Many thanks for participating in this blog

 

Since starting this blog I’ve been pleasantly surprised at the hit-rate of about 100 every week; I wasn’t expecting anywhere near this number. Another surprise has been the number of comments received and which I’ve been able to post on the blog.

But the most pleasing result of all has been the private emails I’ve received (not published on the blog of course) from people I knew many years ago in Pontypool. Many of these have jogged my memory about things I had – temporarily – forgotten and which I’ve been able to incorporate, sometimes retrospectively, into some of the posts.

So if any long-lost friends would like to email me to share a few memories, please feel free to do so at: david.hughes43@ntlworld.com

In case your memory – like mine – needs jogging, I append below a 1947 portrait. I won’t scare you with the 2009 version!

Best wishes,

David (Dewi) Hughes

 

 

Pontypool Personalities

There were various characters in Pontypool which seemed to stand out from the crowd for a number of reasons and which I vividly remember. The first two were generally referred to as “tramps” which, on reflection, would be reasonably accurate. Their names were Hardboiled and Kilka.

Hardboiled was about average height and very thick set. His clothes had obviously seen better days and I imagine he had them from someone who felt sorry for him. He generally wore daps on his feet even in winter time. He constantly wore a serious expression which seemed to indicate a grudge against society in general. I don’t know where he lived but he would often be found in the Crane Street area, possibly because of the number of pubs there. He would just wander around with an unsteady gait usually muttering to himself when he was drunk, which seemed to be most of the time.

Kilka, by contrast, was quite tall and was reputedly from a wealthy family. He also wandered about in a semi-stupor and constantly wore a rather surprised expression on his face. He was slightly better dressed than Hardboiled, possibly because someone in his family took a marginal interest in him.

This duo would frequently be found chatting together either sitting on the steps opposite Franketti’s chip shop or occupying a windowsill near the pubs in Crane Street. Sometimes we stopped to talk to them. To us they seemd a bit simple but harmless; we never heard of them getting into any trouble. They would sometimes ask us whether we had any money to give them. We never did of course, but if we had, I doubt very much whether we’d have given them any to encourage them in their drunken meanderings.

A similar character, but slightly better dressed and with more purpose in life was  known as Popeye. He was an Argus seller. I don’t know where he lived but his spot for selling Arguses was often near the railway bridge where Broadway and Wainfelin Road meet. He was quite short and thick set with a slight twist to his face which I suspect was the reason for his being named Popeye. His loud cry of “Argus” when selling his wares sounded more like “Arguy” and when we saw him doing his job we frequently tried to mimic his cry which on times seemed to annoy him.

Two other eccentric characters were Bob Trump and his wife who had two shops, one in Market street immediately below the market and the other just a little way down from Town School opposite the corn stores. The one we frequented most often was the one in Market Street which was generally looked after by Mrs Trump. She was a short grey-haired woman who just managed to pop her head above the tall glass-fronted counter. On entering the shop you were immediately overcome by the masses of stock inside, not arranged on shelves but in piles all over the place thus only allowing a few people at any one time to enter the shop. The contents and purpose of the shop defy accurate description but in the main they sold sheet music, books, stationery and other items in that line. We often went in there to buy foreign stamps, usually a penny packet. Those packets always had a very attractive pictorial stamp right in the middle of the transparent front. We’d be tempted to buy it in order to get the stamp we could see, only to find when we opened the packet that we had all the other stamps inside. I remember buying a few books in the shop. Eric Smith and I were very keen on the Conan Doyle “Sherlock Holmes” stories and I remember asking Mrs trump one day whether she had any “Sherlock Holmes” books to which she replied, “No, we don’t have any books by Sherlock Holmes”. We thought it was a hilarious reply.

Another colourful character was the fireman, Captain Cope, who was in charge of Pontypool Fire Brigade. He lived in the upper part of the Coedcae (always pronounced Coyca for some reason) in one of the larger houses. Whenever we saw him we always greeted him with a respectful “Hello Captain”. I understand he was very fond of his beer.

The last two of the Pontypool characters I can bring to mind was Sergeant Boulter of the police and Lemuel. I’m not certain why Sergeant Boulter enjoyed notoriety but he was one of the Pontypool characters which people in the town talked about. Lemuel was a slight character who was very quiet and just walked around in a long, light-coloured, oversized coat. He had a permanent twitch of his head. It was rumoured that he was suffering from shell shock as a result of the First World War. This is quite possible as even the men who were fortunate enough to return from that horriffic slaughter often carried scars of one sort or another for the rest of their lives.

High Days and Holidays at Pontypool Town School

We copied our stories in our best copperplate handwriting

 

 

Schools today have a variety of oases in the annual desert of school life; I don’t mean holidays from school but events within the school year. There’s the annual school outing to some place of interest, the annual Christmas Party, visits by a variety of guests, sports day and so on.

 

At Town School we had only three such occasions as far as I can recall: St David’s Day, the annual Scripture Exam and the Christmas gifts which J.P. Lewis, the headmaster, used to scrounge for us from various businesses.

 

I briefly referred to St David’s Day in a previous post. I suppose this was our most popular day since we were guaranteed a half day’s holiday. In the morning we had what was euphemistically termed an eisteddfod which was rather a grand name for our humble efforts at singing, reciting and writing poetry. But we all knew for certain that, after it was all over, the afternoon was ours.

