Clavey means ...
Clav or Clif Saxon old english for Cliff edge
ey old Norse for Island or piece of land surrounded by streams
This interesting surname of English origin, being a locational name, is a dialectal variant of the hamlet called Cleveley in the parish of Church Eustone, in Oxfordshire, deriving from the Old English pre 7th Century "clif" meaning "cliff" plus the old Norse "ey" "an island i.e. a piece of land surrounded by streams". The surname dates back to the late 13th Century, (see below). Variations in the idiom of the spelling include Clevely, Clavy, etc.. One Richard Clevelley married Elizabeth Adkins at St. James, Clerkenwell, London, in 1611. Richard, son of Richard and Dorothy Clavey, was christened on October 26th 1690, at St. Giles Cripplegate, London, and Sarah, daughter of Richard and Dorothy Clavey, was christened on May 11th 1692, at St. Giles, Cripplegate, London. One Anne Clavy, daughter of Edward and Mary, was christened on November 10th 1698, at St. Giles, Cripplegate, London. The first recorded spelling of the family name is shown to be that of John de Clyveleye, which was dated 1273, "The Subsidy Rolls of Oxfordshire", during the reign of King Edward 1, "The Hammer of the Scots", 1272 - 1307. Surnames became necessary when governments introduced personal taxation. In England this was known as Poll Tax. Throughout the centuries, surnames in every country have continued to "develop" often leading to astonishing variants of the original spelling.
Probably Nonsence from http://www.surnamedb.com/surname.aspx?name=Clavey
The Hamlet of CLEVELEY
Johnson, in his Dictionary, states that cleve, cliff, or clive, at the beginning or end of the proper name of a place denotes it to be situated on a rock or hill. He also says of the termination ley, that it is spelt indifferently ley, lee, or lay, being derived from the Saxon leag; a field. By this derivation Cleveley means the hill field, and this most appropriately describes the steep and even rocky declivities forming the site of Cleveley. At one part where the road, after crossing the stream on a narrow bridge, ascends the hill, it does so almost on the face of a cliff. The road thus referred to, after traversing the side of the cliff, crosses at an acute angle the ancient road from Enstone to Oxford, through Radford, Kiddington, &c., and thus these two roads bound and enclose between them a large triangular shaped grass field, which slopes down the side of the hill, having its base formed by the brook that skirts it. This field has signs remaining of terraces or garden walks and retains the name of Bissel's Close, the next adjoining field being called Bissel's Ground, but the registers do not supply the name of any such family resident here. Besides this property, denoting as it does the residence here of some family, there, are to be traced on all the hill sides around, proofs of the same kind of country houses with ornamented grounds about them, of which we have a already met with so many. Nor indeed is this to be wondered at here in Cleveley when it is considered that two of the principal highways of this vicinity passed through Cleveley. The ancient house attached to our charity lands, and still standing here, is constantly described in our old deeds as "abutting on the King's highway leading to Oxford". From Church Enstone this road commenced with a lane, now called Clingclang Lane, from having formerly had a gate that swung backwards and forwards with a clingclang noise, and crossing the Charlbury turnpike road, proceeded direct to Cleveley, near to which it is still to be found in its original narrow and enclosed state. Passing through Cleveley, and also for some short distance through the river there, it ascends the hill and takes it course for Radford, continuing thence to Kiddington, Glympton, and so on to Oxford. At the top of the last mentioned hill it branches off along the side of the hill, descends again into Cleveley, crosses the stream by a small bridge, and issuing out from Cleveley at the further end, keeps its way along the valley of Bagnall to the end of Fulwell, where it rises the hills on that side, and formerly skirting Neat Enstone, took its way to Lidstone and Charlford, forming the chief highroad northward.
The hamlet of Cleveley contains two corn mills, and a number of dwellings chiefly cottages. One of these is constructed and appropriated for use as a Baptist Chapel. By the census of 1851, the inhabitants of Cleveley were 228, and the inhabited houses 48. No inclosure has ever taken place here, but by the amalgamation of estates, and peculiar law proceedings, the lands have been separated, and assigned to the various proprietors. The whole field contains more than 600 acres, of which 530 belong to Mr. John Jolly, 56 to the Enstone Parish Church Estate, and the rest to other small proprietors.
From the oldest deed we have it is to be inferred that Cleveley was at that time a separate manor, for Margery of Dychel, the grantor of that deed, was the daughter of Willielmus le Colonna of Cleveley, and had held the land, therein granted by her, by payment of the quit rent of a rose every year, in the month of June, to her father. But besides these, the most ancient names connected with our parish, and dating back about six hundred years at least, we have more frequent mention of residents at Cleveley in those earlier deeds, than any other part of the parish. Nor is this to be wondered at, for almost all of them were dated and done at Cleveley, another proof of this having been a separate manor, and consequently the inhabitants of Cleveley were necessarily required to attend the courts at which they were executed, and to assist in their execution. Accordingly we have, in a deed of the year 1295 mention of William Colonna who had been the father of Margery of Dychelye, and must have been resident here about the year 1250, for at the time of the deed Margery was herself a widow of some age, since she had a daughter also a widow, so that the grandfather of this daughter must certainly have been living at Cleveley about 1250. About the same time we have Roger Gardiner, and John the Fuller both resident here. In 1317 we have John Newman and John Sibell; in 1339 Radulfus Jordan; in 1350 Willielmus Follar de Clyvele Capellanus, that is William Fuller of Cleveley, Chaplain or Officiating Priest, implying that there may have been some house of worship here; besides many more, both in these deeds and in the registers, from which it may well be inferred that this was a place of some little note.
One of the names most frequently met with in our old deeds is that of Le Ffollar, which evidently is nothing more than the Fuller, as we have the Mason, the Taylor, and others. But the Fuller plainly implies, that there was here formerly a branch of the woollen manufacturers, for which, ever since the time of William Conqueror downwards, England has ever been remarkable. Of this manufacture fulling, as it is one of the last parts of the process, so is it one of the most perfecting and valuable, for it is that which renders our cloths so compact and effectual, that the whole piece seems formed of one substance, and not of interlacing threads as when first woven, nor is it liable, like other woven goods, to unravel when cut with scissors. Although it is not to be supposed that this system of fulling was formerly here brought to the perfection that it now is, yet doubtless it was already in progress, and the stream at Cleveley which now turns two corn mills was in all probability employed, in the time of Edward the Third, when John the Fuller lived there, to work mills producing cloths of more or less excellency of finish. Indeed we might almost give a guess as to the kind of cloths manufactured here, for in a deed of 1403, in which John Sclater of Clevely agrees to supply William Newman with various articles, one of these enumerated was a robe or gown of russet or frieze. Now this last-named material for dress was that for which Wales became remarkable, when Edward III brought over a number of skilful Flemings, to improve the cloth manufactures of England. This idea is the more deserving of credit when we find, at a somewhat later period in the history of our parish, many Welsh names, such as Vaughan, Owen, Evans, and the like; so that in fact we may confidently conclude that Cleveley was at one time a seat of the woollen manufactures, although from various causes they have decayed and passed away. That there were actually fulling mills at Radford has already been shown, and that undoubted fact makes the existence of them at Cleveley also all the more probable.
Until recently, when it was repaired, and thereby materially impaired in appearance, there existed at Cleveley. the ancient house belonging to the church lands, which was in an ecclesiastic style of architecture, of about the thirteenth century, having an exceedingly good gothic arched doorway. Unfortunately, however, when this ancient house was repaired, a few years since, this doorway was taken down, without the slightest necessity for disturbing it, and instead of its being restored again, as it might have been, the arch alone was rebuilt, and the well worked sides of the door frame were mercilessly mutilated, and being turned into coins, were used in forming the corner stones of the building. Whether this ever was a religious house, which it may possibly have been, is altogether uncertain. One of the Fuller family, who were so long connected with and were the tenants of the church lands, in the fourteenth century, is described as Capellanus, a Chaplain, which Warton tells us only means an officiating clergyman, so at Cleveley or elsewhere does not appear. Near adjoining to the village, according to the terrier of lands we have, there was land known as the glebe, which always implies land belonging to an ecclesiastical benefice, and further a field was an extensive furlong called St. Mary's furlong, whence again it maybe inferred that there had been here anciently some endowed chapel or other religious institution.
There was at Cleveley formerly a piece of land called the Litter Acre, from the fact of its having been given to provide straw or litter for the floor of the church. This was in ancient times esteemed a luxury even in the houses of the great, for Fitzstephen, the Secretary of the famous Archbishop Becket, in the reign of Henry II., writes of him, that "in winter his apartments were every day covered with clean hay and straw, and in summer with green rushes or boughs, that the gentlemen who paid court to him, and who could not, by reason of their numbers, find a place at table, might not soil their fine clothes, by sitting on a dirty floor". Even as late as the year 1662, the church of Burford was not paved, a fact which we have on the authority of Anthony Wood, for he, writing in his Athen� Oxoniens�s of the burial place of William Lenthall, speaker of the Long Parliament, thus relates it. "As yet he hath no monument, nor so much as any stone over his grave, the floor being (now, or at least lately,) covered only with sand, and unpaved." Vol. ii, p.205. There is mention in our terrier of a small piece of land in what is called "Rush Pitts Furlong", which may have been the Litter Acre.
Taken from http://www.monikie.org.uk/cleve2.htm
The name CLAVEY might have a historical connection with KLEVE, also Cleve or Cleves, city, West central Germany, in North Rhine-Westphalia, near the Rhine R. and the Dutch border. It was built in Dutch architectural style on three hills. Leather goods, machinery, and tobacco products are manufactured here. With mineral springs in the vicinity, Kleve is frequented as a summer resort. In the center of the city is the famous Schwanenburg, or Swans' Castle, said to have been founded by Gaius Julius Caesar and associated with the "Knights of the Swan" legend, dramatized in Richard Wagner's opera Lohengrin. Among other notable buildings is a 14th-century Gothic church. The city became the seat of the counts of Kleve in the 11th century and later was the capital of the duchy of Kleve, created in 1417. In 1614 the duchy, which embraced land on both sides of the Rhine, came into the possession of Brandenburg. The part of the duchy E of the Rhine was ceded to France in 1795; the remaining portion was seized by France from Prussia during the Napoleonic Wars. Both portions were restored in 1815 except for some small sections that were made part of the Netherlands. Pop. (1992 est.) 46,924.
CLAVEY in the 1881 British Census
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Friday, December 5, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Clavey River
Extract from the history of the Clavey River region, researched in Aug 1989 by Carlo de Ferrari, Tuolumne County historian.
The Clavey River is named for the family of William Clavey, an Englishman who was a successful farmer and rancher in Stanislaus County in 1867, when he and Robert Lovell came to Tuolumne County seeking high country summer pastureland for their livestock.
On June 20, 1867, Clavey and Lovell purchased 320 acres of land from Jonas Rush and John Wooters for $1,150 at what is today known as “Hull’s Meadows” (Tuolumne County 15/37 Deeds, recorded June 20, 1867). Robert Lovell apparently played no further active role in the local scene, but William Clavey’s name continued for some years to appear upon the local Tuolumne County tax rolls. In 1867 (page 12) he was assessed $800.00 for a claim to a ranch of 640 acres. The 1869 tax roll (page 154) assessed the land to “Lord and Clavey” (Joseph Lord) and is for 480 acres. The 1871 tax roll (page 121) again describes the land as being 640 acres with improvements located at “Hulse Meadows.” On the 1874-75 tax roll (page 52) William Clavey is assessed for a one-half interest in 640 acres described as “Lord and Clavey’s Range.”
Clavey continued to be a highly successful rancher and grain raiser in Stanislaus County, where he became a naturalized citizen on October 10, 1876 (A/57 County Court Minutes, Stanislaus County). On April 26, 1871, he married Jane Ann Loney, the 16-year-old daughter of James Loney off Turner’s Flat, Tuolumne County (2/15 Marriage Records). A son, William Robert Clavey, was born at Oakdale, Stanislaus County, in 1873, and a second child, sex unknown, was born shortly after William Clavey’s death near Oakdale on June 29, 1885. Aged 41?
In addition to his acreage in the mountains, William R. Clavey acquired extensive property in the foothills in the area north of Lake Don Pedro. He never married and died on December 5, 1946, in a Sonora hospital (9/87 Death Records). All of his estate passed to a cousin, Belle Loney Schwoerer and her husband, Elgin (A-1079, Probate Records). This was the family for whom the Clavey River was named. Whether it was in memory of one particular member (Jane Ann, her husband William, or son, William R.) is unknown.
The name “Clavey River” apparently did not come into common use until around the turn of this century. On the first “official map” of Tuolumne County, drawn by County Surveyor A. B. Beauvais in 1882, the stream is designated as “Big Canyon Creek.” This may have caused a little confusion because a half—dozen miles to the west was a steep ravine named “Big Canyon,” or “Big Canon,” whose waters joined the North Fork of the Tuolumne River in Section 21, TiN, R16E,
M.D.B.M. The latter creek was well known then because of extensive quartz and placer gold mining activity carried on in its area.
The Clavey River is named for the family of William Clavey, an Englishman who was a successful farmer and rancher in Stanislaus County in 1867, when he and Robert Lovell came to Tuolumne County seeking high country summer pastureland for their livestock.
On June 20, 1867, Clavey and Lovell purchased 320 acres of land from Jonas Rush and John Wooters for $1,150 at what is today known as “Hull’s Meadows” (Tuolumne County 15/37 Deeds, recorded June 20, 1867). Robert Lovell apparently played no further active role in the local scene, but William Clavey’s name continued for some years to appear upon the local Tuolumne County tax rolls. In 1867 (page 12) he was assessed $800.00 for a claim to a ranch of 640 acres. The 1869 tax roll (page 154) assessed the land to “Lord and Clavey” (Joseph Lord) and is for 480 acres. The 1871 tax roll (page 121) again describes the land as being 640 acres with improvements located at “Hulse Meadows.” On the 1874-75 tax roll (page 52) William Clavey is assessed for a one-half interest in 640 acres described as “Lord and Clavey’s Range.”
Clavey continued to be a highly successful rancher and grain raiser in Stanislaus County, where he became a naturalized citizen on October 10, 1876 (A/57 County Court Minutes, Stanislaus County). On April 26, 1871, he married Jane Ann Loney, the 16-year-old daughter of James Loney off Turner’s Flat, Tuolumne County (2/15 Marriage Records). A son, William Robert Clavey, was born at Oakdale, Stanislaus County, in 1873, and a second child, sex unknown, was born shortly after William Clavey’s death near Oakdale on June 29, 1885. Aged 41?
In addition to his acreage in the mountains, William R. Clavey acquired extensive property in the foothills in the area north of Lake Don Pedro. He never married and died on December 5, 1946, in a Sonora hospital (9/87 Death Records). All of his estate passed to a cousin, Belle Loney Schwoerer and her husband, Elgin (A-1079, Probate Records). This was the family for whom the Clavey River was named. Whether it was in memory of one particular member (Jane Ann, her husband William, or son, William R.) is unknown.
The name “Clavey River” apparently did not come into common use until around the turn of this century. On the first “official map” of Tuolumne County, drawn by County Surveyor A. B. Beauvais in 1882, the stream is designated as “Big Canyon Creek.” This may have caused a little confusion because a half—dozen miles to the west was a steep ravine named “Big Canyon,” or “Big Canon,” whose waters joined the North Fork of the Tuolumne River in Section 21, TiN, R16E,
M.D.B.M. The latter creek was well known then because of extensive quartz and placer gold mining activity carried on in its area.
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THE HISTORY OF CLAVEY'S NURSERY INC.
THE HISTORY OF CLAVEY'S NURSERY INC.
CLAVEY'S NURSERY was started in rural Illinois in 1889 by F. D. Clavey. F. D. Clavey is credited with the development and patent of Clavey's Dwarf Honeysuckle.
Elmer Clavey, one of F. D. Clavey's four sons, purchased the rights to the family name and formed his own nursery in Mundelein in 1938 under the name of Elmer Clavey, Inc.
In 1958 Elmer turned his business over to one of his sons, Gordon Clavey. Gordon continued the nursery operation in Mundelein until purchasing 185 acres near Woodstock, Illinois, in 1970. At this time Gordon changed the name to Clavey's Woodstock Nursery Inc. To help make the move a successful one, Gordon made two key employees, Donald Stibbe and George Kopsell, partners.
In 1974 Gordon purchased 200 acres five miles north of the Woodstock location, and moved the nursery to what is now the present site of Clavey's Nursery.
In 1987 Donald Stibbe retired and sold his share of the nursery to George and Gordon. In 1989 George Kopsell became the sole owner of the nursery when Gordon Clavey retired, selling all remaining shares of stock and property to George.
In 1993 George sold the nursery to Kurt Beystehner, a licensed landscape architect, and John Suydam, the previous three year manager of the nursery under George. The name of the nursery was changed to Clavey's Nursery Inc., and in 1994 Kurt bought John's share of the nursery and became the sole owner.
CLAVEY'S NURSERY was started in rural Illinois in 1889 by F. D. Clavey. F. D. Clavey is credited with the development and patent of Clavey's Dwarf Honeysuckle.
Elmer Clavey, one of F. D. Clavey's four sons, purchased the rights to the family name and formed his own nursery in Mundelein in 1938 under the name of Elmer Clavey, Inc.
In 1958 Elmer turned his business over to one of his sons, Gordon Clavey. Gordon continued the nursery operation in Mundelein until purchasing 185 acres near Woodstock, Illinois, in 1970. At this time Gordon changed the name to Clavey's Woodstock Nursery Inc. To help make the move a successful one, Gordon made two key employees, Donald Stibbe and George Kopsell, partners.
In 1974 Gordon purchased 200 acres five miles north of the Woodstock location, and moved the nursery to what is now the present site of Clavey's Nursery.
In 1987 Donald Stibbe retired and sold his share of the nursery to George and Gordon. In 1989 George Kopsell became the sole owner of the nursery when Gordon Clavey retired, selling all remaining shares of stock and property to George.
In 1993 George sold the nursery to Kurt Beystehner, a licensed landscape architect, and John Suydam, the previous three year manager of the nursery under George. The name of the nursery was changed to Clavey's Nursery Inc., and in 1994 Kurt bought John's share of the nursery and became the sole owner.
