Constable Pud?

I felt ill at ease after returning to England in late 1946 from my wartime stint and post-war activities in the Far East.

While it was nice to go to the  greyhound races with friends and I enjoyed the novelty of being bought beers by the regulars at my Dad's social club, lack of employment was a worrying thought.  I was constantly pondering "What now?"

My resume was sparse seeing as my education had abruptly ended after the Germans bombed my school, and while I had a fair bit of RAF experience, there wasn’t any call for rear air gunners in post-war London.

My dad had started up a construction company after the war and it was really thriving. He wanted me to learn a trade and join the business, but after my years of being overseas I felt a sense of independence and that didn’t include working for my father. Also, I’d seen some of his workers at the yard were missing digits.

I didn't have to use any of my 80£ discharge pay to be suitably attired for job interviews, having been provided with a natty pinstriped suit and a new pair of shoes at the demobbing centre. Yet, I had no idea where to apply.

There were openings in the Palestinian military police, which sounded right up my alley, but when I went down to apply I was told I didn’t look like military material. The recruiter said "You just got home! You don't want to go back overseas. Why not consider the London police?"  Hmm, there’s a thought. Why not?

After sleeping on it, I decided to announce at the family breakfast my intention to join the London Metropolitan Police Force. My siblings reacted by falling about laughing, which only made me more determined.

My father, stung over my decision to not work for him, muttered "Policeman? Can't you think of something more respectable"? I'm still scratching my head over that one.

Feeling my chances were good considering I was young, fit and eager, I headed off to the recruitment centre in high spirits, but my confidence waned when I noticed the other applicants were also young, fit ex-servicemen.

I was also nervous about meeting the height requirement, which was 5 feet 10 inches at the time. My warrant officer papers stated my height as 5 foot 9-1/2, so I decided to borrow my Dad’s shoes. He was rather vain and had lifts inserted in them to increase his stature.

When I went in for measurement, the retired policeman in charge of that task looked down at my shoes, gave me a sly grin and announced "5-10, I see". So, I made it over the height hurdle and was then sent off to appear before the police selection committee.

In retrospect, I may not have made the best first impression. When the senior officer asked why I thought I’d make a good police constable, my flippant response was that it didn't look like awfully hard work. Luckily my chances weren't squashed, but I noticed one representative of the committee take an instant dislike to me.

I was then warned that most single men would be stationed to London’s seedy east-end because they needed a few "thief catchers".  That suited me just fine as I was still fuming over having had my coveted raincoat and other personal items stolen from me at the demob centre shortly after I’d landed home!

I didn’t find the entrance exams too taxing, probably because I’d been an air-gunner for the past 18 months and was used to studying and detail.

After a bit of a nerve-wracking wait I got the okay. It was satisfying to go home and tell the family I'd been readily accepted and would soon be headed off to Hendon Police College to prepare for what ended up being a 35 year career in law enforcement.

My mother teased me by suggesting I’d look silly wearing a bobby’s helmet because it resembled an upside down pudding bowl. This resulted in a family nickname of “Puddin’head” which unfortunately persisted.

The girl next door also got in on the act and, after 70 years of marriage, more often than not calls me “Pud”.

More Memories of Carshalton

Carshalton Women's Social Group Brighton Beach outing 1928
My wife is at far left on her mother's lap and I am in the front row, third from the left

I was happily surprised to learn that the good folks at Historic Carshalton had shown such interest in my depression era childhood ramblings. I’m not sure if that means I should now regard myself as an historian … or a relic.

I’ve spent some time jotting down more memories of Carshalton that I’d like to share with you.

A favourite haunt for the gents of Carshalton was The Conservative Club on Stanley Park Road. It was your standard British social club where card games went on for hours, along with lively snooker matches. In fact notable snooker players were known to visit the club and put on shows for the members.

There were also sing-alongs.  Even my future father-in-law, a natural introvert, was known to break into song on occasion.

