Big Sid didn’t have the gambling scene all to himself, there were a few street bookies about, the most memorable was named Sonny. Now Sonny looked just like a bookie should look like. He had a look of prosperity about him, just a little overweight, a luxurious head of swept back hair and always wore a generous overcoat. This overcoat, never buttoned up, had many large deep pockets, an essential tool in his trade. These pockets carried the books, the bets and the cash necessary to complete his dealings. The overcoat was his office. Sonny stood on the towpath at the corner of the wood yard, trying to look as inconspicuous as his flamboyant coat would allow. Punters would saunter by not taking any notice of this blameless figure and at the right time a hand would dart out and a small tightly bound package would drop into the cavernous, inviting pocket of Sonny’s office. From time to time the police would shake him up a bit, but on the whole he had a tranquil life. However one night he must have upset some-one at the station, because a police van and four coppers arrived. Some-one tipped the wink to Sonny and he moved on to the grounds of the flats, but old Bill soon were hot on the trail. A game of cat and mouse took place, bringing a crowd of people out to watch the fun, tenants of the higher floors of the buildings had an overall view of the chase and called down to Sonny, offering advice as to the whereabouts of the law. Well the police were not as daft as they looked and soon collared poor old Sonny. As Sonny was led away to the van, jeers turned to cheers and Sonny turned to his adoring public and took a bow!

Welsh Wales

It is hard to remember with any accuracy too much about my time in Cymmer during the war, certainly, as mentioned before, a large part of the English side of the family sought refuge there at the beginning of the war. This must have been at the the time of the Blitz and afterwards. I do have some memories but I feel sure that I was too young for these recollections to be my own. Stories have been told to me over and over again by many of the family,so they have somehow become my own memories.

However, Cymmer and my family there are firmly fixed in my head, it’s just difficult to put them into a time. I do know that me and all my English cousins thought that we were in paradise when we were there. We lived at the bottom of the valley surrounded by huge mountains and a raging river beat it’s way over the rocks just at the end of the garden. We all took full advantage of the natural beauty of this schoolboys idea of heaven, climbing the mountains and jumping from rock to rock in the river,( we lost count of the times we slipped and fell into the water). The war came and went but we all continued to visit our dream valley for years to come, becoming a part of the village.

South Wales then, was of course the centre of the coal industry, everyone depending on ‘the coal’ for their living. Cymmer was, and still is, in a most picturesque valley with two tumbling rivers meeting in the centre of the village, sheep wandered where ever they wanted and everyone was so friendly, so bloody Welsh! There were about five working pits in and around the little valley and railways connected all pits , and ran to local towns and beyond. We could look down the valley and watch the distant steam trains chuffing along the mountain sides. It was like we had our own train set. I often wonder if the author of Thomas the Tank Engine was inspired by our village. A smell of coal and steam hung upon the air and coal dust dominated the river and the houses. On the rare occasions that I smell coal now, I am taken right back to my ‘Welsh days’ When we climbed the mountains we left behind the smell of coal and entered into another atmosphere, the smell of bracken, heather and sheep dung.

All miners were allotted a free coal allowance by the mine. This seemingly generous gift was issued by the ton and a lorry load of coal, fresh from the pit was unceremoniously shot onto the pavement outside the miner’s home. This small mountain of fuel blocked the pavement and had to be carried through the house into the ’cwch’ in the back yard. Not an easy task, but the solidarity of the pitmen and the common bond they shared made light work of this daunting task. Nearly everyone in the street came out with buckets, tin baths, shovels and brooms and in a combined effort that we don’t see today, shifted the black obstacle into a more suitable place

My Mum’s family, the Holmses, consisted of Uncles Will, Arthur, Stan, Ben and George and sister Harriet, In early years Nanny Holmes was still alive. Two more sisters in New Zealand were unknown to me. Strangely, all of the family, except for Uncle George remained unmarried and all lived together in one house at the ‘Bottom’ of Cymmer. This house as you may gather from the many single people living there, was ‘primitive’, hardly likely to feature in a magazine. The spider infested bog was up the garden and the only supply of water came from a tap on the outside of the house. All cooking was done on an open fire that was part of a range, there were gas lights downstairs but a trip upstairs necessitated the lighting of a candle. In spite of these Spartan conditions, us cockney cousins were drawn back time and time again by some mystical Welsh spell that seemed to enchant us soon as we got off of the train.