Bill Clavey in London
People in story: Bill Clavey
Location of story: London
Taken from: http://www.bbc.co.uk/ww2peopleswar/stories/27/a2310427.shtml
“ And that consequently this country is at war with Germany”. These momentous words, that were part of the statement that was spoken by the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, from the Cabinet Room in 10 Downing Street, sounded from our “Philco” wireless at precisely 11.15, that Sunday morning, the 3rd. September 1939. The rest of the Prime Minster’s statement was listened to but I do not think absorbed by my parents who were physically stunned and found it hard to believe that their greatest fear had actually happened. It had been just over twenty years, when they themselves had been only children that the last devastating war had ended. The war that had been spoke of as “The war to end all wars”. Now with a family of their own perhaps they were to face an even greater threat.
Within half of an hour of the announcement, and of being at war, the warning siren, which we had previously heard in practice, sounded its dreadful ominous undulating wail. Surely not, they can’t be coming already, and with uncertainty and not quite sure of what action to take, we all went to the front room window. The siren had stopped and the road outside was deserted apart from two middle-aged gentlemen, who were running like the wind and crossing the road almost opposite us. The news of war had obviously reached them and the siren had urged them to leave wherever they had been and make haste for their homes. One man was small and slim, the other a much larger and corpulent person, who wore a brown suit and was holding a brown bowler hat tightly to his head. Their appearance and attitude reminded me of Laurel and Hardy and a memory, which stayed with me throughout the years. Yes, that comic recollection at a frightening moment was my first memory of the outbreak of the Second World War. Incidentally that first warning alert was a false alarm, for what had been thought to be enemy hostiles flying in over the Kent Coast, turned out to be six friendly aircraft reporting back to Britain after they had received news of the war announcement.
Monday morning came and a lot of activity was going on behind the scenes, which I didn’t comprehend or appreciate. Dad had come to realise that most evacuation groups were full to the limit they could take and indeed most groups had already left for their destination. Mum had been told to prepare to go at short notice and he was to see what he could organise. Around late morning he returned expressing some urgency for us to leave. Outside was a firm’s car into which Mum, Ron and I were hastened, together with the small amount of luggage we were taking and of course our gas masks. Also coming with us in the car and on our impending journey was Sid Robertson’s Wife Renee and their very young daughter Iris. We travelled to Plough Road School in Battersea, close to the Granada, Clapham, where the evacuation party had not yet left and Dad had managed to fix it for us to join it at the last minute. He also had arranged for my Aunt Lil and my cousins Bob and Bryan to go too, and they were waiting for us when we got there. Mum gave Dad a last minute message, to get Gran and my Uncle George to leave their home in Clapham and use our house in Wandsworth, as it would be safer. Mum’s yardstick being the further from the dead centre of London the smaller the risk.
After hurried goodbyes to the few Fathers that could be there, we were whisked off in L.C.C. coaches to Paddington Station where we boarded a steam train that had already a number of evacuees on it. The three ladies in our group managed to get seated altogether and there may have been seats for us children, but I cannot recall, as I am certain I never had any intention of spending much time sitting down. This was the first corridor train I had been on and spent much of this part of the journey out of the compartment and up and down the corridor with a mob of other kids. We pulled into Bristol Temple Mead Station where we had to wait for a time, while our engine was changed for a local steam engine. Our engine replaced, we pulled out from the station bound for what was to be our intended destination, and some adult cheerfully implied that us children would all be on the beach the next day.
We arrived in Weston Super Mare, where we waited in the station for some considerable time; eventually the news was filtered back through the train that the town could not take us, as it was already bursting at the seams with evacuees. After some further time the train started travelling back in the direction from where we came, but obviously we must have transferred onto another track, as we arrived at the town of Clevedon where to we were also told we could not be accommodated. The day was now turning into early evening and the only food we had had all day was the small amount of food we had brought from home and weariness was starting to get to everyone. I feel certain by then, resignation and the thought of the possibility that we wouldn’t get in anywhere and that they might yet have to take us all back home, was starting to creep into our Mothers’ minds. However when at last we arrived in the town of Portishead and with relief it was realised they could take us, we knew our journey was over.
After disembarking from the train, a large group of us were taken to a village hall, with our small group of eight, all the time, trying to keep together. We joined a group already in the hall, but stood a little apart from them. These folk turned out to be the local people who we were to stay with. From a small stage, the billeting officer, an elderly gentleman who with a couple of assistants, started to call out names. Gradually someone from our group would join up with someone from the other group and together they left the hall. Renee Robertson was the first of us to go and she left, with her baby Iris in her arms and a small wave goodbye and she left with quite a smart young couple. Aunt Lil was called next and she went off bustling Bob and Bryan along in front her like a couple of ducklings, and following a sour looking not very endearing couple. Slowly and progressively the hall was emptying and by now I felt tired and I am certain Mum and Ron were to. Eventually we were standing there alone, and it was then the billeting officer came over to us and placing his arms around Ron's and my shoulders, said to Mum you are coming with me. We got into the benevolent old gentleman’s car and we were driven up the hill to “Tower Farm”. Our first visit to Somerset had started, although a surprisingly short visit as was to turn out to be.
To tired that night to take in or remember anything, as it must have been straight to bed, although, I slightly recall as we entered the house in the evening twilight, the smell of lavender and the smell of oil lamps. However it was all very different the next morning, having slept in the cosiest bed ever with beautiful white linen sheets and the plumpest of pillows I was now raring to explore. Firstly waking with the sun streaming through the leaded light windows into the dark wood panelled room that was really comfortably furnished in a delightful country style, and this was to be the bedroom for Mum, Ron and myself. However what was really exciting was the realisation that our room was the top room in a castle tower, from which you could only leave by descending a winding stone staircase that circled down to a grand entrance hall. In this hall stood a large grandfather clock but more important a wooden aeroplane propeller, which to me was awe inspiring. The propeller, and sadly as it turned out, was from the aeroplane in which the pilot son of Mr and Mrs Beasley had been killed, in the Great War. Mr and Mrs Beasley was a delightful old couple who made us immediately welcome, and by coincidence Mr Beasley had been an acquaintance of Mr Jack Seccombe, the company Chairman of Slumberland in Birmingham and Dad’s supreme boss. It would appear that they had played golf together on many an occasion. A small world!
From the house, the drive, which ran to the front gates, was lined both sides with wooden sheds of great age and character and were full of old farming implements. Flower and vegetable boxing and crating was carried out in these sheds and it was in one of these that Mr Beasley took from the wall a rifle and handed to me, saying “We will be taking you to shoot rabbits in the not to distant future”. Now in all honesty I know not whether the promise was meant or even if the rifle worked, but to my young mind, I now possessed a real gun and I was going hunting. I can remember walking around with the rifle over my shoulder like some “Great White Hunter”. Behind the sheds were large walled gardens, which were full of produce. The walls were high and made of red brick and on one beautiful sunny evening I remember Mr Beasley picking a fully ripe peach from a cordon tree attached to a sun drenched wall and giving it to Mum, and this had been unbelievable to us Londoners. After us boys had gone off to bed at the end of the day, Mum would sit with the Beasleys in their sitting room and have supper. This consisted of a large cheese board with a huge piece of Cheddar cheese on it and from which a generous helping was cut and handed to her. This she ate accompanied by biscuits from a large container placed along side her, and the continued insistence by her host to have more. A large cup of cocoa went with it. A very Somerset traditional and civilised way for an adult to finish the day, but to Mum it was all very new and strange. One evening, after bidding goodnight to the Beasleys, she made a fairly early exit to bed. Closing the sitting room door behind her, she climbed the spiralling dark staircase up to our room at the top and to where we were sound asleep. When she was nearing the top she claimed that she saw a dark shadowy figure, which was descending the stairs towards her, and she felt an icy presence, as it went by. She often recounted that experience in later years when recollections to Portishead were made. Whether it was a ghost Mum encountered, or the result of to much cheese, I shall never know, but I often wondered if it might have had something to do with the Beasley’s dead pilot son. A scarey thought when you are young, but as I grew older and reflected back, I felt it would have been nice if it had have been.
Mum, whilst Ron and I stayed behind and played on the farm, had already been into Portishead by car with Mr Beasley to shop for things that had become essential. But now for the first time, since arriving, we were on our own, and the three of us left the farm to investigate the local area, but secretly though, Mum wanted to see if she could find her sister Lily. Out into the lane and needing to decide which way to go, looking left we could see the chimneys of Portishead Power Station and to the right a few house tops, so that was the way we went. The houses were a little further than we thought, but after awhile and as we were approaching them, walking gently down hill, from around the bend by a church came Aunt Lil with Bryan in a pushchair and Bob hanging onto its side. They looked terribly exhausted and when they got to us, Mum and her Sister fell into each other’s arms as if they hadn’t laid eyes on each other for months. It could have been at the most only two or three days since they last saw each other.
. It would appear they had set out to find us and had walked for miles. From the conversation that followed it would have appeared their accommodation and the people they were staying with, were nowhere like ours. The people had hardly spoken to them since they had arrived and they had been pushed off to their room with an oil lamp and they had hardly left it. I believe that later it was always referred to as “Cold Comfort Farm”. Aunt Lil had news of Renee Robertson. She had seen Renee, with the family she was accommodated with, outside the house where she was staying. Renee had given her the impression that she was very happy, and after Aunt Lil had spied the tennis court in the garden she felt that Renee had come out of things rather well.
Dad arrived out of the blue on Saturday morning with Sid. They had left Wandsworth early that morning to spend a relaxing weekend with their families. This seemed the happiest time ever, for me now Dad had arrived and I had wanted to show him all the exciting things that were around “Tower Farm”. What I hadn’t realised that Mum was unhappy and indeed homesick and she was already expressing to him her wish to go home. Sid went off to see his wife with the news that we were going home, and within a short time had returned with Renee who had decided that she wanted to go home too. It appeared her situation at the house where she was staying, was not as comfortable as had seemed by appearances, for she had been looked on as a domestic servant by the people she was staying with. Into the car we piled and over to where Aunt Lil was billeted, and in what must have been no more than two minutes the three of them were squeezing in the car with us. So it was then that ten of us (5 Adults and 5 children) in a 1934 grey Austin saloon car left and said farewell to Somerset after perhaps one of the shortest evacuation periods of the war, to return to London and home, but why? How could we have left that paradise? Of course I hadn’t been in on the discussion. I have often wondered since about old Mr and Mrs Beasley, and how thy must have felt, One minute they had three evacuees, who they had made at home and had appeared very content, and the next minute they had gone, those three evacuees, who had been hand, picked by Mr Beasley himself, as the billeting Officer.
On many occasion I have wished I could have returned to “Tower Farm” as I grew older, but the Beasleys were of an age that it would have been doubtful if they had been alive by the time I could have visited under my own steam. “Tower Farm” itself was demolished in 1968, to make way for a large housing development, and on a recent visit of nostalgia to the area barely anything was recognisable, for only one small section of wall remained on just a small stretch of lane. Even the power station chimneys that I had seen from the farm gate had been pulled down and had gone.
The journey home was a long one, for it must be remembered that there were no motorways and very few dual carriageways in those days. Sid had already driven the journey down that morning and he would be driving all the way home, as Dad couldn’t drive at that time. The car was seriously over crowded and we were weighed down with luggage as well, so with the old fashion leaf springs well compressed and having to deal with uneven roads, it all led to a very bumpy ride. The journey started very well for me, as I was standing on the front passenger seat with my feet between Dad’s legs and with my head and shoulders out of the sunroof. The use of seat belts was also along way off and not yet dreamt of with regard to cars. This grandstand position to start with was exhilarating as we sailed through the centre of Bristol and on towards Bath. From there and on through Chippenham and Marlborough along the A4, and by then the journey was starting to drag out. The late afternoon sunshine was still bright but it had now started to turn decidedly chilly and so I was content to share the available space in the front passenger well, with Ron, but it was cramped with no space to curl up for a sleep. After a couple of stops at roadside cafes and by the time we had got to Reading it was dark, and the first effect and experience of the new blackout restrictions were encountered. There was no street lights or lights in the shop windows. The traffic lights had been shield and not so easy seen, as were the car headlights which made it that much harder to see the way ahead, so driving was that much more difficult and progress that much slower. Travelling through the outskirts to the western approaches of London the roads were quite desolate and no lights could be seen from the houses on either side. Buses, with their interior lights at just a low wattage became visible only when they were almost on top of you. Finally we reached Hammersmith Broadway and turned off towards Wandsworth, and nearly home.
I think we arrived at our front door around 10o/clock at night, all bedraggled and quite worn out. Dad gave a couple of loud knocks on the door, before opening it with his key. Through the stained glass of the front door, the light of the kitchen, as its door open, showed along the hallway. Down the passage came my Gran, escorted by Uncle George and Uncle Bert, obviously wondering who this could be at this time of night, and maybe even thinking that it could be the Nazi invaders! “Oh my goodness what are you doing home” had said Gran in disbelief at seeing us. The house smelt of the piece of smoked haddock that had been cooked for George’s tea, and it could be seen that Gran and the others were comfortably settled in for the duration.
The next day, my Gran, my Uncles, Aunt Lil, Bobby and Brian went back to their homes. In less than a week our complete change of life as evacuees in Somerset had taken place, was now over, and we had reverted back to life as normal in “51”. Yes it was “Take Two”, and we started our war over again.
And it was to be life more or less as normal. After the initial apprehension and dread in the first few days of the outbreak of the war and after the two or three false air raid alarms, the urgency subsided. Of course preparations for war and defence continued, more and more service uniforms and civil defence uniforms were appearing on the streets, and the barrage balloon had arrived on the common along with a half dozen or so W.A.A.F. personnel. The councilmen converted our coal cellar into an air raid shelter, and at the Slumberland factory, shelters were being built for the workers. In the streets broad white bands were painted around all the trees and lampposts and kerbs received a strip of white paint about every six foot. This was to assist people after dark, in the black out.
Because of the insatiable need for metal for the manufacture of munitions, the Government had decided that it needed to confiscate all the available metal in the country. One day, slowly down the road came workmen who were systematically removing every cast iron railing and front gate and throwing it into the lorry that moved along side it. Our squeaking gate and railings were roughly hacked off and disappeared into that lorry forever. Left behind were little 2-inch stumps that remained like that for decades.
However the weeks were going by, and although the news in Europe was not good, the feared Aerial Bombardment of Britain had not taken place. The threat seemed to be diminishing with the public’s awareness of Britain’s continuing preparedness and the thought that perhaps the Germans had more than enough to cope with elsewhere. In fact complacency set in and the war was being spoke of as “The Phoney War”. With the Civil Defence preparations more or less complete, its service members were getting bored with the long hours of watch duty and hanging about. Games of darts and cards became the order of the day. The public were finding such restrictions as the blackout getting them down, and fed up with being shouted at, should a chink of light escape, with “Put that light out”, from the local constabulary or air warden.
School had very soon restarted, but only one classroom was needed in the large school building of three floors, and initially lessons took place for only two or three days a week. However soon and as other children started to returned home from evacuation the school quickly increased to having several more classes. Two classrooms on the ground floor had their large windows covered completely with stacked sandbags, to a thickness of about eight bags; these classrooms were our air raid shelters for our use during school hours.
Shortages had not really started to take place yet, and I remember it was around this period Ron and I, both had like fawn colour overcoats with large matching soft flat caps, bought for us on the “Never, never”. Mum, at that time paid a few shillings each week to a collector who called and every so often she would receive a chit for an amount that she could spend. It would be then that us two boys were taken over to Hugh Wylies, a tally firm, who had a showroom in a small parade alongside Lambeth Town Hall, to be fitted out. This method of purchase was a popular and generally accepted way of buying clothes and household goods amongst ordinary folk. It also was about this time Mum got her first Hoover vacuum cleaner, although our carpeting then only stretched to a few rugs. We continued to eat more or less the same variety of food as in the past, and I cannot recall any particular food shortage at that early stage of the war.
It was around this time though the instruction came from the Ministry of Food that we should “Dig for Victory”, and so it was that Dad became a vegetable gardener? The back lawn disappeared, and I made the attempted to do the same, but it seemed I was an essential requirement in the tilling of at least one row of earth each day. I can not recall how much success we had in the production of vegetables, but I do remember included in this new husbandry of the garden, was a Light Sussex cockerel and six hens, a Rhode Island Red cockerel also with six hens, plus a couple of tiny Black Leghorns. One of the Leghorns was nicknamed “Spitfire” because she was the fastest thing you ever saw on two legs, plus she laid the biggest eggs we had ever seen. Our two cockerels were two fine looking specimens, but because of inexperience, we hadn’t realised that we should not have kept two such birds in so closer quarters, and there were often instinctive fights between them. The Larger Light Sussex Cock always seemed to come off worse against the smaller Rhode Island Red, and sometimes he looked a sorry sight with blood covering his pure white feathers. To make up our miniature farmyard, came several rabbits, installed in individual hutches that had been made by Dad, as indeed the chicken house had been, from wood off cuts from the factory. We had now guaranteed our egg supply, and the occasional chicken or rabbit dinner. The two cockerels would separately and in due time become our Christmas dinner. The battle worn Light Sussex eventually had some respite, as his opponent was first go to the oven. Unfortunately when it came to his turn, he didn’t go without a fuss. Dad could never manage the knack of wringing chicken necks efficiently, especially when it came to cockerels, so he chose to use his fireman’s axe, and behead them. This he did with their heads in a sack so that he didn’t have to see the deadly deed, but this seldom led to an effective accomplishment. Just as with the Duke of Monmouth in the “Civil War”, it took about five strokes of the axe to put away our Light Sussex.
We kept chicken and rabbits for about three years, and it was Ron and my weekly chore to visit the corn chandlers to collect their food and bedding materials. Crouch and Son were in Garrett Lane about three quarters of a mile away, and every Saturday morning we could be seen struggling back home with 7 LB bags of balancer meal for the chickens and oatmeal for the rabbits. A large bale of straw and a bundle of hay were either dragged along or carried on our head. The mixing of the feed and the feeding was mainly down to us, although Mum cooked the potato peelings on the gas stove. Our war effort also entailed us going out on a regular basis, with a bucket and a shovel and search for horse manure, that was good for the garden and left behind by the traders’ horse and carts. On many occasion after Ron and I had reconnoited for the daily deposits, Dad would come in and chastise us for dereliction of duty, as he had just seen some down the road, and off we were sent again. Sometimes just to miss out as some else that got there first.
The time of not being to inconvenienced by war and not being threatened was however fast running out, and it wasn’t to be long before the German U-boat menace, started to have its effect on our food convoys in the Atlantic. At the beginning of January 1940, during one of the coldest recorded winters, which was unimaginably cold, food rationing started and with certain foodstuff disappearing from our diet, for several years.
