Barnsbury Boy - Ken Pratley - 1956-1961
Memories of post war Islington
I was born on the 5th of May, 1945, at the Royal Northern Hospital, Holloway Road, and until 1963 lived with my parents and younger sister at No. 1 Crane Grove just off Holloway Road near Highbury Corner. I attended Laycock Infants and Junior Mixed Schools and later, of course, Barnsbury Central School for Boys, as it was known then.
My father was a joiner and cabinet maker, and during the war was engaged, along with other building tradesmen, to repair bomb damaged infrastructure. For example, police stations, hospitals and other essential buildings, to get them up and running again as soon as possible. My four uncles served in the Army and Royal Air Force in North Africa, Europe and the Far East. All survived the war, three of them staying with my parents at Crane Grove for a couple of years after demobilisation. The house, which had a semi basement and three upper floors, was an end of terrace and was leased in my mother’s name after her father had died in 1938. There was a brick air raid shelter with a thick concrete roof in the back yard that served the families of the houses up to Digswell Street. Complete with gas masks and tin hats, it had an amazingly flimsy door, and a pick and shovel for digging yourself out should the house collapse on the shelter; assuming you survived, that is. The small back yard was all that remained of a previously more extensive garden that had had a factory (Grant & West) built on it. I never did find out exactly what it was that they made, but the guy that owned it was an amiable Frenchman who drove a 1948 Riley Roadster. I remember on one occasion he presented us local kids with a box of about twenty reasonably good quality brass telescopes. I have no idea what eventually happened to the two I managed to acquire. The Grant & West factory roof was a mildly challenging climb. One could easily get onto the first level from the steps beside the house and then onto the second level by climbing the fire escape that terminated on the lower roof. Climbing on the fire escape handrail and heaving yourself up gave access to the second level. From this second level there was a drainpipe and a more difficult climb that gave you access to the main factory roof. It was necessary to get to the top as I often lost my arrows up there.
Looking back, I had a happy childhood, free to wander the streets, parks and rubble strewn bomb sites where me and my friends had many adventures. Wandering up Orleston Mews would usually result in being told to clear off by someone working in the factory that was there at that time. As would scaling the gate to the coal yard that ran between Liverpool Road and Holloway Road. Riding scooters and soapbox carts, scaling trees most usually in other peoples gardens. If we were caught we would be cautioned by the local Bobby, who would threaten to drag us by the ear to confront our parents, who he seemed to hope would be suitably outraged by our misdemeanours.
I think my parents were fairly progressive, if that is the word, inasmuch that I don’t ever remember being subjected to any form of physical punishment. It was simply expected that I would behave responsibly, a state that I must confess I frequently failed to achieve. When my uncles moved away, the second and third floor flats were redecorated and let, which provided a bit more income for the family. The third floor flat was rented by a Mrs. King, an elderly widow, and the second floor flat to Mr. and Mrs. Saunders. Mr. Saunders was a private detective, which I thought was an interesting turn up for the books and a fascinating profession, having seen many examples of the trade portrayed at the Saturday morning matinées. I imagined him stalking dastardly villains, snub nosed revolver in hand. Even though he did not quite fit the bill, being quite elderly, compared to his screen counterparts. Then my mother shattered my illusions and informed me about the rather less glamorous reality of the job, spying on errant wives and husbands.
Some of the things I remember about my life at the time are the journeys with my mother to Chapel Street market to get the weekly shopping, sometimes by bus, but more often than not we walked as we could not afford the bus fare as things were tight in the immediate post war years. This was a weary trip for me at that age, and more so for my mother with shopping bags full of spuds and cabbages. There were also trips to Drayton Park to get ration coupons, as at that time in the UK rationing was still in force after the war. Fish and chips was an occasional takeaway treat usually from the chippy near the corner of Islington Park Street and Upper Street, or just past Drayton Park in Holloway, where I would be despatched bearing money and an order.
Sundays were often taken up by trips with my father, occasionally accompanied by my sister. In the summer we would go to Hampstead Heath or sometimes catch the train from Waterloo to Box Hill and Ranmoor Common near where my father had spent his childhood. In the winter, it would be places like the Tower of London or the Science and Natural History Museums in South Kensington. I regret that I was never able to properly thank him for the time and effort he put into making my life so interesting and full of fun when I was a kid. However, I’m sure that he enjoyed those times too. One of the other things he did that I’m eternally grateful for was to let me accompany him to the adult section of the Central Library in Holloway Road and select books that I found interesting, which he borrowed on my behalf. I was, I suppose what would now be called a nerdy kid. I was interested in geology, dinosaurs, space travel technology, and science generally, and had no interest at all in sports, which put me somewhat at odds with my school mates. However, I wasn’t the stereotypical weedy little nerd, and was quite prepared to stand up for myself. I can remember quite a few playground fights I had with other pupils, the boys in the class would rate you on the outcome (this was one of the criteria by which kids were judged in those days). it was not unusual to go home with scuffed elbows and a fat lip.
My mother had been brainwashed by the Catholic Church when a child, so at one stage insisted that I attend Mass with her and my sister on Sundays. This I did as infrequently as possible for several years. Although I had to go sometimes as I did not want to offend her, but by the time I had become a pupil at Barnsbury I had wriggled out of it. I have been an atheist for as long as I can remember, and can still recall how surprised I was to discover that the infant school teachers, who read us stories from the Bible about the performance of miracles, Noah’s Ark and so forth actually believed that stuff. I am not merely an atheist but positively anti-religion to this day.