Part of this magic was, of course the family, these unmarried brothers and sister gave us all the attention and affection that they could. Arthur and Stan would come home from work covered in coal dust (no pit head baths then) and immediately take us up the river to find bird’s nests, snakes, foxes and trout. These tough, rough, hard working men would thrust a gnarled, broken knuckled hand into a hole in a tree and gently lift out a baby woodpecker,let us look at it and even more gently replace it. We were thrilled! Then we made our way back home sitting on the shoulders of our idols. With their hobnailed pit boots on they would leap from rock to rock with us hanging on for our lives. They never slipped once. Little wonder that I have described them as Supermen!

On return to the house, Aunt Harriet had filled a vast wooden bath in front of the fire and they took turns to soak off the coal dust, all of them using the same water, no such niceties as fresh water. Clean clothes on, a bite of food and a slow meander to the pub, this was their daily routine.

Uncle Arthur was the clown of the family,with an almost childish sense of humour. He had a large repertoire of silly jokes, poems and songs, these he would rattle off at a rate of knots and if you giggled at one of them he would repeat it over and over again, laughing throughout.

Uncle Stan was the opposite, being mostly silent, and sensitive. He never said more than two words during our two weeks holiday, but when we went to the station to leave, he never failed to shed a tear.

Uncle Will, the oldest of the family had the tough appearance of a well worn miner, he had many quite severe injuries and could be grumpy at times as a result. He worked on a farm on weekends with his dog, Turk, more than once taking me to the farm in a pony and trap. I sat in the cart with Turk as the pony splashed through the river, hardly believing my luck.

Aunt Harriet was a sweet, shy, loving woman who obviously loved us so much, she fussed about us all the time. When I was older I realised why, because all the family were not married except my mum, I was the first and only next generation child . Harriet, as well as the house keeper was the village paper girl, delivering the daily papers every day for years well into her more mature years.

Uncle George, the only one to marry, lived with aunty Gert around the corner in an abode with the loveliest name , They lived at ROSE COTTAGE, PLEASANT VIEW,CRAIG Y FAN,CYMMER. Whenever I wrote to them, the address made me happy.

Living with all the unmarried Holmeses was another cousin, Joan. Joan, now in her eighties and still living in Cymmer is as Welsh as a bunch of leeks, but the truth is she was born in East London and is part of the English Walker family. Her dad and my dad were cousins or second cousins, we have never been sure. Her Mum, not long after Joan was born, took ill and sadly died whilst still a very young woman, her father unable to see a future looking after a small baby and earning a living, turned to Hannah Walker, my grandmother, for help. Hannah was widowed and quite old but nevertheless did what most working class families did in the absence of modern social services, and ’took Joan in’ to care for her.

My mum, then a teenage girl and not yet married to my dad, took an interest in this little baby and cared for her and would take Joan to Wales whenever she visited. Of course, Mum, in her innocence was surprised and hurt when some of the villagers, who on seeing this attractive young woman who had fled to the iniquitous Metropolis, had returned with a baby claiming it was a foundling, set about putting two and two together and making a big Welsh four.

I, of course was not born then but can imagine mum telling them in no uncertain terms the truth of the situation.

Joan stayed with Hannah and the rest of the Walkers, my mum taking a large part of the responsibility for her, until Hannah died. She started school in London and even called herself Joan Walker and and was destined to be another of the Walker clan, when for some inexplicable reason at the age of six, visited Cymmer and stayed with Nanny Holmes and never came back.

She was brought up by the Holmes family , grew up, got married , had four children, and has now got an uncountable number of grand children, great grand children and a cat.

I have always had a pride in the fact that this wonderful family warmly took in and provided for such an unfortunate child, so feeling, so caring, so Mary Poppins! It always gave me a warm glow, knowing that the Walkers had looked after their own in true East End style.

Well, Joan never quite saw it like that, I knew that she always wanted to find her Dad and that a certain amount of rejection was felt by her because she would, whenever we spoke, ask if anyone had seen her Dad. The fact is I don’t think she had seen him since he gave her to Hannah. Naturally she wanted to find out about her family and with the help of my sister Eira, traced the records of her Mum, finding the cause of , the date of and the place of her death. What’s more she found her grave and at the age of 70, Joan with Eira finally laid a bunch of flowers on her Mum’s place of rest. The grave was in Chingford Cemetry and as Joan said “ Near the bloody Kray twins”.

Although she recognises that her dad died many years ago, I know she somehow thinks he may possibly be waiting somewhere for the opportunity to meet her. Recently when we were talking about her feelings of rejection, I foolishly placated her by telling her that she should take comfort in the fact that the Walkers took her in and cared for her. “Did they?” she snorted , “ they sent me off to Cymmer to get rid of me!” I suddenly saw the simple truth of it. Mary Poppins it wasn’t.