 

The annual Scripture Exam enjoyed a much higher profile; for one thing we knew for certain that the Vicar of Trevethin and his curate would visit us to do the “examining”. For those of us in the top class, the event was preceded by many weeks of preparation of our models. These were a collection of dioramas which we made by collecting shoe boxes from the local shoe shops. As my Uncle Percy Gregory owned a shoe shop this presented me with no difficulty at all.

 

The lid of the shoe box was glued on the side of the upturned box thus presenting a sort of stage on which we built out models with a background behind. We were allowed to choose almost any story which we’d learned during our year’s scripture lessons and make a model based on it. I always chose something to do with shepherds and sheep as Mr Petty had a rubber stamp of a sheep and was always able to supply the necessary cotton-wool to represent the sheep’s coat. I must have cut out and clothed a whole flock of sheep which were then stuck on the stage with little flaps under their feet and a shepherd was stuck there looking after them. The background was invariably a bright blue sky and a few hills. A few days before the exam these were all arranged on trestle tables down the school’s narrow corridor for everyone to admire.

 

There was one particular model which appeared year after year. It was a most superior shepherd scene as it not only had sheep and a shepherd but there was also a house, all made of plaster of Paris. It looked really realistic and every year, at its annual appearance, I was filled with admiration. Imagine my utter joy and delight, therefore, when, in my last year at the school, Mr Petty gave me the job of repairing the model and repainting it just to freshen it up a bit.

 

During our scripture lessons we spent quite a lot of time learning to recite psalms, chant some of the Church of England catechism and learn all ten commandments. The learning of the commandments didn’t present much trouble; it was keeping them we found difficult. On the great day the vicar and the curate shared out the classes between them and came around to ask us questions about the stories in our syllabus. They always seemed quite easy questions and each one usually resulted in a veritable forest of hands thrust skywards to give the answers. I liked the young curate, Rev. L.C.Bartle Jenkins as he always seemed very friendly with a happy disposition – not quite as serious as the vicar.

 

Another feature of the exam was our story writing. Again we were allowed to choose which story we would like to retell and we wrote it out on foolscap paper; it was the only time we ever used such large sheets. The event was always very carefully staged by the teachers. About a week before the exam we had to write out our stories. These would then be collected in, carefully corrected by our teacher and then returned to us. Then we were given new sheets of paper and told to copy out our stories once again complete with corrections and in our very best copperplate handwriting. When we were about half way through we were told to stop and the papers were collected in once again. On the day of the exam our stories would be given back to us and we continued to write but with no sign of the corrected copies. This event was obviously well timed as, no sooner had we started to write, than the vicar or curate arrived in the classroom and walked around to see our stories, not completed of course, but well on the way – and with hardly any mistakes. We went along with this bit of sanctified skulduggery in the hope of earning the afternoon holiday. And we always did! At the end of morning school, the headmaster and Vicar would come around the classes to say how well we’d done and the Vicar always asked the headmaster to give us the afternoon off, which he always did.

 

J.P. Lewis, the headmaster, spent a lot of time, in the weeks before Christmas, writing to various large businesses all over the country asking for any free gifts they might have which were suitable for children. On our last day a selection of these were given to our teacher and were shared out amongst the class. They were all quite small and cheap items but I loved receiving them. Some were simple pictures to colour, others were puzzles to solve and occasionally a model to cut out and construct. I remember one Christmas receiving a model coconut-shy. I loved it. They all carried an advert of some sort for products such as Borwicks Baking Powder, Bisto, Oxo etc.

 

In 1881 Robert Louis Stevenson wrote in Virginibus Puerisque: “To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive”.  The days I have described helped us to travel hopefully through our young schooldays; it’s always good to have something to look forward to.

Tragedy at West Mon 2. Words from a key witness.

As I’ve stated in the new short heading to this blog, I’ve had quite a number of emails sent to me concerning the contents and other people’s memories. These are personal emails and not the same as the comments which are included in the blog from time to time as they are sent in.

 

Last week I was thrilled to receive several emails from an old West Mon boy, Peter Jefferys who, for the past 42 years, has been living in Ilfracombe. He was surfing the internet looking for a picture of West Mon when he accidentally came across my blog. On reading it he was amazed to find the account of the tragedy when Robin Lafone was drowned in the school swimming baths.

 

Peter was in the new form one I referred to in my original account of this tragedy and in his email he says:

 

“I was the boy who ran for help and was in the same class as Hancher and Lafone. Lafone was a close friend and sat next to me in class. The day’s events of this tragedy will be  with me always, and sadly the circumstances of the accident were not as generally accepted. The teacher in charge was unable to swim, and my memory of him in the water hanging on to the side of the Baths with his gown still on, is as clear now as then. I ran for help [without towel] to a classroom on the ground floor, and the teacher attempted to save both boys. I was a boarder at the school, having moved down from London in 1945? until 1950. Hopefully I will be able to make contact with others who were at West Mon during those years. [The school song is now running through my head, whilst writing this.]“

I note that Peter queries the date 1945. As I was in form 2A during 1942-3, I would have been in form 3A during 1943-4, so my best guess at the date of the accident would be 1944. In my reply to Peter I asked him some questions to try to clarify in my own mind exactly what happened on that day. He replied:

 

“The master in the water with gown was not the teacher that I went for help to.  [I cannot recall the his name.] The teacher that I went to in a class came back with me and dived in to try and save the boys. My recollection was that Garnett was not there. I did wonder why the boys were not questioned at the time about the event, but maybe we were all thought to be too young to be reliable witnesses.