My mother had been employed in the rag trade before and during the war, and decided to take up her old profession as a tambour beader. This involved sewing sequins onto evening gowns at home as an outworker. She often worked many hours into the night at her beading frame, supplementing the income that my father made as a cabinet maker. Having a bit of extra money enabled the family to go on an annual holiday for a couple of weeks a year, usually to the Isle of Wight, and on one occasion to Hayling Island, which I didn’t find nearly as interesting. One of the places that I loved to go with my dad was the ‘Waste’ - the market in Kingsland Road, Dalston - where you could buy just about anything. I still have some of the tools that I purchased there as a child. The firm where he worked was nearby in one of the streets or mews on the north side of Dalston Lane, and he would travel daily to work on the North London line from Highbury Station. At that time, the firm that employed him mostly made custom cabinet work, and interior fittings for the BBC.
My primary schooldays were spent at Laycock Infants and later Laycock Junior Mixed School. Like a lot of kids back then, I got canings from both Mrs. Morgan and Mr. Cox, the respective head teachers of those establishments, but I think it was just the way the world was at the time. I’m sure corporal punishment was even more severe in my father’s time and earlier. Being caned, however, did impart to one a certain aura of bravado for a day or two afterwards. At the infant school, I discovered that I could already read pretty well as my mother had, to a limited degree, taught me to read, and how to sound out words that I was unfamiliar with phonetically. I don’t remember spending much time on the subject however so she must have done a pretty good job. One outcome of this was that I was bored to death as the class went endlessly over “The cat sat on the mat”, etc. Though I can’t really say that my academic performance stood out in any way at that time, or at any time after.
Playground games usually consisted of ‘He’ - more universally known as Tag - where you had one kid who would have to pursue a group of others then having touched one of the pursued they would become ‘He’, and so on. Or there was a more exiting version known as ‘Heball’, where the person selected would have to throw a ball and hit one of the other players, but in this version the person hit would join the initial thrower and so the pursuit would continue passing and aiming the ball until the last man standing was the winner. Some of the girls brought skipping ropes to school, and skipping was very popular among them; as was hopscotch, which was marked out in chalk on the playground. Dinky Toy model racing cars also went through a phase of popularity. The object was to see how far they could be propelled across the playground; the winner being the one that achieved the longest range. I seem to remember that paper aeroplanes also had a period of enthusiasm. Games like cricket had a following, but only seemed to work if drastically modified to suit the varying number of participants, and the short length of playtime breaks. The wicket had to be chalked onto a wall. The odd fight would occasionally break out, and was always a source of entertainment and distraction until the intervention of a supervising teacher, that is. This usually resulted in a visit to the headmaster and a caning for the participants. So, any serious disagreement therefore tended to be sorted out in the street after school. Conkers were always popular when in season and would often be collected on Sunday trips with my dad. Fitzroy Park at Highgate was the best place for this, as it was a route we often took from Hampstead Heath to my grandmother’s house in Bishops Road opposite Highgate Woods.
The fun things that we kids did back in those days. Guy Fawkes Night was always one of the occasions that I looked forward to the most. Even the run-up to bonfire night was exciting, begging with a guy, old clothes stuffed with newspaper propped up on Micky Lucy’s soapbox cart, selecting fireworks, collecting fuel for the bonfire that we had in the middle of the road outside Micky Lucy’s house, about halfway up Crane Grove. It was a good job it was a cul-de-sac. imagine doing something like that these days. On one occasion, said cart dumped its load of earth covered tree root that we were bringing back from Highbury Fields for the bonfire in the middle of Highbury Tube Station at rush hour. We had taken this route as a short cut between Highbury Crescent and Holloway Road. It had been a struggle getting it onto the cart in the first place, and was doubly difficult repositioning it while being screamed at by harpy in ticket collector’s uniform. Guy Fawkes Night was always eventful. Wayward rockets whizzing through the throng, unbalanced and unable to climb because of the banger attached. Dodging bangers, jumping crackers, squibs, and various other pyrotechnic anti-personnel devices ignited behind you by your mates. I recollect an occasion when a few days before Guy Fawkes, we ignited a small Roman Candle like firework called Halley’s Comet in the garden of the house between Furlong and Orleston Road. It fizzed miserably for a few minutes, when Barry, in exasperation at its lacklustre performance approached it suppliantly muttering, “O Mighty Spirits blow us up”, whereupon the cracker obliged sending a bright fireball of sparks into the air, I must confess he looked pretty surprised. Finally, when the supply of fireworks was exhausted, fishing the charred spuds from the dying embers of the bonfire. I think there was something about those days that kids these days will never experience or understand,
Every kid back then would have played on bomb sites, and there were many in Islington. The area of MacKenzie Road had been flattened and was now covered in prefabs, but many more opportunities remained around the area where I lived and I think I explored all of them. We would often engage in a game we called ‘stone raids’, where two teams would find defensible positions in the wreckage of a bomb site and hurl pieces of rubble and rocks at one another. I can remember getting a bloody cut on the forehead as a result of of a well aimed rock. I particularly remember scaling the wall that surrounded the old V1 site at Highbury Corner with the beautiful and tomboyish Pamela Gowing in tow who lived a few doors further up Crane Grove. We descended down a rubble slope to the vaults that remained under the old Westminster Bank. In the gloom of a subterranean corridor were double doors with still intact circular glass windows, but she would go no further thinking the place was haunted. Pamela was keen on “Famous Five” adventures and similar stories, and loved that kind of place, imagining it to be full of ghosts. One small bomb site was a particular challenge, it was opposite Compton Terrace narrow and walled off at either end, I climbed over the wall and had to drop quite a few feet down into where the cellar had been. When it came to getting out, however, I found too many obstructions in the way to enable me to get a sufficient run at the wall to scale it. I had to climb one of the large wooden props that held up the buildings on either side, and edge my way along the wall that had originally formed the building’s cellar, and then climb back over the wall into Upper Street. On one occasion, Pamela Gowing and I caught the 611 trolleybus up to Highgate Cemetery. A fascinating place with tree covered pathways and crumbling tombs. I thought it would be just the sort of place she would like, and she did. I had previously visited the cemetery with my father on a trip to Waterlow Park. I would sometimes go with my mates to Clissold Park with a jam jar and long cane handled net to catch sticklebacks in the New River. The unfortunate victims of these fishing expeditions were kept in an old zinc bath in the backyard. I don’t recall if any of them survived for more than a couple of weeks.