Then she suddenly asked me “How would you like me for a sister?” I didn’t understand what she was alluding to, then the penny dropped ,the rumour that my mum was her mum re-emerged , she denied it and laughed saying she had her Birth Certificate, her mum and dad’s Wedding certificate and a photo of her Dad. I never took it seriously and we both laughed, I told her that she had always been special to me and that I had, since childhood, thought that she was very beautiful and I loved her. “Well, “ she said, “ my husband till the day he died, believed I was Aunty Tilly’s daughter, your sister”.

The idea was on my mind for the rest of the day, was it possible? Why was she sent to my Welsh Nan? Why was she called Walker at school in London? Perhaps this was the reason for mum’s depressions. The case for her being my sister was building up and I kind of warmed to the idea. I don’t think she is my sister, but I know both Eira and me would be proud if she was!

There was one more member of the Welsh family so far not mentioned, Uncle Ben. Ben lived with all the other unmarried Holmes’ and was by all accounts the apple of quite a few eyes. He worked in the pit like all of his brothers , deep under the Welsh mountains, hewing coal in terrible and dangerous conditions, so when he was given a job working on the surface he thought that his life was to be less harrowing and dangerous. Added to this, he was in the fresh air and the daylight, he was so thankful!

At the pithead, coal that was brought to the surface was loaded into ’drams’, the drams coupled together and pulled by a cable up a steep ramp that eventually tipped the contents of the dram into waiting railway trucks. Ben’s job was to make sure that the system kept running smoothly, a piece of cake after the back breaking work underground. This life of comparative comfort came to an abrupt end when suddenly and with no warning the main towing cable snapped, causing the cable to ’whip’ and strike Ben, sending him through the air for some considerable distance. He was killed instantly. With him died the peace and happiness of the Holmes family and the romantic hopes of one particular member of the wider family.

This was in 1943, so I don’t remember much of Ben, but I can remember being on a bus in Mare Street, Hackney, with my Mum who was sobbing uncontrollably, so much so that a kind old lady came to her help and listened to her as she told her the tragic tale.

Such heart breaking stories abound in the Welsh valleys, I have heard many of them. Perhaps that is why I so passionately give my support to miners and their causes.

Happier Times

In spite of the hard and rigorous life they led ,the people of Cymmer thoroughly enjoyed the simple things. No grand theatres and casinos but instead a corrugated hut that housed the fish and chip shop and a hall at the back of the co-op that housed the cinema. The fish shop, so small that only a handful of customers could squeeze in, was owned and run by the Gazzi family. You can see by the name that they were a Welsh-Italian family and as well as the fish and chips they sold ‘Real Italian Ice Cream’, made in Cymmer of course. Across the road, up a steep hill, sat the entrance to ‘The Cosy, Cymmer’, the aforementioned picture house that was part of the Co-op building. This, anything but cosy cinema sat about 40 people and had wooden seats that numbed your bum before the interval arrived. When the interval did arrive, the lights were switched on and the entire audience left the building and scurried across to Gazzi’s for the compulsory chips and an Ice Cream. I feel sure that the timing of this interlude was a collaboration between the Cosy and Old Gazzi, because the second half of the programme would never begin until all the fish and chips were consumed. By now, of course, the picture house reeked of vinegar and chip fat, so as the main feature was beginning, an attendant would stroll the one and only aisle and squirt every one with a hand pumped spray containing some obnoxiously sweet smelling concoction, causing a feeling of nausea and almost prompting the interval feast to reappear. All this, of course made such an impression on me that I can remember it in such detail. The film programme was changed twice a week, and the films sent to the next village just as the new films arrived from the previous village, so if by any chance you missed a film, a short bus ride soon remedied that.

Some other Enchanted Evening

When I was 16, I paid my annual visit to Cymmer and found that the things that thrilled me so much as a kid never held the same excitement for me. The river as beautiful as it was, didn’t seem to rage over the rocks as fiercely, and the mountains didn’t appear so looming. You see, I had entered a different stage in my life and there were new territories to explore. When I walked through the village, I was recognised, “ Hello, you are Tilly’s boy, aren’t you?” I was often asked. “ See you over the pub later?” Unsure if I was allowed in the pub, and not wanting to appear unmanly, I said “ Of Course”
The Farmer’s Arms Hotel was literally feet away from our house, so staggering out of one door and into another was no problem. My uncles, veteran boozers that they were, positively ordered me to join them, so not wanting to seem ungrateful I forced myself to attend that Saturday night. The Farmer’s Arms was in fact a proper hotel, with a wide entrance hall that ran to the back of the building, off of this hall were various rooms and in the middle a serving hatch that strangely was shut most of the time. If anyone wanted a drink, they had to knock on the hatch and give the order that was then delivered on a tray. You simply took the tray and went to whatever room you wanted to.

