Chapter 1 WAR IS DECLARED

MEMORIES OF PENSHURST DURING THE SECOND WORLD WAR David Martin Chapter 1 WAR IS DECLARED I suppose that I cannot really have known what was going on at that time. After all, I was only just over three years old. Yet I sensed that something out of the ordinary was happening because of what was taking place around me and, no doubt, from my parents’ changed behaviour. But to everybody older than me and, let’s face it, most people were, I now understand that it came as no surprise when war with Germany was formally declared on the morning of September 3rd 1939. What I do remember was that I was with my mother standing outside the Penshurst Village Hall where we lived. Small groups of our neighbours had gathered in the middle of the village in anticipation of the imminent announcement on the radio by the Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain. Later, I learned what he said concluded with the fateful words ‘…we are at war with Germany’. My mother quickly took me inside into our kitchen and plonked me down in the wooden armchair that stood by the fireplace in the corner near the sink and draining board. This stuck clearly in my mind because I had never before been allowed to clamber up into that chair which was where my father usually sat. I don’t know what they were expecting: an air raid with German aeroplanes dropping bombs, perhaps, or airborne troops landing by parachute? But nothing happened, Hitler was busy invading Poland; preparing to march into the Low Countries and counter the British Expeditionary Force in Northern France. The war, even called ‘phoney’ by some, continued like this for several months, all the early action was taking place far away. But at the end of that month on the 29th September, we had National Registration Day, a census of every person living in every house in the country. Using the information they gathered, the government issued everyone with Identity Cards and Ration Books. My National Registration Number was DJ/QJ 42.5 and this remained with me for some time. Rationing and Local Shops Food rationing was introduced at the beginning of 1940. Everybody had to register with a food shop from which their rations would be purchased. In Penshurst this was easy as there were only two grocers and general provisions shops, Jackson’s, later renamed Buxton House, and Chapman’s Stores. We lived within 100 yards of both, but we registered with Chapman’s as they were bigger and generally regarded as the better choice. Chapman’s, the main shop in the village, was a family business. Henry Chapman the senior partner kept out of sight round a corner sitting at a desk shuffling papers. His wife Ethel effectively presided over all proceedings from her dominant position by the bacon slicer at the back of the shop. Willie Chapman, the oldest of the brothers, lived in an apartment over the shop. Willie was looked after by a housemaid called May, who wore a proper black dress, white apron and starched cap. He also had a vicious little wire-haired terrier called Markie which had no hesitation in biting anybody who came to their back door. Chapman’s Stores, Penshurst Willie ran the drapery and outfitters department. He also stocked what was euphemistically known as ‘ladies sanitary wear’. The youngest brother Claude, always compulsively chewing his tongue, served behind the main counter with the two assistants, dealing with the walk-in customers and making up the orders for delivery. Loose dry goods were weighed out into small bags made of stiff blue paper. They checked the orders by calling out each item. “Half of lard, quarter of tea” and so on, “Rooight” came the reply as the items piled up. They sometimes introduced a little humour to brighten the proceeding: a tin of peas was always known as a “tin of shirtlifters”, and Ethel in particular was always ready for a joke. Claude drove the delivery van, which he also used for travelling to and from work. Local deliveries were made by one of the lads on a tradesman’s bicycle with a big basket on the front and a stand to prop it up. The other shop was Jackson’s Stores run by Mr & Mrs Jackson. George F. Jackson cultivated a posh voice and a detached air, always trying to flaunt his supposedly superior intellect. This used to irritate Reggie Wiles the schoolmaster who never missed an opportunity to try and catch him out to deflate his ego. Mrs Jackson his wife, who ran the dressmaking and drapery department at the back of the shop, was a small, pretty and charming woman, who I later learned had at one time been a dressmaker for Lady Churchill who lived not far away at Chartwell. Not that I used to go down to her end of the shop much. My regular errand kept me at the other end of the shop collecting our supplies of loose soap flakes used for washing up. To this day I don’t understand why Jacksons was the only place to stock soapflakes in bulk but being registered with the other shop, Chapmans, it was about the only thing we bought there as they were ‘off the ration’. Persil powder and a cube of Reckitt’s Blue were used for the weekly wash, done in the built-in copper boiler in the scullery. Every Monday morning my father got up early to light the wood fire under the boiler. He always wore a long brown overall for work and I remember one day, with his back turned to the fire, he stood too close and set his coat-tail on fire. He had no idea anything was wrong until we smelt smouldering cloth. The extent of the Chapman’s family business connections spread into the shop premises next door owned by Cecil Barrow, the ironmonger and oilman, married to the Chapman’s sister Edna. Even during the war years, Barrow’s range of hardware was truly amazing and even included rabbit snares and catapult elastic. A sign hanging outside on the wall above the door indicated that they had, before the war, sold sporting ammunition: ‘Ely Kynoch cartridges loaded with Nobell smokeless powder’. A catapult was a highly valued personal weapon, farmworkers and others working out in the open country were skilled in its use and it was a poacher’s favourite weapon because it was silent. We country boys were dedicated in our constant search for the perfect ‘cattysprod’. The best ones were found in young ash tree saplings, but they had to have grown into a perfect ‘U’ with each arm the same thickness. When you saw one, you cut it out, trimmed it, peeled off the bark and put it away somewhere warm where it could dry out naturally and season. Two identical lengths of the special thick square catapult elastic were fixed one to the end of each arm, using strips of soft leather bound with fuse-wire. The same leather was used to make the sling pouch to hold the missile attached to the other ends of the elastic. These had to hang level and even otherwise the catapult would not shoot straight. Smooth roundish pebbles made the cheapest ‘ammo’. But if you could find some lead, the best source being electric wiring cable, you could cut it into lengths of just over an inch and melt it down in a tin held over a fire. Holding the tin carefully, you then poured the molten lead into a mould, the best for this being the round cavity in the back of a pair of pliers. When it had cooled and solidified you opened the handles and out came a squat cylindrical lead catapult pellet. There was nothing to beat these; in skilled hands they could kill a pheasant or rabbit at a range of up to 30 yards or so. Our parents were great friends of Cecil and Edna Barrow and when later they bought one of the first television sets, we used to go over and sit in the dark to watch the Sunday evening play. We had tea and biscuits in the interlude while the screen was showing the famous ‘Potter’s Wheel’ turning away. Most houses in all the surrounding hamlets were dependent on paraffin oil for fuel, so Cecil Barrow’s oil business prospered; after all, there was no competition. Although there had been extensive electrification of rural areas by the outbreak of war, this had by no means extended everywhere. Barrows also sold a lot of candles. Even in the middle of the next village, Leigh, my great-uncle Fred and aunt Kitty Faircloth, who lived in a cottage by the village green, only had gas for cooking and downstairs lighting. When it was dark, going upstairs meant that you had to take a candle. Fred Fenner, the gardener at Latymers House across the road, used to go round to Barrows each evening to help prepare for his next day’s delivery round by pumping up the paraffin oil from the underground storage tank and filling the required number of two gallon screw-top fuel cans. He also carried on the van a much smaller quantity of methylated spirit for Primus stoves. In addition to paraffin, ‘meths’ and candles, his delivery service also included other hardware items like soap and washing powder that customers had pre-ordered the week before. The paraffin and ‘meths’ were measured out with a jug and funnel from the back of his Morgan three-wheeler van, the ‘Chonker’ as we called it.

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