St. Mary Magdalene Church and gardens opposite the Central Library in Holloway Road was a popular place to play games like runouts. It also provided several large tombs to climb on. The vaults under the church had large barred windows at ground level, through which you could see the outlines of further tombs inside. Pamela always found this a fascinating place, as it took little imagination to think that this was likely a very haunted site. One of the games we played involved climbing the steps to the church, getting over the side railing and edging your way along the narrow ledge that ran around the building about two metres above the ground. If you could get as far as another set of steps without having to jump down if you lost your balance, that was regarded as pretty good.
Sometimes during the long summer evenings, along with several of my friends we simply sat on the low wall of one of the houses up Crane Grove and just held a general discussion; about anything really that happened to catch our interest at the time. We would stay out until quite late as I can remember that the street light outside that particular house was often on. Few families had a television in those days and the only regular entertainment was listening to the radio or going to the Saturday morning matinée. Speaking of which, my mate, Alan Foster, lived with his family in one of the flats situated at the top floor of the old Highbury Picture Theatre Cinema at Highbury Corner, and on Saturdays his mother worked as an usherette. So, Alan his brothers, sister and friends were shown into the back of the stalls by his mum. As the cinema filled from the front to back, this evoked many curious glances from the kids in front, wondering who the VIPs were they could see being ushered into the back row.
Barry Page and I occasionally went on weekend visits to the museums in South Kensington and sometimes trips to Hampstead Heath, or as often as not to no place in particular. I would usually take my sister’s scooter (I had actually assumed exclusive use of it at this point). When my sister visited recently, and I mentioned this to her, she in fact told me she had always thought it was my scooter. Barry would often use his roller skates, and we would present a considerable hazard to pedestrians as we both whizzed down Highgate Hill. I remember on one occasion nearly T-boning an ambulance as it emerged from St. Mary’s Hospital. My father was a keen bike rider and bought a bike for me. We did use it a few times, for example, trips to the Kingsland ‘Waste’, but in general I preferred to use the scooter as I could go where I wanted and did not have to breath in traffic fumes. With the scooter you could look in any shop window that you passed or take off through a park or gardens.
It was cheap to get around either on buses, rail, trams or Underground, so if there was something interesting on - like the fair at the Vale of Health, Hampstead Heath, you could go and check it out. One might even be lucky enough to have sufficient money to spend on a ride or in sideshow alley. Kings Cross Station or Finsbury Park were also popular destinations to look at the trains. I liked seeing the steam engines, but I was never enthusiastic enough to be a train spotter. As I’ve mentioned previously, the ‘Waste’ in Kingsland Road was a place I sometimes went. The vast array of goods for sale on the stalls was always interesting. The Model Engineering Exhibition was something I always looked forward to, and I visited it on several occasions with my parents. Also the Motor Show at Earls Court, which I usually visited with my uncle John and my father. Another annual event on the family’s calendar was Tom Arnold’s Circus that was performing around Christmas time at Harringay Arena.
It must have been 1950 when the lead pipes supplying the basin on the top floor landing froze one night creating a huge icicle that cascaded down the stairs. When it melted some days later. the moth-eaten carpet was obviously a write off, the stairs would dry out eventually, but some of the plaster on the stairs, from the basement to the first floor, fell off exposing the wooden laths. My father and uncle did a not very good job of re-plastering it. The semi-basement was always damp to one degree or another, particularly the passage beneath the exterior stairs that ascended on the side of the house. Here was the coal hole that would be filled by coal covered deliverymen in anticipation of winter. Coal fires were a feature of life back then, and I can remember reading books in the evenings and staring into the embers that always seemed full of fascinating glowing caves. The culmination of all this coal burning was, of course, the smog of 1952. Returning home from school was a novel experience during the smog. On my right was the ill-defined glow of light from the shop windows in Holloway Road, and on my left the vague glimpse of occasional headlights that slowly emerged from the darkness and gloom. I watched a bus pass with the conductor walking ahead carrying a useless torch. I guess he was checking the road for parked cars. Or maybe trying to find a bus stop. I seem to remember thinking I must be coming up to Digswell Street soon and then seeing the curb emerge from the smog about six feet in front of me. It was that bad. You had to move with caution as people didn’t have lights to warn of their approach.
I was born on the 5th of May, 1945, at the Royal Northern Hospital, Holloway Road, and until 1963 lived with my parents and younger sister at No. 1 Crane Grove just off Holloway Road near Highbury Corner. I attended Laycock Infants and Junior Mixed Schools and later, of course, Barnsbury Central School for Boys, as it was known then.
My father was a joiner and cabinet maker, and during the war was engaged, along with other building tradesmen, to repair bomb damaged infrastructure. For example, police stations, hospitals and other essential buildings, to get them up and running again as soon as possible. My four uncles served in the Army and Royal Air Force in North Africa, Europe and the Far East. All survived the war, three of them staying with my parents at Crane Grove for a couple of years after demobilisation. The house, which had a semi basement and three upper floors, was an end of terrace and was leased in my mother’s name after her father had died in 1938. There was a brick air raid shelter with a thick concrete roof in the back yard that served the families of the houses up to Digswell Street. Complete with gas masks and tin hats, it had an amazingly flimsy door, and a pick and shovel for digging yourself out should the house collapse on the shelter; assuming you survived, that is. The small back yard was all that remained of a previously more extensive garden that had had a factory (Grant & West) built on it. I never did find out exactly what it was that they made, but the guy that owned it was an amiable Frenchman who drove a 1948 Riley Roadster. I remember on one occasion he presented us local kids with a box of about twenty reasonably good quality brass telescopes. I have no idea what eventually happened to the two I managed to acquire. The Grant & West factory roof was a mildly challenging climb. One could easily get onto the first level from the steps beside the house and then onto the second level by climbing the fire escape that terminated on the lower roof. Climbing on the fire escape handrail and heaving yourself up gave access to the second level. From this second level there was a drainpipe and a more difficult climb that gave you access to the main factory roof. It was necessary to get to the top as I often lost my arrows up there.
