I was born in 1926. As some wag said at my retirement:
"he was not only born during the depression, he was largely responsible for it."
In 1929 I had a second-hand painted plywood racing styled pedal-car, astride the bonnet of which Lesley Hollins, with whom I was in love, sat as I pedalled along the pavement of Ceeley Road where we lived. On reflection, I must have been very lucky to have a plywood car (it was similar to this) and Lesley Hollins - because we were not what you would call prosperous.
Most things in those days are remembered as being "not new". I can remember chasing Terry Bateman up Ceeley Road with a view to punching him in the face for calling me “bluebottle” when I was wearing short second-hand blue shiny-arsed trousers handed down from a cousin.
Being poor was relative.
“Have you been playing with that Snowy Malin?"
With different names, this was often a cry when found playing with people who were regarded as ‘below us’ even though below was not very far down.
Where my grandmother lived and where most were poor, the Malins were poorer than the rest. This may have been because there was no Mr. Malin – at least I can’t ever recall one.
It was ‘Snowy’ because all boys with blonde hair were called Snowy. Webbs were called Spider; Whites were 'Chalky'; Allwrights were 'Nobby' - work that one out if you can.
We played cricket with chalk stumps drawn on the wall of the Crow’s house at the end of the road. I would have thought it must have been noisy with an old tennis ball banging up against the wall for hours on end, but Mr Crow never complained.
Years later during the war I met up again with Snowy, by chance, when we were on leave: he was a naval rating, I was a Royal Marine.
I never did have picture of him.
“Hello Snowy: big ships?”
“Minesweepers. You been in the desert?”
“Holland”.
“Fancy a pint?”
“If we can find one”.
Beer, like many other essentials of life was sometimes hard to find. We found some.
If you couldn’t find beer how could you win a war?
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