Ralph Swift, born 1933 at Wimbledon, went to Morden Farm County Secondary School in Aragon Rd before attending Wimbledon Technical College at Gladstone Road. He now lives in America.

I have already put onto paper some of my remembrances as a wartime lad in the south of London (see Morden, "Boyhood Memories Of The Blitz" on this website).

Perhaps now you will bear with me as I travel down memory lane and record some of the random events, in no particular chronological order, that come to mind, of those long gone days during the pre-war, wartime and the immediate post war years.

These are not earth shattering occurrences but merely a chronicle of those times that were relevant to our lives at that time and should be recorded for posterity; little things that are easily forgotten and swamped by the more newsworthy items that tend to take priority in our lives.

The enforced austerity of the times, petrol rationing, etc, had re-created another era of the bicycle. Fortunate were those of us who had the use of a motorcar during the war years. But just prior to the war many families had invested in the car as a means of personal transport and recreation.

There were still not too many about and the highways and
byways were not cluttered by nose-to-tail traffic like they
often are today. The cars of the time were somewhat temperamental
and many a father spent some hours each week tinkering with
the family transport in the hope of being able to take the
family out at the weekend.

An excursion hopefully without any great mechanical mishaps
interfering with the enjoyment of just being free to wander
the countryside or curtail that looked-forward-to visit
to the seaside.

Punctures were very common, and in addition to the spare
wheel that was usually bolted to the boot lid (trunk), every
car had a tool box that included tyre irons and a puncture
repair outfit, together with a foot or hand pump.

It was not unusual to pass a whole family sat by the roadside
whilst Dad wrestled with the black snake-like inner tube
that protruded from between the rim and the tyre.

My Dad was the proud owner of an old "Morris 8"
(or it may have been a Standard). The bugbear of this particular
model was that the dynamo was mounted vertically and formed
part of the mechanical drive between the crankshaft and
the valve gear.

In essence this was a great idea, but in reality the oil
seals were not very efficient in those days and engine oil
would seep down from the valve gear and find its way into
the dynamo and that in turn would fail to charge the battery.

In some models there was a separate magneto that would
supply the spark plugs so you could keep the engine going,
but you were totally without lights or starter (other than
by hand-cranking). The starter handle or hand-crank was
also an essential part of the toolbox.

I well remember on several occasions when Dad had to make
a mad dash to get home before twilight or before the battery
went completely dead.

Our next car, a better one, was a Ford Ten "De Luxe"
but this was destined to spend most of its life on blocks
in the back garden as the war robbed us of petrol to run
it and Dad went off to "do his bit".

I remember being intrigued by the knob on top of the gear
lever that could be twisted to activate the direction indicators,
little semaphore arms that appeared magically from the doorposts,
very advanced technology !!

The venerable old Morris would take us to the seaside or
for afternoon picnics on Banstead Downs, where, after having
eaten, Dad and I would search through the gorse bushes for
golf balls lost by the players on the nearby golf course.

Dad had a few wooden-shafted golf clubs which he kept in
a battered golf bag. I never knew him to play on a regular
basis but I guess he must have gone out with his friends
once in a while for I heard him talking about "mashies"
and suchlike, all foreign words to me.

As I recall it, Saturday night was always something of
a shopping event. Dad and Mum would take the car to Morden,
Wimbledon or Tooting just before the shops closed for the
weekend when all the retailers and stall holders were selling
the perishable goods at knock-down prices rather than have
the freshness go off over the weekend.

Fruit, vegetables, fish and meat could all be found at
bargain prices. Nobody had refrigerators but there were
ways to preserve a lot of food: the meat could go into the
brine barrel; runner beans would go in a salt bucket; those
lovely Victoria plums ended up in bottles; and all the root
vegetables would go into a simple clamp in the back garden,
just stored in straw with an earth covering.

Milk and butter, etc just did not have a shelf life and
they were always the most difficult to keep relatively fresh.
How would we manage today without our refrigerators I wonder?

During the war, absolutely nothing was wasted, even the
old potato peelings were boiled up together with any leftover
greens, all mixed with "Karswood Poultry Spice",
mashed up and fed to the chickens along with a bit of grit
to help their digestion.