Looking back, I had a happy childhood, free to wander the streets, parks and rubble strewn bomb sites where me and my friends had many adventures. Wandering up Orleston Mews would usually result in being told to clear off by someone working in the factory that was there at that time. As would scaling the gate to the coal yard that ran between Liverpool Road and Holloway Road. Riding scooters and soapbox carts, scaling trees most usually in other peoples gardens. If we were caught we would be cautioned by the local Bobby, who would threaten to drag us by the ear to confront our parents, who he seemed to hope would be suitably outraged by our misdemeanours.
I think my parents were fairly progressive, if that is the word, inasmuch that I don’t ever remember being subjected to any form of physical punishment. It was simply expected that I would behave responsibly, a state that I must confess I frequently failed to achieve. When my uncles moved away, the second and third floor flats were redecorated and let, which provided a bit more income for the family. The third floor flat was rented by a Mrs. King, an elderly widow, and the second floor flat to Mr. and Mrs. Saunders. Mr. Saunders was a private detective, which I thought was an interesting turn up for the books and a fascinating profession, having seen many examples of the trade portrayed at the Saturday morning matinées. I imagined him stalking dastardly villains, snub nosed revolver in hand. Even though he did not quite fit the bill, being quite elderly, compared to his screen counterparts. Then my mother shattered my illusions and informed me about the rather less glamorous reality of the job, spying on errant wives and husbands.
Some of the things I remember about my life at the time are the journeys with my mother to Chapel Street market to get the weekly shopping, sometimes by bus, but more often than not we walked as we could not afford the bus fare as things were tight in the immediate post war years. This was a weary trip for me at that age, and more so for my mother with shopping bags full of spuds and cabbages. There were also trips to Drayton Park to get ration coupons, as at that time in the UK rationing was still in force after the war. Fish and chips was an occasional takeaway treat usually from the chippy near the corner of Islington Park Street and Upper Street, or just past Drayton Park in Holloway, where I would be despatched bearing money and an order.
Sundays were often taken up by trips with my father, occasionally accompanied by my sister. In the summer we would go to Hampstead Heath or sometimes catch the train from Waterloo to Box Hill and Ranmoor Common near where my father had spent his childhood. In the winter, it would be places like the Tower of London or the Science and Natural History Museums in South Kensington. I regret that I was never able to properly thank him for the time and effort he put into making my life so interesting and full of fun when I was a kid. However, I’m sure that he enjoyed those times too. One of the other things he did that I’m eternally grateful for was to let me accompany him to the adult section of the Central Library in Holloway Road and select books that I found interesting, which he borrowed on my behalf. I was, I suppose what would now be called a nerdy kid. I was interested in geology, dinosaurs, space travel technology, and science generally, and had no interest at all in sports, which put me somewhat at odds with my school mates. However, I wasn’t the stereotypical weedy little nerd, and was quite prepared to stand up for myself. I can remember quite a few playground fights I had with other pupils, the boys in the class would rate you on the outcome (this was one of the criteria by which kids were judged in those days). it was not unusual to go home with scuffed elbows and a fat lip.
My mother had been brainwashed by the Catholic Church when a child, so at one stage insisted that I attend Mass with her and my sister on Sundays. This I did as infrequently as possible for several years. Although I had to go sometimes as I did not want to offend her, but by the time I had become a pupil at Barnsbury I had wriggled out of it. I have been an atheist for as long as I can remember, and can still recall how surprised I was to discover that the infant school teachers, who read us stories from the Bible about the performance of miracles, Noah’s Ark and so forth actually believed that stuff. I am not merely an atheist but positively anti-religion to this day.
My mother had been employed in the rag trade before and during the war, and decided to take up her old profession as a tambour beader. This involved sewing sequins onto evening gowns at home as an outworker. She often worked many hours into the night at her beading frame, supplementing the income that my father made as a cabinet maker. Having a bit of extra money enabled the family to go on an annual holiday for a couple of weeks a year, usually to the Isle of Wight, and on one occasion to Hayling Island, which I didn’t find nearly as interesting. One of the places that I loved to go with my dad was the ‘Waste’ - the market in Kingsland Road, Dalston - where you could buy just about anything. I still have some of the tools that I purchased there as a child. The firm where he worked was nearby in one of the streets or mews on the north side of Dalston Lane, and he would travel daily to work on the North London line from Highbury Station. At that time, the firm that employed him mostly made custom cabinet work, and interior fittings for the BBC.
My primary schooldays were spent at Laycock Infants and later Laycock Junior Mixed School. Like a lot of kids back then, I got canings from both Mrs. Morgan and Mr. Cox, the respective head teachers of those establishments, but I think it was just the way the world was at the time. I’m sure corporal punishment was even more severe in my father’s time and earlier. Being caned, however, did impart to one a certain aura of bravado for a day or two afterwards. At the infant school, I discovered that I could already read pretty well as my mother had, to a limited degree, taught me to read, and how to sound out words that I was unfamiliar with phonetically. I don’t remember spending much time on the subject however so she must have done a pretty good job. One outcome of this was that I was bored to death as the class went endlessly over “The cat sat on the mat”, etc. Though I can’t really say that my academic performance stood out in any way at that time, or at any time after.