Speaking of my father-in-law, it’s part of family lore that his lovely wife, piqued at the amount of time her husband spent at the club, knocked on the club’s door one evening and demanded to speak to her spouse.

When he came to see what the fuss was about, she handed him a plate and scowled “You spend so much time here, you may as well have your dinner here” before marching back home.

The mothers of pre-war Carshalton were also a very social bunch.  They were celebrated for their Whist Drives, where games were played at each other’s homes for pennies a game with the proceeds going towards outings for poor children to Box Hill and excursions to the seaside.  My Aunt Dolly spent a lot of time arranging Whist Drives - I believe she was a big fan of both card playing and kids.

The mums also had a group that got together over tea and arranged outings (with the children, of course) to exotic places like Brighton.

As you can see from the picture gracing this missive, we’re talking a fair-sized group. No doubt head counts had to be taken before setting off for home.

Someone at Historic Carshalton recalled The Crystal Palace going up in flames in 1936. That really was a night to remember.  I was 11 years old and watched the inferno from my bedroom window. It seemed so close and lit up the whole room.

Since Croydon airfield was nearby, bomb raids were common during the war. This gave us ample opportunity to participate in the hobby of foraging for shrapnel. The shells from the anti-aircraft guns would explode high in the air and rain searing hot shards of steel to the ground.

While most were small jagged pieces of iron, not all could easily fit in your fist. Some chunks were quite large and could do real damage. As soon as the all-clear sounded, boys would scour the streets and gutters in search of precious shrapnel.

Trading pieces and admiring each other’s collections became quite a social activity.  Alas, this fun came to an end when the government began commandeering the shrapnel when metal became in short supply.

Movies played a big role in our young lives, especially the thrilling serials. We could barely wait for the next instalment.  There were three theatres in Carshalton back then – the Gaiety, Gaumont and Granada. By the time I left, the Gaumont and Granada had moved to Sutton and only the Gaiety remained (later to turn into a musical variety hall – my wife and I went there the evening of our wedding in 1948).  Sadly, I hear none of them exist now.

The most impressive movie house was the County Cinema in Sutton. A great memory was the annual Christmas parties held for children from poorer families at “the County” where you’d see a film, enjoy a feast and receive a token gift, such as a pen.

An equally important place for Carshalton youngsters during my time was the Band of Hope Hall on Stanley Road. Not only was it the home base for the Boy Scout troop (and Brownies for the girls) but they had magic lantern shows of travelogues, movies and religious tales.  One memorable showing was Paul Robeson singing from the movie “Sanders of the River”. A quick check on the internet reveals that movie was released in 1935.

Of course a certain neighbourhood lad became a singing star himself quite a while after I had left Carshalton, although one of my younger sisters went to school with him. Cliff Richard, excuse me, SIR Cliff Richard resided in a house on Windborough Road. I wonder if there’s a plaque commemorating his residence in the modest home.

I hope the glorious lavender fields still flourish. Who doesn’t recall the sweet smell? When I was growing up in Carshalton a local company called Pannett & Neden ran a lucrative business of harvesting and selling packets of herbs and marketing lavender talcum powders and perfumes.

The street I grew up in had previously consisted of tenement houses that were torn down for our “new” housing development to be built. Our council houses weren’t fancy by any means, but they were an improvement on the tenements to be sure!  I remember my father taking the rent money down to the council offices, which were near the Carshalton Ponds.

When I was overseas during the war I would tell my non-English crew members I was from Carshalton Beeches and they'd ask "Are they sandy or pebbly?" I didn’t have the heart to tell them Carshalton was miles from the sea but did say “Actually, they're leafy”.

Once I returned from the war and joined the London police force, my wife and I moved away from Carshalton to London and then eventually to Toronto, Canada.  We managed to visit every few years and my children had the opportunity to enjoy Carshalton.

For many years, and through a few moves, we had a wood-framed map entitled The Village of Carshalton hanging in the house. It showed all the places of interest - well, they were of interest to me and I’m sure they would be to you.