But the motoring days were all transient and soon to come
to an end as the wartime economy took hold. The bicycles
were dusted off, their tyres inflated and brakes checked.

The sea shore was mined and miles of steel barricades made
up of welded railway lines and girders were put up to prevent
landing craft from being able to put ashore.

My bicycle was Dad's old BSA that was hand-painted to tidy
it up a bit, though the rims still displayed quite a bit
of rust even after much rubbing with Vim and oil. It at
least had drop handlebars and cable brakes that gave it
a semi-sporting look.

Mum's bicycle was an even older "Hercules" that
sported a looped "ladies" frame together with
a fully enclosed chain guard, a basket on the handlebars
and little strings of thread that ran from the rear hub
to the rear mudguard to prevent her skirt from becoming
entangled in the rear wheel.

My old BSA was destined to carry me many adventurous miles
throughout the county of Surrey and further afield to Brighton
and Worthing and to became the much-needed vehicle to carry
me on my two paper rounds that eventually provided me with
the where-with-all to purchase a much better bicycle.

My paper rounds encompassed Tudor Drive, Cranmer Close,
Cardington Avenue, Wolsey Crescent and Lower Morden Lane,
all in the borough of Lower Morden in Surrey. One was in
the morning and another in the evening, and together they
earned me fifteen shillings a week (including Sunday).

We paper boys and girls disliked both Thursdays and Sundays.
On Thursday the magazines and inserts were included that
literally doubled the weight of the load and Sunday was
when the larger papers were issued.

On both of these days, the weight of the newspapers meant
strapping the paper bag to the crossbar of the bicycle,
rather than slinging it over your shoulder, and literally
scooting around using the pedal as a foot stand rather than
actually riding the bike.

I was fortunate in that I did not have a Sunday evening
round and therefore if I got out very early on Sunday morning
I could go off cycling all day without the necessity of
getting back early in the evening to do my paper round.
Oh how I looked forward to Sunday.

I was grateful for the money I earned but many a morning
during the long summer holidays I would dearly have loved
to stay in bed a little later as so many of my contemporaries
did.

I could sometimes take a day off since the newsagent had
a couple of substitutes he could call upon to fill in. These
were lads who did not wish to be encumbered with an everyday
commitment but liked to earn a few shillings once in a while.

It meant that I had to forgo my day's pay but it was worthwhile
if I had somewhere to go or something I particularly wanted
to do. Once I had earned enough money to purchase my new
bike, a metallic green Raleigh, I gave up the evening round
in order to give me the time to explore farther afield on
my recent acquisition.

But this was not to be for some time yet, for now the old
BSA would have to suffice. In the beginning, my old BSA
would take me to Epsom, Dorking, the many local destinations
where I fished, Hampton Court and Thames Ditton where I
got to know a Mister Fred Painter who rowed a ferry across
the River Thames at this point.

He lived on Summer Island and his wife would sometimes
invite us onto the Island and her little bungalow for tea.
I began to get further out when we lads would go as far
as Guildford and explore the Cathedral there which was under
construction at this time.

It seemed a vast building to our young eyes. I suppose
that construction had been halted for the duration of the
war for there was never anyone there.

During the latter part of the war I went to a school camp
for a whole term at a place called "Sheephatch",
not far off the Hogs Back and Farnham. It was a wonderful
place for us kids, we slept in wooden dormitories and were
always being taken to places of local interest and on long
walks over to Frensham Ponds and throughout the local countryside.

A Mr Gould was the headmaster at the time and he was to
spark in me a lifelong interest in History and Archaeology.
Not for him the dull routine of Kings and Queens and dates.
He thrived upon Knights in armour and castles and battles,
digs and discoveries, the triumphs of Crecy and Agincourt.

His enthusiasm rubbed off on me and I became enthralled
with it all, and am still enthralled sixty years later.
It is amazing how one good teacher can influence the mind
of an impressionable youngster.

On rare occasions we went to the theatre, always once a
year for the Pantomime and sometimes for the odd variety
show. Dad was away at war of course and it fell to Mum to
take us out for the entertainment.

