Norwood Children's Home

I remember the home my sister Gloria and I used to walk past it going to Norwood Park.

In West Norwood there was also the Jewish Childrens home where we had lots of friends from there. My sister and I went to
St Lukes School, then Gipsy Road School.

Maud Harris was in Norwood Children's Home Jan 1933 - June 1937 in Elizabeth House, no 64. If Richard remembers any other things eg names of the boys houses besides Faraday and Livingstone, or anything else, she would love to hear. She also remembers the yard men, Mr Cross, Mr Wilson and Mr Miller.

I completely forgot my previous comments about Norwood Children's Home but if there is anyone still around with memories to share please let me hear from you. Thanks,Richard

My grandfather, George Lane was there at the same time as you as he was evacuated to Sussex during the war. I would love to know if you knew him. We have lots of unanswered questions! Has anyone tried to obtain any records? Thanks

A real pleasure to hear from you. I believe the name Lane sounds familiar to me.If you have any details as his time there and which 'house' he lived in. Also , was he in the band? I haven't had any success getting records about NCH but do let me more from you. Richard

I meant to add there are some memorable old photos of NCH on the workhouse websites. Richard

Hi Richard
My mother and her brothers were at Norwood up until the WW2. As you mentioned the band I wondered if it was her brother Fred that you knew. Their surname was Walker but may also have been known as Lane. My mother remembers Mr Miller and Mr Wilson. Mr Miller was known as Dusty. She went to Gypsy Road School and later to Madam Newcomen's. She was in NIghtingale and Victoria but can't remember what houses her brothers were in. Her other brother was called James. She remembers trips to the seaside, Easter and Christmas and says that in many ways they were better off than those who were outside the home. She remembers scrumping on the way home from school. Fred left the home before the outbreak of war but both she and James were evacuated. My mother went to Hove.
Not many photographs but we managed to find one of the band with Fred in it.
Peter Prosser

Hi Peter. Just getting round to your posting. I can't say I remember many boys' names but of course, the master's names are embedded in my memory. I did go to Gypsy Rd school and even remember a couple of the teacher's names since they accompanied the kids evacuated to Worthing. I think the house name I was in was Faraday. Summer trips to Dymchurch were good. I agree we lived in good conditions better than many on the outside. Nice to reminisce. Cheers Richard

Hi my Dad and his brother were at the Norwood School of Industry not sure when. He started to write his memoirs but unfortunately died before he could finish them. His Mum collapsed with malnutrition and so had to send her two eldest to the workhouse and the youngest two were looked after by friends. He remembers standing being met by four women in a kind of nurse’s uniform. Here is his story: The gatekeeper or whoever he was shouted “right – the first two go with her” indicating one of the women, “the next one goes with her, the next one with her and you two with her”. My brother and I having been standing near to each other but as numbers two and three were separated so I asked the man if I could go with my brother. He stepped forward and smacked me so hard of the side of my head that I fell to the ground and he shouted “you go where I tell you” and that was the way of things for the next few years. Bullying, humiliation, privation, horror, pain, tears, hate and more tears. We had landed at was known as the Norwood Industrial School (Lambeth Workhouse/Norwood School of Industry, Elder Road, Norwood) what the industry was I never did find out but the name hid what was in fact an extension of the workhouse. There were four houses named, Livingstone, Gordon, Faraday and Stevenson. I was in Livingstone and my brother, Punch, in Gordon. Each house had about fifty boys governed by a House Matron and an assistant. The house was on three floors, the top two floors were dormitories and the ground floor had a large day room, the matrons room and the wash room – the wash room comprised on one long trough stretching to the length of the room and running along the centre of the trough was a water pipe with taps every two feet or so from which trickled the coldest water I’ve ever encountered and here it was at 6am every morning and at 6pm every evening all of us had to strip to the waist and wash under supervision with carbolic soap – head, face, arms, body, the lot.

