I feel the above needs further explanation:-
At that age, my idea of what contraceptives were used for was hazy to say the least. I was, however, acutely aware that men were shy of asking female shop assistants for some things, and equally, women of asking men. My mother would not go and buy certain things in a chemist's if a man was serving behind the counter. I would notice men walking up and down outside the shop for a few minutes before coming in to ask for a packet of contraceptives, or, if they were uncomfortable with that, a packet of three, or if they were young and brash, possibly, a packet of french letters. I do not remember the word 'condom' ever being used around that time, and in 1947, the last person one would be expected to face behind a barber’s shop counter would be a woman. Not once do I remember a lady asking to buy contraceptives in either salon.}
The old shop at 64 New Road re-opened as Sketchley Dry Cleaners.
I never saw my grandfather touch alcohol. My father enjoyed a drink and would often grab a lunchtime cheese roll and a beer at the Fox and Hounds nearly opposite the shop. He was friendly with the landlords Bill and Vi Tyson. The Fox and Hounds ran a Christmas Club, whereby, people could save so much a week, drawing it out a week or so before Christmas. Several customers would use this money to pay for their "Christmas perm", so the week before Christmas was very busy, the shop being open from 8. a.m to 8 p.m. or later, every day. There was a small garden behind the pub where I could play whilst my parents had a drink. We would also visit the Coach and Horses on The Green, which had a larger garden with tables and seats. When it was not nice enough to sit outside, the bar in the Guild House had a room that children could use inside, and an off license where I could buy my own arrowroot biscuit for a penny. I also remember visiting The Sportsman, The Artichoke, The Duke of York, and The Red House.
My grandfather died just after Christmas in 1948. I was considered too young to attend the funeral, but I was still on Christmas holiday from school, and watched the hearse depart from our upstairs bedroom window. I was taken downstairs to greet the returning mourners, most of whom had travelled up from South Wales. Some I had never seen before, and some I would never see again.
Mr. Kelly, a solicitor who had offices near the The Pond in Watford, came to read the will. Things got off to a bad start when my mother offered those arriving back a glass of sherry. Aunty May complained loudly that it was disgusting to serve alcohol on such a sad and solemn occasion.
I was whisked upstairs again and remember raised voices coming from the front room where the mourners were assembled. After Mr. Kelly left the grumbling continued, mostly in Welsh. Gradually the mourners departed, many with an air of disappointment.
I was christened in All Saints Church, Croxley Green. I have been told a goldfish bowl was substituted for the font because it had suffered war damage, but I have been unable to verify this. As a family we went to church occasionally, especially at Christmas and Easter.
I remember always looking forward to the fun fair that used to set up opposite the church. I would stop there on my way home from school, and although it would not open until later in the evening, no one seemed to mind me wandering around. I occasionally helped on the stalls, and on one occasion, when I must have been about 10 years old, was given charge of the 'Roll a Ball" stall. It was dark when I said I ought to be going home, and I was given a bronze three penny bit, (equivalent to about £1.00 today). Walking towards home down Watford Road, a car slowly coming towards me started flashing its lights and stopped. It was father looking for me. Where had I been? I hadn't been to the shop, I had not been home, and mother was having hysterics on the stairs worrying what had happened to me. I never understood what all the fuss was about, I had had a great time and earned some pocket money.
In 1951 we moved house to Great Missenden, where my parents took over a hairdressing salon previously run by a Miss Marchant, and we lived in the spacious flat attached. My mother ran the Great Missenden business and my father drove down to Croxley most days to look after the shop in Croxley Green, now employing more staff as he was not there himself all the time. I became a 'train boy' until the summer of 1952, when I left York House to attend a school more local to our new home.
In 1964 Hertfordshire County Council acquired the site at 199 New Road for the new Croxley Library. The business moved again, this time opening as a unisex salon in what had previously been Mrs. Davies' wool shop, I think at 101 New Road (or close by).
My parents finally sold it as a going concern in 1968, and ended their association with Croxley Green.