The German Luftwaffe’s first raids on the British Isles were on the Shetland and Orkney Islands, and the first bomb to fall on British soil was in Shetland, killing a rabbit. Which was great propaganda, and led to the song “Run Rabbit Run” gaining renewed popularity and which was repeatedly sung on the radio. It stayed a war time favourite and was sung in many of the impromptu sing-a-long sessions that were initiated by people in the air raid shelters to distract their attention away from the turmoil of the raid going on outside. But perhaps purely to while away the long monotonous hours that could occur between raids.
Suddenly in the middle of May 1940 there was an obvious turn for the worst in Europe, with the German Army starting to overrun the Low Countries and invading France, there was the start of evacuation of the British Exbitionary Force from Dunkirk and the Channel Ports. On June 14th, which was my 9th.birthday day, Paris fell to the Germans, and by the middle of June the evacuation of the Allied Armies from Europe had been completed and the battle of France was over. The Battle of Britain was now about to begin.
At the end of June 1940 the sirens wailed out again in London, for the first time since September 1939. The German bombers had started to make spasmodic raids on the Capital, during daylight hours and at night, but at this stage its main concentration was on coastal installations and shipping in the Thames estuary, together with the R.A.F airfields of Kent. On these airfields the growing number of Hurricane and Spitfire fighter squadrons were flying almost continuous missions against a vastly stronger enemy machine that was now starting to make its raids, in an ever growing horde of heavily laden bombers and fighter planes, further inland. For the next three months the battle in the air over Southern England was to be fought at such intensity that it would cost thousands of lives and aircraft. The air battles were fought in the main over the County of Kent, but I can clearly recall watching, high in the late summer blue sky, above Wandsworth, the large swirling vapour trails of the R.A.F. fighter aircraft locked in conflict with the German planes, “Dog Fights”, as they were known.
It was somewhere around this period, when air raids were few and far between in London and with the sirens mainly sounding during the day and with very little or no bombing yet to be experienced in most of the London area. There must have been no tension or feeling of threat that evening when Dad decided to take us all to the pictures, and we took the bus to Putney. I suppose we had been in the Palace cinema no more than three-quarters of an hour, when the set of three coloured lights on either side of the screen changed from the green lights being lit to the yellow lights coming on. There were three colours, the green indicated All Clear and there was no enemy activity expected, the yellow light indicated a caution and that the warning had sounded and enemy aircraft was over the coast and approaching the Capital, The red of caused was for danger and indicated enemy aircraft virtually overhead. As the yellow lights came on, a loud groan went round the cinema and a large proportion of people including us left. Outside the evening sunshine was still just about there, but dusk was coming in. The siren had already stopped and it was very quite everywhere apart from the people who had just left the pictures and striding out down the road. There were no buses; these had probably stopped because of the impending raid, so Dad got us marching as fast as he could back home along Putney Bridge Road towards Wandsworth, with all of us using our eyes to scan the sky and our ears straining to hear the first sound of gunfire or the sound of aircraft. By the time we reach Wandsworth, which is a fair walk from Putney, we still hadn’t seen a bus, but also fortunately hadn’t seen or heard any enemy activity. We broke off through the back turnings to make a bit of a shortcut for home and I knew now we were not going to catch a bus, and we going to walk the whole way. It was now getting dark and searchlights were starting to pierce the night sky with an urgency and expectancy. The Alert was still in operation and so the enemy must have been still about. But I was by now not only fearful but also tired, and when we reach our front door very relieved. I remember that just about the time we arrived home the “All Clear” sounded, but I don’t think we went to the pictures again in the evening, anyway not for at least a couple of years.
So it came quickly to the time of regularly using the air raid shelter at school and our own shelter in our cellar. Suddenly to be woken up at night, especially at the commencement of the night raids, and being told to dress quickly and hurry to the cellar, was to me very alarming. Especially seeing the searchlights already sweeping the night sky, and knowing that you had to get down two flights of stairs before you reached the relative safety of the shelter. The cellar was dank and still smelt of the coal that had once been kept there. Just Mum, Ron and I were, in the main, the only users of the cellar. The two people, who lived in the top part of the house, the man had gone into the Army and his wife was staying away at her Mothers. Dad seemed to come and go, spending some time with us, but mostly in the fire duty room over at the factory, and popping back occasionally to see how we were faring. Mostly he was on standby waiting for a fire call from his parent fire station at West Hill. The Sumberland fire crew, had been requisitioned, and were now under the direct control of the London Fire Brigade and available to be sent anywhere. It was in the cellar that I first heard the sound of German bomber aircraft overhead and the reverberating barrage of gunfire that met their approach and experiencing of the first shudder and crunch of bombs exploding. Although at this time, we were in late summer months, I felt cold in spite of a blanket around my shoulders. I feel certain this was because of fear. Here we came to recognise the sound differences between the Allied aircraft and the German bombers, whose heavy engine drone had an undulating throb, whereas our planes had a good steady rhythm. In these early bombing raids the German planes would drop sticks of bombs numbering around about eight bombs, the exact number I can not remember, but they would fall with a loud whistle. I believe these were called screaming bombs, but we could count them as they fell, and knowing how many more there was to come, and uncrossing our fingers when we knew the remaining bombs in the stick were falling beyond us.
Dad who by this time seemed to be in charge of everything over at the factory, had decided that it made no sense for the air shelters there to be standing empty at night. He decided to ask and obtained permission from Birmingham head office, for them to be used by those workers and their families who wanted to, and also by local resident families living close by. I feel the original idea for this came from Mum, who had decided that our cellar was not the place she wanted to be.
The Sumberland factory shelter system consisted of four air raid shelters, Green, Yellow, Blue and Orange which were interlinked around a command centre, known as the Squad shelter, with a fifth one, the Red Shelter, on it own at the other end of the factory. During the day, and when an air raid was in progress, it was from the Squad shelter that the factory workers received intruction to hurry to their designated shelter. This was given when advice that German aircraft had been sight by the plane spotters on the factory roof. Instructions to return to the factory floor after the all clear had sounded were issued in the same manner. The Squad was also the entertainment centre! It was from here the popular records of the day were played and the B.B.C’s programme “Workers Playtime” and the like was relayed over the factory Tannoy system.
We were given a corner in the Squad; I suppose you could say it was for the night time duration of the war. Decent mattresses were supplied from the works and it was all very warm and comfortable. We shared it with three or four other management families, and I guess it could have been called the officer’s quarters, or being up with “The Jones”, and it could be said we had moved up one rung on the social ladder. There were no calls for a classless society then. My bed was tucked into a four foot high recess, above which was a massive block of concrete that was the foundation to the supports for a large metal and wood conveyor that carried produced goods to the loading bays above. Each night before I went to sleep I would look up at this huge piece of concrete, and petrify myself with thought, as to the out come of a direct hit by a bomb above, and picturing this vast lump falling and obliterating me. The interconnection of the shelters were via small metal blast proof doors and I feel that the adults must have been sometimes pretty browned off with what must have seemed a constant caravan of children passing in and out of these doors and through various shelters. The atmosphere of each shelter varied. In some a continuous buzz of conversation ensued till quite late and many card schools became a regular habit. The local resident’s shelter I recall as the quietest and where everyone tried to settle down for the night at a reasonable time, and where the lights were dimmed early. It was in this shelter, when late roaming children were going through, and I was often with them, a voice would call after them “Why don’t you kids get back to your own shelter”.
It had been a glorious late summer September day and the sirens having sounded early; we were away quickly to the shelter. Nothing forewarned us and we could not possibly have known or realised at the time that this night would be one of the worst nights of our personal war and the start of nightly air raids. This was to be the start of the “London Blitz”, Saturday September 7th 1940.
Dad and the fire crew had already been ordered away, and they had left in the fire tender at 16.45 for Old Kent Road Fire Station where they were to stand by. We settled into our spot in the shelter for the long evening and night, but it was obvious by the barrage and commotion going on outside that it was turning into something a bit more than normal. There was more tension and worry going around the shelter occupants that night, than there was usually. It seemed like the early hours of the morning, but it was certainly sometime during the night, when word was coming through the shelters that London was all afire. Because there was a lull in the raid, people gradually filed out through the catacomb of shelters, me amongst them, to see what was going on. Coming out behind the main office block, we floundered, in the dark and in small groups, along a cobbled stone footpath to the corner of the building. As I turned the corner and looked out through the main gates, eastwards towards London, it appeared as if the whole World was about to come to an end. The sky was alight, from a deep red above to a cauldron of yellow fire behind the housetops that were a few hundred yards away. Everyone was awe-struck and little was being said. I overheard and remember the words well “They’re up there”, obviously referring to the fire crew, but can not recall whether they were Mum’s words or those of a wife of another member of the crew.
The next morning around 9.30 am, Dad and the others all returned save and sound, although soaking wet and stained with soot. They had been all night in the thick of it, fighting fires in the Canada and Surrey Docks, where at one time they had had to avoid machine gun bullets from the planes above. They were out again that same night dealing with fires up town, and at this stage although only classified as auxiliary firemen were called away regularly to fight fires in many other parts of the Capital. It should also of course be remembered that they had essential day work in the factory that could not be neglected. Slumberland was now heavily into Government contracts, which didn’t only involve the making of beds for the military, but also the making of parachutes, emergency rubber water tanks, military webbing, to repairing R.A.F aircraft gantries, and many other types of war equipment.
During that first week of “The Blitz”, Dad was slightly injured whilst fighting a fire at Kingwood Road School, just off Fulham Palace Road. They had been fighting a blaze for about two and half hours, when a delayed action bomb exploded close by. The blast of which threw him and his colleague to the ground, causing the hose that they were manning to snake away well off the ground and coiling about dangerously, so fierce was the water thrust. The incident did not prevent him being in the factory the next day or reporting for duty the following night.
Nightly and for many weeks air raids were to continue and were unrelenting, but somehow our daily domestic lives went on, including having to attend school, with Ron now old enough to go. You got used to seeing in a road, sections of terraced houses now just a pile of debris, and roads suddenly becoming “No entry” because of extensive bomb damage, or even to having an unexploded one there. At the end of a street that had one of these, in the centre of the road, would be a red notice board stating “Unexploded Bomb- Keep Away “, with just a “Special” constable or the like close by to make certain folk did stay clear.
East Hill Congregational Church was fire bombed on the 15th October, and in spite of the Slumberland’s fire crew being in attendance the church itself was gutted and sadly that original interior could now only be put to memory. On Tuesday 29th October, at 1.30, in the early hours, the Slumberland factory received a direct hit by a high explosive bomb and several incendiary bombs. The main bomb hit the top of a dividing brick wall and ricocheting into the factory workshop next us, rather than towards us. The wall gave us protection from the main blast and our shelter was only covered with light debris, but its exit was blocked. Because of the shelter system, there were other exits, so we were not trapped but we stayed where we were until morning. The fires that had been burning around the factory had been successfully put out, and Dad appeared with others, having cleared the entrance of debris, through the door at 7.30. I think his words were something like “That was close”, and with that we scrambled out and trooped home for breakfast.
During November the intensity of the air raids slackened a little, although still severe, as Hitler’s bombers turned their attention to other British cities and for a period London was not the main target and we started to have longer intervals between raids. By now we had become toughened and very wide-awake to the dreadful weeks that we had just come through. There was no one to complain to, for Londoners at this time, it had to be a case of grin and bear it and just a matter of keeping your head down, and praying it was God’s Will that you would get through this. At that time it was difficult to see how we would, for it seemed as if Hitler might have been winning the war. Fortunately we had, Winston Churchill, who had the ability to install a “Bulldog Spirit” into the people at this time
Soon after midnight, at around 1 am Saturday morning 16th November, West Hill Fire Station (88 W) received a direct hit from a high explosive bomb, and Slumberland fire tender was summoned to give immediate assistance. They spent the night helping to rescue survivors, but unfortunately six of their fellow A.F.S. comrades had perished in the explosion. The men had been in the rest room awaiting their order to proceed to a fire incident when the bomb struck. They hadn’t stood a chance, for in spite of diving under the billiard table. The bomb had exploded to close, just above their heads. Next day in school, one of the girls from my class was not in her desk. One of the firemen who had died had been her Father.
As we came close to Christmas that year, surprisingly and how we knew I cannot remember, but we learnt that Hitler was not to send his bombers to England on Christmas Day and indeed this is how it turned out. The Country was free of fear that one day and seemed to make the most of it. In our household, before our Christmas lunch, Dad with Sid Robertson had gone to West Hill fire station, which was again functioning, and had taken for the permanent station members a Christmas box on behalf of The Crown Bedding Company. After the four of us had had our Christmas Dinner, and during the afternoon, most of our relations arrived from Battersea and Clapham. How the arrangements had been made I shall never know, as there was no telephones within our family homes in those days, but we had a party that lasted all the rest of that day and until around six o/clock the next morning. Sometime during that morning after a short uncomfortable sleep in, varied uncomfortable chairs, they braced themselves, kids as well, against the freezing winter weather and our kinfolk walked the whole distance back home. So ended our short respite from the bombing, for before the New Year had arrived the air raids had begun again. On the 29th December a devastating fire bomb raid on London destroyed many famous buildings and churches, and killed over two thousand people. Since the start of the air raids, nearly twenty one thousand British civilians had been killed
It indeed was an extremely cold winter and the nightly preparation and walk to and from the shelter became mentally draining, especially for my Mother and we began to become a little indifferent to the uncertainties of the times. We had of course by this stage become very practised in preparation for air raids, and we had started to have the tendency not to go to the shelter until the air raid siren sounded. This was with the hope it wouldn’t go off that night, and we would get a restful night in our own beds. Although occasionally at first, and as the war progressed more regularly we did get to sleep in our beds. However this new practise led to many a time having to make a dash for the shelter, with the sound of gunfire and the drone of enemy bombers echoing in our ears. One icy cold, bright moon lit night in January we had indeed left it rather late, for while in Indian file we were traversing the planks of wood that lay across the frozen mud on the factory forecourt, the sound of gunfire was immediately overhead. I could hear the tingle of shrapnel as it hit the surrounding rooftops. Suddenly in front of Mum, a slither of shrapnel, around six inches in length pierced the plank we were on, only some six feet away, where it remained erect and shimmering silver in the moonlight. It had been a close shave.
One night in April 1941, Wednesday the 16th to be precise, Mum woke me up; saying a raid had started. Ron and I, by now slept in the ground floor bedroom that had been our parent’s room. We quickly dressed and hurried with her to the kitchen. The guns were already banging away outside, and the three of us got beneath our dining room draw-leaf table. Dad had earlier left and was on stand-by at the factory. Waking from a deep sleep and with frightening events taking place close to, is a very harrowing experience for anyone let alone a child, so it was not surprising that both Ron and I quickly wanted to wee, but in no way were we prepared to go out to the lavatory. Mum got out and got a child’s enamel chamber pot which in those days was affectionately known as a Jerry, and which both of us boys gratefully used. We stayed there for sometime, huddled together, and Dad’s popped in to see that we were all right and felt it was best if we stayed where we were for the time being. Not long after he left us there was a violent explosion, which was obviously a very close and large bomb. The windows blew in, and there were sounds of things smashing all around us. Our light went out and obviously the electricity had been put out of action. Mum had her torch with her, the customary necessity those days, but before she used it, she had observed in the darkness the glowing embers of our kitchen fire from the evening before. Realising the fire danger, she crawled from beneath the table and emptied the contents of the Jerry into the grate and extinguished them. What I didn’t know was that at this period Mum was over six months pregnant. Naturally as soon as she had ascertained everything was all right with us, her concern went to Dad who had only left moments before the explosion.
Dad after leaving us stopped to chat with the air raid warden, at the air raid post opposite our house. Suddenly they observed a parachute some hundred or so feet high and drifting above them and on along the road opposite. Their first thoughts were, that it was a German flyer, and they immediately gave chase but just before the parachute and its object below plunged into the roof tops of the houses in Geraldine Road they realised their mistake and turned and started to run as hard as they could. The bomb exploded and they were blown by the blast several yards back down the road with debris flying around them. It had been a large 1000lb parachute bomb. Fortunately both Dad and the warden were perfectly okay, and were able to join in with the first rescuers at the scene. The bomb had destroyed a complete block of houses and including our superb 3year old library, but tragically we said goodbye that night to seventeen civilians who had been friends and neighbours. One middle aged lady who I knew well by sight, had at the time that the bomb struck, just left her front gate to give her small white scotch terrier his late walk. Her body was found lodged on top of a telephone box at the bottom of Dault Road, over a hundred yards away.
The damage to our own house was not severe, but we lost all our windows in the blast. In our bedroom the glass French door had blown, and Ron’s bed which had been in a direct line was covered with broken glass and the wooden dividing doors alongside his bed was imbedded with fragments of glass. If Ron had been in the bed there was no doubt he would have been injured.
In writing this story it is not my intention to relate all the sadness and tragedy of what I saw and heard of during the war, but more to recall experiences that did not seem amusing at the time, but on reflection can now bring a smile. However before I progress somewhat more light-heartedly I must recall the disaster and destruction caused by a bomb that fell in Putney that left me with a lifetime memory of horror. It was first thing the next morning that we learnt of a high explosive bomb having scored a direct hit on a dance hall, and that two hundred, mainly military personnel had been killed. It would appear that it had been the only bomb to have fallen on Putney that night. And it had been felt at the time that the reason for this bomb to have been dropped was that a blackout curtain had accidentally been pulled aside to allow a shaft of light to escape skywards. A German bomber having dropped its main payload further back into London dropped its one remaining bomb in the direction of this stark beam of light. I have to admit it was childlike morbid curiosity that led me with two or three other friends to walk to Putney to see the destruction. By the time we got there the bomb scene had been vastly tidied up, but the fire service and Civil Defence were still in attendance and hosepipes and other rescue paraphernalia littered the scene. The smell of dust, dirty water, the cabbagey smell of gas, a whole concoction of smells that in those days you associated with newly destroyed buildings, hung around the area. To one side lay a large pile of service uniform items, mainly greatcoats, which probably would have been taken from what would have been the cloakroom?