Playground games usually consisted of ‘He’ - more universally known as Tag - where you had one kid who would have to pursue a group of others then having touched one of the pursued they would become ‘He’, and so on. Or there was a more exiting version known as ‘Heball’, where the person selected would have to throw a ball and hit one of the other players, but in this version the person hit would join the initial thrower and so the pursuit would continue passing and aiming the ball until the last man standing was the winner. Some of the girls brought skipping ropes to school, and skipping was very popular among them; as was hopscotch, which was marked out in chalk on the playground. Dinky Toy model racing cars also went through a phase of popularity. The object was to see how far they could be propelled across the playground; the winner being the one that achieved the longest range. I seem to remember that paper aeroplanes also had a period of enthusiasm. Games like cricket had a following, but only seemed to work if drastically modified to suit the varying number of participants, and the short length of playtime breaks. The wicket had to be chalked onto a wall. The odd fight would occasionally break out, and was always a source of entertainment and distraction until the intervention of a supervising teacher, that is. This usually resulted in a visit to the headmaster and a caning for the participants. So, any serious disagreement therefore tended to be sorted out in the street after school. Conkers were always popular when in season and would often be collected on Sunday trips with my dad. Fitzroy Park at Highgate was the best place for this, as it was a route we often took from Hampstead Heath to my grandmother’s house in Bishops Road opposite Highgate Woods.
The fun things that we kids did back in those days. Guy Fawkes Night was always one of the occasions that I looked forward to the most. Even the run-up to bonfire night was exciting, begging with a guy, old clothes stuffed with newspaper propped up on Micky Lucy’s soapbox cart, selecting fireworks, collecting fuel for the bonfire that we had in the middle of the road outside Micky Lucy’s house, about halfway up Crane Grove. It was a good job it was a cul-de-sac. imagine doing something like that these days. On one occasion, said cart dumped its load of earth covered tree root that we were bringing back from Highbury Fields for the bonfire in the middle of Highbury Tube Station at rush hour. We had taken this route as a short cut between Highbury Crescent and Holloway Road. It had been a struggle getting it onto the cart in the first place, and was doubly difficult repositioning it while being screamed at by harpy in ticket collector’s uniform. Guy Fawkes Night was always eventful. Wayward rockets whizzing through the throng, unbalanced and unable to climb because of the banger attached. Dodging bangers, jumping crackers, squibs, and various other pyrotechnic anti-personnel devices ignited behind you by your mates. I recollect an occasion when a few days before Guy Fawkes, we ignited a small Roman Candle like firework called Halley’s Comet in the garden of the house between Furlong and Orleston Road. It fizzed miserably for a few minutes, when Barry, in exasperation at its lacklustre performance approached it suppliantly muttering, “O Mighty Spirits blow us up”, whereupon the cracker obliged sending a bright fireball of sparks into the air, I must confess he looked pretty surprised. Finally, when the supply of fireworks was exhausted, fishing the charred spuds from the dying embers of the bonfire. I think there was something about those days that kids these days will never experience or understand,
Every kid back then would have played on bomb sites, and there were many in Islington. The area of MacKenzie Road had been flattened and was now covered in prefabs, but many more opportunities remained around the area where I lived and I think I explored all of them. We would often engage in a game we called ‘stone raids’, where two teams would find defensible positions in the wreckage of a bomb site and hurl pieces of rubble and rocks at one another. I can remember getting a bloody cut on the forehead as a result of of a well aimed rock. I particularly remember scaling the wall that surrounded the old V1 site at Highbury Corner with the beautiful and tomboyish Pamela Gowing in tow who lived a few doors further up Crane Grove. We descended down a rubble slope to the vaults that remained under the old Westminster Bank. In the gloom of a subterranean corridor were double doors with still intact circular glass windows, but she would go no further thinking the place was haunted. Pamela was keen on “Famous Five” adventures and similar stories, and loved that kind of place, imagining it to be full of ghosts. One small bomb site was a particular challenge, it was opposite Compton Terrace narrow and walled off at either end, I climbed over the wall and had to drop quite a few feet down into where the cellar had been. When it came to getting out, however, I found too many obstructions in the way to enable me to get a sufficient run at the wall to scale it. I had to climb one of the large wooden props that held up the buildings on either side, and edge my way along the wall that had originally formed the building’s cellar, and then climb back over the wall into Upper Street. On one occasion, Pamela Gowing and I caught the 611 trolleybus up to Highgate Cemetery. A fascinating place with tree covered pathways and crumbling tombs. I thought it would be just the sort of place she would like, and she did. I had previously visited the cemetery with my father on a trip to Waterlow Park. I would sometimes go with my mates to Clissold Park with a jam jar and long cane handled net to catch sticklebacks in the New River. The unfortunate victims of these fishing expeditions were kept in an old zinc bath in the backyard. I don’t recall if any of them survived for more than a couple of weeks.
St. Mary Magdalene Church and gardens opposite the Central Library in Holloway Road was a popular place to play games like runouts. It also provided several large tombs to climb on. The vaults under the church had large barred windows at ground level, through which you could see the outlines of further tombs inside. Pamela always found this a fascinating place, as it took little imagination to think that this was likely a very haunted site. One of the games we played involved climbing the steps to the church, getting over the side railing and edging your way along the narrow ledge that ran around the building about two metres above the ground. If you could get as far as another set of steps without having to jump down if you lost your balance, that was regarded as pretty good.
