Kaga Simpson - his life and memories

Thinking back to the war, our house had to be seen to believed. Dad had lived in a boat's small cabin as a child so knew the art of fitting things in a small space. We had two rooms, the back room, kitchen with pantry, the front room, lounge with fireplace. Dad made wooden peg racks that he fitted just inside the back door. On the outside of the pantry wall above each peg he painted our names, here we hung our gas masks, close to the back door, nothing in the way, so we could grab them easily. On the back window shelf were shrimp paste bottles with names that held tooth brushes. Inside the pantry we had a 'safe' that held the meat, several biscuit tins, inside one were small glass jam jars, each with our name. Here was our week's sugar ration. Another held treacle tins, washed, they held our butter ration. Mother kept a strict watch on us to see we didn't try to pinch each other's. If she made a cake or pie, then a spoonful of sugar from each, or what she needed. There was a bowl of saccharin tablets, so at meal times you had all these jars on the table, plus maybe a jam jar or shrimp paste jar. We had to keep it simple in case the sirens sounded. In summer we had our own home-made jam. In the first two years of the war, at the week-end the pantry was completely bare, we scrounged every bit of green stuff from dad's allotment we could. We put house bricks in the oven to get hot, wrapped them in an old blanket and that was our hot water bottle. On the back of the front door we had little metal hooks we hung our coats on. Mother knitted our scarves to whatever colour and length we asked, so it was always gaudy and colourful. A huge iron kept the front door open in summer, coconut matting on the floor.

That story paints a fine picture, Kaga. Very reminicent of life at that time.

The old market place I once knew, now a desolation, broken only by half building, stones, and swirling dust, pathways like fingers, the silence, swept over the ruined past. The solitude, the sombre scene, too much for me to bear, I turn away, the market place had slipped away from itsonce vivid world. In the wide cobbled streets of Broadgate, fringed by ancient buildings and shops, the counters present their wares, bread, meat vegetables, tempting, a great array of food and wares. Gradually the street narrows, still cobbled, they become more crowded as people pass to and fro. I spend many hours among the throng, in West Orchard you find yourself in a street of metal workers, a gleam of half naked figures of the smiths, labouring with strained muscles and the blows at their anvils. I stand and stare at the beautiful ironwork they make of birds and plants, of railings, oven decorations, fire implements. There is no ending to their skills. More narrow streets bring you the street sellers, with their cries of wares, housewives drive hard bargains, flowers of coloured beauty, either in bunches or laid out on doorsteps, an endless source of delight in improvised shops. They stand motionless, watching the passers by coming and going, until one of them stops to buy. Sellers of cotton goods, men stand around a bacon stall, eating bacon sandwiches. In one corner, booksellers, an air of scholastic leisure, then blue earthenware, a stand heaped up with apples and pears, fruits and veg. The crowd jostle one another. I walk through the crooked street, my ears full of sound, my eyes full of colour. Before you have time to recover, a stall of grain and hay, small furry rabbits, puppies, appear. Farmers have cleaned their carts. Cartloads of wives and children from the outer villages in gay coloured dresses join this throng in the market place, a wonderful procession of people, a wonderous day of delight in this ancient town of Coventry.

WWII reduced us to the same level, the King had no better chance of surviving a bomb than the man in the street, and strangers could strike up conversations, ask questions, sit on a bus or train whilst you knew you could die at any minute. So what did a question mean in those days? Many times I struck up conversation with a young woman. "Where are you from, what unit are you with?" etc. A few minutes later we changed trains, but better from our short talk. It brought the people much closer. After the war ended that way of life did not end for a great many years. It now seems to have changed to some kind of rudeness. The forces gave me great confidence, and travelwise, many times I travelled in a stranger's car for distances like Paris to the south coast of France, buying meals or paying for the petrol, and entertaining talk. Life was one big adventure, with bombs absent there was no danger. The 1950's and a game of football was just that, 90 minutes, no red cards, no substitutes, no pulling of shirts, no elbow in faces, and a goal was just a goal, and no stupid hugging or rolling on the floor. But football was a great means of obtaining money. Guessing any three draws at 45 to 1 it was a sort of goldmine. The roulette wheel odds were known to everyone, all over the world, until bookmakers of today decided to change it. Horse racing, there was no photograph, no overnight declarations, and of all things, a horse could run in the Grand National without having jumped a fence in public. But that didn't last long. Throughout Europe the war had reduced the number of men to levels of surplus women. I found women easy and more willing to talk to, and with the war taking away much of their shyness, their conversations and views were always so fascinating. Even today I find books like Gertrude Bell, Janet Ross, Sarah Benjamin refreshing. Visiting many places they had visited, reliving a small fragment of their life and in places with so many different cultures was a wonderful experience that now adds pleasure to my memories.

