Slumming it...
Squalor was at large...
Let me start by saying this, I was born a lamentably long time ago in South East London to parents who were as poor as church mice. They were looking for a place to live with a gently expanding young family featuring two boys, to wit, my Brother and I.
Having moved back to London from Swindon to live with my Grandparents, they were desperate to escape the hell of boiled cabbage and constant verbal abuse from my Grandmother. No peace, no quiet, no comfort and certainly no joy. Enquiries were made and it was discovered that there was a vacant flat a couple of miles away in an old Victorian block on Albany Road, SE5.
An escape route! However, when they went to visit the flat, they were very brutally disappointed with it. It was old, freezing cold and was a long way from being the home that they so desperately needed. The building was ancient and had barely reached the 20th Century. The flats above were still reliant on gas lighting and only flat 1 seemed to have electric lighting. It all seemed so dismal and gloomy. Haunted and eerie. An electric cable was trailed upstairs to light the neighbour’s flat. I understand that a single bulb was connected to it. I know that it wasn’t only the cold conditions that sent a shiver down my Mum’s spine. She was in the difficult position of moving from a Victorian nightmare of a house with my somewhat challenging Grandmother to another Victorian nightmare filled with spooks, vermin and dampness. The main concern was for these two boys. Bringing them up in a slum didn’t seem like a great idea but a compromise was reached. That’s something that my Dad was good at even when he was a young man. He managed to secure a deal to take the flat, rent free, on the condition that he decorated it himself and put right all of the things that were in urgent need of repair. That was no small task and the fact that he worked night shifts added another level of difficulty to an already painful workload.
They moved into the flat in 1968 and the battle against this decayed building began. The lack of any form of warmth was one of the first concerns. Washing happened in a sink with one cold tap and as for bathing, that happened in a big tin bath in the kitchen. Hardly an ideal scenario but what else could they do? There was no bathroom and even the toilet was outside in the backyard. A great place to meet new and ever larger spiders and assorted creepy wildlife. It was a grim place to be and I know that my Parents did their utmost to settle into this place but it was at a cost which went beyond the financial and into the realms of illness.
Night after night, my Dad went to work on his bike and came home at 7am to commence decorating before falling into an exhausted sleep. He was a young man with all the problems of the World on his shoulders. Somehow, this had to work. He certainly did not want to move back in with his parents. He had to turn this place into a home to raise his family. He struggled and made headway but it must have felt as if he was getting nowhere at all. His diaries tell of the hardship and heartbreak. He began to suffer from terrible migraines, fatigue and anxiety. He was always a proud man and was unable to show any weakness or failings. His diary seemed to be the only confessional that he felt able to use. His words now echo across the decades towards me and I can hear his difficulties loudly and powerfully.
Night after night, my Mum was alone with two young sons. We were bright and demanding children. Inquisitive types with differing personalities. My Brother was older than I was and he was something of a handful. I was an oddly happy and very switched on baby determined to learn as much about the World around me as possible. This is probably why I have so many memories of the flat. It is a little unusual to have such clear recollections of being so young but life was a peach. My Mum was finding it very difficult. It was as if she was living alone in a dark and dangerous flat with two children. She didn’t often get to see my Dad as he was burning himself out too. She began to suffer greatly from depression which was treated as a weakness in those days rather than a genuine illness. She was doing everything that she could to make the home fit for us all. Meals prepared, bedrooms clean and safe and all whilst entertaining her overly energetic children. Even as I slept in my cot, there were incidents that no young mother would expect. One afternoon, she heard me crying and then came the call “SHUPPUP, BABY!” and my Brother clonked me on the head with a tin of baby food. I cried harder and I am sure that my Mum cried too. No massive injury was caused but it was another exhausting moment in her struggle to keep things together.