On the first day we new boys were taken to a little room outside the building and had to form a line for a haircut, this was a fortnightly ritual but although the barber (my apologies to the profession!) had about 75 to 100 kids to deal with each session he could complete it easily in a few hours – the styling was simple – the clippers were just run over your head until there was little or no hair showing and a little tuft was left at the front. We were then issued with black boots, grey trousers a horse hair shirt and a pullover, from then on there were no individuals we all looked the same, dressed the same and no doubt thought the same trying to fathom out what we had done wrong to warrant this incarceration. The whole atmosphere was one of bullying and terror in a Dickensian way, when a boy reached the age of 10 years he was given a younger boy to look after – he was responsible for making his bed, seeing he washed and dressed properly, boots clean and properly laced. If at anytime during the day the young one was found with his socks round his ankles or with dirty boots the lad in charge got a wallop which in turn led the older boy to walloping the kid and so it went on.

The basic routine was up at 5.30pm make your bed and your charges bed, down to the washroom, back to dress then start work, this was either scrubbing or dusting and moving the iron beds. The dusters were alright they got on with dusting and polishing – the scrubbers lined up each having the width of 5 floorboards – the bed movers shifted some beds and the scrubbers knelt – bucket, scrubbing brush, floorcloth and soap at the ready – one long line of kids waiting for the order. “Water” here we sloshed water on the boards with the floorcloth, “soap on brush” that bit was easy, “scrub”, here we had to scrub in unison up, don, up, down until the assistant helper or whoever was satisfied, if as often happened she was diverted or called away for some reason the same bit of floor was scrubbed and scrubbed until her next order “rinse and dry”. Every so often if she was in a bad mood she would walk up behind you and yell “not enough water” and kick your bucket over, this meant clearing it all up and then rushing like hell to catch up with the line. Meanwhile the bed shifters were moving some beds back and moving others ready for the scrubbers. When the chores were completed we were all lined up and marched to a large dining room for breakfast. This usually was some sort of coarse porridge full of husks – at times it was possible to cut it with a knife and eat it like cake. Following that was two slices of bread and jam and a mug of cocoa. From there to school, after school we were allowed into the yard – this was a concrete area surrounding the main houses – we were not allowed to play with a ball just walk around like prisoners on exercise or if you had the strength, run. Back into the house at 6pm, wash and bed, everything was done at the sound of a whistle blast, whatever you were doing when the whistle blew you stopped, when it blew again you got cracking on the next item of routine. One thing above most others that still sticks in my mind after some fifty odd years were the night checks, at about 11pm each and every night one of the staff would come round the dormitory to every bed pull back the bed clothes and feel to see if the bed had been wetted, this of course was a frequent occurrence, especially with the younger ones, if the bed was wet the poor kid was smacked and made to stand outside the building on the fire escape in his wet nightshirt until the sadistic bastard told him he could come in again. The kid was then made to lie on top of his bed without cover until the morning.

There were three yard masters at the home – Cross, Miller and Wilson; Miller was probably the most ignorant sadistic man I have every met and I’ve met some right slags. His favourite weapon was a piece of broom handle about 18 inches long which he carried at all times and his preferred target was on the back of the legs behind the knee. I remember vividly vowing that one day I would be big enough and strong enough to thrash him as he had thrashed me and so many others. I was about 12 years old when I made the vow and it lived with me continually. In my childish way I imagined that I would grow up big and strong and he would remain as he was. Many years later having left the home and joined the Territorial Army (to get a free holiday), I had trained hard in my chose sport of boxing and at the age of about 19 years, still nursing my vow of revenge, I went to Hearn Hill where there was a cycle race meeting and there standing near the track was the unmistakable back of Miller – all the hate of many years came flooding back – this was the time I had waited and longer for – here before some hundred or so spectators this bastard was going to get his just reward – I was excited, almost shaking with the thought of the pleasure to come, I was fit, I was strong, I had overwhelming hate, I had the opportunity of ridding myself of the enormous burden I had carried for years. Slowly I made my way down to the edge of the track, mentally working out my tactics – firstly I would make sure he recognised me, then I would remind him of his sadistic treatment of defenceless kids and then in deliberate detail I would tell him what I was going to do to him. I reached the track edge and positioned myself about 6 yards behind him and shouted “Miller” he turned around, but what I saw was a pathetic old grey haired man, he had not remained as I had childishly thought he would – he had cheated me – I just looked at him and turned away – the hate was still there – it still is – but my moment of revenge and glory had been stolen from me – as had my childhood.