Lafone jumped in, as he had been dared to by the boys, and he had been told to jump in from the deep end of the baths and jump towards the side so he could get out, although he admitted he could not swim I think he felt he could not lose face.”

Taking account of all the comments and emails I’ve received about this matter, I think I’ve now arrived, as near as possible, to a definitive account of this tragedy. I’ve come to the conclusion that, over the intervening 55 years, there has grown up around it a sort of West Mon folklore, some of which is not very accurate. For instance, it was interesting that Peter said he was not wrapped in a towel when he ran for help. I must agree. Having seen him on the day, I’m certain that a boy running into our classroom wrapped in a towel would have made a dynamic impression on my memory. 

 

From Peter’s account it seems as though Garnett was not in the baths at the time but that the master in charge was someone wearing a gown. Garnett never wore a gown as he had no degree, and, as the sports master, he would certainly have been able to swim, so I can only suppose that another member of the staff, who would have been relatively older because the young staff members were by then in the forces, was standing in for Garnett, possibly for only a short while. If this is the case, then it’s doubly tragic that the accident occurred during that short time.

 

It’s also very sad that Robin Lafone should have died as the result of accepting a dare from some of his fellow students. If any other former West Mon boys were at the school when all this happened I shall be most pleased to have their comments. And if any of them knew Peter Jefferys and wish to get in touch, I have his email address.

Drama in Pontypool

 

You might have seen the recent TV series where the question is asked: “What have we done to our kids?” I suppose the answers to this question are many and varied, but I think one answer we can give is that we have robbed them of their sense of imagination. Today, with TV and excellent computer graphics, we supply them with the pictures; they don’t need to use their own imaginations to create pictures in their minds.

I cut my reading teeth on magazines such as the Wizard, Hotspur etc. which I’ve written about previously. They usually had stories with one graphic incorporated in the title; the rest was reading material, and I remember being shocked later on to discover that some of those magazines had turned into picture strip comics. Now we wonder why one in five seven-year-olds cannot read!

When I was a young boy, I never needed to be called in to tea twice when I knew Uncle Mac would be reading another instalment of the Coot Club in Children’s Hour. I loved those stories by Arthur Ransome and, in my imagination, I witnessed every adventure of the Coot Club on the Norfolk Broads.

Although I think I must have been last in the queue when the acting talent was given out, I always seemed to be one of the children chosen for any play being performed in Town School. It started even in the Infants’ section when I was dragooned into being a herald. I had to stand at the side of the stage and shout out the names of the various characters as they came on stage. I didn’t get an Oscar for my performance but that didn’t stop me being picked as one of the characters in “The Pearl of Great Price” when I was in the Junior section. My enduring memory of that performance was not any of the acting but the action of one of the backstage hands. She was Joan, a girl in my class who was given the task of playing “In a Turkish Market” on a gramophone at a given spot in the performance in order to create an Eastern atmosphere.

The gramophone was one of those old wind-up affairs with a handle on the side. When fully wound it lasted long enough to play a 12 inch record. I was offstage during this part of the performance and was standing in the wings near Joan as she operated the gramophone. Sure enough, right at the appointed time, she wound up the gramophone, put the record on and the Eastern music floated out into Miss Brooks’ classroom. But for some reason I’ve never been able to fathom, Joan decided that, as soon as she’d wound up the gramophone and put the music on, it was also her duty to take the handle out. I saw her starting to struggle with the handle but all to no avail. It stubbornly refused to move. So she decided to turn it the opposite way in order to remove it. Unfortunately this had the effect of unwinding the gramophone, and several seconds later the Eastern music entered a very minor key getting flatter and flatter, and sadder and sadder as she, in desperation tried to remove the handle. The effect of all this was to cause a titter amongst those of us standing in the wings which developed into raucous laughter from the audience, who, fortunately, were mainly sympathetic parents.

At Park Terrace Methodist Sunday School I was invariably required to take part in the annual Nativity Play. For some reason unknown to me, I always seemed to be cast as one of the shepherds. I started off as a shepherd boy but did eventually get promoted to a full-blown adult shepherd when I was older. But I always cast envious eyes on the glamorous wise men in their very colourful costumes. I always wondered why shepherds only wore potato sacks which, as far as I was concerned, definitely lacked both colour and glamour. However, when I was a little older, I did manage to graduate to become a wise man.

My brothers and I had an Aunt Gwen, Uncle John and cousin John Plumley who lived at 13 Club Row up the Tranch. Often on Sunday, after Sunday School, we were invited there to tea. Aunt Gwen always provided generous helpings of food and we loved going there. After tea we went into the front room to play games. Sometimes a young lad named Billy Challoner was also invited to tea and he was very keen on drama. As there was a bay window at the front of the house with curtains to draw across to keep out the draught, Billy would often organise some sort of dramatic performance using the bay window and curtains as the “stage”. He was a real hoot but was so enthusiastic, with a vivid imagination, that we all went along with his dramatic exploits. Often our audience of two were doubled up with uncontrollable laughter. 