Sometimes during the long summer evenings, along with several of my friends we simply sat on the low wall of one of the houses up Crane Grove and just held a general discussion; about anything really that happened to catch our interest at the time. We would stay out until quite late as I can remember that the street light outside that particular house was often on. Few families had a television in those days and the only regular entertainment was listening to the radio or going to the Saturday morning matinée. Speaking of which, my mate, Alan Foster, lived with his family in one of the flats situated at the top floor of the old Highbury Picture Theatre Cinema at Highbury Corner, and on Saturdays his mother worked as an usherette. So, Alan his brothers, sister and friends were shown into the back of the stalls by his mum. As the cinema filled from the front to back, this evoked many curious glances from the kids in front, wondering who the VIPs were they could see being ushered into the back row.
Barry Page and I occasionally went on weekend visits to the museums in South Kensington and sometimes trips to Hampstead Heath, or as often as not to no place in particular. I would usually take my sister’s scooter (I had actually assumed exclusive use of it at this point). When my sister visited recently, and I mentioned this to her, she in fact told me she had always thought it was my scooter. Barry would often use his roller skates, and we would present a considerable hazard to pedestrians as we both whizzed down Highgate Hill. I remember on one occasion nearly T-boning an ambulance as it emerged from St. Mary’s Hospital. My father was a keen bike rider and bought a bike for me. We did use it a few times, for example, trips to the Kingsland ‘Waste’, but in general I preferred to use the scooter as I could go where I wanted and did not have to breath in traffic fumes. With the scooter you could look in any shop window that you passed or take off through a park or gardens.
It was cheap to get around either on buses, rail, trams or Underground, so if there was something interesting on - like the fair at the Vale of Health, Hampstead Heath, you could go and check it out. One might even be lucky enough to have sufficient money to spend on a ride or in sideshow alley. Kings Cross Station or Finsbury Park were also popular destinations to look at the trains. I liked seeing the steam engines, but I was never enthusiastic enough to be a train spotter. As I’ve mentioned previously, the ‘Waste’ in Kingsland Road was a place I sometimes went. The vast array of goods for sale on the stalls was always interesting. The Model Engineering Exhibition was something I always looked forward to, and I visited it on several occasions with my parents. Also the Motor Show at Earls Court, which I usually visited with my uncle John and my father. Another annual event on the family’s calendar was Tom Arnold’s Circus that was performing around Christmas time at Harringay Arena.
It must have been 1950 when the lead pipes supplying the basin on the top floor landing froze one night creating a huge icicle that cascaded down the stairs. When it melted some days later. the moth-eaten carpet was obviously a write off, the stairs would dry out eventually, but some of the plaster on the stairs, from the basement to the first floor, fell off exposing the wooden laths. My father and uncle did a not very good job of re-plastering it. The semi-basement was always damp to one degree or another, particularly the passage beneath the exterior stairs that ascended on the side of the house. Here was the coal hole that would be filled by coal covered deliverymen in anticipation of winter. Coal fires were a feature of life back then, and I can remember reading books in the evenings and staring into the embers that always seemed full of fascinating glowing caves. The culmination of all this coal burning was, of course, the smog of 1952. Returning home from school was a novel experience during the smog. On my right was the ill-defined glow of light from the shop windows in Holloway Road, and on my left the vague glimpse of occasional headlights that slowly emerged from the darkness and gloom. I watched a bus pass with the conductor walking ahead carrying a useless torch. I guess he was checking the road for parked cars. Or maybe trying to find a bus stop. I seem to remember thinking I must be coming up to Digswell Street soon and then seeing the curb emerge from the smog about six feet in front of me. It was that bad. You had to move with caution as people didn’t have lights to warn of their approach.
A curious coincidence
During the course of my recent correspondence with Barry, he happened to send me a photo he thought I would find interesting, from his extensive archive of photographs of London, and Islington. It was a shot looking up Furlong Road taken from the junction with Crane Grove, approximately opposite to No 1 Crane Grove where I used to live. I’m not sure of the date but I would guess some time towards the end of, or just after WW1. My grandfather had acquired the lease to No 1 sometime before WW1 and three generations of my family lived there. I was looking at the photo and it occurred to me that I had seen the coat with the rather unusual collar before. Upon checking the family photographs stored on my computer, I found what I was looking for. A studio portrait of my mother, her sister, and in the middle, my uncle Frank aged about ten, He was wearing what looked like that very same jacket with the distinctive collar. So who else could it be in the photo, he was virtually outside his own house.
My uncle Frank was my favourite uncle, in his teens he was a keen amateur boxer and served in the RAF during the war. He had a great influence on my life as he was deeply interested in science and technology. I can remember how exited he was when Watson and Crick discovered the structure of DNA in 1953, and his attempts to explain it to me. As a consequence of many childhood discussions of ideas like this with him (he was never condescending,) I have retained a lifelong interest in science and technology. He lived with his wife Winnie and two sons, Ronald and James in Edgware. After being employed by the civil service as a Scientific officer for several years, he spent most of his working life driving a London bus. His youngest son James, my cousin Jim went on to become a lecturer in ecology at Aston University, and a founder member of the UK Greens Party.
I wondered if the girl standing behind him could be my mother, but Frank looks about the same age in the Furlong road photo as he does in the studio photo, and my mother is obviously too young to be the girl in the picture. The horse chestnut tree in bloom behind them is the one Barry and I often climbed when we used to invade the various gardens of the neighbourhood. The protective cast iron railings had been removed in WWII to be melted down for armaments, so getting into any garden was merely a quick hop over the low wall. I was surprised to see that the roads in the photo look like unmade gravel or dirt (the kind of thing I spend an awful lot of time travelling on myself these days.)
