During and up until the 1960s, there were allotments situated behind, and surrounded by, the houses of Rochester, Guildford, and Southcote Avenues; this is now "Grosvenor Park".
These allotments were always busy on a Sunday morning; the one day when most men didn′t have to go to work. The chink of spade and fork, hitting the ground, was an extremely pleasant sound to me, as a child, as I lay in bed just thinking about opening my eyes after having the sort of sleep that deserts you as you get older; it was a safe sound and I′d keep my eyes shut just that little bit longer so I could stay in that safe place – like trying to hold on to a dream.
When I got up, if no friends were knocking at the door, I, usually, went to play on the allotment but if my friends did call, it really didn′t make any difference, we all, probably, went there to play.
There was plenty of space around and between the allotments, and the paths were wide, but, later, when the war was over, some of the allotments were abandoned and this gave us more room in which to play. I remember that we took great care not to tread on any crops, as our parents had told us.
Often, on warm, sunny days, instead of playing, I would lie down, in the long grass and weeds, and stare up at the sky. I loved to watch the big fluffy, "mashed potato" clouds float across the bright blue sky, and listen to the bees, humming their way from flower to flower. I still get great pleasure out oif doing that today, though I′m a bit older.
During the was, I would see the large barrage balloons, way up in the air; I didn′t know what they were for, then, I was too young, of course, but they looked magnificent – big and white against the deep blue background – they weren′t pure white, I must admit, but white enough, and big enough, to be impressive to a lad of my age!
On more than one occasion, we, my friends and I, would watch as a flight of bombers arrived from the south, and we would discuss whether these were ours or theirs. It was daylight and there was no sound of ack-ack guns so we should have known they were ours returning from a bombing raid somewhere in Europe, but we didn′t know and it was fun of a strange sort. My father was in the Home Guard and carried out fire watch duties, on the roof of Battersea Power Station, so had been issued with a plane recognition book
On several occasions we saw flights of fighter planes coming from somewhere and going somewhere else – but we didn′t know where and it didn′t matter; sometimes they were spitfires – these, even as children, we knew from the sound of the engine, yes, okay, we thought we knew but in films, when I hear that sound, I can close my eyes and I′m back on that allotment.
Lying on the ground, one day, my friend and I, saw, down the alleyway, between the houses, a goods train made up of two steam engines at the front and eighty waggons behind - we counted them and were amazed. From the shape of the covers over the last half-dozen or so, underneath were aeroplane bodies of some sort – the tail fin sticking up gave that away.
One day, when walking across the allotment, I saw a fork thrust into the ground with no one in sight, so, to me, at the age I was, someone didn′t want this. I picked it up and ran back home excitedly to show my dad, only to find that I was being followed by a strange man, who was also running. It turned out it was his fork and he had returned to continue his digging, after dinner, to see two urchins running off with it. He seemed affable, enough, not at all put out, and he and my father talked and laughed; then he walked away with my prize. I didn′t look, on the allotment, for any treasure like that, as I had been rather frightened by the event.
A young lad, quite a bit older than me, working with his father on the allotment, somehow, managed to push his gardening fork through his foot. He screamed and was rushed away for medical attention. How bad it was I never found out but, I was, always, a bit wary of gardening forks, from then on!
When the war was over, the allotments started to fall into disuse, and so, as children do, we found another way of enjoying ourselves – we dug a very, very deep and a very, very large rectangular hole in the ground, then took one of the sections of railing that had fallen down (with a bit of help from the bigger lads) and placed this over the top of the hole to form the basis and support for a roof. To seal this from rain, we covered it with turfs, cut from various grassed areas of the allotments – we, then, dropped down, into the hole, and, feeling very pleased with ourselves, sat laughing and talking. This was another great adventure – but, I dare say that the hole wasn′t quite as deep nor quite as big as I, as a very small lad, remember it. I′m sure it wasn′t as luxurious as we thought either! This "camp" was in use by several children, of all ages; I don′t remember when it the railing was removed and the hole filled up – if it, ever, was.
What surprises me, thinking back to those days, is that this railing, about six feet high, ran all round the outside of the allotments, which was a great deal of metal, but it was never taken for salvage, yet the decorative chain that looped from one wooden post to another, at the pavement edge of the front garden, in every house in the street, was taken. Perhaps, the metal railings were not of a suitable material for salvage; but, at that time I wouldn′t have known!
