Kaga Simpson - his life and memories

Coventry had racing at various times, as far back as 1705 on Cheylesmore Park, and racing although not often was a social event, being followed with dinners and dancing by the gentry and their ladies. 1767, there was a three day meeting, three races. The prize money was £50 for each three races. Cheylesmore Park was found unsuitable for racing when a child was killed in 1783. For a short spell a track opened at Stoke in the 19th century, but was phased out after a time. Warwick races had also started in 1707 and have remained open since.

Have no idea of Alice Middletons, not my scene, but the cafe next door was part of the bunny run. In Hales Street was the Cafe Continentale, so the youth walked round the block from one cafe to the other - rock and roll hadn't really arrived, it was still the big band shows. Presley, Bill Haley or Tommy Steele hadn't arrived yet, it was still Winifred Atwell, Dickie Valentine - juke boxes were about to start. The coffee bar era started, exciting in their own way, chrome Gaggia coffee machines, formica top tables, coffee was nothing like you made at home. March 55 and I won money on the outsider Gay Donald in the Gold Cup and sped off to Italy.

The cathedral city of Coventry had so much a boy could want to know about the history of this country. I lived in a Victorian cottage, with one of Coventry ancient wells, I walked round cobbled streets, alleyways and courts, and markets that had stood for over a century. People look sideways at me when I use the old Coventry slang, and talk of oil-lamps, looms and watermills, trams. It moved from fields and farms to factories and engines, and planes. For ten years I walked among streets like Butcher Row and Ironmonger Row that still had the implements and small statues that showed their trade, when you could still buy oatmeal cakes, and people did pawn possessions. In 1927 in the Coventry market place, there was chaos when a dealer charged a high price for bread, he was pelted with dirt and when he hid the crowd trundled his cart into the river. There were colder months that lasted longer, and hay rotted in the fields, the corn turned black, and ragged children gleaned the fields. Old women, sitting on older wooden stairs shelling peas, if asked to sign a document, it would be with an cross. The Prince of Wales toured the slums of the North, and demanded the government should make councils remove them and find the money for such. This did give Coventry the chance to rebuild the centre (Trinity Street) but everywhere you looked you could still find ancient buildings to explore. But what did the citizens think of their city?

Early 1950s the London Road in Coventry was still a lonely place, mostly fields, and the army camp. I and a couple of firemen friends did a 'readies' job for a guy on the London Road, few paces from the Ryton Bridge Hotel. he offered us £15 plus £5 for meals and drinks to clear the turf and soil from his forecourt and lay brick and granite dust. I think it was the first building since the hotel had been built, it lay back a dozen yards and on the top of the grassy bank. The Ryton Bridge pub had a small pool of green water, unused - didn't stop us jumping in to get clean.

The early morning began with a shiver - living in a small country cottage in the suburbs of the city in the late 1920's the first step out of bed was likely to draw your toes back to the warmth of the bed. Outside the dew sparkled in the hazy light, and the plants and trees came alive. The house and stairs became a channel of domesticity wherethe air hung thick with kitchen whiffs. We travelled by tram into Coventry, still very countrified along the way, so very warm and cheerful. Christmas had set in early, the small shops sported tinsel and stockings, the larger had bazaars and grottos in cotton wool. An old man in bowler hat with a concertina passed by. Late afternoon I was dishevelled and tired. Much as I liked nature and the beauty of the country and the open landscapes, I was at home in the city. The feel of its streets, hurrying through cobbled streets, the slap of wet washing in your face as you ran through cobbled courts, the crowded pavements. But the middle classes lived on the south and west of the city, whilst we lived in the north. The wind blew smoke from the city factories northwards for most of the year, but there were still great patches of open heath and farmland. Shadows from clouds sped across the heaths, glinting in the dusk of the winter sunset. Hazy light and I'm ready for bed.

Modern historians have divided history, they now have the Victorians from 1830ish to 1880 and the Edwardians from 1880 to 1920. By the time we had reached 1880 most Victorian buildings were being hauled down and Coventry rebuilt over the next forty years. By 1920 most of city centre had been rebuilt. Gone were the corn mills, ribbon houses, meeting houses, stables and livestock, replaced with banks, shops and offices, cinemas, and wireless, telephones and most of all the railways gave it the 'clout'. Not only was the Council House built, but most buildings in High Street (Rob found us Allwoods). I believe Burtons and Westminster Bank, and other shops built around 1919 swept away the old Victorian era. Most of the buildings in the Burges had been replaced around Edwardian time as well. I believe when they made Trinity Street the loom factories had already been replaced by other buildings, and so had the slum dwellings. Coventry was improved by the spread of success.

By the mid 1930s Coventry was well into manufacture again, could well afford a better living and better conditions all round, but the lower half of the centre of the city looked very tatty and the citizens needed another uplift. So the city built a new bus depot, a new theatre, pulled down the old Butcher Row and built the new Trinity Street and most of the Burges and a new cinema close by. Unfortunately the war followed.