Coventry in the 1920/30s was a peaceful, loving city, despite the strikes and unemployment. It was more rural, the fields and heaths stretched nearer the city centre, houses and pubs had large fireplaces that burned large logs. When the wind blew cold around the corners of the house, we could sit and watch the flames flicker, or lay on a rug and read a book with the gaslight behind us. Or we could just lay and dream of the faraway places that we read about, while Mother played on the piano, 'South of the border' or 'Red sails in the sunset'. The Miners Arms pub had large open fireplaces where railway sleepers, cut in two feet lengths, fed the flames, and men were known by their slang names. The son's name of Chew-Chew Wellford bandied about, along with Yo-Yo Thompson who could sing a merry song. There were two rooms for guests in spring and summer who came to fish the 'Slough'. Through the wicker gate out the back were long meadows of wild flowers and herbs. In spring and summer the scent was heavenly. A little to the right was a small spinney, the rookery, wild garlic at its base. Many a time customers walked into the pub with great handfuls, while across the road stood Hilda's fish and chip shop. Fish and chips were both wrapped in a small piece of paper, then old newspapers. Beyond the fish shop were the reed beds of the 'Slough'. Here, wild fowl called across the water. Five doors from the fish shop lived little Tommy Cartwright, Warwickshire and England cricketer, the reed beds at the bottom of his garden. Great days of Coventry before disaster fell upon us.

The great white hotel sparkled in the sunshine, some twenty feet from the cliff top edge, the face of the cliff giant stones, over a century old, the sun from the east at 11 o'clock height sent a sparkling path of white across the shimmering water, a jewel in the sea, lapping on the stones below, above railings and a bench, my seventeen year old bride of some SIXTY years ago sat at my side, put her hand in mine and smiled, it had been a long and beautiful journey, and now a diamond of a day. Slowly, we shuffled back to the hotel, a meal and a glass of bubbly, and home. It had been three years since we both felt well enough to get out, but rewarded with a diamond day.

Congrats to the pair of you.

About three weeks ago, two things happened within days of one another that took me back to wartime Britain and anger and hate. The first was a photo, the second a film. Both, I thought, I would post on this forum. I posted on the Smithford Street thread the anger and hate of the people and the BUF. I had an answer within a short time that said Coventry wasn't interested in the BUF in those days. But the scenes I saw as a boy were very similar to the photos of Colin Jordan's wedding, without the police or photographers, and Jordan's wedding was in peacetime, an image of wartime. The second story, for anyone interested, was told to me in 1954 by an ex-German soldier, who gave me a lift from the Swiss border to Paris. The film was "Land of mine", a brutal wartime of hatred in 1945, a few months before the war ended. As the film unfolded I sat back, gobsmacked, as word for word it showed the story he had told me so many years ago.

You read the thesis Kaga? A lot of trouble can be created by a small number of people but it doesn't necessarily represent the majority.

Yes I read the thesis, the people who wrote it did not do their homework properly. The Germans knew all about the BUF. So the BUF burnt all their classified stuff before they went to prison, what was left they weren't concerned about. Many people in Coventry were members of the Tory party and BUF, that way they kept out of trouble from mood swings. Anyone thinks there weren't any trouble, in the country one only has to look at Government debates in 1939 and even they were censored from the newspapers. It was rumoured that the top Tory Lord Halifax was a member of the BUF, certainly went to some of their meetings. Smithford Street, Coventry, was the main meeting place, much confrontation.

Like you Kaga, I have a particular interest in the events that led up to the start of World War Two, and especially how the Establishment went out of their way to appease Hitler. I am also interested in the levels of support fascism and anti-Semitism had in the minds of the general public. I have read the thesis, and many more books and articles on the subject. Given you were only a child at the time, how have you come to find out about what you have written? This is not meant as a criticism; I would genuinely like to know your sources.

Hello and good morning to this forum, to everyone I would rather answer on here than the mail. I have just returned from hospital from a two week stay with Malignant Otitis Externa of the left ear - plus shingles in my left eye at the same time, extreme pain like you wouldn't believe, and a belly like a pin-cushion, but not affected my memory.

Sorry to hear that you've been unwell Kaga. My Dad had shingles in his side and was pained by it for years.

Sorry you have been ill, Kaga. Yes, I believe shingles is very painful, both my brother and mum had it. Thankfully it is another thing I have been vaccinated against!

Thank you, Annewiggy, Helen for your kind thoughts. This is the second time for shingles in my left eye, ruined the sight completely, but by far the most painful was the swimmer's disease of ear infection, because of not drying the ear after syringing, and bacteria, a pain that travels all around the head, making huge swellings. With both at the same time it was a most dreadful experience.