Whether it was a case of economy or whether she just preferred
it I don't know but we always sat way up in the "Gods"
as it was known. Far from the stage and far above it, it
was like looking down on a brightly lit arena from our perch
in the rafters and I always had the impression that if you
should lose your footing there would be nothing to stop
you plunging straight down on to the stage beneath your
feet.

"Tom Thumb" or "Jack and the Beanstalk"
were almost annual events with the "Principal Boy"
who was invariably a girl and always clad in tights, shouting
her lines in order to be heard by those of us who must have
been almost out of sight from the stage.

The audience was always induced to become part of the production,
hissing at the villain and cheering the hero (who was actually
a heroine). There was always a sing-along when the popular
ballads of the time were sung with great sentimentality
and gusto.

Such songs as "We'll Meet Again", "The White
Cliffs Of Dover", " Roll Out The Barrel",
"Sally, Sally, Pride Of Our Alley", and many others.
It is surprising that so many songs were known by so many
people.

Everybody knew all the words to the old music hall songs
that dated back to the previous war. I suppose it was that
the old standards of the time were played for many years
over and over. The only time you got to hear them was on
the radio or on the front room piano.

There was no great musical industry constantly bombarding
you with new and undecipherable lyrics. Every piano stand
and every piano stool in every parlour contained the same
sheet music from one end of the country to the other. It
was 'popular music' in the real sense of the words.

Mum took sister and I to see "Flanagan and Allen",
one of whom was clad in a ratty old fur coat as part of
the act. Their song "Underneath the Arches" was
popular at the time, as was their comedy routine.

Another visit was to see Cyril Fletcher, also very popular
for his "Odd Odes" or was it "Art Odes".
Anyway, he would come on the stage and after a short preamble
would announce "Odd Ode Number Three" or something
similar, and proceed to recite a rhyming and amusing monologue.
His vocal presentation and facial expressions made the whole
thing very amusing.

One of the cartoon characters in the newspapers at the
time was known as "Just Jane", a somewhat racy
(for that era) lady who was something of a pin-up girl and
invariably managed to finish up scantily clad.

I remember seeing her at Wimbledon Theatre, though probably
not with Mum. It was a rather discreet strip show that was
concealed behind a screen with the silhouette thrown onto
the screen by back lighting, a far cry from the offerings
of today but considered to be quite risqué by the
standards prevailing at that time.

Another cartoon character that I enjoyed was the really
dastardly and underhanded chap known as "Captain Reilly
Foule". I forget what the strip was called after all
these years, perhaps "Just Jake", but no doubt
some of you will remember it.

All the kids at the time would rush home to listen to "Dick
Barton, Special Agent" an ongoing series on the radio
that would be the source of much discussion and conversation
on the school playground the following day.

It was something of a minor disaster if you happened to
miss the broadcast, for it took a day of close questioning
to extract details of a lost sequence from your school chums.

Saturday morning cinema was an absolute "must"
for any self-respecting schoolboy. We gathered outside the
"Odeon" in Morden every Saturday morning, hundreds
of us, all herded into a huge queue of chattering and shouting
kids eagerly awaiting the opening of the doors.

No adults here, not one, except the staff. The show would
start with our theme song accompanied by a bouncing ball
to indicate the words: "Is everybody happy ? YES",
a resounding "Yes" at the top of your lungs. "Do
we ever Worry? NO" another resounding response.

After the theme song it was usually another instalment
of "Anchor's Aweigh", a story about crewmen aboard
ship. This was usually followed by the big picture, normally
a "Western", accompanied by much cheering and
booing as the heroes and villains chased each other across
the silver screen. A great time was had by all and a lifetime
of memories to dwell upon during my latter years.

My sister and I were eventually evacuated for a time to
Whittle Le Woods in Lancashire, halfway between Chorley
and Preston. Initially housed in two different family homes
with a Mrs Bamber and a Mrs Reynolds, who lived opposite
to each other, we were shortly reunited again under the
roof of Mr and Mrs Bamber, a wonderful couple who treated
us as if we were their own.

Mr Bamber had lost a leg, I am not sure how, either in
the first world war or by accident. It did not stop him
riding his little two-stroke "James" motorcycle
everywhere, though he did have a bit of trouble dismounting
if he had been to the local alehouse.