Every so often a number of kids were herded into a large room where there were seated some men and women – these were people wishing to adopt children – the kids were paraded round like it was a cattle auction and every now and again one of the visitors would reach forward and grab one to look over and talk to – frightened bewildered children not knowing what was happening were selected or rejected – a human jumble sale – no privacy just a group of, no doubt well meaning, people sorting out a group of children – when it was over there were tears from the rejects and happiness from the selected, happy in the knowledge that anything must be better than the life they were now leading.

Each year a group of be-medalled men appeared to talk to the 14 year old children of the glories of boys service in the Army or Navy – wonderful stories they told of exotic foreign countries, of travel, of service to King and country, all the money they would get, of a wonderful life of adventure, of how lucky they would be if selected. When they had finished their spiel the order was shouted “Army on that side, Navy on this side” most of the kids did not know that they had an option– so used were they to obeying orders without question that they all joined one queue or the other, it never occurred to them that they could have stayed where they were and joined neither queue. Of course they were not all accepted for the great World of adventure they had been told of, so there were more tears. Naturally there was a church at the Home to which we were marched three times every Sunday to give thanks for all the good things in life, to learn to love one another and to be told how God loved little children and to recite the Lords Prayer about forgiving those that trespass against us and hearing about some mutt who when hit on one cheek offered to other – we never offered ours but we got it just the same. I was in the choir and at that time had a reasonable good enough voice to sing solo, our organist and choir master was a man named George Hoar. He was a nice fellow who took an interest in me and as he was also the organist for another Church outside the Home I was allowed to sing there too, that meant five services each Sunday, three at the Home and two outside. After some time it was obvious to me that my voice was going and I asked permission to leave the choir, I was instantly hauled up before the Home Superintendent a geezer named Morris who told me, in no uncertain terms, that I stayed in the choir under the most severe threats. Some one up there to whom I had been singing and praising for some time must have a warped sense of humour for on the very next occasion that I was singing a solo my voice cracked, I gasped and rasped, coughed and spluttered and that was it. Even before the service ended I was hauled out of the Church down to see the Superintendent who told me how embarrassed I had made him feel, that I had done it on purpose because he would not let me leave the choir and then he thrashed me with a cane – he was like a screaming Dervish – he did not just hit me on the hand or arse but all over – arms, legs, body, head – I swear to this day my voice broke, I did not organise it, my bloody voice just broke – I have never sung since, neither have I, apart from Weddings, Funerals or Christenings, stepped foot inside a Church since. Hope it is of interest to you

I have a friend Harry borne 1923 who was hospitalised in the 1930's by a birching he received from one of these (so called) men. He went on to serve in the Navy as a boy via the training ship Arethusa.

Both my father Harry Clark and Aunt Jessie Clark were at Norwood in the 1930's. They both came from Hanwell via the Workhouse at Newington, Lambeth.
My dad Harry was only there for a year between 1933-1934 before being moved to Peckham Boys Home - we then lose the trail for him.
My Aunt Jessie was there until 1939 when she was placed into service rather than being evacuated. Both of them died without ever talking about how bad things were for them both, everything we have found has been via ancestry etc - we have managed to track their mother and 5 half siblings. No luck with their father.
Wanted to just thank you all for giving some insight to how being at Norwood would have been for them.