Despite my less-than-enthusiastic forays into the world of drama, my friend Eric Smith and I, together with his cousin, Royce Pritchard, decided to let our imaginations run riot and build our own mini-theatre in Eric’s backyard. By using a combination of a clothes horse, a few blankets, a few lengths of wood and some rope we managed to construct two curtains to pull across and a concealed passage across the back of the stage which gave us access to Eric’s kitchen and entry to the far side wings.

We managed to get hold of a small book of dramatic sketches, some of which were humorous, which appealed to us. We persuaded our mothers to let us borrow some clothes to use as costumes. One of the items was a woman’s dress and we bullied Royce into playing this part. Then we needed an audience so we went to call on other boys we knew whom we played with from time to time. We knew they would most certainly not be prepared to part with any cash to see our show so we decided to let them pay in cigarette cards. This display of generosity gave us an audience of five or six.

All went well as we kept the audience interested in our jokes and sketches. Then came the main item, our sketch with Royce playing the part of a woman. It was meant to be funny and when Royce appeared in his dress there were huge guffaws all round. Then came the part when he had to sit on a chair, and the boys in the audience erupted into uncontrollable mirth. Eric and I were rather puzzled by this as it wasn’t meant to be a funny part of the sketch. However, we afterwards discovered that when Royce put on the dress he omitted to wear his underpants.

So I suppose our real claim to dramatic fame was to introduce X certificate drama ten years before the rest of the country.

Pontypool’s Secret Society

 

Few people know that, in 1945, there was set up in Pontypool a secret society which operated clandestinely under the name of the “Q.O. Secret Society”. Its meetings were held regularly, well away from the public gaze and its meeting place could only be accessed by using the secret password. The society also published a monthly document which contained details of its operations and also of its finances. The document was passed around and read by members of the society only.

Visitors to this blog will know that, in order to protect national security, cabinet papers and a host of other documents were not released to the public for 30 years after they were written. The Freedom of Information Act subsequently amended this arrangement and anyone can now make an application to all manner of bodies to acquire information under the Act. Therefore, before I get masses of applications from members of the public, Scotland Yard and the Security Services demanding that, after over 50 years of secrecy, I release all I know about the Q.O. Secret Society, I thought I’d better come clean in this post. 

The Q.O. Secret Society was founded in August 1945 by Eric Smith, Elgar Counsell and I and several other boys we knew. Our ages ranged from about 12 to 14 at the time. The original idea of the society was the brainchild of the manufacturers of Quaker Oats – hence the Q.O. bit. Doubtless in an attempt to sell more of their Quaker Oats, the company engaged in a campaign to interest children. You will all have seen the small oval frame on their boxes of oats with the head of the Quaker man inside it. By cutting out these little ovals, all sorts of benefits could accrue such as choosing free toys from their list, or, if not free, then obtainable at a very nominal price. They also published several books: “The Master Book of Secrets”, “Detection and Disguise” and a book on how to run a Q.O. Secret Society.

 Two of the books published by Quaker Oats Ltd

My brother Garyth, who was four years older than I, really got organised on this matter and went around all the members of our family asking them to save their Quaker Oats ovals for him. They readily obliged and soon he was able to send in an order for no less than eight  model aeroplanes that flew, and they flew well. He kept one himself, gave one to me and shared the rest amongst his friends. The aeroplanes were powered by a wound up elastic band but they stayed up for quite a while and when they ran out of power they glided quite well. One of our favourite places for flying these were up the Tumps – but more of the Tumps and the Tranch in a future post.

At the backs of the books mentioned above were several pages with illustrations of the goods on offer. Here are two of them:

Gun and disguise outfit advertised in the books

I bought both the above items. The gun could be obtained free for 12 Quaker figures or for 2 Quaker figures and 1/6 (one shilling and six pence). The disguise outfit was 6 Quaker figures or 2 Quaker figures and 6d (sixpence) in stamps. The gun was wonderful. It came with a roll of ammunition which was merely a roll of thin paper. This was led over a hole and when the gun was fired, air was forced through the paper making a hole and a realistic bang. I manufactured my own ammunition by cutting up strips of newspaper of the required size.

Our meeting place was my father’s shed at the rear of our house in School Lane. It was reasonably large so that housing six or eight of us was no problem as long as we didn’t mind the strong smell of stored onions and other garden produce. In the colder weather we lit the valor paraffin oil stove to provide warmth, but it added another ambient smell rather more unpleasant than the onions.

The monthly document I refer to above was our own magazine. Fortunately, my oldest brother, John, when he left West Mon went to work in the chemistry laboratories at County Hall, Newport and was anxious to learn to type which would have been a big help to him; so my father bought a second-hand Imperial typewriter from someone in Griffithstown and, one evening, he and John carried it all the way to Wainfelin. Those old typewriters were very heavy, so it was no mean feat.

I was eleven when the typewriter was purchased, so after three years of practice, I could type reasonably well – with two fingers. This was the reason that I was able to edit and produce just one copy of “The Q.O. Secret Society Magazine”. It consisted of ten 8×10 one-sided pages of very off-white and very thin wartime paper and was passed around from member to member. I still have these magazines and I note that the December Christmas issue was a bumper 25 page effort. This experience sparked off my interest in magazine editing and writing which is something I’ve been doing ever since in an honorary capacity.

The contents of the magazine were very varied and members were asked to contribute as they were able. There was some information about the society itself and also things like a crossword puzzle, jokes, poems written by members, a science section, competitions,general knowledge items and even a serial story. It also carried some adverts where members were able to advertise for sale things like model aircraft kits etc.

