by Alf Townsend
I really enjoyed living in the hotel in Perranporth. The other families were all Londoners, many of them from the East End, and they all shared what they had and we all mucked in together. All of us lads had a whale of a time. It was as though I was on a permanent summer holiday. We were on the beach every day, swimming, catching crabs and playing football – this really was the seaside! Then suddenly, one fine day, our Mum said to us out of the blue: ‘You kids, get all your things packed. The warden has just told me that we’re being transferred to Newquay and we are going to have our very own place to stay.’ Once again it was tears and trauma for me. I liked it where we were and I didn’t want to move to Newquay. ‘Can I stay here with my mates, Mum?’ I said innocently, ‘and you can come back for me when you leave Newquay?’ My Mum had half a smile on her face listening to my childish remarks. Then she promptly cuffed me around the ear and told me to get my bag packed. So, once again I was on the move. I didn’t have an inkling where Newquay was, it could have been anywhere for all I knew. But at least we were all together and we were going to have a real place of our own. For sure I liked Perranporth, but I was quite excited at the prospect of yet another adventure!
FOUR
NEWQUAY FOR THE DURATION
The short train journey from Perranporth to Newquay stays in my memory because of what I, in my childlike innocence, perceived as a vision of row after row of white mountains en route to Newquay. I later discovered they were in fact old chalk pits. The train chugged slowly over a rickety old viaduct and finally came to a halt. This was the end of the line for the train, my family and me, this was Newquay. An equally rickety old grey bus took us through the town centre and dropped us off on the corner of a road that led towards the harbour. Stanley Cottages, a little row of charming white cottages at the top of the steep hill that led down to the harbour, was going to be our very own place for I didn’t know how long.
It’s very difficult to pinpoint the exact year of the war when we arrived. But again, with the benefit of hindsight, certain very special happenings always stay in your mind. I recall coming back from a trip to the harbour with my friends and seeing my Mum clutching a telegram to her chest and sobbing bitterly. Her eldest brother Alf – the uncle I had been named after – had been killed in the desert campaign against Rommel. So it must have been around 1942. I tried to console our Mum, but in all honesty I didn’t really begin to comprehend the reason for her crying. How on earth can a kid of six or seven possibly relate to the horrors and suffering of war? Strange to relate, it must have been over fifteen years later when I decided to get married and we needed my Mum and Dad’s wedding certificate that the real truth about my uncles and aunts finally surfaced. My Mum’s maiden name was completely different from that of my Nan and Grandad and all of my aunts and uncles. It appears that my old Nan had had a liaison with another man before – or who knows, even after – she had married my Grandad, and my Mum was the result of that liaison. My old Mum had carried the shame of her illegitimacy secretly, right through to my manhood. And even then there had been an amateur attempt to erase the existing name on her wedding certificate. I never let on that I had discovered her secret up to the day that she died. It’s also rather strange that my lovely wife discovered a similar secret four years after her mother had died and over twenty years after we were married.
Our short stay at Stanley Cottages was a good time for me. I had been enrolled in a local school that I recall was opposite Towan Beach and was an old, brown stone Wesleyan Chapel. I well remember my very first day when one of the teachers sent me out to the school garden with some of the other lads, put a hoe in my hand and said in a broad Cornish accent: ‘Alright me lad, you’me get yourself busy with this ’ere ’oe.’ What did I know about hoes? I was a city boy and I’d never ever seen one before and he didn’t think to tell me how to use the damn thing! I didn’t even know why I was yanked in by another teacher, given a clump round the ear and reported to the headmaster for destroying most of the lettuces and cabbages. Only later did I discover that a hoe is for weeding and not for chopping off the heads of vegetables!
I did learn one good thing during my stay at Stanley Cottages – I learned to swim like a fish. Well to be precise, I was thrown off the harbour wall by some of the bigger Cornish boys, simply because I was a vac and I had to learn to swim or I would have drowned. That’s life or death! I’ve got a memory like an elephant. I never, EVER forget when someone has taken a liberty with me. Looking out of the windows of Stanley Cottages one day I noticed these big Cornish lads who had thrown me off the harbour wall going past on their bikes. Right, I thought, I reckon they are heading for the old café on the harbour wall to chat up the young waitresses.