We watched for a time the work going on which was one of making the site safe and clearing up the fringe rubble but eventually decided to go down to the river which was close by. The tide was out and we meandered along the foreshore, just near to the starting point of the “University Boat Race”. There were always something left behind by the ebbing tide, to take the interest of youngsters. This morning the Thames had left behind something dreadful. Several sea gulls, which had been scavenging around, took off as we arrived at the spot to see what had been their interest. Lying close to the water's edge were what appeared to be two or three large pieces of flesh that was now white and bloodless through their immersion in river water. Our small group stood around one of the pieces of flesh, which someone prodded it with a stick, and another of us put a toe into, trying to make out what it was. It was not immediate, but suddenly in a flash we all realised what we were looking at were pieces of human bodies. The bomb blast had carried them into the river. Whereas all of the dead and injured had been removed and anything horrific, had been taken away from the bombsite and the surrounding area, the River Thames had concealed anything that had fallen into it until it was at low tide. We children had discovered these remains that had gone unnoticed and we did no more than to depart the vicinity quickly and with the horror at what we had discovered. We did not report what we had found, I think we were to young and not proficient enough to have considered doing that, but I should imagine, my friends of that day, as like myself, would carry that macabre image for the rest of their lives.
Fierce and regular day and night raids were to continue throughout the next months, indeed all the way through the spring. During one period of non stop nightly raids, on one of Dad’s rare nights off duty it was arranged that a Slumberland delivery lorry should be used to take a group of those people who wished to, out of London for the night into the country. An opportunity to get away from the continuos air attacks and to experience a restful night or that was the idea. Of course our little family was part of the group, and in fact Ron and I were the only children who went, apart from the little two year old Iris Robertson. The rest of the party was made up, in the main some factory girls and a few men who up till then had not been called up into the forces. There was a total of some twenty-six of us and it was a happy go lucky band. Mum, Dad, Ron and I were to share the Luton, that is the part of the van that protrudes over the driver’s cabin, and up there the four of us were to sleep, wrapped in our own blankets and on a double mattress from the factory.
The lorry travelled out through West London, with its rear doors completely open, and with the crowd inside having a good singsong. Arriving in High Wycombe, it pulled into a pub car park and this was to be our resting-place for the night. It didn’t take long for all the adults to disappear into the pub, but for Ron and I it was a question of watching the open end of the van going from daylight to twilight and eventual blackness. A visit from Dad a couple of times with lemonade and a packet of Smith’s Crisps broke our boredom. Eventually, and after I had just dropped off to sleep the others started to return amidst lots of subdued laughing and noisy attempts to get up into the lorry. Of course I was now very much awake again, and like the others got very little sleep that night, what with the talking and giggling that went on. So much for a restful night away from the bombs! Their enjoyment though did indicate having this short break had had a benefit, but ironically the Luftwaffe hadn’t bomb London that night, so everyone would have achieved a longer sleep at home.
Even in this bad year of 1941 Dad managed to take us away for a short holiday in the early part of the summer. We must have travelled by Southern Railway, as I can remember leaving the train at Chichester and being thrilled at the seeing the wooden level crossing gates being opened by hand and letting the local bus through. The bus we were to catch to East Wittering. We boarded the bus, together with a large crate of chickens that was to be dropped off at a farm along the route. We travelled some six or so miles before getting off at a small parade of shops in Wittering, and this was about half way round the bus’s circular route back to Chichester.
East Wittering at this time was a small seaside village made up of several modest bungalows, a few shops and a couple of pubs. Through a friend of a friend arrangements had been made for us to stay in one of these bungalows, and “Iwanasta” we found in the second lane from the seafront, one of a pot pourri group of unpretentious bungalows. A few were converted railway carriages, some were no more than shacks, and others had been nicely built, but with whatever material had been available at the time. They had all been built around the late 1920’s apart from a couple that had been built in the 30’s and were modern and quite “Art Deco” and a sign of future times for the area. However at this war time period, the immediate locality was very desolate with most of the properties without residents. Some of the local shops were closed for the duration, but the local bakery had remained open, and the smells that issued from there had been delectable. “Iwanasta” was a quaint and reasonably built wooden construction with three bedrooms, and a kitchen leading directly on to the sitting room which in turn lead out to a veranda. There was a garden from which, via a little wooden bridge, you could get to a small field. All in all another new adventure and another found paradise.
The property next door was one of the modern places and had a roof terrace and was also uninhabited, so we all used its outside staircase and sunbathed on the roof. From there I could see the sea, which looked magnificent with the sun shining on it. From the bungalow the sea and the beach were no farther than a couple of hundred yards, across the field, then across the beach road to the beach access between the sea front properties, but that was it, no longer could one get to the beach. The Army had confiscated the land and property on the front. I can remember, with Ron, going as near as we could and up to the barbed wire, peering between two bungalows. Bungalows with their windows broken and their doors off and with sand blown by the wind in piles up the side of the walls and into the open doorways, that had once someone’s home, now desolate and uncared for. Looking through the gap we could see further barb wire and metal framework, which were tank traps, and just a little further the waves breaking on the shingle beach. So near, yet so far and how we felt cheated. Suddenly into the gap strode a uniformed guard, complete with tin hat and rifle. He stopped and peered out to sea. That was it, we had had enough, feeling that we were likely to be arrested if seen and caught. We made a rapid retreat and I do not think we went anywhere near that beach road again during that holiday.
One night, after we had all gone to bed, we heard the sound of aircraft and the noise of distant gunfire. Getting up, we watched from the veranda a heavy air raid on Portsmouth, which we could see at a distance across the field behind us. The searchlights were stabbing the night sky, waving back and forth. The flashing from the gunfire and the exploding bombs was electrifying and on this occasion not at all frightening, because I was watching the whole event quite detached from the affair. I knew that in this instance we were not involved or vulnerable. This holiday was to be the first of several to “Iwanasta”, throughout the forties and the fifties, but I never ever again saw East Wittering in the guise it was at this period of time.
On July 2nd 1941, my sister was born at home and so completed our family of five. She seemed to arrive in a very large cardboard box, but that had turned out to contain her gas mask, one that would envelop her completely. Much discussion took place to what she should be called, and in this I seemed to have had some fringe involvement, for it had appeared to me that a conclusion had been made on what her name was to be. I readily carried the news far and wide to teachers, neighbours and to anyone who ask if I was pleased to have a new baby sister, and to what was her name. To my surprise and certain amount of rebuff I discovered my parents had taken no decision yet and that I had jumped the gun in naming my sister Maureen. However because of my wide establishment of the tidings, and to save mild embarrassment and explanation, my sister became Maureen Rose, known today as Mo. If I hadn’t have interfered she most likely would have been named Wendy, so she can thank me for more than likely becoming known as Windy Rose?
'WW2 People's War is an online archive of wartime memories contributed by members of the public and gathered by the BBC. The archive can be found at bbc.co.uk/ww2peopleswar'
Location of story: London
Taken from: http://www.bbc.co.uk/ww2peopleswar/stories/27/a2310427.shtml
“ And that consequently this country is at war with Germany”. These momentous words, that were part of the statement that was spoken by the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, from the Cabinet Room in 10 Downing Street, sounded from our “Philco” wireless at precisely 11.15, that Sunday morning, the 3rd. September 1939. The rest of the Prime Minster’s statement was listened to but I do not think absorbed by my parents who were physically stunned and found it hard to believe that their greatest fear had actually happened. It had been just over twenty years, when they themselves had been only children that the last devastating war had ended. The war that had been spoke of as “The war to end all wars”. Now with a family of their own perhaps they were to face an even greater threat.
Within half of an hour of the announcement, and of being at war, the warning siren, which we had previously heard in practice, sounded its dreadful ominous undulating wail. Surely not, they can’t be coming already, and with uncertainty and not quite sure of what action to take, we all went to the front room window. The siren had stopped and the road outside was deserted apart from two middle-aged gentlemen, who were running like the wind and crossing the road almost opposite us. The news of war had obviously reached them and the siren had urged them to leave wherever they had been and make haste for their homes. One man was small and slim, the other a much larger and corpulent person, who wore a brown suit and was holding a brown bowler hat tightly to his head. Their appearance and attitude reminded me of Laurel and Hardy and a memory, which stayed with me throughout the years. Yes, that comic recollection at a frightening moment was my first memory of the outbreak of the Second World War. Incidentally that first warning alert was a false alarm, for what had been thought to be enemy hostiles flying in over the Kent Coast, turned out to be six friendly aircraft reporting back to Britain after they had received news of the war announcement.
Monday morning came and a lot of activity was going on behind the scenes, which I didn’t comprehend or appreciate. Dad had come to realise that most evacuation groups were full to the limit they could take and indeed most groups had already left for their destination. Mum had been told to prepare to go at short notice and he was to see what he could organise. Around late morning he returned expressing some urgency for us to leave. Outside was a firm’s car into which Mum, Ron and I were hastened, together with the small amount of luggage we were taking and of course our gas masks. Also coming with us in the car and on our impending journey was Sid Robertson’s Wife Renee and their very young daughter Iris. We travelled to Plough Road School in Battersea, close to the Granada, Clapham, where the evacuation party had not yet left and Dad had managed to fix it for us to join it at the last minute. He also had arranged for my Aunt Lil and my cousins Bob and Bryan to go too, and they were waiting for us when we got there. Mum gave Dad a last minute message, to get Gran and my Uncle George to leave their home in Clapham and use our house in Wandsworth, as it would be safer. Mum’s yardstick being the further from the dead centre of London the smaller the risk.
After hurried goodbyes to the few Fathers that could be there, we were whisked off in L.C.C. coaches to Paddington Station where we boarded a steam train that had already a number of evacuees on it. The three ladies in our group managed to get seated altogether and there may have been seats for us children, but I cannot recall, as I am certain I never had any intention of spending much time sitting down. This was the first corridor train I had been on and spent much of this part of the journey out of the compartment and up and down the corridor with a mob of other kids. We pulled into Bristol Temple Mead Station where we had to wait for a time, while our engine was changed for a local steam engine. Our engine replaced, we pulled out from the station bound for what was to be our intended destination, and some adult cheerfully implied that us children would all be on the beach the next day.
We arrived in Weston Super Mare, where we waited in the station for some considerable time; eventually the news was filtered back through the train that the town could not take us, as it was already bursting at the seams with evacuees. After some further time the train started travelling back in the direction from where we came, but obviously we must have transferred onto another track, as we arrived at the town of Clevedon where to we were also told we could not be accommodated. The day was now turning into early evening and the only food we had had all day was the small amount of food we had brought from home and weariness was starting to get to everyone. I feel certain by then, resignation and the thought of the possibility that we wouldn’t get in anywhere and that they might yet have to take us all back home, was starting to creep into our Mothers’ minds. However when at last we arrived in the town of Portishead and with relief it was realised they could take us, we knew our journey was over.
After disembarking from the train, a large group of us were taken to a village hall, with our small group of eight, all the time, trying to keep together. We joined a group already in the hall, but stood a little apart from them. These folk turned out to be the local people who we were to stay with. From a small stage, the billeting officer, an elderly gentleman who with a couple of assistants, started to call out names. Gradually someone from our group would join up with someone from the other group and together they left the hall. Renee Robertson was the first of us to go and she left, with her baby Iris in her arms and a small wave goodbye and she left with quite a smart young couple. Aunt Lil was called next and she went off bustling Bob and Bryan along in front her like a couple of ducklings, and following a sour looking not very endearing couple. Slowly and progressively the hall was emptying and by now I felt tired and I am certain Mum and Ron were to. Eventually we were standing there alone, and it was then the billeting officer came over to us and placing his arms around Ron's and my shoulders, said to Mum you are coming with me. We got into the benevolent old gentleman’s car and we were driven up the hill to “Tower Farm”. Our first visit to Somerset had started, although a surprisingly short visit as was to turn out to be.
To tired that night to take in or remember anything, as it must have been straight to bed, although, I slightly recall as we entered the house in the evening twilight, the smell of lavender and the smell of oil lamps. However it was all very different the next morning, having slept in the cosiest bed ever with beautiful white linen sheets and the plumpest of pillows I was now raring to explore. Firstly waking with the sun streaming through the leaded light windows into the dark wood panelled room that was really comfortably furnished in a delightful country style, and this was to be the bedroom for Mum, Ron and myself. However what was really exciting was the realisation that our room was the top room in a castle tower, from which you could only leave by descending a winding stone staircase that circled down to a grand entrance hall. In this hall stood a large grandfather clock but more important a wooden aeroplane propeller, which to me was awe inspiring. The propeller, and sadly as it turned out, was from the aeroplane in which the pilot son of Mr and Mrs Beasley had been killed, in the Great War. Mr and Mrs Beasley was a delightful old couple who made us immediately welcome, and by coincidence Mr Beasley had been an acquaintance of Mr Jack Seccombe, the company Chairman of Slumberland in Birmingham and Dad’s supreme boss. It would appear that they had played golf together on many an occasion. A small world!
From the house, the drive, which ran to the front gates, was lined both sides with wooden sheds of great age and character and were full of old farming implements. Flower and vegetable boxing and crating was carried out in these sheds and it was in one of these that Mr Beasley took from the wall a rifle and handed to me, saying “We will be taking you to shoot rabbits in the not to distant future”. Now in all honesty I know not whether the promise was meant or even if the rifle worked, but to my young mind, I now possessed a real gun and I was going hunting. I can remember walking around with the rifle over my shoulder like some “Great White Hunter”. Behind the sheds were large walled gardens, which were full of produce. The walls were high and made of red brick and on one beautiful sunny evening I remember Mr Beasley picking a fully ripe peach from a cordon tree attached to a sun drenched wall and giving it to Mum, and this had been unbelievable to us Londoners. After us boys had gone off to bed at the end of the day, Mum would sit with the Beasleys in their sitting room and have supper. This consisted of a large cheese board with a huge piece of Cheddar cheese on it and from which a generous helping was cut and handed to her. This she ate accompanied by biscuits from a large container placed along side her, and the continued insistence by her host to have more. A large cup of cocoa went with it. A very Somerset traditional and civilised way for an adult to finish the day, but to Mum it was all very new and strange. One evening, after bidding goodnight to the Beasleys, she made a fairly early exit to bed. Closing the sitting room door behind her, she climbed the spiralling dark staircase up to our room at the top and to where we were sound asleep. When she was nearing the top she claimed that she saw a dark shadowy figure, which was descending the stairs towards her, and she felt an icy presence, as it went by. She often recounted that experience in later years when recollections to Portishead were made. Whether it was a ghost Mum encountered, or the result of to much cheese, I shall never know, but I often wondered if it might have had something to do with the Beasley’s dead pilot son. A scarey thought when you are young, but as I grew older and reflected back, I felt it would have been nice if it had have been.
Mum, whilst Ron and I stayed behind and played on the farm, had already been into Portishead by car with Mr Beasley to shop for things that had become essential. But now for the first time, since arriving, we were on our own, and the three of us left the farm to investigate the local area, but secretly though, Mum wanted to see if she could find her sister Lily. Out into the lane and needing to decide which way to go, looking left we could see the chimneys of Portishead Power Station and to the right a few house tops, so that was the way we went. The houses were a little further than we thought, but after awhile and as we were approaching them, walking gently down hill, from around the bend by a church came Aunt Lil with Bryan in a pushchair and Bob hanging onto its side. They looked terribly exhausted and when they got to us, Mum and her Sister fell into each other’s arms as if they hadn’t laid eyes on each other for months. It could have been at the most only two or three days since they last saw each other.
. It would appear they had set out to find us and had walked for miles. From the conversation that followed it would have appeared their accommodation and the people they were staying with, were nowhere like ours. The people had hardly spoken to them since they had arrived and they had been pushed off to their room with an oil lamp and they had hardly left it. I believe that later it was always referred to as “Cold Comfort Farm”. Aunt Lil had news of Renee Robertson. She had seen Renee, with the family she was accommodated with, outside the house where she was staying. Renee had given her the impression that she was very happy, and after Aunt Lil had spied the tennis court in the garden she felt that Renee had come out of things rather well.
Dad arrived out of the blue on Saturday morning with Sid. They had left Wandsworth early that morning to spend a relaxing weekend with their families. This seemed the happiest time ever, for me now Dad had arrived and I had wanted to show him all the exciting things that were around “Tower Farm”. What I hadn’t realised that Mum was unhappy and indeed homesick and she was already expressing to him her wish to go home. Sid went off to see his wife with the news that we were going home, and within a short time had returned with Renee who had decided that she wanted to go home too. It appeared her situation at the house where she was staying, was not as comfortable as had seemed by appearances, for she had been looked on as a domestic servant by the people she was staying with. Into the car we piled and over to where Aunt Lil was billeted, and in what must have been no more than two minutes the three of them were squeezing in the car with us. So it was then that ten of us (5 Adults and 5 children) in a 1934 grey Austin saloon car left and said farewell to Somerset after perhaps one of the shortest evacuation periods of the war, to return to London and home, but why? How could we have left that paradise? Of course I hadn’t been in on the discussion. I have often wondered since about old Mr and Mrs Beasley, and how thy must have felt, One minute they had three evacuees, who they had made at home and had appeared very content, and the next minute they had gone, those three evacuees, who had been hand, picked by Mr Beasley himself, as the billeting Officer.
On many occasion I have wished I could have returned to “Tower Farm” as I grew older, but the Beasleys were of an age that it would have been doubtful if they had been alive by the time I could have visited under my own steam. “Tower Farm” itself was demolished in 1968, to make way for a large housing development, and on a recent visit of nostalgia to the area barely anything was recognisable, for only one small section of wall remained on just a small stretch of lane. Even the power station chimneys that I had seen from the farm gate had been pulled down and had gone.
The journey home was a long one, for it must be remembered that there were no motorways and very few dual carriageways in those days. Sid had already driven the journey down that morning and he would be driving all the way home, as Dad couldn’t drive at that time. The car was seriously over crowded and we were weighed down with luggage as well, so with the old fashion leaf springs well compressed and having to deal with uneven roads, it all led to a very bumpy ride. The journey started very well for me, as I was standing on the front passenger seat with my feet between Dad’s legs and with my head and shoulders out of the sunroof. The use of seat belts was also along way off and not yet dreamt of with regard to cars. This grandstand position to start with was exhilarating as we sailed through the centre of Bristol and on towards Bath. From there and on through Chippenham and Marlborough along the A4, and by then the journey was starting to drag out. The late afternoon sunshine was still bright but it had now started to turn decidedly chilly and so I was content to share the available space in the front passenger well, with Ron, but it was cramped with no space to curl up for a sleep. After a couple of stops at roadside cafes and by the time we had got to Reading it was dark, and the first effect and experience of the new blackout restrictions were encountered. There was no street lights or lights in the shop windows. The traffic lights had been shield and not so easy seen, as were the car headlights which made it that much harder to see the way ahead, so driving was that much more difficult and progress that much slower. Travelling through the outskirts to the western approaches of London the roads were quite desolate and no lights could be seen from the houses on either side. Buses, with their interior lights at just a low wattage became visible only when they were almost on top of you. Finally we reached Hammersmith Broadway and turned off towards Wandsworth, and nearly home.