The Christmas number, unlike the other issues, also contained illustrations. Eric and I were very keen at that time on pen and ink drawing and below are a few of our original works which were used. When Eric sees these I hope he won’t be too embarrassed. I am!

Eric’s Christmas greetings to all members.
The verse is part of the hymn, “Now the day is over”. 

My rendering of autumn. I think I can claim to have improved since doing this.

Eric’s rendering of “The Mysterious East”.

Also in the Christmas number was our balance sheet after five months in operation. Our total income was £1:4:0 (one pound four shillings), our expenditure was 8/- (eight shillings) leaving a balance in hand of 16/- (sixteen shillings). This was most pleasing and meant we’d been running on just one-third of our income. What financial skill! If the Chancellor of the Exchequer needs someone to sort out the current financial crisis, we might possibly be persuaded to help. But, naturally we’d expect a fee of at least £5:7:6. Now – what’s that in this new fangled money?

Pontypool’s great snow of 1947

I live in a split-level house so that my lounge is on the top floor. Three-quarters of one wall consists of a huge window with a sliding door leading out onto a roof garden. I can look straight across at the low hills of Caerleon; to the west is Twm Barllwm mountain and to the east the tree-clad hills of Wentwood. For over 40 years I’ve seen this vista change through the year as we go through the seasons.

As I write now I can see the whole scene blanketed in snow. It’s only about three inches deep here, but I imagine in Pontypool – being 600 feet higher than Newport – the snow is considerably deeper. 

My memory returns to the great snow of 1947 which was my last year living in Pontypool. What snow we had then! We woke up one Sunday morning to find that about 12 inches of snow had fallen overnight. As it was a Sunday, about 12 or so young men and boys, armed with spades and shovels, decided to dig our way down to the main road. The snow was only just a little below the tops of our wellingtons. We only cleared a path a couple of yards wide, but it would have enabled anyone on foot to walk down to the main road fairly easily.  I didn’t know at that time that our efforts were to be recorded in “timeless verse” and we would receive the accolade of “heroes”. (See below)

After many hours of hard toil we returned home for our very welcome hot Sunday dinner and took it easy indoors for the rest of the day; but when we awoke the following morning a new fall of snow had filled in our pathway. As the snow now was much higher than wellington boots, our one consolation was that, by wearing wellingtons we could at least get down to the main road.

I was talking about this matter to my friend, Eric Smith, a few weeks ago, (Sadly after the funeral of his much loved wife, Betty.) and he recalled having to dig a way out at Wern Terrace, only to find it filled in again the following morning. He also remembered that, because of the extreme cold, birds were found, in Pontypool Park, dead and encased in ice.

There were all sorts of accounts passed on by word of mouth about the huge snow drifts that were about. I remember one person telling me that when he was up the Varteg he saw some boys sliding down a roof top and straight on to a snow drift which had reached the eaves of the house.

The war had only ended just two years before so we were used to hardships and shortages; rationing was still in force anyway; in fact it lasted for 14 years! The snow stayed for many weeks and deliveries by tradesmen were impossible. I remember having to walk over to Harry Brown’s bakery in High Street to get a loaf of bread. As it was obvious that, if supplies of food and other essential commodities were to get through, the roads would have to be cleared, the wartime spirit returned and volunteers came forward in large numbers to do the job.

Naturally the whole event was recorded in the Free Press, and a local poet, using the pseudonym “Chware Teg” of Varteg, wrote a poem called “A Ballad of the North Ward“. In the style of Rudyard Kipling’s “Gunga Din” he writes:

 

Have you ever been at Varteg with the needle three below,

Or on Garn when drifts are piling ten feet high?

Have you ever drawn your belt in with the kids a-starving slow

And “No Nuthin’” in addition to “No Beer”?

Have you seen the way a blank, with a single trodden path

Just six feet up above the road that was,

With Pontypool and Griff just five miles down the line,

With half a world between us till it thaws?

There’s an epic of the South Ward, blazoned in the weekly “Press”;

How the heroes of Wainfelin dug a way.

How the men of Pontypool and the warriors of Griff,

Opened up their bit of highway – without pay.

But the men of Garn had stirred, and the Varteg lads had heard,

And the road to Abersychan lay ahead.

They were seven or eight score strong, and I won’t be in the wrong

When I say that at the end of it was BREAD.

Two whole days they toiled and sang, Ira Tucker in the “van”,

Linking up with Rowley Hanson by the Church.

Varteg Co-op to “Bob-a-day”, on the ribbon wound its way,

And the men from Abersychan? . . . Well, just search!

There’s a saga of the North Ward, etched in piles of virgin snow,

Of the volunteer road men, strong and true.

Of the lads who moved that load from Garn to Foundry Road,

And let the bread and rations hurry through.

You have heard of British Fairplay, and the North Ward men don’t boast,

And they did their job without a coin, – or moan.

But the Press should blare it forth as “The Ballad of the North”

Or “How Garn and Varteg more than held their own.”

The games we used to play in Pontypool

 

Despite all the doom and gloom preached today about global warming, the warmest decade in living memory was the 1930s. This accords with my memories of my early childhood, the Town School days.