But these folks had hearts of gold and little indiscretions
were totally forgivable. We had to walk a couple of miles
to a little two room schoolhouse but it was no hardship
to our young legs and we had a lot of fun on the way with
the other kids headed in the same direction.

The meals would be brought to us in a van each lunchtime,
all stacked one upon the other with a metal ring separating
the plates. I was particularly fond of a meal known locally
as "Hash," and particularly happy if one of the
other youngsters declined to eat it and I could have their's
also.

I have no doubt that they were totally familiar with hash
and heartily sick of it, but to me it was very tasty and
hitherto unknown so I found it to be highly desirable.

We often found our way home across the fields rather than
by the lane, and close to the end of our journey there was
a little store that dispensed "Parched Peas",
another little morsel that I found to be to my liking.

A number of the Lancashire children wore clogs on their
feet, heavy wooden soles that were shaped and then equipped
with a steel band around the underside and a thick leather
top into which you slipped your feet.

I always wanted a pair but never actually owned any. It
was probably just as well, for on thinking back I am sure
they must have been uncomfortable and very awkward to keep
on your feet if you were as active as I was.

I enjoyed my stay in Lancashire though it was not to be
for all that long, probably just a few months as I recall.

We did join Dad at Gillingham in Kent for a short while
prior to his being posted to Norway. It was not for long
and I cannot remember too much about it except paddling
in the mud alongside the tidal part of the River Medway
and looking for crabs, etc in the little rivulets left by
the receding tide.

I also saw my first memorable Mulberry bush there, but
it is all a part of a dim memory that contains a picture
of mother and father walking along one of the raised banks
and being silhouetted against the evening sky as I splashed
about in the mud below.

I know it was a happy time because it was the first time
for two or three years that we had been together as a family
for more than a day or two. Things were getting easier as
the war progressed, the shortages were not as acute and
yet we were still being harassed by doodlebugs and V2's.

Finally it was all over in Europe, and what a celebration
we had. For VE Day (Victory in Europe) we had prepared a
huge bonfire in the lane and about fifty yards from the
house opposite some open ground.

We kids had been scavenging all the local bombsites and
spare lots for fuel for this immense blaze. Most of the
lower limbs of the trees had been pruned to add to the pile.
The party was wild, somehow some alcoholic beverages were
produced and consumed by the adults and somebody even brought
fireworks to add to the scene.

Mum got a little tipsy that evening, the first and last
time I ever saw that happen. She was not a happy camper
the following day and suffered greatly for her perfectly
understandable reaction to the end of what had been for
her an ordeal spread over five years.

She had been desperately afraid of the air raids during
the blitz and afterwards with the V1's and V2's. She had
been on her own with a couple of young children to worry
about and try to protect, with little food and no money
to spare.

Literally everything had fallen on her shoulders, from
electrical repairs to gardening and cooking. What little
we kids could do to help her by looking after the livestock
and scrounging around for fuel had helped but it was no
substitute for a man around the house.

Talking about fuel reminds me of an extraordinary bit of
luck that I had midway through the war. There were the footings
of an old Victorian house that had stood on the London Road.

It had been demolished probably before the war started
and was known to us children for the simple fact that a
couple of apple trees and a pear tree still survived in
what had been the back garden of this rather extensive property.

Now every kid knows where to get free apples and we were
no exception. We could gather them here with no danger of
an irate householder chasing us off the premises. There
stood on one side of the garden a couple of earth-covered
mounds which we sometimes mounted in order to throw sticks
at the apples in order to dislodge them from their stalks.

On one occasion I lost my balance a little and slid down
the side of one of the mounds and in doing so I dislodged
some of the grass and weed that covered the mound. The gouge
exposed black gold in the form of coal, and further exploration
of the find revealed that the whole mound was a heap of
coal that had grown over in the intervening years, and its
sister mound turned out to be coke.

In a time of fuel rationing and restricted bathing due
to a lack of hot water this was a find to be rejoiced over.
We carefully covered over any sign of disturbance and the
next morning after my paper round I was back with my little
trailer constructed from a pram chassis and wheels.