I think we arrived at our front door around 10o/clock at night, all bedraggled and quite worn out. Dad gave a couple of loud knocks on the door, before opening it with his key. Through the stained glass of the front door, the light of the kitchen, as its door open, showed along the hallway. Down the passage came my Gran, escorted by Uncle George and Uncle Bert, obviously wondering who this could be at this time of night, and maybe even thinking that it could be the Nazi invaders! “Oh my goodness what are you doing home” had said Gran in disbelief at seeing us. The house smelt of the piece of smoked haddock that had been cooked for George’s tea, and it could be seen that Gran and the others were comfortably settled in for the duration.
The next day, my Gran, my Uncles, Aunt Lil, Bobby and Brian went back to their homes. In less than a week our complete change of life as evacuees in Somerset had taken place, was now over, and we had reverted back to life as normal in “51”. Yes it was “Take Two”, and we started our war over again.
And it was to be life more or less as normal. After the initial apprehension and dread in the first few days of the outbreak of the war and after the two or three false air raid alarms, the urgency subsided. Of course preparations for war and defence continued, more and more service uniforms and civil defence uniforms were appearing on the streets, and the barrage balloon had arrived on the common along with a half dozen or so W.A.A.F. personnel. The councilmen converted our coal cellar into an air raid shelter, and at the Slumberland factory, shelters were being built for the workers. In the streets broad white bands were painted around all the trees and lampposts and kerbs received a strip of white paint about every six foot. This was to assist people after dark, in the black out.
Because of the insatiable need for metal for the manufacture of munitions, the Government had decided that it needed to confiscate all the available metal in the country. One day, slowly down the road came workmen who were systematically removing every cast iron railing and front gate and throwing it into the lorry that moved along side it. Our squeaking gate and railings were roughly hacked off and disappeared into that lorry forever. Left behind were little 2-inch stumps that remained like that for decades.
However the weeks were going by, and although the news in Europe was not good, the feared Aerial Bombardment of Britain had not taken place. The threat seemed to be diminishing with the public’s awareness of Britain’s continuing preparedness and the thought that perhaps the Germans had more than enough to cope with elsewhere. In fact complacency set in and the war was being spoke of as “The Phoney War”. With the Civil Defence preparations more or less complete, its service members were getting bored with the long hours of watch duty and hanging about. Games of darts and cards became the order of the day. The public were finding such restrictions as the blackout getting them down, and fed up with being shouted at, should a chink of light escape, with “Put that light out”, from the local constabulary or air warden.
School had very soon restarted, but only one classroom was needed in the large school building of three floors, and initially lessons took place for only two or three days a week. However soon and as other children started to returned home from evacuation the school quickly increased to having several more classes. Two classrooms on the ground floor had their large windows covered completely with stacked sandbags, to a thickness of about eight bags; these classrooms were our air raid shelters for our use during school hours.
Shortages had not really started to take place yet, and I remember it was around this period Ron and I, both had like fawn colour overcoats with large matching soft flat caps, bought for us on the “Never, never”. Mum, at that time paid a few shillings each week to a collector who called and every so often she would receive a chit for an amount that she could spend. It would be then that us two boys were taken over to Hugh Wylies, a tally firm, who had a showroom in a small parade alongside Lambeth Town Hall, to be fitted out. This method of purchase was a popular and generally accepted way of buying clothes and household goods amongst ordinary folk. It also was about this time Mum got her first Hoover vacuum cleaner, although our carpeting then only stretched to a few rugs. We continued to eat more or less the same variety of food as in the past, and I cannot recall any particular food shortage at that early stage of the war.
It was around this time though the instruction came from the Ministry of Food that we should “Dig for Victory”, and so it was that Dad became a vegetable gardener? The back lawn disappeared, and I made the attempted to do the same, but it seemed I was an essential requirement in the tilling of at least one row of earth each day. I can not recall how much success we had in the production of vegetables, but I do remember included in this new husbandry of the garden, was a Light Sussex cockerel and six hens, a Rhode Island Red cockerel also with six hens, plus a couple of tiny Black Leghorns. One of the Leghorns was nicknamed “Spitfire” because she was the fastest thing you ever saw on two legs, plus she laid the biggest eggs we had ever seen. Our two cockerels were two fine looking specimens, but because of inexperience, we hadn’t realised that we should not have kept two such birds in so closer quarters, and there were often instinctive fights between them. The Larger Light Sussex Cock always seemed to come off worse against the smaller Rhode Island Red, and sometimes he looked a sorry sight with blood covering his pure white feathers. To make up our miniature farmyard, came several rabbits, installed in individual hutches that had been made by Dad, as indeed the chicken house had been, from wood off cuts from the factory. We had now guaranteed our egg supply, and the occasional chicken or rabbit dinner. The two cockerels would separately and in due time become our Christmas dinner. The battle worn Light Sussex eventually had some respite, as his opponent was first go to the oven. Unfortunately when it came to his turn, he didn’t go without a fuss. Dad could never manage the knack of wringing chicken necks efficiently, especially when it came to cockerels, so he chose to use his fireman’s axe, and behead them. This he did with their heads in a sack so that he didn’t have to see the deadly deed, but this seldom led to an effective accomplishment. Just as with the Duke of Monmouth in the “Civil War”, it took about five strokes of the axe to put away our Light Sussex.
We kept chicken and rabbits for about three years, and it was Ron and my weekly chore to visit the corn chandlers to collect their food and bedding materials. Crouch and Son were in Garrett Lane about three quarters of a mile away, and every Saturday morning we could be seen struggling back home with 7 LB bags of balancer meal for the chickens and oatmeal for the rabbits. A large bale of straw and a bundle of hay were either dragged along or carried on our head. The mixing of the feed and the feeding was mainly down to us, although Mum cooked the potato peelings on the gas stove. Our war effort also entailed us going out on a regular basis, with a bucket and a shovel and search for horse manure, that was good for the garden and left behind by the traders’ horse and carts. On many occasion after Ron and I had reconnoited for the daily deposits, Dad would come in and chastise us for dereliction of duty, as he had just seen some down the road, and off we were sent again. Sometimes just to miss out as some else that got there first.
The time of not being to inconvenienced by war and not being threatened was however fast running out, and it wasn’t to be long before the German U-boat menace, started to have its effect on our food convoys in the Atlantic. At the beginning of January 1940, during one of the coldest recorded winters, which was unimaginably cold, food rationing started and with certain foodstuff disappearing from our diet, for several years.
The German Luftwaffe’s first raids on the British Isles were on the Shetland and Orkney Islands, and the first bomb to fall on British soil was in Shetland, killing a rabbit. Which was great propaganda, and led to the song “Run Rabbit Run” gaining renewed popularity and which was repeatedly sung on the radio. It stayed a war time favourite and was sung in many of the impromptu sing-a-long sessions that were initiated by people in the air raid shelters to distract their attention away from the turmoil of the raid going on outside. But perhaps purely to while away the long monotonous hours that could occur between raids.
Suddenly in the middle of May 1940 there was an obvious turn for the worst in Europe, with the German Army starting to overrun the Low Countries and invading France, there was the start of evacuation of the British Exbitionary Force from Dunkirk and the Channel Ports. On June 14th, which was my 9th.birthday day, Paris fell to the Germans, and by the middle of June the evacuation of the Allied Armies from Europe had been completed and the battle of France was over. The Battle of Britain was now about to begin.
At the end of June 1940 the sirens wailed out again in London, for the first time since September 1939. The German bombers had started to make spasmodic raids on the Capital, during daylight hours and at night, but at this stage its main concentration was on coastal installations and shipping in the Thames estuary, together with the R.A.F airfields of Kent. On these airfields the growing number of Hurricane and Spitfire fighter squadrons were flying almost continuous missions against a vastly stronger enemy machine that was now starting to make its raids, in an ever growing horde of heavily laden bombers and fighter planes, further inland. For the next three months the battle in the air over Southern England was to be fought at such intensity that it would cost thousands of lives and aircraft. The air battles were fought in the main over the County of Kent, but I can clearly recall watching, high in the late summer blue sky, above Wandsworth, the large swirling vapour trails of the R.A.F. fighter aircraft locked in conflict with the German planes, “Dog Fights”, as they were known.
It was somewhere around this period, when air raids were few and far between in London and with the sirens mainly sounding during the day and with very little or no bombing yet to be experienced in most of the London area. There must have been no tension or feeling of threat that evening when Dad decided to take us all to the pictures, and we took the bus to Putney. I suppose we had been in the Palace cinema no more than three-quarters of an hour, when the set of three coloured lights on either side of the screen changed from the green lights being lit to the yellow lights coming on. There were three colours, the green indicated All Clear and there was no enemy activity expected, the yellow light indicated a caution and that the warning had sounded and enemy aircraft was over the coast and approaching the Capital, The red of caused was for danger and indicated enemy aircraft virtually overhead. As the yellow lights came on, a loud groan went round the cinema and a large proportion of people including us left. Outside the evening sunshine was still just about there, but dusk was coming in. The siren had already stopped and it was very quite everywhere apart from the people who had just left the pictures and striding out down the road. There were no buses; these had probably stopped because of the impending raid, so Dad got us marching as fast as he could back home along Putney Bridge Road towards Wandsworth, with all of us using our eyes to scan the sky and our ears straining to hear the first sound of gunfire or the sound of aircraft. By the time we reach Wandsworth, which is a fair walk from Putney, we still hadn’t seen a bus, but also fortunately hadn’t seen or heard any enemy activity. We broke off through the back turnings to make a bit of a shortcut for home and I knew now we were not going to catch a bus, and we going to walk the whole way. It was now getting dark and searchlights were starting to pierce the night sky with an urgency and expectancy. The Alert was still in operation and so the enemy must have been still about. But I was by now not only fearful but also tired, and when we reach our front door very relieved. I remember that just about the time we arrived home the “All Clear” sounded, but I don’t think we went to the pictures again in the evening, anyway not for at least a couple of years.
So it came quickly to the time of regularly using the air raid shelter at school and our own shelter in our cellar. Suddenly to be woken up at night, especially at the commencement of the night raids, and being told to dress quickly and hurry to the cellar, was to me very alarming. Especially seeing the searchlights already sweeping the night sky, and knowing that you had to get down two flights of stairs before you reached the relative safety of the shelter. The cellar was dank and still smelt of the coal that had once been kept there. Just Mum, Ron and I were, in the main, the only users of the cellar. The two people, who lived in the top part of the house, the man had gone into the Army and his wife was staying away at her Mothers. Dad seemed to come and go, spending some time with us, but mostly in the fire duty room over at the factory, and popping back occasionally to see how we were faring. Mostly he was on standby waiting for a fire call from his parent fire station at West Hill. The Sumberland fire crew, had been requisitioned, and were now under the direct control of the London Fire Brigade and available to be sent anywhere. It was in the cellar that I first heard the sound of German bomber aircraft overhead and the reverberating barrage of gunfire that met their approach and experiencing of the first shudder and crunch of bombs exploding. Although at this time, we were in late summer months, I felt cold in spite of a blanket around my shoulders. I feel certain this was because of fear. Here we came to recognise the sound differences between the Allied aircraft and the German bombers, whose heavy engine drone had an undulating throb, whereas our planes had a good steady rhythm. In these early bombing raids the German planes would drop sticks of bombs numbering around about eight bombs, the exact number I can not remember, but they would fall with a loud whistle. I believe these were called screaming bombs, but we could count them as they fell, and knowing how many more there was to come, and uncrossing our fingers when we knew the remaining bombs in the stick were falling beyond us.
Dad who by this time seemed to be in charge of everything over at the factory, had decided that it made no sense for the air shelters there to be standing empty at night. He decided to ask and obtained permission from Birmingham head office, for them to be used by those workers and their families who wanted to, and also by local resident families living close by. I feel the original idea for this came from Mum, who had decided that our cellar was not the place she wanted to be.
The Sumberland factory shelter system consisted of four air raid shelters, Green, Yellow, Blue and Orange which were interlinked around a command centre, known as the Squad shelter, with a fifth one, the Red Shelter, on it own at the other end of the factory. During the day, and when an air raid was in progress, it was from the Squad shelter that the factory workers received intruction to hurry to their designated shelter. This was given when advice that German aircraft had been sight by the plane spotters on the factory roof. Instructions to return to the factory floor after the all clear had sounded were issued in the same manner. The Squad was also the entertainment centre! It was from here the popular records of the day were played and the B.B.C’s programme “Workers Playtime” and the like was relayed over the factory Tannoy system.
We were given a corner in the Squad; I suppose you could say it was for the night time duration of the war. Decent mattresses were supplied from the works and it was all very warm and comfortable. We shared it with three or four other management families, and I guess it could have been called the officer’s quarters, or being up with “The Jones”, and it could be said we had moved up one rung on the social ladder. There were no calls for a classless society then. My bed was tucked into a four foot high recess, above which was a massive block of concrete that was the foundation to the supports for a large metal and wood conveyor that carried produced goods to the loading bays above. Each night before I went to sleep I would look up at this huge piece of concrete, and petrify myself with thought, as to the out come of a direct hit by a bomb above, and picturing this vast lump falling and obliterating me. The interconnection of the shelters were via small metal blast proof doors and I feel that the adults must have been sometimes pretty browned off with what must have seemed a constant caravan of children passing in and out of these doors and through various shelters. The atmosphere of each shelter varied. In some a continuous buzz of conversation ensued till quite late and many card schools became a regular habit. The local resident’s shelter I recall as the quietest and where everyone tried to settle down for the night at a reasonable time, and where the lights were dimmed early. It was in this shelter, when late roaming children were going through, and I was often with them, a voice would call after them “Why don’t you kids get back to your own shelter”.
It had been a glorious late summer September day and the sirens having sounded early; we were away quickly to the shelter. Nothing forewarned us and we could not possibly have known or realised at the time that this night would be one of the worst nights of our personal war and the start of nightly air raids. This was to be the start of the “London Blitz”, Saturday September 7th 1940.
Dad and the fire crew had already been ordered away, and they had left in the fire tender at 16.45 for Old Kent Road Fire Station where they were to stand by. We settled into our spot in the shelter for the long evening and night, but it was obvious by the barrage and commotion going on outside that it was turning into something a bit more than normal. There was more tension and worry going around the shelter occupants that night, than there was usually. It seemed like the early hours of the morning, but it was certainly sometime during the night, when word was coming through the shelters that London was all afire. Because there was a lull in the raid, people gradually filed out through the catacomb of shelters, me amongst them, to see what was going on. Coming out behind the main office block, we floundered, in the dark and in small groups, along a cobbled stone footpath to the corner of the building. As I turned the corner and looked out through the main gates, eastwards towards London, it appeared as if the whole World was about to come to an end. The sky was alight, from a deep red above to a cauldron of yellow fire behind the housetops that were a few hundred yards away. Everyone was awe-struck and little was being said. I overheard and remember the words well “They’re up there”, obviously referring to the fire crew, but can not recall whether they were Mum’s words or those of a wife of another member of the crew.
The next morning around 9.30 am, Dad and the others all returned save and sound, although soaking wet and stained with soot. They had been all night in the thick of it, fighting fires in the Canada and Surrey Docks, where at one time they had had to avoid machine gun bullets from the planes above. They were out again that same night dealing with fires up town, and at this stage although only classified as auxiliary firemen were called away regularly to fight fires in many other parts of the Capital. It should also of course be remembered that they had essential day work in the factory that could not be neglected. Slumberland was now heavily into Government contracts, which didn’t only involve the making of beds for the military, but also the making of parachutes, emergency rubber water tanks, military webbing, to repairing R.A.F aircraft gantries, and many other types of war equipment.
During that first week of “The Blitz”, Dad was slightly injured whilst fighting a fire at Kingwood Road School, just off Fulham Palace Road. They had been fighting a blaze for about two and half hours, when a delayed action bomb exploded close by. The blast of which threw him and his colleague to the ground, causing the hose that they were manning to snake away well off the ground and coiling about dangerously, so fierce was the water thrust. The incident did not prevent him being in the factory the next day or reporting for duty the following night.
Nightly and for many weeks air raids were to continue and were unrelenting, but somehow our daily domestic lives went on, including having to attend school, with Ron now old enough to go. You got used to seeing in a road, sections of terraced houses now just a pile of debris, and roads suddenly becoming “No entry” because of extensive bomb damage, or even to having an unexploded one there. At the end of a street that had one of these, in the centre of the road, would be a red notice board stating “Unexploded Bomb- Keep Away “, with just a “Special” constable or the like close by to make certain folk did stay clear.
East Hill Congregational Church was fire bombed on the 15th October, and in spite of the Slumberland’s fire crew being in attendance the church itself was gutted and sadly that original interior could now only be put to memory. On Tuesday 29th October, at 1.30, in the early hours, the Slumberland factory received a direct hit by a high explosive bomb and several incendiary bombs. The main bomb hit the top of a dividing brick wall and ricocheting into the factory workshop next us, rather than towards us. The wall gave us protection from the main blast and our shelter was only covered with light debris, but its exit was blocked. Because of the shelter system, there were other exits, so we were not trapped but we stayed where we were until morning. The fires that had been burning around the factory had been successfully put out, and Dad appeared with others, having cleared the entrance of debris, through the door at 7.30. I think his words were something like “That was close”, and with that we scrambled out and trooped home for breakfast.
During November the intensity of the air raids slackened a little, although still severe, as Hitler’s bombers turned their attention to other British cities and for a period London was not the main target and we started to have longer intervals between raids. By now we had become toughened and very wide-awake to the dreadful weeks that we had just come through. There was no one to complain to, for Londoners at this time, it had to be a case of grin and bear it and just a matter of keeping your head down, and praying it was God’s Will that you would get through this. At that time it was difficult to see how we would, for it seemed as if Hitler might have been winning the war. Fortunately we had, Winston Churchill, who had the ability to install a “Bulldog Spirit” into the people at this time
Soon after midnight, at around 1 am Saturday morning 16th November, West Hill Fire Station (88 W) received a direct hit from a high explosive bomb, and Slumberland fire tender was summoned to give immediate assistance. They spent the night helping to rescue survivors, but unfortunately six of their fellow A.F.S. comrades had perished in the explosion. The men had been in the rest room awaiting their order to proceed to a fire incident when the bomb struck. They hadn’t stood a chance, for in spite of diving under the billiard table. The bomb had exploded to close, just above their heads. Next day in school, one of the girls from my class was not in her desk. One of the firemen who had died had been her Father.
