Tarpots

Lambeth Road c1955
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I remember the north side of the London road much as has been described by others with some differences, the last shop before the garage was Jones the butchers, owned by Mr Jones and run by his three sons, Roy, Owen and the third one whose name escapes me, Owen is still living in Paignton.
On the other side on the east side of Hatley Gardens was a cafe known as the Busy Bee, owned or run by an Indian family. Next to Aldersons was a grocery shop which I think was called Maypole, it had two half-size doors with wooden and brass handles to open the doors. As you went in there was a counter straight in front of you with a rack of glass-lidded biscuit tins from which you could make up your own selection. Then I think it was the cafe owned by Mr Ben Matthews and his wife. One more, then Mr Gamage the greengrocer's, with its alleyway at the side, then the lady with the haberdashery, then Bert Christmas, he and his wife Ruth (?), his daughter Pat and son David emigrated to New Zealand and I actually met David one day walking up Queens Street in Auckland. After that the Newsbox, and then the post office.
On the High Road I remember Mr Palmer's place as well as Fred Polly -  watching Fred scything the grass in front of Mr Palmer's place was a sight one would not forget. After he and Mrs Palmer divorced she took herself, Thelma and Hilary to Melbourne, Australia and I did meet them all a time or two out there. Next to Mr Palmer's was Mr Mendoza's hairdressing saloon, and next to that was the ironmonger's, Smiths, I still remember Ivy who used to serve in the shop.
Mac's cafe was the hang-out for all us local rogues as well as the Pound Lane Gang, there was an uneasy truce between both side.
Prior to that I do still remember the ex-prisoner of war who had stayed here at the end of the First World War and lived in Hatley Gardens, one night he got carried away by his countrymen flying over head and waved a torch to show them he was still there and to show their appreciation they sent him some incendiary bombs and set the field behind his house ablaze, one of the marks persisted on the tarmac of the High Road for many years, he was gone the following day and my mum told me he had gone on holiday to a place called the Isle of Man (where there was an internment camp).
School was at Bowers Gifford C of E. Back towards Tarpots was a large house which was requisitioned by the Army for whatever it was they did there. One day a boy appeared by the eastern end of the school holding a hand grenade, which he was persuaded to put down and a Sergeant from the house appeared and very bravely crawled across the concrete to look at it, it turned out to be a practice grenade. Then there was the day a torn barrage balloon passed overhead with a Messerschmidt 109 sticking out of it, though you could only see the tail of it as it drifted over towards Pitsea marshes.
My father's memorable event happened while he was cycling to work at Thameshaven. He had just got to the top of Pound Lane hill when he heard airplanes and machine gun fire. He looked over to his left and saw a Junkers 88 been pursued by a Spitfire which shot it down just on the top of the hill . He took shelter in the wooden bus shelter at the bottom of the hill, but as he said later, it didn't really offer any protection at all. The crew men of the Junkers were buried in St Mary's down by the railway, and I and others from the choir sang hymns. Some years later I was at the churchyard but the graves had gone, possibly the bodies had been returned to Germany after the war.
I can still see in my minds eye part of the main undercarriage of the plane torn off and lying in the ditch upside down.
After the war my friend Austin and I were in the field across the road watching two German POW's working the hay bales and one of them threatened me with a baling hook, he was very scary but his mate warned him off.
Later the house at the top of that hill became Bill and Kate's cafe, coffee one and six or one and tenpence made with all milk, but not frothy coffee, you had to go to Southend to get something that sophisticated, to the Capri on the top of Pier Hill.
It must have been the 1944 summer, during school summer holidays, when we were on Canvey Island and the whole place was heaving with kids and parents and the noise was deafening, when in a second or so it went deadly quiet as two Doodlebugs appeared over the water heading towards us. In seconds there wasn't a soul on the beach, everyone was over on the other side watching them going on towards who knows where, but well away from London.
Well if any of the Cooks, Brays, Evans, Bevans, Mills, Woods, Butlers and Carters read this, I hope you are all well.

Colin Mackenzie