Believe that the Church Book shop was responsible for most of the books sold to Sunday schools in Coventry, including The English Hymnal. The Sunday school I went to, we were led by old Pop Barnes, most of the old hymns, the lyrics were new but the tunes were old English folk tunes. The two I do remember were the carol 'Little town of Bethelehem', was from the 'Plough-boy' and the other, 'Fight the good fight', was supposed to be Tarry Trowsers' which we sang with The Cross of Jesus behind the vestry door, as no one (choir boy) would carry it up the aisle. Tarry Trowsers - any of you remember? Yonder stands a pretty maiden Who she is I do not know I'll go and court her for her beauty Will she answer yes or no Oh no John, no John, no Post copied from topic Shops of yore on 9th Aug 2020 1:17 pm

Rob, is this the sort of book? My name is Craig Simms. I'm an ex-Army MP, now a private detective. I pulled out of the Major's drive, the envelopes that his wife had just handed to me tucked in my inside jacket pocket. I had a feeling they were my army records, couldn't think what else they could be. My mind going over the past. I had known Major Weston for two years of the four I had served in the Military Police and the last year and half since, until he died three days ago. Today, I attended his funeral. I turned right out of the Major's drive, my Riley cruising in the tree-lined street. I glanced in the mirror - a red Hillman Minx was on my tail. I turned left suddenly, getting a lot of stick from a lorry driver. A mile further on, the Hillman was back on my tail. I accelerated, the tail did the same. I slowed, the tail did the same. Now I was annoyed, either the guy was an idiot, or he wanted me to know he was tailing me. I felt under my seat to make sure the Luger pistol was safely there. The rear view mirror told me he was alone. Why, why is he following me? I accelerated, headed out of town, he was now two cars behind me. I needed open country to convince this guy he was making a big mistake. It was a year since I had done a 'hit', maybe it had something to do with the envelopes? I increased speed, shot down a country lane, large hedgerows on either side. I knew the area well, the Hillman dropped back a little. I knew what he was thinking, just enough to keep me in his sights. Hell! I could have lost this guy easily, but something told me to play along. I put my foot down hard and screamed round a bend, pulled up sharp on the grass verge in a field gateway, pushed open the passenger door wide, then shot out my side, sprinted fifty yards back, dived into the dry ditch, covered by a large bush just as the Hillman turned the corner. The driver stopped almost opposite from where I was hiding, peering at the gateway, confused as to where I had gone. I was at his car in a flash, my right hand through his open window. I had him in a vice-like grip around the throat, his head pushed hard against the back of his seat. A clatter as a small pistol fell to the floor of the car, at the same time a cap fell and long golden hair cascaded down her shoulders. I yanked her roughly out of the front and into the back seat, her left arm twisted behind her back. She was gulping for air, breathing heavily. I relaxed my grip a little. I glanced around, no one about. I frisked her pockets, let her arm free. She struggled to sit upright, her face pale. I emptied her handbag on the back seat, her driving licence gave me her name. "You followed me, you had a gun. Why?" "You killed my husband, you and that Major, you wanted the code".

I'm intrigued already Kaga - yes, I'd read that sort of book. I wonder if you've ever read the book I finished most recently - The Bruneval Raid: Stealing Hitler's Radar ? A fascinating true insight into the development of radio detection and range finding equipment, culminating in the secret raid by parachutists organised to pinch one of the German radars installed in France, so we could learn how advanced they were in that field. (Not quite as advanced as were were at the time, fortunately!)

Yes Rob, but it was a long time ago, so probably not the same book. But Coventry was spared the doodle-bug bombs in the last few months of the war - their fuel did not reach that far. This flying bomb gripped the public like no other - you heard it and you saw it, if the fuel ran out you were more-or-less done for, but you just had time to realise that, and that's what terrified people. If not, it passed harmlessly overhead to someone else's troubles. Rob, may I make a suggestion? We have a topic on coins. The coin and story I showed on there is the most famous of all of war stories - if you can get a book about it then that's the one to read. Without that raid, D-Day would have collapsed and we would have lost the war.

Thanks Kaga. I've found your post about it - do you think this book on Amazon would be a good one to read?

Yes Rob, I do.

Annewiggy. Have moved to this topic, from Weavers. The book I have now is a more recent edition of J Gutteridge, this also has the diary of W Andrews and other discrepancies. There is much in common with Gutteridge and myself, we both enjoyed walking and knowing plants. With the 1927 strike and the coal pits of Wyken closing, it had the same effect as in his day. Little had changed the poverty line. The bosses knew it was coming and had the money to stock up with food, not so the workers, so the strike failed when the kids got hungry. We had the farm to help us, and the remains of our coal business, but even so my father repaired shoes, made rugs from old hessian bags and old pieces of clothing cut into small three inch strips and sewn into the hessian pieces, money boxes from old tea chests at three-pence each. We were still poor. I would wait for a school chum, sitting on an orange box, his mother would sit him on the dining table and wash his knees while I waited. The table-cloth only came out on Sundays, or when the vicar called round. For sweets we ate raw carrots, or rhubarb with a sprinkle of sugar, and all the stale bread made bread pudding. Foremen and supervisors still received meat as a Christmas box, my uncle a deputy at Keresley pit received a goose every Christmas until about 1936. The population in Coventry always fluctuated. In good times they widened the roads, in one period they even built a new town in Hillfields district to accommodate the influx of new workers, but one year the slump was so bad that hundreds sailed to the USA, settled to make a new town called Paterson, became the best silk seat in USA. Coventry silk factories dropped from eighty to less than twenty.

Living in a small cottage. Old suburban Coventry's unknown hours when the dew sparkles thick in the hazy light, and the trees and the plants come alive to meet the dawn. The house and staircase become a channel of domesticity, where the air hangs thick with kitchen whiffs, and little boys poke a toe out of bed then draw it back again to the warmth of the bed - an open grate fireplace with no money for fuel, for times were hard. Outside the fog rolls up, country shadows of clouds skid across the newly ploughed fields. We meet the organ grinder in the street as we make for the tram. In town the gay shops sporting gay tinsel, stockings, Christmas trees, and cotton wool spread everywhere - the larger stores with bazaars, grottoes, vivid displays of Christmas scenes. An old man in a bowler hat walks by playing carols on a concertina, as it begins to snow, and people hurry from the upstairs of the tram to the dry lower deck. Snow. We catch the tram home, tired - a log fire, mince pies, and a titchy spot of warm port. What a great day when you're only five.