Being Saturday night, most people sat in the ‘parlour’, which had a massive upright piano in the corner. Men and women of all ages arrived, all dressed smartly for what was the event of the week. The older people came very early in order to ensure a seat. As soon as the pianist turned up the parlour took on a different feel, a sign of the joys to come. The Welsh have a reputation for singing and it is richly deserved, because as soon as the first note was struck on the piano, the fine tuneful Welsh voices lifted the most ordinary songs to a level they were never meant to reach. Lots of Welsh songs were included in the ‘concert’ (for that’s what it was) and although they were sung in Welsh I was able to join in, for I had heard these songs so many times that I knew the words, or should I say noises that sounded like the words. I never knew what these words meant of course, but it didn’t matter to anyone. Everything from pop songs to hymns received the finest of efforts. I was thrilled by the fact that without any rehearsal the singers automatically harmonised, sang descants and had an inborn sense of music. A popular song of the day, ‘The Wayward Wind’, a country and western song, was given the Welsh treatment with basses, baritones and sopranos instinctively bringing to this song a quality that the composer could never have dreamed of.

I walked the few yards from The Farmer’s to our house with a big Welsh lump in my throat, I was so proud of the little bit of Welsh blood that flowed through my veins.

The following morning this Welsh lump had moved from my throat and settled right in my head . This was the result of drinking too much of the local brew, this watery ale looked and tasted like sheep’s pee, but had the kick of a pit pony!

I still visit Cymmer from time to time, all the family and friends that I knew are no longer there, except Joan of course, but life still goes on and meeting all of her many family members is a joy. In 2010, my wife and me celebrated our 50th Wedding Anniversary and a few weeks later went to see Joan. When we arrived, Joan said that she was taking us out to a lovely old pub in a nearby village for a meal. Off we went with Joan and on arrival at the pub we were overwhelmed to find nearly twenty people waiting to help us celebrate. They were Joan’s daughters and grandchildren and great grandchildren, some we had never met before. They treated us like royalty and proved to us that the family ties are as strong as ever!

The Famous, Infamous and ‘Who?’

Many strangely interesting characters and a couple of Historic Figures are associated with Lea bridge and surrounding areas. Let’s get the historic figures out of the way first. Although I never met them and you may think that they have no place in my memoirs, I feel I should include them , just to add a bit of culture to these otherwise uncultured ramblings.

I will start the name dropping by mentioning none other than a King of England, Alfred the Great. Alfred, or Alf, as he was called in Hackney, in his efforts to thwart the invading Vikings, waited until they sailed up the Lea in search of booty, and blocked the river to hinder their return to the Thames. This dam, as well as giving the Scandinavian marauders a headache, drained the surrounding wetlands and formed Hackney Marshes. Thanks Alf!

Another famous, or should I say infamous character, not usually associated with Hackney was the notorious Dick Turpin! This highwayman, robber and general ne’er do well, held up many a coach in Lea Bridge Road. He is generally known for operating outside of London, mostly in Essex and further afield, but a lot of his ’dealings’ were in the East End.

When he retired from his life of crime, he went into legitimate business and settled down in a house that was on Hackney Marsh. The house stood just past the end of Homerton Road, near the river and The White Hart pub. All this is now swallowed up by the Olympic Park and the motorway, But judging by the prices asked for admission to the games, Dick’s spirit is still haunting the Marshes!

The heading ‘Famous’ is covered by local boy made good, Anthony Newley. Actor, singer, pop star, songwriter and husband of Joan Collins (who wasn’t?) he was born and lived in Oswald Street and a lot of the older people remember him before fame and fortune whisked him off to pastures new!

May Nelson

Once well known and now forgotten, our next character has a story so strong that a film or possibly a west End Musical could be written about her. May Nelson lived in Hammonds Cottages on Middlesex Wharf and was a near neighbour of the Walker Family and was legendary in East London and it appears in a vast part of the world. I do have my own memories of her but it is my dad’s tales that have fixed her firmly in my mind.