As we came close to Christmas that year, surprisingly and how we knew I cannot remember, but we learnt that Hitler was not to send his bombers to England on Christmas Day and indeed this is how it turned out. The Country was free of fear that one day and seemed to make the most of it. In our household, before our Christmas lunch, Dad with Sid Robertson had gone to West Hill fire station, which was again functioning, and had taken for the permanent station members a Christmas box on behalf of The Crown Bedding Company. After the four of us had had our Christmas Dinner, and during the afternoon, most of our relations arrived from Battersea and Clapham. How the arrangements had been made I shall never know, as there was no telephones within our family homes in those days, but we had a party that lasted all the rest of that day and until around six o/clock the next morning. Sometime during that morning after a short uncomfortable sleep in, varied uncomfortable chairs, they braced themselves, kids as well, against the freezing winter weather and our kinfolk walked the whole distance back home. So ended our short respite from the bombing, for before the New Year had arrived the air raids had begun again. On the 29th December a devastating fire bomb raid on London destroyed many famous buildings and churches, and killed over two thousand people. Since the start of the air raids, nearly twenty one thousand British civilians had been killed
It indeed was an extremely cold winter and the nightly preparation and walk to and from the shelter became mentally draining, especially for my Mother and we began to become a little indifferent to the uncertainties of the times. We had of course by this stage become very practised in preparation for air raids, and we had started to have the tendency not to go to the shelter until the air raid siren sounded. This was with the hope it wouldn’t go off that night, and we would get a restful night in our own beds. Although occasionally at first, and as the war progressed more regularly we did get to sleep in our beds. However this new practise led to many a time having to make a dash for the shelter, with the sound of gunfire and the drone of enemy bombers echoing in our ears. One icy cold, bright moon lit night in January we had indeed left it rather late, for while in Indian file we were traversing the planks of wood that lay across the frozen mud on the factory forecourt, the sound of gunfire was immediately overhead. I could hear the tingle of shrapnel as it hit the surrounding rooftops. Suddenly in front of Mum, a slither of shrapnel, around six inches in length pierced the plank we were on, only some six feet away, where it remained erect and shimmering silver in the moonlight. It had been a close shave.
One night in April 1941, Wednesday the 16th to be precise, Mum woke me up; saying a raid had started. Ron and I, by now slept in the ground floor bedroom that had been our parent’s room. We quickly dressed and hurried with her to the kitchen. The guns were already banging away outside, and the three of us got beneath our dining room draw-leaf table. Dad had earlier left and was on stand-by at the factory. Waking from a deep sleep and with frightening events taking place close to, is a very harrowing experience for anyone let alone a child, so it was not surprising that both Ron and I quickly wanted to wee, but in no way were we prepared to go out to the lavatory. Mum got out and got a child’s enamel chamber pot which in those days was affectionately known as a Jerry, and which both of us boys gratefully used. We stayed there for sometime, huddled together, and Dad’s popped in to see that we were all right and felt it was best if we stayed where we were for the time being. Not long after he left us there was a violent explosion, which was obviously a very close and large bomb. The windows blew in, and there were sounds of things smashing all around us. Our light went out and obviously the electricity had been put out of action. Mum had her torch with her, the customary necessity those days, but before she used it, she had observed in the darkness the glowing embers of our kitchen fire from the evening before. Realising the fire danger, she crawled from beneath the table and emptied the contents of the Jerry into the grate and extinguished them. What I didn’t know was that at this period Mum was over six months pregnant. Naturally as soon as she had ascertained everything was all right with us, her concern went to Dad who had only left moments before the explosion.
Dad after leaving us stopped to chat with the air raid warden, at the air raid post opposite our house. Suddenly they observed a parachute some hundred or so feet high and drifting above them and on along the road opposite. Their first thoughts were, that it was a German flyer, and they immediately gave chase but just before the parachute and its object below plunged into the roof tops of the houses in Geraldine Road they realised their mistake and turned and started to run as hard as they could. The bomb exploded and they were blown by the blast several yards back down the road with debris flying around them. It had been a large 1000lb parachute bomb. Fortunately both Dad and the warden were perfectly okay, and were able to join in with the first rescuers at the scene. The bomb had destroyed a complete block of houses and including our superb 3year old library, but tragically we said goodbye that night to seventeen civilians who had been friends and neighbours. One middle aged lady who I knew well by sight, had at the time that the bomb struck, just left her front gate to give her small white scotch terrier his late walk. Her body was found lodged on top of a telephone box at the bottom of Dault Road, over a hundred yards away.
The damage to our own house was not severe, but we lost all our windows in the blast. In our bedroom the glass French door had blown, and Ron’s bed which had been in a direct line was covered with broken glass and the wooden dividing doors alongside his bed was imbedded with fragments of glass. If Ron had been in the bed there was no doubt he would have been injured.
In writing this story it is not my intention to relate all the sadness and tragedy of what I saw and heard of during the war, but more to recall experiences that did not seem amusing at the time, but on reflection can now bring a smile. However before I progress somewhat more light-heartedly I must recall the disaster and destruction caused by a bomb that fell in Putney that left me with a lifetime memory of horror. It was first thing the next morning that we learnt of a high explosive bomb having scored a direct hit on a dance hall, and that two hundred, mainly military personnel had been killed. It would appear that it had been the only bomb to have fallen on Putney that night. And it had been felt at the time that the reason for this bomb to have been dropped was that a blackout curtain had accidentally been pulled aside to allow a shaft of light to escape skywards. A German bomber having dropped its main payload further back into London dropped its one remaining bomb in the direction of this stark beam of light. I have to admit it was childlike morbid curiosity that led me with two or three other friends to walk to Putney to see the destruction. By the time we got there the bomb scene had been vastly tidied up, but the fire service and Civil Defence were still in attendance and hosepipes and other rescue paraphernalia littered the scene. The smell of dust, dirty water, the cabbagey smell of gas, a whole concoction of smells that in those days you associated with newly destroyed buildings, hung around the area. To one side lay a large pile of service uniform items, mainly greatcoats, which probably would have been taken from what would have been the cloakroom?
We watched for a time the work going on which was one of making the site safe and clearing up the fringe rubble but eventually decided to go down to the river which was close by. The tide was out and we meandered along the foreshore, just near to the starting point of the “University Boat Race”. There were always something left behind by the ebbing tide, to take the interest of youngsters. This morning the Thames had left behind something dreadful. Several sea gulls, which had been scavenging around, took off as we arrived at the spot to see what had been their interest. Lying close to the water's edge were what appeared to be two or three large pieces of flesh that was now white and bloodless through their immersion in river water. Our small group stood around one of the pieces of flesh, which someone prodded it with a stick, and another of us put a toe into, trying to make out what it was. It was not immediate, but suddenly in a flash we all realised what we were looking at were pieces of human bodies. The bomb blast had carried them into the river. Whereas all of the dead and injured had been removed and anything horrific, had been taken away from the bombsite and the surrounding area, the River Thames had concealed anything that had fallen into it until it was at low tide. We children had discovered these remains that had gone unnoticed and we did no more than to depart the vicinity quickly and with the horror at what we had discovered. We did not report what we had found, I think we were to young and not proficient enough to have considered doing that, but I should imagine, my friends of that day, as like myself, would carry that macabre image for the rest of their lives.
Fierce and regular day and night raids were to continue throughout the next months, indeed all the way through the spring. During one period of non stop nightly raids, on one of Dad’s rare nights off duty it was arranged that a Slumberland delivery lorry should be used to take a group of those people who wished to, out of London for the night into the country. An opportunity to get away from the continuos air attacks and to experience a restful night or that was the idea. Of course our little family was part of the group, and in fact Ron and I were the only children who went, apart from the little two year old Iris Robertson. The rest of the party was made up, in the main some factory girls and a few men who up till then had not been called up into the forces. There was a total of some twenty-six of us and it was a happy go lucky band. Mum, Dad, Ron and I were to share the Luton, that is the part of the van that protrudes over the driver’s cabin, and up there the four of us were to sleep, wrapped in our own blankets and on a double mattress from the factory.
The lorry travelled out through West London, with its rear doors completely open, and with the crowd inside having a good singsong. Arriving in High Wycombe, it pulled into a pub car park and this was to be our resting-place for the night. It didn’t take long for all the adults to disappear into the pub, but for Ron and I it was a question of watching the open end of the van going from daylight to twilight and eventual blackness. A visit from Dad a couple of times with lemonade and a packet of Smith’s Crisps broke our boredom. Eventually, and after I had just dropped off to sleep the others started to return amidst lots of subdued laughing and noisy attempts to get up into the lorry. Of course I was now very much awake again, and like the others got very little sleep that night, what with the talking and giggling that went on. So much for a restful night away from the bombs! Their enjoyment though did indicate having this short break had had a benefit, but ironically the Luftwaffe hadn’t bomb London that night, so everyone would have achieved a longer sleep at home.
Even in this bad year of 1941 Dad managed to take us away for a short holiday in the early part of the summer. We must have travelled by Southern Railway, as I can remember leaving the train at Chichester and being thrilled at the seeing the wooden level crossing gates being opened by hand and letting the local bus through. The bus we were to catch to East Wittering. We boarded the bus, together with a large crate of chickens that was to be dropped off at a farm along the route. We travelled some six or so miles before getting off at a small parade of shops in Wittering, and this was about half way round the bus’s circular route back to Chichester.
East Wittering at this time was a small seaside village made up of several modest bungalows, a few shops and a couple of pubs. Through a friend of a friend arrangements had been made for us to stay in one of these bungalows, and “Iwanasta” we found in the second lane from the seafront, one of a pot pourri group of unpretentious bungalows. A few were converted railway carriages, some were no more than shacks, and others had been nicely built, but with whatever material had been available at the time. They had all been built around the late 1920’s apart from a couple that had been built in the 30’s and were modern and quite “Art Deco” and a sign of future times for the area. However at this war time period, the immediate locality was very desolate with most of the properties without residents. Some of the local shops were closed for the duration, but the local bakery had remained open, and the smells that issued from there had been delectable. “Iwanasta” was a quaint and reasonably built wooden construction with three bedrooms, and a kitchen leading directly on to the sitting room which in turn lead out to a veranda. There was a garden from which, via a little wooden bridge, you could get to a small field. All in all another new adventure and another found paradise.
The property next door was one of the modern places and had a roof terrace and was also uninhabited, so we all used its outside staircase and sunbathed on the roof. From there I could see the sea, which looked magnificent with the sun shining on it. From the bungalow the sea and the beach were no farther than a couple of hundred yards, across the field, then across the beach road to the beach access between the sea front properties, but that was it, no longer could one get to the beach. The Army had confiscated the land and property on the front. I can remember, with Ron, going as near as we could and up to the barbed wire, peering between two bungalows. Bungalows with their windows broken and their doors off and with sand blown by the wind in piles up the side of the walls and into the open doorways, that had once someone’s home, now desolate and uncared for. Looking through the gap we could see further barb wire and metal framework, which were tank traps, and just a little further the waves breaking on the shingle beach. So near, yet so far and how we felt cheated. Suddenly into the gap strode a uniformed guard, complete with tin hat and rifle. He stopped and peered out to sea. That was it, we had had enough, feeling that we were likely to be arrested if seen and caught. We made a rapid retreat and I do not think we went anywhere near that beach road again during that holiday.
One night, after we had all gone to bed, we heard the sound of aircraft and the noise of distant gunfire. Getting up, we watched from the veranda a heavy air raid on Portsmouth, which we could see at a distance across the field behind us. The searchlights were stabbing the night sky, waving back and forth. The flashing from the gunfire and the exploding bombs was electrifying and on this occasion not at all frightening, because I was watching the whole event quite detached from the affair. I knew that in this instance we were not involved or vulnerable. This holiday was to be the first of several to “Iwanasta”, throughout the forties and the fifties, but I never ever again saw East Wittering in the guise it was at this period of time.
On July 2nd 1941, my sister was born at home and so completed our family of five. She seemed to arrive in a very large cardboard box, but that had turned out to contain her gas mask, one that would envelop her completely. Much discussion took place to what she should be called, and in this I seemed to have had some fringe involvement, for it had appeared to me that a conclusion had been made on what her name was to be. I readily carried the news far and wide to teachers, neighbours and to anyone who ask if I was pleased to have a new baby sister, and to what was her name. To my surprise and certain amount of rebuff I discovered my parents had taken no decision yet and that I had jumped the gun in naming my sister Maureen. However because of my wide establishment of the tidings, and to save mild embarrassment and explanation, my sister became Maureen Rose, known today as Mo. If I hadn’t have interfered she most likely would have been named Wendy, so she can thank me for more than likely becoming known as Windy Rose?
'WW2 People's War is an online archive of wartime memories contributed by members of the public and gathered by the BBC. The archive can be found at bbc.co.uk/ww2peopleswar'
Clavey Farm and Soho
Clavey Farm and Soho
Abraham Clavey and his family lived here in the early 1700s. His sons included Richard, a carrier like his father, Abraham, a vicar at Heytesbury, Charles, a linen draper in London and Joseph, a carrier in Frome.
Just over a mile to the west of Clavey's Farm lies the village of Soho, a curious name to find in the countryside of Somerset. Its origin makes an interesting story.
The word soho was originally a hunting cry and recorded as such back over time, preceding the tally ho cry by many centuries. About 800 years ago, Soho, in London, was named because it was a favourite hunting ground for stag, the locality subsequently becoming known as Soho Fields.
Now in 1649, Lucy Walter, the mistress of Charles 11 gave birth to a son, James who, being illegitimate, could never be heir to the throne. Nevertheless Charles was very fond of his son and in 1663, he was officially acknowledged and made Duke of Monmouth, subsequently marrying the Countess of Buccleuch and rapidly acquiring popularity and significance. By that time Soho had become a centre of fashionable life and in 1681 Monmouth built himself a house in Soho Square.
However by 1683, he had become involved in arguments over who should succeed to the throne, he or Charles' brother James. Following some political manoeuvering Monmouth was banished to Holland. In 1685 Charles died and Monmouth launched his bid to overthrow his uncle James who had now become James ll..
On June 11th Monmouth landed at Lyme Regis and on June 20th at Taunton he declared himself to be the rightful king. His rebel army consisted mainly of discontented townsmen, many of them cloth workers of Somerset and Wiltshire and also the lead miners of Mendip. Looking for a password for his troop movements Monmouth adopted the name of his London house, i.e. “Soho”.
He then moved on to Bristol but was unable to take the city, so he marched east to Bath and then down to Frome. About 600 ft high the area which is now called Soho was part of his chain of outposts to discover the enemy's intentions. However Frome had been taken by the army of James II and so on June 30th Monmouth veered back west towards Shepton Mallet.
The retreat had begun and in a week's time the campaign reached its tragic climax at Sedgemoor where his army was broken and destroyed. Monmouth was captured and James ll had him executed on July 15th. Local Mendip folklore still remembers the cruelty of Judge Jeffreys who had hundreds put to death or sent as slaves to Jamaica.
Clavey's Farm was probably built in the 17th century although the 30inch walls suggest early 16th century. It would therefore seem that the occupants of the house may well have have looked out anxiously at the marches and countermarches of those stormy days of June 1685, or at sentinels whose password subsequently gave the little hamlet of Soho its name.
The Duke of Monmouth .......
All a fighting for the Crown.......
Soho boys, Soho
Clavey's Farm:
Abraham Clavey and his family lived here in the early 1700s. His sons included Richard, a carrier like his father, Abraham, a vicar at Heytesbury, Charles, a linen draper in London and Joseph, a carrier in Frome.
Just over a mile to the west of Clavey's Farm lies the village of Soho, a curious name to find in the countryside of Somerset. Its origin makes an interesting story.
The word soho was originally a hunting cry and recorded as such back over time, preceding the tally ho cry by many centuries. About 800 years ago, Soho, in London, was named because it was a favourite hunting ground for stag, the locality subsequently becoming known as Soho Fields.
Now in 1649, Lucy Walter, the mistress of Charles 11 gave birth to a son, James who, being illegitimate, could never be heir to the throne. Nevertheless Charles was very fond of his son and in 1663, he was officially acknowledged and made Duke of Monmouth, subsequently marrying the Countess of Buccleuch and rapidly acquiring popularity and significance. By that time Soho had become a centre of fashionable life and in 1681 Monmouth built himself a house in Soho Square.
However by 1683, he had become involved in arguments over who should succeed to the throne, he or Charles' brother James. Following some political manoeuvering Monmouth was banished to Holland. In 1685 Charles died and Monmouth launched his bid to overthrow his uncle James who had now become James ll..
On June 11th Monmouth landed at Lyme Regis and on June 20th at Taunton he declared himself to be the rightful king. His rebel army consisted mainly of discontented townsmen, many of them cloth workers of Somerset and Wiltshire and also the lead miners of Mendip. Looking for a password for his troop movements Monmouth adopted the name of his London house, i.e. “Soho”.
He then moved on to Bristol but was unable to take the city, so he marched east to Bath and then down to Frome. About 600 ft high the area which is now called Soho was part of his chain of outposts to discover the enemy's intentions. However Frome had been taken by the army of James II and so on June 30th Monmouth veered back west towards Shepton Mallet.
The retreat had begun and in a week's time the campaign reached its tragic climax at Sedgemoor where his army was broken and destroyed. Monmouth was captured and James ll had him executed on July 15th. Local Mendip folklore still remembers the cruelty of Judge Jeffreys who had hundreds put to death or sent as slaves to Jamaica.
Clavey's Farm was probably built in the 17th century although the 30inch walls suggest early 16th century. It would therefore seem that the occupants of the house may well have have looked out anxiously at the marches and countermarches of those stormy days of June 1685, or at sentinels whose password subsequently gave the little hamlet of Soho its name.
The Duke of Monmouth .......
All a fighting for the Crown.......
Soho boys, Soho
Clavey's Farm:
The French Claveys
The Claveys
Extracts from a book giving genealogical details of Belfort families
Translated by Francois Werlen
Clavey (Clavé/Clavez) was a keyholder. The person who was resposible for the keys of a convent, hospital or prison. He may be responsible for the town gates or guardian of the town coffers. He held a post of responsibility and trust. The Claveys from Belfort were an ancient merchant family dealing with the bourgeois duties of the town of Belfort from the 15th century.