Rats! Mice! Crawling creatures! These were a massive problem in this block of flats. Intolerable creatures running wild and something had to be done. Traps were no good as the problem was way out of hand already so the solution was clear. Not one cat but two cats joined the team. Wilson and Nelly were big old scrappers. Nelly had an eye missing from constant night fighting and earned the name “Nelson” from those war wounds. Wilson was named after the prime Minister of the day. He was a good house cat but the scourge of any invading creature that came into view. A mouser! A very good one. Together, Wilson and Nelly teamed up against all comers. Champion cats, unafraid of rats! They got the job done and still found time to tear lumps out of the neighbours’ ginger cat. They knew their territory and guarded it jealously.
None shall pass.
Another member of the household was becoming apparent in those early days. In 1969, I was to have a little sister which may have come as a little surprise to both of my parents. Nevertheless, the Stork flew low over the building and smashed into the flat. She was born at home in the now somewhat tidier and inhabitable flat. I was told that this had an effect upon me. I went from being the cute kid with the ready smile and laughter to a slightly subdued little thing. A worry for my Mum who now had three little dears to contend with during the days of my Dad’s snoring and the nights alone. I know that they both found these times incredibly tough but ultimately, they were happy with this little family. They would manage and we would grow, play and see the World together. It was going to be fine.
The flat seemed to have ‘zones’ which I understood well and can picture even after all of the ensuing years. The living room walls were both painted and papered in the garish colours of the late 60s and early 70s. Orange and brown wallpaper and yellow paint. It was the cheapest stuff that my Dad could lay his hands on but it would have been an improvement on whatever was there previously. The carpet was made of remnants of green and blue floral patterned cast-offs and the furniture was solid and adequately comfortable with large green cushions. Behind the curtains, the big windows rattled in the wind and as buses roared past along Albany Road. They were not soundproofed and this was a busy road. We were situated next door to a corner shop and people coming and going would have been a constant distraction. No peace and the gas fire struggled and sputtered it’s warmth into the room as the weather attempted to prise the window open and freeze us all to death.
The kids’ bedroom was decorated with zoo animal wallpaper. In my imagination, they moved, growled and laughed along with me as I watched them. I would lay on the bottom bunk, as my brother inhabited the top, and I would listen as I could hear the TV in the living room. I could hear “Coronation Street” and that was one of my greatest fears at the time. I imagined ‘Ena Sharples’ coming to get me whilst gnashing her teeth. I’d close my eyes tightly and hope that she would go away. She was a formidable character in the series and always wore a hairnet. I thought that she looked like a microphone and didn’t like her at all. As I said, I was an unusual child and anyone who knows me would not be at all surprised to hear it. We would sleep soundly as my parents fought to keep things together. We knew nothing of the stress and the arguments were kept away from our delicate ears. Three children in a home fit for demolition.
The kitchen was basic. A gas cooker, table and chairs plus a high chair for babies as they came along! There was little of note there. No pictures exist of the room but I remember that the wallpaper had blue and green flowers on it. The cooker was no doubt already condemned but fitted by one of my Dad’s mates for a fee and a favour returned. Along the hallway, there was an electricity meter and a closed door to “The N Room.” The kids were not allowed in there and I was desperate to know what was in there and why we had to stay away. Although I was way too young to read anything at that point, I was aware that N was a letter. What on Earth could live in an N Room? I imagined that there would be treasures, sweets and books that only grown ups could understand. I got the occasional peek when the door was opened but I don’t think that I ever gained entry. Disappointingly, it turned out to be the ‘End Room’ and that’s where most of the paint brushes, ladders and assorted clutter was stored. It’s a shame as I think that every home ought to have an “N Room.” It adds a touch of mystery to proceedings.