During the course of my recent correspondence with Barry, he happened to send me a photo he thought I would find interesting, from his extensive archive of photographs of London, and Islington. It was a shot looking up Furlong Road taken from the junction with Crane Grove, approximately opposite to No 1 Crane Grove where I used to live. I’m not sure of the date but I would guess some time towards the end of, or just after WW1. My grandfather had acquired the lease to No 1 sometime before WW1 and three generations of my family lived there. I was looking at the photo and it occurred to me that I had seen the coat with the rather unusual collar before. Upon checking the family photographs stored on my computer, I found what I was looking for. A studio portrait of my mother, her sister, and in the middle, my uncle Frank aged about ten, He was wearing what looked like that very same jacket with the distinctive collar. So who else could it be in the photo, he was virtually outside his own house.
My uncle Frank was my favourite uncle, in his teens he was a keen amateur boxer and served in the RAF during the war. He had a great influence on my life as he was deeply interested in science and technology. I can remember how exited he was when Watson and Crick discovered the structure of DNA in 1953, and his attempts to explain it to me. As a consequence of many childhood discussions of ideas like this with him (he was never condescending,) I have retained a lifelong interest in science and technology. He lived with his wife Winnie and two sons, Ronald and James in Edgware. After being employed by the civil service as a Scientific officer for several years, he spent most of his working life driving a London bus. His youngest son James, my cousin Jim went on to become a lecturer in ecology at Aston University, and a founder member of the UK Greens Party.
I wondered if the girl standing behind him could be my mother, but Frank looks about the same age in the Furlong road photo as he does in the studio photo, and my mother is obviously too young to be the girl in the picture. The horse chestnut tree in bloom behind them is the one Barry and I often climbed when we used to invade the various gardens of the neighbourhood. The protective cast iron railings had been removed in WWII to be melted down for armaments, so getting into any garden was merely a quick hop over the low wall. I was surprised to see that the roads in the photo look like unmade gravel or dirt (the kind of thing I spend an awful lot of time travelling on myself these days.)
Teachers
My first form master was McHugh in form 1Alpha. All that I can say about him was that I didn’t really like him and, as I wasn’t musically inclined (talent-wise), I didn’t really engage with him in any way. My feelings about Richards certainly seem to follow most of the opinions expressed by other ex-Barnsbury students that encountered him. He was undoubtedly a psychopath. I was one of those that witnessed the assault on John Titchmarsh and can certainly attest to the feeling of shock that all those present felt at the incident. Although I was a fairly fit kid, I never had any interest in sport, (I still don’t, although I shoot pistol) and so was able to merge into the background, out of Rozzer’s focus of attention.
Mr. Lea was my form master in 3Alpha; we were the first set of pupils to move into the Camden Road site when I was in the 3rd year. I always found him approachable, but in spite of watching him play in a couple of performances at the Tower Theatre, I never formed any great interest in the performing arts. He was my English Language and Literature teacher, and as I got those O Levels, he must have taught me something.
Mr. Rice is another master that seems to have engendered a fair bit of criticism, and I can certainly remember many good reasons why that is the case. Rice was our Maths teacher for, I think, the first and second year at Barnsbury (Eden Grove rather than Camden Road). I admit that at the time, much of the Maths we did (basic algebra) seemed like a pointless exercise in futility. Up to then nothing regarding the usefulness or otherwise of the mathematical exercises we undertook was ever explained, at least certainly not to me. Rice however, was the only Maths teacher that I encountered who was prepared to sit down and point out reasons and examples of why Maths was more than some arcane irrelevant waste of time. So, in his case, I do owe a certain debt of gratitude.
I always regarded The Bonk as something of a martinet and had little time for him, I received at least three canings from him. I remember the deputy head, Sharr, teaching us card tricks during a Maths lesson approaching Christmas. I gather he was something of a gambler. I don’t remember the details of any of the card tricks unfortunately, but the fact that it occurred is the only thing that I remember from his Maths lessons. Of course, I remember many of the other teachers, some seemed okay, others – if I didn’t attend their classes – I scarcely remember at all. Of the other masters, only three stand out as having actually taught me much, and having had an influence on my later life.
First, Frank Walton the Art master. I had always been interested in painting and drawing (indeed I still paint as a hobby). Mr. Walton was always a source of encouragement, and opened my eyes to a much wider appreciation of the visual arts than I would have developed left to my own devices. We had very different approaches to drawing for instance, but by then I had become set in my style of drawing and painting (which, for better or worse, persists to this day). So, as far as technique goes, we were poles apart and he had no influence on me. He was a knowledgable and an enthusiastic communicator however, and as a consequence I can appreciate art from a much broader perspective. I seem to remember that he was a collector, and actually had some drawings by well known artists, some of which on one occasion he brought into the school to show us. I remember him as a kindly person and a true gentleman.
Second, Harry Godsall was my form master in 4T1 and 5T1 where our classroom was the Technical Drawing room. I was good at technical drawing, and found that much of what I learned from Mr. Godsall’s classes served me well in later life. Particularly regarding its application to small arms engineering when I was a self employed gunsmith. (that’s up until a couple of years ago).
Last, but not least, George Bean, the Metalwork master, obviously had a great influence. Even before I started doing gun work later on, my house in Bournemouth had its own engineering workshop, with top of the range (within reason) machine tools. As does my current house in Australia. I would feel physically disabled if I couldn’t go into my workshop and knock up whatever I wanted. So, although I learned much from subsequent teachers, Mr. Bean had the biggest influence on me. He was always cheerful and helpful, and I got the impression that he was one of the few teachers that really enjoyed his work.
The idea of the Central School was to channel students into commerce and industry. It’s a great pity that the assumption was that the students were there merely to provide industrial and commercial fodder. More by accident than design, at least initially, I chose to use what I had learned and what skills I had for my own businesses, rather than for someone else’s benefit. There should have been a more open minded attitude to the possibilities that students could do more than simply opt for an apprenticeship or work for a bank. We were working class kids and I guess things were different in those days. It was expected that one should know and accept one’s place in society. I think that probably applied to the teachers as well. The teachers that were most influential, were exactly the kind of person that I feel I could form a friendship with if they were around today. I have had a proper job on only two occasions, both as laboratory technicians. I stated my list of O Levels in my applications, but at neither interview was I ever asked to present the evidence.