We spent most of our time outdoors when the weather was fine, most of it playing games. Naturally we played cricket , rugby and soccer whenever possible but that meant rounding up a good number of friends and having some basic equipment. Some of this we had to make ourselves, so that a rugby ball was often a tightly rolled up newspaper tied around with string; and goal posts, and quite often stumps, were our coats placed on the ground.

It was quite possible to play cricket and football in the main street at the front of the houses because very little traffic came along the road; just the odd car and from time to time the baker’s van or the horse and cart of the salt and vinegar man. French cricket was somewhat easier to play as all we needed was a bat and a soft ball. The idea was to hit the legs of the batsman not a wicket, and you could get as close as you liked, but must not move once you had retrieved the ball; even just three could play this game.

Quite often I would play games with my friend Eric Smith and perhaps one or two other boys; that meant playing games for small numbers. Here are some of the games which were our favourites:

boys playing marbles

Marbles  There were various versions of this game. We played with both colourful glass marbles, sometimes referred to as allies (pronounced arleez), and also the smaller dull brown clay marbles. The back lane behind Wern Terrace was made of a mixture of earth and ashes so it was quite easy to draw a circle on it with a sharp stick. Each of us would place two or three clay marbles in the circle and then shoot at them from a marked line with our glass marbles. The idea was to knock the clay marbles out of the circle; we kept all we knocked out. When the last marble was won the game was over and we started another. Before we started to play we decided whether we would play “keepsies” or not. If we did, then all the marbles won could be kept. If we did not play “keepsies” then after all the games each person had his own marbles returned.

There were certain cries which were shouted out. When we decided to play, one of us might shout “largall” which meant they would shoot last. There were other cries also: if another player was quite near to your marble, you could shout “Knuckle down” which meant the shooter had to point his knuckles at the ground making a hit much more difficult. The most tongue-twisting cry I can remember was “knuckledowninbarfullock”. I’m sure it meant something but I can’t remember what.

Another version of marbles was “following taws” and was quite often played along a gutter. This was usually played between two boys. The first player would shoot his marble and the second would then try to hit it with his marble. If he scored a hit he kept the marble. If not it would be the turn of the other boy to shoot. Sometimes it would take quite a while before a marble was hit; as you can imagine there were all sorts of obstacles in the gutter to hinder a shot such as stones, patches of earth, cigarette ends and spent matches.

Jackstones  This was one of my favourite games and could be played indoors or out and on almost any surface. It was played with five smooth stones or pebbles about three-quarters of an inch in length and one hand. First, all five stones were thrown in the air and we had to catch as many as possible on the back of our throwing hand. If we only caught one we had to start in “onesies” which meant throwing all five stones in a rough circle, and then throwing one stone in the air, picking up one stone and catching the other before it dropped to the ground. “Twosies” meant we had to pick up two stones at a time before catching the other. Then we progressed to three and four stones. If we made a mistake in any of this then we had to start again from the beginning. If you caught two stones on the back of your hand you started at “twosies”, and so on.

If all this was done successfully we progressed to “dappers” when we had to take all five stones in our hand, throw one stone in the air, dap the others on the ground and catch the thrown stone before it reached the ground. The stone was then set aside so that we next did it with three stones, then two and so on. Again, any mistake meant we had to start dappers all over again.

If we went through all this without a single mistake we claimed one game and could immediately start another. The one with the most games was the winner.

Cigarette cards  In those days every boy had a collection of cigarette cards. There were all sorts of cigarettes sold, from the humble Woodbine to the more upper class Players. Most of the packets contained a cigarette card, and fathers, uncles and other relatives were always willing to hand them over to us. Often, when playing in the main street, we would ask any passing men whether they had any cigarette cards to give to us. They would sometimes take out their packet and remove the card for us, but sometimes, if we struck lucky, we might ask someone who had six or eight cards in his pocket; that would be a great occasion.

Each make of cigarette had cards with a theme such as cricketers, footballers, flowers, animals of all sorts and, during the war we had a set on ARP precautions. Some of these cards now, in good condition, are very valuable, particularly if you have the complete set. You sometimes see them framed for hanging on the wall.

The game with cigarette cards was almost always played indoors. We knelt down on the floor some six or eight feet away from a wall and took it in turns flicking a cigarette card towards the wall. The card was held between the index and middle fingers and, with a sharp flick of the wrist, the card travelled several feet. The idea was to flick a card on top of another one or possibly more than one. All the cards that were covered, even partially covered, in this way were then kept by the person doing the flicking. When only one person was left with any cards, the game was over. Of course, before we started, we would decide whether to play “keepsies” or not. We would never risk our rarer cards in a game which we might lose.

On occasions we might use a pack of playing cards for the game but that was definitely not for “keepsies”.

Conkers  This was a seasonal game in the main as it depended on a good supply of conkers – generally gleaned from the park. I understand that, today, children playing in school are required to wear protective goggles. We didn’t have any such mamby-pamby nonsense when we played, and from time to time we did get the odd few bruises. If the two conker strings became intertwined, the first to shout “strings” had the next swing. We sometimes hardened our conkers by heating them in an oven so that they wouldn’t break so easily but this was a practice frowned upon by some.

Pellet shooting  This was one of the minor games. A rectangular piece of paper was folded over and over until it was about an inch or so long and a quarter of an inch wide. This was then folded in two. A wide elastic band was then held between the index finger and thumb and the pellet fitted across the elastic band. The two ends were pulled back to stretch the band and then suddenly released projecting the pellet forward at a target. The target might be anything from a toy soldier to an old tin can.