I’m sure that it was a Sunday when my other Grandmother, who was an exceptionally good person, came to help prepare dinner for the family and to keep us entertained with her extraordinary singing voice and her fantastic sense of humour. The kitchen was hot and steamy as potatoes boiled and sprouts were being wasted on a family in which the majority hated them. Her sleeves were rolled up and she was every inch the matriarch as she commanded the space whilst we looked on in awe. Suddenly, her demeanour changed and she said, “Well! Who is THAT?” A good question as a total stranger was standing in the kitchen doorway looking at us with wide eyes and the air of a man who might just have made a terrible mistake in his attempt at burglary. My Dad came in from the Backyard and, with the smile of a man who enjoys a fight, came barrelling towards the intruder and chased him out of the flat and down the road at quite a speed. I remember toddling out onto the street to watch the spectacle and if I close my eyes, I can see the soles of the intruder’s shoes as he tore away to make his escape. It was very exciting rather than scary but the front door was never left open again. This incident puts to bed the old theory that ‘you could always leave your door open in them days…’ Of course, you could but don’t forget to prepare an extra plate for dinner as you might have an unexpected guest turning up out of the blue.
The backyard was a small square of concrete which was studded with stones. There was a tall wall which usually had the big Ginger Cat sitting on top of it. I hated that cat as it stared at us from on high. To be honest, it terrified me and I’m sure that it knew. It taunted Wilson and Nelly but they could easily overcome that huge Ginger thug. There was a corner of the yard that always had the smell of pee about it. It was where the cats would go and do their thing and mark their territory. Beside the door of the outside toilet, there was a pile of rubbish and an old tin bath. My Brother put the old tin bath over Wilson one afternoon in the Backyard. Screeching and yowling, the poor cat dragged around the yard looking like an armoured vehicle. He was rescued by my Mum and my Brother was reprimanded again. Just beyond the pile of rubbish was what we called, “The Spikes.” We were told that the spikes were dangerous and we mustn’t go near them but In truth, it was just a fence across from the next flat’s yard. In the neighbours’ yard, were our first friends, Alan and Lisa. We would play stupid games whilst separated by the spikes. We’d shake our heads until we became dizzy, sick or our necks hurt. They were great fun but I’m not sure if we ever met in the outside world. I don’t fully recall the circumstances but Alan seemed to be unwell a lot of the time. Upon thinking about it, I’m not sure that he looked right. He had a strange pallor and he looked tired. Over half a century later, I have no way of knowing what was wrong. I expect that it was due to the harsh conditions that we all lived with in this strange building. It was not the best place to start a new life
Our immediate neighbours were the Rayner Family in Flat 2. As was the fashion, Mrs Rayner had a large bouffant beehive hairstyle and again, I was terrified of her. My main issue was that she looked like she had a very elongated skull under that extraordinary hair which was unnatural, frightening and to be avoided. She was kind and friendly but I was shy and timid. I didn’t like the things that I couldn’t understand and had a tantrum every time that I saw her. I even blamed her for popping my ‘Yogi Bear’ balloon when she was nowhere to be seen. How could it be her fault that the balloon burst on the electricity meter? Across the gulf of time, I’d like to apologise for my impetuous scapegoating. I’m sorry, may I buy you a balloon by way of an apology?
To get out of the flat, my Mum would load up the pram and walk us along to Wells Way Park to play on the swings. As much as I enjoyed the swinging, I was interested in the brick wall in the park and I would wander along it whilst pretending to be a BBC Weather Man. Again, I know that is strange behaviour but we were not being raised in a normal household. Less than a decade earlier, my Mum had run away to France to meet up with her French Boyfriend. She hadn’t informed her parents and they reported her as missing to the Police. Interpol joined the hunt for her and the story was headline news for a while in the British newspapers. She’d hitched a ride on a cargo boat to Dieppe and spent several days alone with barely any food, very poor French and a feeling that she had made a terrible error. Her Boyfriend never turned up and when she got home, she had a great deal of explaining to do. As for my Dad, his upbringing was harsh and uncomfortable. He worked from the age of 8 helping the local milkman delivering throughout the streets of Peckham. He made a few shillings but lacked the support of loving parents. I don’t think that he understood how human kindness felt and although he had friends, he kept them very much at arm’s length unless he needed a favour or two. My Mum and Dad were far from being conventional people. They were cut from a different cloth and they were raising us in a similar way.