When I think about it, I consider myself lucky that I went to Barnsbury. We probably had better facilities than would have been available at the average secondary modern school. I had a happy childhood, and my time at Barnsbury was no small part of that.
As an afterword, I think it’s worth pointing out George Bean’s metalwork class influenced David Proctor’s decision to go into the metal fabrication business; one that he successfully conducted for many years. David told me that he had visited George when he was terminally ill in hospital. Mr. Reubens, the Physics teacher, fostered Brian Bond’s interest in electronics, which must have had a significant effect on his becoming a GPO apprentice and then a telecommunications technician. Brian went on to carve out a successful career with the GPO as it was then.
My first form master was McHugh in form 1Alpha. All that I can say about him was that I didn’t really like him and, as I wasn’t musically inclined (talent-wise), I didn’t really engage with him in any way. My feelings about Richards certainly seem to follow most of the opinions expressed by other ex-Barnsbury students that encountered him. He was undoubtedly a psychopath. I was one of those that witnessed the assault on John Titchmarsh and can certainly attest to the feeling of shock that all those present felt at the incident. Although I was a fairly fit kid, I never had any interest in sport, (I still don’t, although I shoot pistol) and so was able to merge into the background, out of Rozzer’s focus of attention.
Mr. Lea was my form master in 3Alpha; we were the first set of pupils to move into the Camden Road site when I was in the 3rd year. I always found him approachable, but in spite of watching him play in a couple of performances at the Tower Theatre, I never formed any great interest in the performing arts. He was my English Language and Literature teacher, and as I got those O Levels, he must have taught me something.
Mr. Rice is another master that seems to have engendered a fair bit of criticism, and I can certainly remember many good reasons why that is the case. Rice was our Maths teacher for, I think, the first and second year at Barnsbury (Eden Grove rather than Camden Road). I admit that at the time, much of the Maths we did (basic algebra) seemed like a pointless exercise in futility. Up to then nothing regarding the usefulness or otherwise of the mathematical exercises we undertook was ever explained, at least certainly not to me. Rice however, was the only Maths teacher that I encountered who was prepared to sit down and point out reasons and examples of why Maths was more than some arcane irrelevant waste of time. So, in his case, I do owe a certain debt of gratitude.
I always regarded The Bonk as something of a martinet and had little time for him, I received at least three canings from him. I remember the deputy head, Sharr, teaching us card tricks during a Maths lesson approaching Christmas. I gather he was something of a gambler. I don’t remember the details of any of the card tricks unfortunately, but the fact that it occurred is the only thing that I remember from his Maths lessons. Of course, I remember many of the other teachers, some seemed okay, others – if I didn’t attend their classes – I scarcely remember at all. Of the other masters, only three stand out as having actually taught me much, and having had an influence on my later life.
First, Frank Walton the Art master. I had always been interested in painting and drawing (indeed I still paint as a hobby). Mr. Walton was always a source of encouragement, and opened my eyes to a much wider appreciation of the visual arts than I would have developed left to my own devices. We had very different approaches to drawing for instance, but by then I had become set in my style of drawing and painting (which, for better or worse, persists to this day). So, as far as technique goes, we were poles apart and he had no influence on me. He was a knowledgable and an enthusiastic communicator however, and as a consequence I can appreciate art from a much broader perspective. I seem to remember that he was a collector, and actually had some drawings by well known artists, some of which on one occasion he brought into the school to show us. I remember him as a kindly person and a true gentleman.
Second, Harry Godsall was my form master in 4T1 and 5T1 where our classroom was the Technical Drawing room. I was good at technical drawing, and found that much of what I learned from Mr. Godsall’s classes served me well in later life. Particularly regarding its application to small arms engineering when I was a self employed gunsmith. (that’s up until a couple of years ago).
Last, but not least, George Bean, the Metalwork master, obviously had a great influence. Even before I started doing gun work later on, my house in Bournemouth had its own engineering workshop, with top of the range (within reason) machine tools. As does my current house in Australia. I would feel physically disabled if I couldn’t go into my workshop and knock up whatever I wanted. So, although I learned much from subsequent teachers, Mr. Bean had the biggest influence on me. He was always cheerful and helpful, and I got the impression that he was one of the few teachers that really enjoyed his work.
The idea of the Central School was to channel students into commerce and industry. It’s a great pity that the assumption was that the students were there merely to provide industrial and commercial fodder. More by accident than design, at least initially, I chose to use what I had learned and what skills I had for my own businesses, rather than for someone else’s benefit. There should have been a more open minded attitude to the possibilities that students could do more than simply opt for an apprenticeship or work for a bank. We were working class kids and I guess things were different in those days. It was expected that one should know and accept one’s place in society. I think that probably applied to the teachers as well. The teachers that were most influential, were exactly the kind of person that I feel I could form a friendship with if they were around today. I have had a proper job on only two occasions, both as laboratory technicians. I stated my list of O Levels in my applications, but at neither interview was I ever asked to present the evidence.
When I think about it, I consider myself lucky that I went to Barnsbury. We probably had better facilities than would have been available at the average secondary modern school. I had a happy childhood, and my time at Barnsbury was no small part of that.
As an afterword, I think it’s worth pointing out George Bean’s metalwork class influenced David Proctor’s decision to go into the metal fabrication business; one that he successfully conducted for many years. David told me that he had visited George when he was terminally ill in hospital. Mr. Reubens, the Physics teacher, fostered Brian Bond’s interest in electronics, which must have had a significant effect on his becoming a GPO apprentice and then a telecommunications technician. Brian went on to carve out a successful career with the GPO as it was then.