A large sandbag was the first of many that were used to
remove, surreptitiously, both piles of fuel over the course
of the next several months. The luxury of hot baths with
almost unlimited hot water and not having to share the meagre
five inches of that luke warm fluid after my sister had
been bathed in it was like going to heaven.

The kitchen fire glowed with its pre-war splendour and
the water was actually hot for months thereafter. Strange
how just a little luck can alter one's outlook on life.

Well, the war in Europe was over at last, the church bells
throughout the nation had announced the end of hostilities,
for us in England at least. The Far East sector was still
to be resolved, but unknown to us, the Atom Bomb was in
its final stages of development and would soon spell the
end of Japan's bid for world domination.

Dad came home from the war and set about repairing five
years of neglect and bomb tremors that had had their affect
on the house.

I had taken to hanging around "Pop" Lyon's cycle
shop on Sutton Common Road with a group of fellow cyclists.
"Pop" sold a lot of items that we cyclists coveted
and he built wheels, straightened frames and stocked brand
new lightweight frames and accessories.

I had saved my money and purchased a "Holdsworth Dwarfin"
lightweight bicycle frame with 531 tubing. It was signal
red with chrome ends and white pin striping, and I was in
the process of building my own racer piece by piece.

After sixty years, I remember the pieces intimately: Chater-Lee
alloy hubs, double butted spokes to Conloy Asp alloy rims
and 1 inch high pressure tyres, Maes alloy handlebars and
alloy stem and saddle stem, Brooks B17 narrow saddle and
a Granby alloy chain set, with GB brakes.

We serious cyclists did not go in for the multiple gears
that were just coming onto the market. We rode fixed wheel.
We were obsessed by lightness and aimed for a seventeen-pound
bike.

Silly really for we usually carried spare rear sprockets
for different gearing and the tools to change them, in case
we ran into serious headwinds. All carried in a backpack,
so even if we were not carrying the spare gears on the cycle
we were carrying them nonetheless.

We did twenty-five mile time trials and I got down to one
hour three minutes, perhaps not good enough to compete with
the real pros but pretty good for a club rider at that time.
I stand hardly five feet five inches and just could not
compete physically with some of the big strong six footers
that were appearing.

We would sometimes go to Herne Hill track and fly around
there just as fast as we could, but it was just for fun
and I never got seriously into track racing.

Little did I know that the siren call of motorcycles was
but a few months hence. My Uncle "Syd" (short
for Sydney) introduced me to his "Brough Superior"
that had stood, unknown to me, in his shed throughout the
war.

It was shiny, sounded powerful and I was hooked. Uncle
Syd also owned an old BSA 350 cc motorcycle. It was well
kept and had a foot gear change unlike many motorbikes at
that time that sported a hand change.

I saved up my pennies again and got a very good price on
my Holdsworth cycle, becoming the proud owner of a motorcycle
just a couple of months before my sixteenth birthday, the
earliest time that I could apply for my learner's permit.

I had been riding around the fields and getting used to
the bike before I was even old enough to drive it on the
road, so virtually as soon as I was able to get a learner's
permit I applied for my driving test and passed first time.

I cannot recall if we were required by law to have the
learner's permit for any particular length of time. All
I know is that at the first opportunity, I took the test
and rid myself of those annoying red "L" plates
that we had to carry.

Motorcycles were a fascination that I was to live with
for many years as well as a multitude of cars. I sold my
last motorcycle, a Honda 750 Four cylinder F1 in 1981 by
which time I was about fifty years old.

I sold it when I moved to America and never bothered to
renew my motorcycle licence when I came here. It is anyway
a relatively short motorcycle riding season here in upstate
New York, unlike England where I rode the year round.

As a young man I was very actively engaged in trials riding
and belonged to the Streatham and District Motor Cycle club
until joining the Royal Air Force in 1951. I became an officer
and a jet pilot and got onto bigger and faster things but
always kept a motorcycle in the garage.

I still like to look over and appreciate a good motorcycle,
they are so beautifully made these days in comparison to some of the old bangers we rode in the heady days of empty roads, girder forks and no rear suspension, but they were cheap and cheerful in those days and insurance just cost a few shillings !!

It has been a good life and I don't regret a thing.

Ralph Swift, USA, 2002