Cowboys and Indians  This was a game invariably played out of doors. Some sort of cowboy costume was almost mandatory and we always wore at least a hat, gun belt and revolver over our normal clothes. There were some very convincing cap guns on sale and the little red explosive caps were very cheap; a box of 100 usually cost no more than a penny or two. Thus armed, we set out to slaughter masses of Indians. It was always difficult to persuade anyone to be an Indian as they invariably lost the fight and were killed off in large numbers. A latecomer wanting to play with us was often dragooned into being an Indian, otherwise we all took our turn at being shot.

Three other games which we dallied with in a minor way were rounders, hopscotch and skipping but we tended to regard these as girls’ games. Consequently, as far as we were concerned it was almost infra dig to indulge in this sort of thing; but for some reason there were always a few girls who wanted to join in our games but were pretty hopeless at cricket and football. They didn’t possess any cigarette cards or marbles but occasionally we did press them into service as Indians. As a result we found we had to play some of their games, mainly skipping and hopscotch. Girls seemed to play these for hours on end so were very skilled at them. We boys were more or less learners so after a few turns with the skipping rope, while the girls did the chanting of the rhymes, and a few games of hopscotch, we usually returned to our more favoured pastimes.

Patricia M. Spacks, in her book “Boredom: the literary history of a state of mind” points out that the word “boredom” did not exist in the English language until 1750. So many young children today complain that they are bored despite the fact of having a huge number of games, electronic and others; but I can honestly say that I cannot remember a single instance of me, or any of my friends, saying that we were bored. Perhaps the reason is that we never had much in the way of ready-made games; we had to make our own. It could be that the manufacture led to greater enjoyment.

World War II shipbuilders of Pontypool

It’s not widely known that, during World War II, two fleets of ships were built in Pontypool: aircraft carriers, battleships, cruisers, destroyers and submarines. It is also not widely known that one fleet was built by my friend, Eric Smith, and the other was built by me. We were about twelve years of age at the time.

We were both keen fretworkers and avid readers of “Hobbies Weekly” a magazine which encouraged that and other crafts and which we bought most weeks. Unfortunately, because of the shortage of paper during the war, the magazine shrank in size until it was an extremely thin publication indeed. But, from time to time, they issued their blueprints for various aspects of fretwork and Eric and I were both thrilled when one copy advertised plans for a fleet of model ships. We had both bought fretsaws and small fretwork tables which were designed to be clamped to the edge of a suitable table.

We’d seen some earlier pre-war copies of “Hobbies Weekly” and at that time small strips of neatly planed wood in various lengths and thicknesses could be bought, but, during the war, such luxuries disappeared and we were reduced to haunting the fruit shops of Pontypool looking for suitable apple or orange boxes which we could generally buy for sixpence each. That was rather expensive, but a whole box would supply enough wood for several ships; the only trouble with it was that it was not planed wood but was quite rough so a lot of hard work with sandpaper was required before we could use it. Still, it was all part of the fun.

We both spent many hours on dark evenings cutting out the many small pieces and gluing them together with Croid glue which was a very strong and effective glue for wood. Then we would paint the ships grey, eventually ending up with a splendid fleet each which we used to stage imaginary battles. They also served as targets for bombing raids by our Dinkey Toy aircraft.

 

When we were about fifteen we became more ambitious and decided to build a real boat that we planned to sail on the fishponds just off the Crumlin Road. We decided to construct a six foot, twin-hulled catamaran. As we had a reasonably large shed at the rear of Garfield, we decided that the shipyard would be there as it was possible to keep the partly built vessel inside the shed until its completion.

Of course, whereas one apple or orange box would supply enough wood for several model ships, we realized that, for the catamaran, we’d need a number of boxes together with a large number of nails and a good supply of putty. We finally decided on our design: both hulls would be made from fruit boxes and the deck would be an opened out tea-chest.

For weeks, whenever the weather gave us the opportunity to work outside, we worked on our project and eventually we’d completed one of the hulls. We discovered that, because of the small knot holes etc. the amount of putty needed was considerable. At the end of the project we’d used about five pounds of it. Having made one hull, we’d honed our skills and the second one was completed much quicker. Then came the grand moment when we opened out our tea-chest and fixed it to the hulls to form the deck of the catamaran. Our craft was assembled and we stood back admiring our handiwork with considerable pride.

Admittedly our humble craft lacked the finesse and skill of true shipbuilders; Cammell Laird and Swan Hunter might not have given us the time of day, and it has to be admitted that our boat had numerous cracks filled with putty and a general outline that could hardly be described as sleek but we were reasonably satisfied with our efforts. We thought that a final sandpapering would make it ready for painting. We also decided that the best way to paint it would be to stand it on one end so that we could get at all parts except the ends of the two hulls. We gave it an initial coat of undercoat and, when that was dry, we turned the craft upside down to paint the unpainted ends. The quality of the paint during the war was not exceptional but it seemed to do the trick. When it was dry we hauled the boat into the shed to allow the paint to harden before applying the final coat of gloss. Being by that time all in one piece, the catamaran was quite a heavy object but we finally managed to get it inside the shed.