Jean Clavé, son of Vuillaume, is mentioned in 1451. He was made “visitor to the fire” (?) in 1473 and a council member in 1481. Another Jean Clavey, son of Perrin Clavey, was an arquebusier for the community (a type of soldier)
In the 16th century Clavey families were in Belfort, Valdoie, Petitmagny, Trétudans and Cravanche. Nicolas Clavey, husband of Jeannette Boussard, was grand mayor of the assizes in 1583.
The largest group of descendants in the 17th century came from the line of Pierre, one of his sons. Pierre had at least 16 children. He married four times. His daughters married Nicolas Chardoillet, Pierre Girol, a lawyer and Antoine Degrez, son of a military commander. Among the sons there were marriages with the Charoillet, Bourquenot and Bachelard families.
One of Pierre’s grandsons, Sebastian Clavey, born in 1640, married Elizabeth Bourquenot and had a son Jean Georges in 1670. At his baptism, the vicar was proud and moved that the godfather was the famous abbot from the Altonadensis in Bohemia. A document about the Austrian regency of Ensisheim gives a list for Belfort of bourgeois who left the town with their families in 1633 when the Swedes invaded. A Perrin Clavey who sought refuge in Luxeuil was on this list.
A Charles Clavey (1706-1778) son of Jean Nicolas (a merchant born in 1665) is a magistrate, emissary and delegate who married Marie-Ursule Bruat and had 13 children. One of these, Jean-Pierre married Madeleine Schouler in 1767 and was the King’s inspector of armaments and fortifications of Belfort.
Another Jean-Pierre Clavey (1667-1744) pharmacist, husband of Mari-Ursule Lefévre is head of the Sainte-Barbe hospital in Belfort. He is buried in the hospital chapel.
A third Jean-Pierre born in 1747 (1720?) married Marie-Anne Lapostelet, granddaughter of Jean-Baptiste Lapostolet (1673-1739) certainly came from Chagey to work in the forges in Belfort - a metal worker. He had seven children, six boys and one daughter Marie-Anne, who married Jean-Antoinette Gluck from Altkirch (1706-1796) direct ancestor of the general secretary of CEGFC (?) who organised a recent successful congress of genealogy in Besancon.
Interesting comment from a web site was that the Clavey surname has variations (e.g., Claffey, Claffie, Claffy, Clave, de Clave, Clave', Clavet, Clavette, Clavau, Claveau, Clafie and more).
The name owes its origin to France; area of Poitore but migrated to England where it is also commonly found.
Extracts from a book giving genealogical details of Belfort families
Translated by Francois Werlen
Clavey (Clavé/Clavez) was a keyholder. The person who was resposible for the keys of a convent, hospital or prison. He may be responsible for the town gates or guardian of the town coffers. He held a post of responsibility and trust. The Claveys from Belfort were an ancient merchant family dealing with the bourgeois duties of the town of Belfort from the 15th century.
Jean Clavé, son of Vuillaume, is mentioned in 1451. He was made “visitor to the fire” (?) in 1473 and a council member in 1481. Another Jean Clavey, son of Perrin Clavey, was an arquebusier for the community (a type of soldier)
In the 16th century Clavey families were in Belfort, Valdoie, Petitmagny, Trétudans and Cravanche. Nicolas Clavey, husband of Jeannette Boussard, was grand mayor of the assizes in 1583.
The largest group of descendants in the 17th century came from the line of Pierre, one of his sons. Pierre had at least 16 children. He married four times. His daughters married Nicolas Chardoillet, Pierre Girol, a lawyer and Antoine Degrez, son of a military commander. Among the sons there were marriages with the Charoillet, Bourquenot and Bachelard families.
One of Pierre’s grandsons, Sebastian Clavey, born in 1640, married Elizabeth Bourquenot and had a son Jean Georges in 1670. At his baptism, the vicar was proud and moved that the godfather was the famous abbot from the Altonadensis in Bohemia. A document about the Austrian regency of Ensisheim gives a list for Belfort of bourgeois who left the town with their families in 1633 when the Swedes invaded. A Perrin Clavey who sought refuge in Luxeuil was on this list.
A Charles Clavey (1706-1778) son of Jean Nicolas (a merchant born in 1665) is a magistrate, emissary and delegate who married Marie-Ursule Bruat and had 13 children. One of these, Jean-Pierre married Madeleine Schouler in 1767 and was the King’s inspector of armaments and fortifications of Belfort.
Another Jean-Pierre Clavey (1667-1744) pharmacist, husband of Mari-Ursule Lefévre is head of the Sainte-Barbe hospital in Belfort. He is buried in the hospital chapel.
A third Jean-Pierre born in 1747 (1720?) married Marie-Anne Lapostelet, granddaughter of Jean-Baptiste Lapostolet (1673-1739) certainly came from Chagey to work in the forges in Belfort - a metal worker. He had seven children, six boys and one daughter Marie-Anne, who married Jean-Antoinette Gluck from Altkirch (1706-1796) direct ancestor of the general secretary of CEGFC (?) who organised a recent successful congress of genealogy in Besancon.
Interesting comment from a web site was that the Clavey surname has variations (e.g., Claffey, Claffie, Claffy, Clave, de Clave, Clave', Clavet, Clavette, Clavau, Claveau, Clafie and more).
The name owes its origin to France; area of Poitore but migrated to England where it is also commonly found.
The Clavey family in their garden at Hampstead
Arthur DEVIS
English 1712-1787
The Clavey family in their garden at Hampstead
1754
oil on canvas
124.5 x 99.0 cm
Everard Studley Miller Bequest 1975
E1-1976
Devis specialised in the so-called conversation piece, that is the depiction of informal gatherings of family or friends. These are social portraits where the sitters are defining and projecting their self perceived status through their attire and setting.
The Clavey family is seen in the corner of their garden overlooking Hampstead Heath. The scene is probably idealised and the pose of the figures somewhat stage-like. Devis was noted for the high quality of his depiction of fabrics and costume which contributes much to the richness of the scene. Clavey was a prominent and wealthy citizen, a true gentleman of the eighteenth-century, and is duly painted as such by Devis.
Yes, they are related!
English 1712-1787
The Clavey family in their garden at Hampstead
1754
oil on canvas
124.5 x 99.0 cm
Everard Studley Miller Bequest 1975
E1-1976
Devis specialised in the so-called conversation piece, that is the depiction of informal gatherings of family or friends. These are social portraits where the sitters are defining and projecting their self perceived status through their attire and setting.
The Clavey family is seen in the corner of their garden overlooking Hampstead Heath. The scene is probably idealised and the pose of the figures somewhat stage-like. Devis was noted for the high quality of his depiction of fabrics and costume which contributes much to the richness of the scene. Clavey was a prominent and wealthy citizen, a true gentleman of the eighteenth-century, and is duly painted as such by Devis.
Yes, they are related!
Clavey WW1 Medals
Clavey WW1 Medals
Alfred (b1889? - ?) 545 Queen’s Own (Royal West Kent Reg) G/4125
Alfred B (b1894-1968) * 159 Monmouth Reg/Royal Irish? Rifles 47112/16/50279
Alfred W (b1894-1973) 4 London Reg 4172/551484
Bertram E (b1897-1957) * 408 Royal Engineers 1073/506222
Clement A (b1894-1970) * 163 Royal Garrison Artillery 52706
Charles H (b1893-1974) 71 Royal Field Artillery 133428
Edwin William (1897-1977) 119 Royal Army Service Corps M/280067
Frank (1893-1933)? ** 245 Royal Irish?/Durham Lt Infantry 598/91370
Frederick J (1882-1970) 271 Royal Army Service Corps M/322484
Gordon Ernest (1896-1970) *** 295 Royal Field Artillery/RAF ?
George John (poss 1871-1951)? 131? Royal Field Artillery 180805
Herbert (poss 1884-1974)? 445? Royal Engineers 224004
John A (poss 1884 - ?)? 283? Kings Royal Rifle Corps R38581
Philip ???? (Derby?) ? Sherwood Foresters (Notts & Derby Reg) 307297
Thomas E (1895-1992) **** 483 Royal Field Artillery 94403
Information from PRO WO372 (received from Geoff Heal)
* Served in France
** Served in Egypt
*** Served in France. Officer
**** Served in France. NCO. Distinguished Conduct Medal
Why no mention of Reginald Charles Philip Clavey who fell at Ypres in 1917 aged 19 Som Light Infantry Code 513 ?
Why no mention of James Clavey (1900-1971) father of Frank ?
Alfred (b1889? - ?) 545 Queen’s Own (Royal West Kent Reg) G/4125
Alfred B (b1894-1968) * 159 Monmouth Reg/Royal Irish? Rifles 47112/16/50279
Alfred W (b1894-1973) 4 London Reg 4172/551484
Bertram E (b1897-1957) * 408 Royal Engineers 1073/506222
Clement A (b1894-1970) * 163 Royal Garrison Artillery 52706
Charles H (b1893-1974) 71 Royal Field Artillery 133428
Edwin William (1897-1977) 119 Royal Army Service Corps M/280067
Frank (1893-1933)? ** 245 Royal Irish?/Durham Lt Infantry 598/91370
Frederick J (1882-1970) 271 Royal Army Service Corps M/322484
Gordon Ernest (1896-1970) *** 295 Royal Field Artillery/RAF ?
George John (poss 1871-1951)? 131? Royal Field Artillery 180805
Herbert (poss 1884-1974)? 445? Royal Engineers 224004
John A (poss 1884 - ?)? 283? Kings Royal Rifle Corps R38581
Philip ???? (Derby?) ? Sherwood Foresters (Notts & Derby Reg) 307297
Thomas E (1895-1992) **** 483 Royal Field Artillery 94403
Information from PRO WO372 (received from Geoff Heal)
* Served in France
** Served in Egypt
*** Served in France. Officer
**** Served in France. NCO. Distinguished Conduct Medal
Why no mention of Reginald Charles Philip Clavey who fell at Ypres in 1917 aged 19 Som Light Infantry Code 513 ?
Why no mention of James Clavey (1900-1971) father of Frank ?
Matilda Clavey and Samuel Green
Matilda Clavey and Samuel Green
Should we be called Clavey or should we be called Green !!!!!
29 October 1832. Matilda ordered to be removed from Walcot, Bath back to Chewton Mendip
Whereas complaint hath been made unto us……two of his Majesty’s Justices of the Peace.. of the City of Bath in the county of Somerset, by you the Churchwardens and Overseers of the Poor… of Walcot in the said city of Bath:
That Matilda Clavis, a singlewoman, lately came to inhabit in the said Parish of Walcot, contrary to law, not having gained a legal settlement there, nor produced any certificate owning her to be settled elsewhere; and that the said Matilda Clavis (being now with child) is become chargeable to… Walcot.
We.. upon examination of the complaint and upon examination of Matilda Clavis upon her oath before us…….do adjudge the complaint to be true…that the last lawful settlement of her…. is the parish of
Chewton Mendip. ……..to command you……to remove and convey the said Matilda Clavis from and out of…..Walcot to the said parish of Chewton Mendip…………..and we require you, the Churchwardens and Overseers of the Poor of the parish of Chewton Mendip to receive and provide for the said Matilda Clavis, according to law, as an inhabitant legally settled in your parish….
29 October 1832. Above order suspended as Matilda too ill to remove her
Whereas it duly appears to us, the Justices….that…. Matilda Clavis is now so ill that it is dangerous to remove…. We, therefore, in pursuance of the late Act of Parliament……do hereby suspend the execution of the order of removal, until we are satisfied that the same may be safely executed without danger to her, the said Matilda Clavis.
(Note: The above is a preprinted form with names and dates inserted, so it is difficult to judge exactly what “is now so ill” means.)
11 November 1832. George born
(see order below)
6 January 1833. George baptised in Chewton Mendip
8 January 1833.
The order of William Coxetes(?) James, Esquire and Henry Hodges Mogg, Clerk, two of his Majesty’s Justices of the Peace ……….within the Parish of Chewton Mendip …….made the eighth day of January in the Year of our Lord One Thousand Eight Hundred and Thirty Three, concerning a male Bastard Child, lately born in the Parish aforesaid, of the Body of Matilda Clavey, single Woman
Whereas it hath been duly made to appear to us ……. , as upon the Oath of the said Matilda Clavey that she was delivered of a Male Bastard Child in the Parish of Walcott……. Whilst under a suspended order of removal to the said parish of Chewton Mendip, on or about the Eleventh Day of November now last past, and that the said Bastard Child is now chargeable to such Parish and likely so to continue; and further, that Samuel Green of No. 12 Seymour Street, Bath, Lodging House Keeper, did beget the said Bastard Child on her Body ………. And whereas the said Samuel Green hath been duly summoned to appear before the said Justices to shew Pause why he should not be adjudged to be the reported father of the said Bastard Child, but he hath neglected to appear to such summons.
We, therefore ………..do hereby adjudge him, the said Samuel Green to be the reputed Father of the said Bastard Child.
And thereupon we do ORDER ……. That the said Samuel Green shall and do pay …. To the Churchwardens or Overseers of the Poor of the said Parish of Chewton Mendip for the time being …. The Sum of two shillings weekly and every week from this present time for and towards the keeping, sustenation and maintenance of the said bastard child ………. And we do hereby FURTHER ORDER that the said Matilda Clavey shall also pay ……… the sum of one shilling weekly …..
And we do hereby FURTHER ORDER that the said Samuel Green ……. Shall likewise pay …..the sum of Four Pounds Nine Shillings and Six Pence being the money expended in the maintenance of the said bastard child ….. the reasonable charges and expenses…. the reasonable costs of apprehending and securing the said Samuel Green and the reasonable costs of obtaining this order….
(Note: Again, the above was a preprinted form with names etc put in)
8 January 1833
This order is “To the Constables of the Parish of Chewton Mendip and all others his Majesty’s officers of the Peace for the said County” and is very similar to the above but saying that Samuel Green “hath had due notice of the said order against which no appeal hath been made……..and that demand of payment thereof hath been made … but that the said Samuel Green hath neglected to pay the same ( the £4 9s 6d)….These are therefore to command and require you forthwith to apprehend and bring the said “Samuel Green before me or some other of His Majesty’s Justices of Peace….. to be further dealt with according to the law”
Should we be called Clavey or should we be called Green !!!!!
29 October 1832. Matilda ordered to be removed from Walcot, Bath back to Chewton Mendip
Whereas complaint hath been made unto us……two of his Majesty’s Justices of the Peace.. of the City of Bath in the county of Somerset, by you the Churchwardens and Overseers of the Poor… of Walcot in the said city of Bath:
That Matilda Clavis, a singlewoman, lately came to inhabit in the said Parish of Walcot, contrary to law, not having gained a legal settlement there, nor produced any certificate owning her to be settled elsewhere; and that the said Matilda Clavis (being now with child) is become chargeable to… Walcot.
We.. upon examination of the complaint and upon examination of Matilda Clavis upon her oath before us…….do adjudge the complaint to be true…that the last lawful settlement of her…. is the parish of
Chewton Mendip. ……..to command you……to remove and convey the said Matilda Clavis from and out of…..Walcot to the said parish of Chewton Mendip…………..and we require you, the Churchwardens and Overseers of the Poor of the parish of Chewton Mendip to receive and provide for the said Matilda Clavis, according to law, as an inhabitant legally settled in your parish….
29 October 1832. Above order suspended as Matilda too ill to remove her
Whereas it duly appears to us, the Justices….that…. Matilda Clavis is now so ill that it is dangerous to remove…. We, therefore, in pursuance of the late Act of Parliament……do hereby suspend the execution of the order of removal, until we are satisfied that the same may be safely executed without danger to her, the said Matilda Clavis.
(Note: The above is a preprinted form with names and dates inserted, so it is difficult to judge exactly what “is now so ill” means.)
11 November 1832. George born
(see order below)
6 January 1833. George baptised in Chewton Mendip
8 January 1833.
The order of William Coxetes(?) James, Esquire and Henry Hodges Mogg, Clerk, two of his Majesty’s Justices of the Peace ……….within the Parish of Chewton Mendip …….made the eighth day of January in the Year of our Lord One Thousand Eight Hundred and Thirty Three, concerning a male Bastard Child, lately born in the Parish aforesaid, of the Body of Matilda Clavey, single Woman
Whereas it hath been duly made to appear to us ……. , as upon the Oath of the said Matilda Clavey that she was delivered of a Male Bastard Child in the Parish of Walcott……. Whilst under a suspended order of removal to the said parish of Chewton Mendip, on or about the Eleventh Day of November now last past, and that the said Bastard Child is now chargeable to such Parish and likely so to continue; and further, that Samuel Green of No. 12 Seymour Street, Bath, Lodging House Keeper, did beget the said Bastard Child on her Body ………. And whereas the said Samuel Green hath been duly summoned to appear before the said Justices to shew Pause why he should not be adjudged to be the reported father of the said Bastard Child, but he hath neglected to appear to such summons.
We, therefore ………..do hereby adjudge him, the said Samuel Green to be the reputed Father of the said Bastard Child.
And thereupon we do ORDER ……. That the said Samuel Green shall and do pay …. To the Churchwardens or Overseers of the Poor of the said Parish of Chewton Mendip for the time being …. The Sum of two shillings weekly and every week from this present time for and towards the keeping, sustenation and maintenance of the said bastard child ………. And we do hereby FURTHER ORDER that the said Matilda Clavey shall also pay ……… the sum of one shilling weekly …..
And we do hereby FURTHER ORDER that the said Samuel Green ……. Shall likewise pay …..the sum of Four Pounds Nine Shillings and Six Pence being the money expended in the maintenance of the said bastard child ….. the reasonable charges and expenses…. the reasonable costs of apprehending and securing the said Samuel Green and the reasonable costs of obtaining this order….
(Note: Again, the above was a preprinted form with names etc put in)
8 January 1833
This order is “To the Constables of the Parish of Chewton Mendip and all others his Majesty’s officers of the Peace for the said County” and is very similar to the above but saying that Samuel Green “hath had due notice of the said order against which no appeal hath been made……..and that demand of payment thereof hath been made … but that the said Samuel Green hath neglected to pay the same ( the £4 9s 6d)….These are therefore to command and require you forthwith to apprehend and bring the said “Samuel Green before me or some other of His Majesty’s Justices of Peace….. to be further dealt with according to the law”
American Claveys: From Mark Clavey in the USA
From Mark Clavey in the USA:
1. I’m as sure as one can be (lacking an explicit pedigree) that we are from the English clan. I wouldn’t be too sure of the lack of a Celtic clan, however... with the work I’ve done with the 1810-1900 census records, there are a dozen or so Irish families appearing in mid-19th century central Pennsylvania with the surname Clavey (with another couple dozen bearing the names Clave and Claffey). I would guess there’s more than enough potential for ties to AND from Scotland, Ireland and France - without even raising the question of which way do the ties go.