It was payback time. I was spot on with my reckoning and, after following them down the hill, I saw their bikes parked at the side of the old café. I had a quick peep in the window and made sure they were busy at the counter with their backs to me. Don’t be too greedy, I thought to myself, just a couple of bikes will suffice in the high tide. So I picked up the first bike and after much huffing and puffing, I managed to toss it over the harbour wall and dashed back to dump the second one into its watery grave. Even that still didn’t satisfy me – my revenge wasn’t complete. I needed to see their faces when they came out of the café and found themselves two bikes short. I made a bee-line for the trees and bushes at the land end of the harbour wall and waited in eager anticipation. Revenge is sweet. The looks of utter bewilderment on their faces when they couldn’t find the two bikes was well worth being tossed off the harbour wall not knowing how to swim! They were too thick to look over the harbour wall into the sea, not that they would have spotted the two bikes, long since sunk beneath the waves!
I recall a few weeks later seeing the same Cornish gang by the old harbour café and I couldn’t resist giving them some stick. ‘I ’ear someone nicked a couple of your bikes,’ I said. The biggest bloke who was so ugly his face looked like an advert for keeping death off the road, snapped at me: ‘Some effing bugger nicked them and threw them into the sea and when we find that bugger we’re going to do him up good and proper.’ I didn’t want to push my luck, so I just walked past them saying caringly and innocently. ‘What a crying shame, who would want to do a terrible thing like that?’ Incidentally, when this book is eventually published and one of those big Cornish lads – now well into his seventies – just happens to read this particular story, I would like to offer my apologies for being a really rotten kid. But hey, as Del Boy in Only Fools and Horses is fond of saying: ‘He who dares, wins!’
Me and my mates seemed to be on the beach every day. I can’t honestly remember if it was during the long summer vacations but I have a sneaking feeling that we played truant most of the time. In fact, I know full well we bunked off school, because I was the ringleader. It just had to be me who told all the lies to teachers and parents alike, not that any of the teachers gave a tinker’s cuss about some absent vacs. As for my old Mum, she was on another planet of deep grief and didn’t come back into the real world for many weeks.
Young Alfie at about twelve years of age. (Author’s collection)
Our little gang, all strong swimmers by now, had this game of chicken that still brings a shudder of fear to me even to this day. The harbour wall facing Towan Beach had a large drainage tunnel bored through it to stop the harbour flooding. So when there was a high tide, the water used to rush through this tunnel at a frightening speed and spill into the sea. But there was a danger, a big danger. The tunnel exit by the beach had a tight wire mesh across the whole face, so at high tide the tunnel could easily become a watery grave for anybody trapped inside. But, would you ‘Adam and Eve it’ – all our gang used to sit in this tunnel in our swimwear, nervously waiting for the water to rise. The first to swim out was chicken. I liked to think of myself as a Jack the Lad and leader of the pack, and quite often I never left the tunnel until the sea had almost reached the roof! If my ol’ man had seen my stupidity, I would ha
ve got a real good belting! Another one of our hair-raising pastimes was to shin up the sheer grass-covered cliff at the rear of the harbour like mountain goats to pick crab apples. I often wondered why we bothered with our tiring and dangerous climb, because they were sour and inedible and we always finished up throwing them at each other! There were never ever any adults looking after us. No wonder in later life I tended to be an over-protective father with my three kids!
These were wonderful balmy days for me. It was great living in Stanley Cottages. I enjoyed going down to the harbour and studying the gnarled old fishermen in their black, polo-necked jerseys and yellow waterproof trousers. I just sat there quietly looking at their weather-beaten faces as they puffed away on their old clay pipes and mending their nets. After a while, I got very chatty with some of them and sometimes they used to take me out on the boats for a short trip. Unfortunately, I was a city boy and not much of a sailor, spending most of my time leaning over the side being violently sick! I especially enjoyed the mackerel season, when all the fishing boats unloaded box after box of those beautiful, silver-coloured, shiny fish. Sometimes a shoal of mackerel would come into the harbour and appeared to commit suicide by getting themselves grounded in the shallow water. All my gang were in the shallows, diving around like madmen and trying to throw them onto dry land. It was fish aplenty in those far-off days and the fishermen all got a good very living. I often wonder if there are any fishing boats still left in Newquay – or in any other of the harbours in the South-West?