Then came the grand day when we took it out again for its final coat of paint prior to its launch on the fishponds. The day was fine and sunny so, once again we stood our boat on end on the concrete path outside the shed. Eric and I each had a pot of paint and a brush and we decided to paint the underside of the boat first. When this was completed we both came around to the top of the deck and continued to paint starting at the top of both hulls. That was a great mistake! As we both pressed our brushes onto the hulls to put on the paint we pressed a little too hard and the whole thing toppled away from us and right over onto the concrete. There was a terrible crash as the full weight of the boat hit the concrete; both hulls cracked into pieces from stem to stern and bits of dry putty shot out all over the place. Our beloved catamaran was a complete wreck! Having pots of paint and brushes in our hands were were completely helpless to stop the accident happening.

My mother, who had been working in the kitchen only a few yards away, heard the crash and came running to the door to see what had happened. We must have looked a disconsolate pair surveying the wreck of our catamaran like New Yorkers gazing at the collapsed Twin Towers. As a craft to sail on it was now absolutely useless. 

My mother sympathized with us but seemed to recover rather quickly offering, almost instantly, to buy the boat from us for firewood. We realized that any attempt at repair was quite out of the question so we accepted her kind offer. I remember her telling me some time later, after we’d got over the sad affair, that she was never more relieved than when she saw the catamaran in pieces. She was terrified that, if we’d tried to sail on it we’d have been drowned. In retrospect I think she was probably right. Launching from the bank of the fishpond would have been a great thrill but when we got to the middle of the pond we might well have found that both hulls were taking on water, and returning to the bank might have been difficult. We later learned that Eric’s mother had similar thoughts to my mother’s.

We’d never considered a name for our catamaran, but, as things turned out, I suppose Hesperus wouldn’t have been a bad one.

Christmas time in old Pontypool

I’m writing this on Christmas Eve and remembering all those Christmases I spent in Pontypool as a child. It really was a family occasion and I always loved it.

I’m not a smoker; I haven’t smoked for years, but I started very young; to be exact it was 75 years ago tomorrow that I started at the age of three. When we lived at Wern Terrace, and for many years after, Christmas Day was always spent at Osborne Cottage where we always had lunch, tea and supper with all the family and generally a few friends as well. I remember how crushed we all were as we sat around the table.

In those days there was no central heating and it was customary to have just one open coal fire in the living room where all our meals were eaten and where all the activities took place, particularly in the colder weather when we didn’t go outside much. This meant that, on Christmas morning, the fire would be laid but not lit as we would not be there for most of the day to enjoy it.

My father, like most men at that time, was a smoker (there was no evidence to show how bad it was for everyone’s health) and at Christmas time he would smoke the odd few cigars. On the particular Christmas Day in question he threw his cigar butt into the fireplace as usual, but, there being no fire, it remained there still lit. I was in the room at the time and, when my father went out, I picked up his cigar butt and had a few puffs. My consequent coughing and spluttering drew the attention of other family members and my very first “secret smoking session” was discovered.

A  few minutes later I felt sick and dizzy and, I was assured by my family, that I turned several different shades of green; I felt dreadful! The long walk to Osborne Cottage in the fresh air helped slightly but, for the rest of the day, I could hardly stand the smell of cigars which some of the family were smoking, and my appetite was but a shadow of its usual self until supper time when I has just about recovered.

But parties at Osborne Cottage were not generally tarnished for me in this way and I just loved the occasion with all the party card games and party tricks such as “Egyptian Writing” and “The Wand is Passing” which my own grandchildren now love to see.

Boxing Day was usually spent at Harley House when all the family descended on the Gregories in the large dining room above the shop. They had a huge table there so it was the ideal place for a party. After tea it was the custom for all the men to go into the small room at the back of the house where we played darts for a couple of hours.

For some days afterwards there were parties at our house, (which meant the luxury of having a fire in the parlour or “front room”), and also at some of the houses of my aunts and uncles. At all these parties, except during the war when food was scarce, there was always a good supply of fruit, nuts and sweets which we all loved.

No one in the family had a car – few people did – and there were no buses on the routes we travelled to our parties, so long walks were the order of the day. We were used to this even as young children so we didn’t mind as long as it didn’t rain. Unfortunately the weather was not always kind and I well remember one Christmas Day when walking home to Wern Terrace from Osborne Cottage, it just poured down. As we walked along Wainfelin Road past St Albans Church the water was pouring down the steps and onto the road like a waterfall. We were all glad to reach home and dry out.

There weren’t all that many toys available in those days so that a common present at that time would have been either a two-and-sixpenny book or a similarly priced selection box containing a variety of bars of chocolate.

I particularly remember one Christmas at Wern Terrace when my parents bought me a clockwork train and also a warm dressing gown. I can see the picture now as I watched the little red train going round and round on the small circular track while my mother and father were doing their best to get me to stand still while they tried the dressing gown on me. 

One event which has saddened me this Christmas is the demise of Woolworths. It played such a large part in the lives of me and my friends. After Christmas we generally had some cash which we’d received by way of presents and we would spend ages in Woolworths looking at the large selection of goodies available and set out on the flat display counters. I shall always remember one particular dark evening just before Christmas when I was allowed to accompany the rest of my family and we saw Woolworths about eight o’clock in the evening all lit up. I’d never seen it that way before. Now it looks as though the lights will soon be going out in Woolworths for the last time.

In closing this post I would like to wish all visitors to my blog a very happy Christmas.