2. On the reference to John Clavey - the name was, indeed, John. Our family (my oldest brother, Westley, actually) has, in our possession, John’s petition for citizenship and oath of allegiance, which was filed at a Court of General Quarter Sessions in Philadelphia on 4 October 1808 (having resided in the US upwards of seven years). Presuming he was honest in his report to the Court, he couldn’t have arrived in the US any later than October 1801. He was stipulated in this document as having previously been a citizen of Denmark and a subject of the King of Denmark. I don’t believe he was involved in the Revolutionary War (1775-1783), but I don’t discount the possibility of his participation in the War for American Independence (1811-1814)... especially living around Philadelphia. We’re fairly sure we descended from John Clavey because (1) it IS a really small family concentrated in the Philadelphia/Camden area and (2) the scroll was passed down as (virtually) the only family heirloom of any worth at all. So we have a pronounced record of our turn-of-the-19th-century progenitor, but nothing in the way of records for the time in between him and my grandfather.
Fortunately I have been making progress... (huzzah!) Everything I have discovered to date has come to me by way of the US Census (which is sketchy at best)...
A. John (1) CLAVEY (which is how I shall refer to him from now on, as you’ll soon understand) first appears in an index to the 1810 Census of Pennsylvania. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t in the 1790 or 1800 Census - it just means that when the index was compiled, his name wasn’t on it (and believe me - those indexes are far from exhaustive). He appears as Head of the Family, age 26-44 (placing his birth at 1756-1784). He has a wife 26-44 (b.1756-1784); a son-1 under 10 (1801-1810); and a daughter-1 under 10 (b.1801-1810).
He appears again in the index to the 1820 Census of Pennsylvania. He is still 26-44 (b.1766-1794); wife is still 26-44 (b.1766-1794); son-1 is 10-15 (b.1805-1810); daughter-1 is 10-15 (b.1805-1810); son-2 is under 10 (b.1811-1820); and son-3 is under 10 (b.1811-1820). Up until now, your John Clavey (ref.197, b.1756) would’ve been an ideal match. And while the 1820 census records take him out of the age-range to perpetuate that match, I’m not giving up hope (like I said, these records are far from pristine).
He appears again in the index to the 1840 Census of Pennsylvania. He is now 70-79 (b.1861-1870), and as this is his last appearance, the census records would indicate a birth-year c.1766-1770. Wife is 60-69 (b.1771-1780), placing her birth-year c.1771-1780. Son-1 is no longer living with them, neither is daughter-1. Son-2 is 20-29 (b.1811-1820) and son-3 is 20-29 (b.1811-1820). Other than narrowing down the range of birth-year for John (1), the only other piece of interesting information on this famil record is that it lists him as having been employed in navigation of the ocean (which could account for him possibly starting in England, moving on to Denmark, and finally moving on to the US).
B. Jacob (1) CLAVEY first appears (by name) in an index to the 1840
Census of Pennsylvania as a Head of the Family, age 30-39 (b.1801-1810). I am concluding that Jacob (1) is son-1 to John (1), and will be seeking to confirm this through birth/marriage/death records from the City of Philadelphia (if I can ever get there). He has a wife 20-29 (b.1801-1810); a daughter-1 5-9 (b.1831-1835); a son-1 under 5 (b.1836-1840); and daughter-2 under 5 (b.1836-1840).
He appears again in an index to the 1860 Census of New Jersey. He is specifically listed as 52 (b.1807-1808). His wife, Eliza, is 49 (b.1810-1811); and his son-2, Jacob (2), as 17 (b.1842-1843). The older children have moved out.
He finally appears in an index to the 1870 Census of Philadelphia, listed as being 69. This age listing appears entirely bogus. It is evidently the same Jacob (1). His occupation is listed as shoemaker (same as in the 1860 listing). More evidence that these records are about as fallible as any.
C. John (2) CLAVEY first appears (by name) in an index to the 1850 Census of Pennsylvania as a Head of the Family, age 47. I believe this to be in error as this would place him as having been born in 1802-1803 -- this is out of sync with the records of John (1) and also with Later records for John (2). I am concluding that he is truly 37 years old (b.1812-1813), and that he is son-2 to John (1). He has a wife, Ann, age 26 (b.1823-1824), and a son-1, John (3), age 10 (b.1839-1840).
He appears again in an index to the 1860 Census of Pennsylvania. He is NOW age 47 and Ann is 36. John (3) is 19 (b.1840-1841) and with the difference in the months the 1850/1860 censuses were taken, I’ll conclude John (3) was born in 1840. There are three more children - a son-2, James, age 9 (b.1850-1851); a son-3, Charles, age 7 (b.1852-1853); and a son-4, Robert, age 3 (b.1866-1867).
Now, while he doesn’t explicitly appear again, part of his family does appear in an index to the 1870 Census of Pennsylvania. And there is a listing for John Clavez in the same index (cursive Z’s and Y’s look alike). The roll of microfilm this census-listing appears on has been absent since I discovered the appearance in the index - they’ll notify me when it comes back in... but I’m anticipating it’ll be him. Perhaps there was a divorce, or perhaps John (2) has passed away and it is John (3) as a Head of Family. We shall soon see. In any case, the part of the family that does appear is Ann as the Head of the Family, age 47 (b.1822-1823) and we can narrow her down to 1823. Also included are James, age 19; Robert, age 13; and a daughter-1, Annie, age 4 (b.1865-1866). Charles does NOT appear (he would be 17). Neither does John (2) or John (3).
D. Now we jump to moving backwards from my father. I found a listing in the 1900 Soundex for New Jersey for a Jennie FOX - a widowed Head of the Family living in Camden, age 65 (b.1835 in England). She has a daughter-1, Annie CLAVEY, age 35 (b.1865 in England), married for 15 years to an unspecified Clavey and widowed; and a daughter-2, Vennie, age 30 (b.1878). Annie has two children - a son-1, Bert, age 13 (b.1887); and a son-2, Frank, age 10 (b.1889). I have not found any recollection among my dad’s surviving relatives of an ‘Uncle Frank ‘. I don’t thnk that means much, though. They are all REAL old.
This family appears in an earlier listing in the 1880 Soundex for Pennsylvania. Benjamin (1) FOX appears as the Head of the Family, age 43 (b.1836-1837 in England). Along with him are - his wife Jennie, age 43 (b.1836-1837); a daughter-1, Laddie?, age 22 (b.1857-1858); a daughter-2, Mamie, age 19 (b.1860-1861); a daughter-3, Annie, age 16 (b.1863-1864); a daughter-4, Lizzie, age 14 (b.1865-1866), a daughter-5, Vina, age 11 (b.1878-1879); and a son-1, Benjamin (2), age 9 (b.1880-1881). Evidently, most of the children (save Annie and Vina/Vennie) left by 1900.
I’m about as sure as I can be that Bert is my Dad’s father. I’m guessing that Annie was married-to and widowed-from a Clavey man from either the Jacob (1) or John (2) branch. The John (2) branch provides more possibilities, but the scroll has ordinarily travelled through the oldest son (which would be Jacob (1)). Bert is the oldest boy of Annie’s and would thus get the scroll. (Oddly enough, my Dad was the youngest boy... and he still ended up with it. Oh well...) Perhaps John (3) married Annie - that would wrap it up nice and clean (which makes it almost a sure bet that it’s NOT what happened). But I’m still going at it.
Any way to find out if your John Clavey ref.197 became a sailor and left for points north? That would be nice and clean too... (and way too easy).
We pronounce our name ‘clay-vee’ as well. As far as sound on my web-page... I’m just beginning to learn HTML, and (unfortunately) it’s about the last thing on my list of things to spend what little time I have on. Maybe someday.
Reply From Brian Clavey ...
I am in touch through the wonders of Internet with Mark Clavey of Philadelphia whose 4 x gr grandfather John Clavey became an American citizen in 1808. One of his family’s proud possessions is the scroll of citizenship and oath of allegiance which shows that he had previously been a citizen of Denmark and a subject of the King of Denmark. Also that he was employed in “navigation of the ocean”. Not being aware of any earlier Claveys in Denmark, my immediate reaction to the above information was that John was probably one of the Claveys from North Germany. However Mark says he is as sure as he can be, lacking an explicit pedigree, that his family are from the English clan.
In his researches he has looked at census information for Pennslyvania for the years 1790, 1800, 1810, 1820 and 1840. John first appears in the 1810 census which shows him as head of family aged 26-44 with a wife, a son 1-10 and a daughter 1-10. As the 1820 census also shows him as age 26-44, some simple arithmetic shows that he must have been born between 1776 and 1784. However the 1840 census which Mark says is more reliable, indicates a birth date of between 1760 and 1770 which is a considerable discrepancy.
One possible nomination for John is John Clavey baptised at Chewton Mendip in 1760, son of John & Ann. There is no record of a marriage for John or a burial.
All of this prompts me to ask whether anyone can suggest appropriate records to consult which might indicate that the John from Chewton Mendip became a sailor and at one time worked for the Kingdom of Denmark. Also has anyone looked at American census records and can comment on their accuracy.?
1. I’m as sure as one can be (lacking an explicit pedigree) that we are from the English clan. I wouldn’t be too sure of the lack of a Celtic clan, however... with the work I’ve done with the 1810-1900 census records, there are a dozen or so Irish families appearing in mid-19th century central Pennsylvania with the surname Clavey (with another couple dozen bearing the names Clave and Claffey). I would guess there’s more than enough potential for ties to AND from Scotland, Ireland and France - without even raising the question of which way do the ties go.
2. On the reference to John Clavey - the name was, indeed, John. Our family (my oldest brother, Westley, actually) has, in our possession, John’s petition for citizenship and oath of allegiance, which was filed at a Court of General Quarter Sessions in Philadelphia on 4 October 1808 (having resided in the US upwards of seven years). Presuming he was honest in his report to the Court, he couldn’t have arrived in the US any later than October 1801. He was stipulated in this document as having previously been a citizen of Denmark and a subject of the King of Denmark. I don’t believe he was involved in the Revolutionary War (1775-1783), but I don’t discount the possibility of his participation in the War for American Independence (1811-1814)... especially living around Philadelphia. We’re fairly sure we descended from John Clavey because (1) it IS a really small family concentrated in the Philadelphia/Camden area and (2) the scroll was passed down as (virtually) the only family heirloom of any worth at all. So we have a pronounced record of our turn-of-the-19th-century progenitor, but nothing in the way of records for the time in between him and my grandfather.
Fortunately I have been making progress... (huzzah!) Everything I have discovered to date has come to me by way of the US Census (which is sketchy at best)...
A. John (1) CLAVEY (which is how I shall refer to him from now on, as you’ll soon understand) first appears in an index to the 1810 Census of Pennsylvania. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t in the 1790 or 1800 Census - it just means that when the index was compiled, his name wasn’t on it (and believe me - those indexes are far from exhaustive). He appears as Head of the Family, age 26-44 (placing his birth at 1756-1784). He has a wife 26-44 (b.1756-1784); a son-1 under 10 (1801-1810); and a daughter-1 under 10 (b.1801-1810).
He appears again in the index to the 1820 Census of Pennsylvania. He is still 26-44 (b.1766-1794); wife is still 26-44 (b.1766-1794); son-1 is 10-15 (b.1805-1810); daughter-1 is 10-15 (b.1805-1810); son-2 is under 10 (b.1811-1820); and son-3 is under 10 (b.1811-1820). Up until now, your John Clavey (ref.197, b.1756) would’ve been an ideal match. And while the 1820 census records take him out of the age-range to perpetuate that match, I’m not giving up hope (like I said, these records are far from pristine).
He appears again in the index to the 1840 Census of Pennsylvania. He is now 70-79 (b.1861-1870), and as this is his last appearance, the census records would indicate a birth-year c.1766-1770. Wife is 60-69 (b.1771-1780), placing her birth-year c.1771-1780. Son-1 is no longer living with them, neither is daughter-1. Son-2 is 20-29 (b.1811-1820) and son-3 is 20-29 (b.1811-1820). Other than narrowing down the range of birth-year for John (1), the only other piece of interesting information on this famil record is that it lists him as having been employed in navigation of the ocean (which could account for him possibly starting in England, moving on to Denmark, and finally moving on to the US).
B. Jacob (1) CLAVEY first appears (by name) in an index to the 1840
Census of Pennsylvania as a Head of the Family, age 30-39 (b.1801-1810). I am concluding that Jacob (1) is son-1 to John (1), and will be seeking to confirm this through birth/marriage/death records from the City of Philadelphia (if I can ever get there). He has a wife 20-29 (b.1801-1810); a daughter-1 5-9 (b.1831-1835); a son-1 under 5 (b.1836-1840); and daughter-2 under 5 (b.1836-1840).
He appears again in an index to the 1860 Census of New Jersey. He is specifically listed as 52 (b.1807-1808). His wife, Eliza, is 49 (b.1810-1811); and his son-2, Jacob (2), as 17 (b.1842-1843). The older children have moved out.
He finally appears in an index to the 1870 Census of Philadelphia, listed as being 69. This age listing appears entirely bogus. It is evidently the same Jacob (1). His occupation is listed as shoemaker (same as in the 1860 listing). More evidence that these records are about as fallible as any.
C. John (2) CLAVEY first appears (by name) in an index to the 1850 Census of Pennsylvania as a Head of the Family, age 47. I believe this to be in error as this would place him as having been born in 1802-1803 -- this is out of sync with the records of John (1) and also with Later records for John (2). I am concluding that he is truly 37 years old (b.1812-1813), and that he is son-2 to John (1). He has a wife, Ann, age 26 (b.1823-1824), and a son-1, John (3), age 10 (b.1839-1840).
He appears again in an index to the 1860 Census of Pennsylvania. He is NOW age 47 and Ann is 36. John (3) is 19 (b.1840-1841) and with the difference in the months the 1850/1860 censuses were taken, I’ll conclude John (3) was born in 1840. There are three more children - a son-2, James, age 9 (b.1850-1851); a son-3, Charles, age 7 (b.1852-1853); and a son-4, Robert, age 3 (b.1866-1867).
Now, while he doesn’t explicitly appear again, part of his family does appear in an index to the 1870 Census of Pennsylvania. And there is a listing for John Clavez in the same index (cursive Z’s and Y’s look alike). The roll of microfilm this census-listing appears on has been absent since I discovered the appearance in the index - they’ll notify me when it comes back in... but I’m anticipating it’ll be him. Perhaps there was a divorce, or perhaps John (2) has passed away and it is John (3) as a Head of Family. We shall soon see. In any case, the part of the family that does appear is Ann as the Head of the Family, age 47 (b.1822-1823) and we can narrow her down to 1823. Also included are James, age 19; Robert, age 13; and a daughter-1, Annie, age 4 (b.1865-1866). Charles does NOT appear (he would be 17). Neither does John (2) or John (3).
D. Now we jump to moving backwards from my father. I found a listing in the 1900 Soundex for New Jersey for a Jennie FOX - a widowed Head of the Family living in Camden, age 65 (b.1835 in England). She has a daughter-1, Annie CLAVEY, age 35 (b.1865 in England), married for 15 years to an unspecified Clavey and widowed; and a daughter-2, Vennie, age 30 (b.1878). Annie has two children - a son-1, Bert, age 13 (b.1887); and a son-2, Frank, age 10 (b.1889). I have not found any recollection among my dad’s surviving relatives of an ‘Uncle Frank ‘. I don’t thnk that means much, though. They are all REAL old.
This family appears in an earlier listing in the 1880 Soundex for Pennsylvania. Benjamin (1) FOX appears as the Head of the Family, age 43 (b.1836-1837 in England). Along with him are - his wife Jennie, age 43 (b.1836-1837); a daughter-1, Laddie?, age 22 (b.1857-1858); a daughter-2, Mamie, age 19 (b.1860-1861); a daughter-3, Annie, age 16 (b.1863-1864); a daughter-4, Lizzie, age 14 (b.1865-1866), a daughter-5, Vina, age 11 (b.1878-1879); and a son-1, Benjamin (2), age 9 (b.1880-1881). Evidently, most of the children (save Annie and Vina/Vennie) left by 1900.
I’m about as sure as I can be that Bert is my Dad’s father. I’m guessing that Annie was married-to and widowed-from a Clavey man from either the Jacob (1) or John (2) branch. The John (2) branch provides more possibilities, but the scroll has ordinarily travelled through the oldest son (which would be Jacob (1)). Bert is the oldest boy of Annie’s and would thus get the scroll. (Oddly enough, my Dad was the youngest boy... and he still ended up with it. Oh well...) Perhaps John (3) married Annie - that would wrap it up nice and clean (which makes it almost a sure bet that it’s NOT what happened). But I’m still going at it.
Any way to find out if your John Clavey ref.197 became a sailor and left for points north? That would be nice and clean too... (and way too easy).
We pronounce our name ‘clay-vee’ as well. As far as sound on my web-page... I’m just beginning to learn HTML, and (unfortunately) it’s about the last thing on my list of things to spend what little time I have on. Maybe someday.
Reply From Brian Clavey ...
I am in touch through the wonders of Internet with Mark Clavey of Philadelphia whose 4 x gr grandfather John Clavey became an American citizen in 1808. One of his family’s proud possessions is the scroll of citizenship and oath of allegiance which shows that he had previously been a citizen of Denmark and a subject of the King of Denmark. Also that he was employed in “navigation of the ocean”. Not being aware of any earlier Claveys in Denmark, my immediate reaction to the above information was that John was probably one of the Claveys from North Germany. However Mark says he is as sure as he can be, lacking an explicit pedigree, that his family are from the English clan.
In his researches he has looked at census information for Pennslyvania for the years 1790, 1800, 1810, 1820 and 1840. John first appears in the 1810 census which shows him as head of family aged 26-44 with a wife, a son 1-10 and a daughter 1-10. As the 1820 census also shows him as age 26-44, some simple arithmetic shows that he must have been born between 1776 and 1784. However the 1840 census which Mark says is more reliable, indicates a birth date of between 1760 and 1770 which is a considerable discrepancy.
One possible nomination for John is John Clavey baptised at Chewton Mendip in 1760, son of John & Ann. There is no record of a marriage for John or a burial.
All of this prompts me to ask whether anyone can suggest appropriate records to consult which might indicate that the John from Chewton Mendip became a sailor and at one time worked for the Kingdom of Denmark. Also has anyone looked at American census records and can comment on their accuracy.?
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