Then for some unknown reason, a big, strong healthy lad like me suddenly became very unwell and quite sickly. I started suffering from severe colds and painful sore throats, so I was dragged down to the local doctor’s to get checked out. The short visit to the ‘quacks’ – that’s what my parents called all doctors – still stands out in my memory, even after all these years. Incidentally, looking up the origin of the slang word ‘quacks’, I discovered that it originated during the terrible Bubonic Plague in London in 1664 – better known as the Black Death. Back then the famous medical experts of the day didn’t have a clue about what caused the plague. Various theories were mooted – the most popular being that it was carried in ‘bad air’. During the Plague, all the people who had the unenviable task of removing the hundreds of dead bodies from the streets wore strange-shaped masks to ward off any infections. These masks made them all look like ducks, hence the cockney slang for doctors – quacks.
After waiting some time, we were eventually shown into the doctor’s surgery. I can distinctly recall a frosted-glass screen and the sound of liquid being poured from the other side, then stirred. The old doctor, with a shock of white hair, suddenly appeared from behind the glass screen and after some polite introductions, proceeded to look down my throat with a small torch. I tell you what, his breath positively stank of booze, whisky I reckon, with a mixer! He must have been swigging it behind the screen and it was still only early in the morning! Then he went into a huddle with my old Mum and I couldn’t really hear what he was saying, but I wasn’t all that bothered. He was in fact telling my old Mum that I had severe tonsillitis and required an immediate tonsillectomy to cure my problem. In those days it was the recognised practice to clip the tonsils in severe cases of tonsillitis. Not so today, the job can be done quickly with penicillin, or some other powerful drug, and no long-winded operation.
I didn’t suspect anything when Mum asked me if I’d like to go to Truro with her on the train. In fact, I was highly delighted to go on a train again. I still didn’t suspect anything when we arrived at the hospital. I really screamed the place down when I was whisked up to a ward and a couple of large nurses with big fleshy arms started taking off my clothes and telling me I was going to have a bath. Funny that, there was no sign of my old Mum, she’d done a runner yet again! I quietened down a bit when the two big nurses explained that I was just going to have just a little operation to make my throat better. But I was young and very, very modest. No way would I let those two big nurses see me with no clothes on, not realising they had seen a lot more than I could possibly show (and nothing has changed much ladies!). I made a right pest of myself on the ward for a few days until suddenly I was put on a trolley and wheeled down a long corridor to the operating theatre. I remember a bloke in a white gown and a mask coming towards me and pressing a pad over my nose. This was my first and last smell of chloroform, the evil-smelling drug that was used as an early anaesthetic. The following hour or so seemed like an absolute nightmare and remains clear in my memory. I was very groggy but still conscious. I felt somebody clamping my arms and legs down and there was this geezer in a white gown sticking something down my throat and making me feel sick and wanting to retch. I really did crash out then and the next thing I remembered was waking up in my bed with a sore throat and lots of blood on my pillow. A few days later, Mum came and picked me up and I was back home, safe and sound in Stanley Cottages. The operation worked for me and, touch wood, it has worked for over sixty years, even after puffing my pipe for four decades!
Then, like a bolt out of the blue, our Mum told us to pack up all our things because we were on the move again. Our destination this time around was the Pentire Hotel, just out of town by a local beauty spot called Fistral Bay. We would all still be together, but again we were sharing with other evacuee families. So, off I went once more on my Cornish travels!
FIVE
ANOTHER MOVE TO PENTIRE
Our move to Pentire Head was almost like moving to another town. Pentire is situated to the south-west of Newquay and consisted of a headland jutting out into the Atlantic, with Fistral Beach on one side and the River Gannel on the other. In those days there were only a handful of tatty old houses on the headland, plus a few holiday cottages scattered across the rocky and bleak shrubland. I probably wouldn’t recognise the old place if I visited it today. I do know that Fistral Bay is now a Mecca for surfers from all over the world and, I would assume, that an awful lot of redevelopment has taken place to accommodate the thousands of tourists that flock to Newquay every summer. So, if you’ve holidayed in the area over the past sixty-odd years, you’ll have to excuse me if I keep mentioning ‘fields’ or ‘little lanes’ that probably no longer exist!