We were shielded from the day to day tribulations of living in Albany Road. Life was good for the three kids. I have photos from Christmas Day in, I think, 1970. Three sacks of presents which spilled out onto the floor. A tricycle for my Brother, a guitar and a pedal tractor for me. Paints, toys and cowboy hats! We were so fortunate and the pictures from the day look noisy and exciting! The very best life was made under the most trying circumstances. We didn’t notice the deprivation and compromise, we were safe, well fed and developing our own uniquely annoying characteristics and quirks. My brother seemed serious and troubled. I was growing to be the bane of his life and my sister, being a baby, cried her eyes out a lot of the time. She was the new centre of attention and the spotlight had to be upon her. Throughout this, my parents were struggling with ill health, exhaustion, depression and migraines. My Mum had life-long kidney problems and was often in great pain. You don’t get to take a day off sick when you have three children and so muddled through with visits to the doctor and to the hospital. In reading my Dad’s diaries, I see that she often needed medical attention and he was often worried sick about her. He was at a loss for what to do. They needed more money to survive so he took on more overtime which meant more time apart from my Mum. This, in turn, caused more consternation for the pair of them. She hated being alone in that place during the night. It exacerbated her already spiralling depression and he was often so exhausted that he would go to his parents’ house to catch up on sleep. A truly messed up situation. They did everything possible to keep things together. My Mum said that the Sixties stopped swinging at the very moment that they met. I think that she had bigger dreams than the occasional Chinese meal at home. I get a sense from the diaries of being trapped. Even from this distance in time, I can feel the claustrophobia and broken dreams...
Smaller dreams would have to suffice.
On April 3rd 1971, we got our first family car! I remember it as being a fairly clapped out red and white car but it offered new ways to get out and away from the flat. We were mobile and the World shuddered a little on its axis. We headed off on what was, I imagine, my first ever holiday. This was in a chalet in Jaywick, Essex and despite being so young at the time, I remember it pretty well. We arrived there on April 18th and settled into the place. I recall that our bedroom had no lampshade over the light so, ever inventive, my Dad placed a blue plastic bag over the bulb as a temporary measure. Very temporary as the bag soon melted and started to burn. Panic set in as he didn’t want to set the place alight not long after arrival. There was plenty of time for that sort of thing later on. The time away was deeply restorative. Sunshine and comfort, away from the cold and mould! Fresh air and clean living. Idyllic. We went for a few days out here and there during the holiday but ill health followed my Dad like an unwanted puppy. Toothache, gut ache and heartache. Arguments between my parents continued apace. It shortened the holiday and we came home just a few days after arriving. Back to reality and the launderette.
One of the cats started giving birth to kittens not long after we arrived home. I don’t recall what became of them but I’m sure that we didn’t keep them. The place was already crowded enough without a new menagerie of mewing. One way or another, they disappeared and our old cats still patrolled their patch without any further distraction. Wilson was still a keen guard cat but was old and slow. He was a good natured old thing and put up with so much from the kids. With flicked ears and a pulled tail, Wilson would sigh, albeit in a feline way and not complain too much. However, he seemed ill. He was not getting around quite as much as he once did. Another worry for my Mum as she was fond of the cats. They had kept the place free of critters for some time and she was grateful for their service. Poor old Wilson became increasingly unwell. He started to become less good natured and that was not great when you have such little kids in the home. Reluctantly, it seems that Wilson went to the great litter-tray in the sky on August 30th, 1971. The place would never be the same and Nelly mourned the loss.