After leaving the town centre by going up the hill, I think it’s called Crantock Hill, then passing the golf links, you arrive at Pentire. To the right of the headland was Fistral Bay, a lovely beach with miles of sand dunes. To the left and down what used to be a lane, you come to the Gannel. This is a small, tidal river that runs into the sea. Great fun to play on the sands when the tide is out; fearsome and treacherous when the high tides came rushing in, smashing itself against the rocky sides and covering the river bed within a few minutes. Many’s the time I misjudged the tide and got caught on the wrong side and had to walk about 3 miles home instead of 300 yards. It’s well worth crossing the Gannel at low tide and paying a visit to the very picturesque Crantock Village. Back in the 1940s, there used to be an old ship moored on the far bank that had been converted into a maritime museum. I expect it’s long gone by now.
Once more we were uprooted and waiting for the funny old bus that would take us to yet another stopping place. Up the hill we went, heading out of town. Left and right past the golf links, finally alighting at the bus stop outside the Fistral Bay Hotel. We turned left after passing a big field with some horses, then struggled up a stony path to the Pentire Hotel. We were greeted at the door by a big buxom lady wearing a white pinafore. She introduced herself as ‘Matron’ and started a conversation with our Mum. As usual, I was too busy looking around to take much notice of what she was saying, but I did pick up on some of the snippets in her strong Cornish accent. ‘This be how it works here,’ said Matron, ‘all the families be a-sharing,’ she went on. ‘That be the meat rations and the clothing coupons, they all be shared among everybody.’ My dear old placid Mum, God bless her, who suffered years of physical abuse from a drunken bully of a husband; just stood there meekly nodding he
r head and repeating. ‘Yus Missus, I understand wot you’re a-saying.’ I wasn’t in the least bit interested about boring clothing coupons and meat rations, little realising that the meat rations were keeping me alive and healthy. I liked the look of the place and I needed to do some major exploring.
I soon teamed up with some new mates from London at the hotel and we spent many weeks playing on the sand dunes. Then we turned our hand to beachcombing on Fistral Bay. Again, I can’t honestly ever remember going to school, certainly not on a regular basis. After a short period of time we turned out to be quite proficient beachcombers. We knew the bay, we got to know the tides and we always knew where the sea would wash up its best ‘treasures’. Apart from a proliferation of ship’s ropes – evil smelling with a mixture of tar and salt – plus the normal flotsam and jetsam you would find after a high tide. We managed to salvage and take back to the matron many useful items for the household, like large tin plates and saucepans and even a couple of kettles, plus many thick blankets, albeit wet, filthy, salty and smelling of the sea. Our matron knew her stuff, however, and she was excellent at improvising. Once the stinking blankets had had the boiling water and the soap suds treatment, plus a large dollop of Dettol, they were as good as new and helped to keep us warm through the long cold winter.
I suppose my best find and the one that made me very popular among the families, was the lard. I spotted it first as me and my mate were walking along the shore. It must have been about 3ft square and still wrapped in the greaseproof paper you used to see in the old grocery shops. It was just sitting there in the ebb tide moving ever-so gently, almost as though the tide was trying to take it back out to sea again. ‘Come and ’ave a dekko at this,’ I shouted to my mate. ‘What is it, Alfie?’ he said, running over and peering down rather nervously. ‘What is it Alfie?’ I replied, mimicking his timid voice. ‘What the bloomin’ ’ell do ya think it is, it’s like gold dust to us, ’cos it’s lard innit?’ ‘What’s lard, Alfie?’ said my mate, still looking down at the object as if it was about to explode. ‘Oh for Gawd’s sake’, I snapped. ‘It’ll be bloomin’ dark soon and we’ll get a right rollicking if we’re late for our grub. If you ain’t ever ’ad a slice of bread and dripping, then I ain’t bovvering to explain.’ I looked across at all the timber that had been washed ashore on the beach and, carefully weighing up our options. I said to him loudly, ‘Make yourself bloomin’ useful and sort out a couple of planks about 5ft long and bring ’em over ’ere.’ ‘What you gonna do, Alfie?’ he said, after handing me the sea-soaked planks. ‘Just lift the lard on to the planks when I tell you to and stop asking dopey questions, or we’ll never get back before it gets bloomin’ dark.’