In the front room, on the corner shelf, was the television. Of all of the things in the World, I was the most fascinated by TV. It was a black and white set and very small indeed. For the completists out there, it was a Teleton-Anex TA-12 with a wire loop aerial. I remember how I sat, transfixed and amazed, watching whatever was on. It barely mattered, it was TV and I was a lifelong fan at the age of two. I was often found plonked in front of the Test Card or the Service Information for engineers. In lieu of a babysitter, I would just look at the screen getting over excited at things such as the London Weekend Television Logo. It seemed that I was a peanut sized geek with an eye for detail. I clearly and happily recall sitting in front of ‘Wacky races’ with a blue Ice lolly from the corner shop. A moment that dwells in my mind for eternity. Could anything ever be so perfect again? I was an ITV kid, for sure. I liked the idents before the programmes began and it shames me to say it, I remember liking ‘On the Buses’ or at least the opening credits. It was most likely on a tad too late and somewhat too sordid for a little thing such as myself. All in all, TV seemed more exciting than anything else that was going on. Music, laughs and weathermen on BBC One.
It must be said that I was a strange little thing. Much of my oddness had something to do with eggs. Example one: My Mum put me down for an afternoon nap and I was busy rolling around and cooing with no desire to sleep whatsoever. In order to calm me down and give me something to concentrate on, she popped an easter egg in the cot with me. Still in the bright packaging. I guess that she thought that would work. She went into the other room for a minute or two when she heard a thump and a giggle. She came racing back to find that the bottom of the cot had fallen through and I was laying on the floor on the mattress, covered in chocolate and laughing my head off. I’d managed to open the egg and fired into the sweet contraband as if my very existence depended upon it. It didn’t take very long for me to work out the very best way to get a snack. Another egg-based incident featured me vs a boiled egg for breakfast. Having turned her back for a second to perform some task, she heard the sound of heavily crunchy munching. I was enjoying the egg so heartily that I was just eating the shell along with the contents. I most likely needed the calcium but there are better ways of doing so. Some said that I was a fussy eater but you know something, I ate the shell and liked it. I’d like to see you try that.
One by one, we all started to show signs of ill health. The Doctor was worried that we might be developing asthma and that the conditions in which we were living were making things a great deal worse. Clearly, we couldn’t stay in the flat but what could be done about it? Night shifts, trying to decorate the place and increasing fatigue made looking for a new home almost impossible. My Mum was at the very edge of her endurance and depression, kidney trouble and a lack of support were turning a bad situation into something altogether more serious. Enquiries were made about getting a mortgage and going for a house somewhere slightly more modern than a Victorian Slum Tenement. One place was mentioned which was in East Dulwich. I have a very faint memory of going along to see the house in which the owners were still living. The reason that I recall this is that the boy who was living there was older than me but had a Thunderbird 2 toy. I absolutely loved Thunderbirds and wanted to play with it. Begrudgingly, he let me have a go and almost instantly, I broke it. The end of a very short friendship, it would seem. In the end, it turned out that my Mum really didn’t like the place and didn’t want to live there. I’m sure that it would have been a massive step in the right direction but it never came to pass. A pity really because a short few years later, my Sisters went to school just around the corner from what would have been a valuable property today. All that could be done now was to ask for an emergency referral to the Council for rehousing on health grounds. The cogs turn slowly when it comes to officialdom and the waiting game began in earnest. A potential move to a modern new housing estate was suggested but there might be a waiting list. Whilst the idea was tossed around in endless meetings, we went on a trip to see the housing estate that might be a ticket to a new, better style of living.
Thamesmead was located on what used to be Erith Marshes and was the Greater London Council’s way of moving people out of the slums and into clean, bright and safe environments. The area was at a very high risk of flooding so most of the accommodation was built on ‘stilts’ with elevated walkways between the various parts of the estate. It was a concrete jungle but so much better than the dingy gloom that we called ‘home.’ It was the dream that was almost in reach although after our visit, we headed back to the 1880s again in time for dinner and bed.
A spark was ignited though. It was possible to escape but only if the pressure was kept up upon those faceless people at the GLC. We visited again and it felt like it could be home. Shops, open spaces and playgrounds. A boating lake and a health centre. Modern schools and pre-school clubs for the younger kids. Meetings with local councillors were sought and tales of sickly children were told. We may have been coached to do a bit more coughing and wheezing before going into the meetings. Got to keep up appearances, of course. Despite our chestiness and reasonable acting skills, it seemed unlikely that we would escape to this bright paradise.
Tensions continued to mount between my parents. My Dad was desperately worried. He was doing his best. He tried taking my Mum out for trips to the cinema or for a meal but these were just sticking plasters on a gaping wound. Escape was the only thing that could do the job. I’m guessing that the people at the Council started to get a little sick of my very determined father. He could be relentlessly annoying and tenacious in ways that would topple governments given half a chance. The intolerable pressure of living in Albany Road had caused a furious whirlwind of activity. On and on...meetings, appointments and no doubt, some very direct language was used.
It came out of the blue... An invitation to view a maisonette on Thamesmead was offered. Number 2, Maran Way. I remember the empty potential new home. Three bedrooms, a genuine bathroom and not one but two INDOOR toilets. The estate was still very much under construction but it looked amazing. Not much thought was needed about whether or not to take the new place as I am sure that my parents were utterly blown away by the splendid luxury of a flat without draughty windows and noisy neighbours. A new start? All fingers were crossed. All hearts were set.
Surely nobody would dash our hopes...
All my earliest memories are pretty clear even after more than half a century but these moments seem to be a blur. We were offered the flat and we accepted. A whirlwind of packing, discarding and favours called in from family and friends meant that we would soon be on our way to a life beyond poverty. All that I had ever known was to be consigned to history, bad dreams and legend. It would have been an exciting and perplexing time for a child. I was sensitive and not fond of change. I’m not certain that my parents even bothered to say goodbye to our neighbours. I wondered what became of Alan and Lisa from next-door. It actually took me fifty-five years to find them again and although I won’t bother them, it’s rather good to know that they are still out there somewhere.
After we left in such a hurry, I don’t think that anyone moved into our empty flat in Albany Road. The block was in terminal decay and there were plans afoot to demolish some of the worst slum tenements in South East London. Gradually, people would be rehoused and the blocks became boarded up eyesores resembling a warzone. Whole streets were cleared in the area in order for a new park to be created. The great exodus of Albany Road had begun and communities were taken to pieces. People who had lived in the block for decades were shifted to tower blocks in and around Camberwell. I doubt that they were quite as overjoyed to be out of there as we were. Home is home, no matter how awful it might look to outsiders.
In 1979, the demolition ball hit the block of flats at 77-79, Albany Road and rendered it into dust. Our backyard became a lake which remains today.
Burgess Park is a fine place for a meandering walk and a better way to get to the Old Kent Road from Walworth Road. Greener and just better for your mental health. The park runs along the path of the Surrey Canal which was drained and filled in during the 1960s. Most of the old canal can be traced along cycle paths and roads. Peckham Library was built over the terminal basin of the local branch of the canal. When it was drained, there was all manner of debris, weapons and sunken treasures. I can only imagine the smell of it. We were better off without the canal.
I recently took a trip to Albany Road and stood directly where the entrance to the block had been situated. There are bushes and trees there now. Nothing to be seen of the shop on the corner of Kempstead Road directly next to our block. All of the noisy lives and chaos that once occupied that space. The births and deaths...the Christmases and triggered rat traps. Filth and fury! Arguments and beehive hair. Burst balloons and eggshells. Cracking the electricity meter open for a few quid here and there. The ‘N’ room and the cats. Oh, those cats. Fun, fear and fatigue. All of it has vanished into....what exactly? All of it lives in my memory. I have it right here and if I could cast a spell, you’d see it again.
We had escaped but I took some of the essence with me. Places like that were not fit for human habitation but home is, indeed, home.
Being the last of us to arrive, I missed having to live in that miserable, dank crap hole. My first memory was of Maran Way. It wasn't massively long before Peckham and the Victorian pile in Lyndhurst Way. Back to outdoor plumbing, no heating and the dreaded windowless room on the first landing. Once again, imagine if we had stayed there.
It was a very bumpy journey. Thanks for this.