Let’s start this dramatic tale of love and sacrifice at the beginning. May, born in Hackney was, when young, considered a beauty. As a young girl she entered the theatrical world. She played the Music Halls of London with a lot of success and Pantomimes with even more success. She met, fell in love and married Tom Nelson, a fellow artiste. Tom was an acrobat and contortionist and was much sought after, apparently a big favourite in Sweden and Norway. They both worked in America for a time. Life for them was good, bringing with it the rewards of success. They remained happily on Middlesex Wharf, enjoying their celebrity status. World events, the 1st World War and the popularity of the Cinema, effected their success and their income, so Tom became a chimney sweep when theatre work was slow. The Chimney business thrived and life became settled again, when disaster struck. Tom suffered a stroke and his chimney sweeping days were over. May was made of stern stuff and simply took up the brushes and carried on the business. “ I knew how to use the brushes” she said, “after all I had seen Tom use them enough times”.

May was now a celebrity again, as the only woman Chimney Sweep in Britain, and decided to seek further fame by becoming a professional Boxer. Her title was now Britain’s only female Chimney Sweep and Pugilist. As such she exploited the novelty of the title, appearing in newspapers, magazines and even on the popular current affairs radio show ’ In Town Tonight‘ But it seems that the world was not ready for women boxers and another ambition took a nose dive.

Sadly, tragedy struck again, the love of her life, Tom, died and with him went a lot of May’s self respect and dignity. She carried on the Chimney sweeping, but became unreliable, dishevelled and quite honestly, rude. She took to drinking and became more and more eccentric. She seldom changed out of her working clothes and failed to wash after sweeping chimneys, going straight into the pub complete with soot covering her clothing and face. Saddest of all, her neighbours shunned her. If anyone was dirty or had not washed they were said to be ‘as dirty as May Nelson’ My Dad often told us that she entered the pub with a black face and as she swallowed the pints, the beer that ran down her chin would wash that part of her face, giving her a scary appearance.

He told of a time when a boozy stranger came into the pub and on seeing this dirty, odd and pathetic woman, thought it would be funny to insult her and call her names using swear words. This stupid fellow never knew that he had picked on ’The Champion Female Boxer of Britain’, but soon found out the hard way when May landed a right hook on his chin sending him straight into the arms of Morpheus!

I last saw May when I was very young, by now her sight was weak and she stumbled along the road, obviously in discomfort. I was with my Mum, and in her usual caring manner, mum said “Mrs. Nelson, do you need a hand?” May mumbled some insult but Mum took her home anyway.

Indian Pete and Woggles

When I refer to the Marshes I mean the large stretch of country like land that stretches from Hackney Wick to Springfield Park. Officially the land south of Lea bridge Road is Hackney Marshes and to the north, Leyton and Walthamstow Marshes, but to the whole area was simply known as The Marshes.

The area then was a haven for wildlife, many species of birds, animals and reptiles lived or rested on this small wilderness. Sometimes, added to these native creatures were a number of exotic species, the result of impulse buying at the Sunday Morning animal market at Sclater Street, Bethnal Green. Small mammals, reptiles and birds from foreign places that appealed in the shop, when in the punters home, brought home the reality and complications of feeding and caring for such specialist pets, so it seemed the best thing to do was to ’let the creatures go’ on the Marsh.

Goldfinches, Greenfinches, and native birds of many species abounded, I can recall seeing swarms of Yellowhammers alighting in the clearings and hearing cuckoos in the spring and skylarks in the summer. Rabbits ran around, and the ditches and streams held many fish and newts. At the beginning of the war, ditches were dug in lines all over the Marshes to prevent enemy aircraft landing. These ditches teemed with wildlife and waterfowl. Many horses grazed freely, sometimes straying into the streets and even Lea Bridge Road, causing traffic chaos. In the summer we would ride these steeds, sometimes into the river, we really thought that we Cowboys!

Where you find cowboys you will find Indians and Trappers, and that’s where Indian Pete And Woggles came in. Pete really did look like an American Indian, with dark skin and hawk like features and Woggles wasn’t far from a trapper with a ruddy outdoor complexion and a steady, sure, eccentric manner that made him seem to us like a mountain man. Of course, our diet of exciting western films and our healthy imaginations, helped to convince us that they were true wilderness drifters.

They were not a pair, but two individuals with the same strange lifestyle that brought them together frequently. If you didn’t know you would think that they lived on the Marsh, because any time you went into the Triangle field , near the Chingford to Liverpool Street railway line, you were bound to find one or the other of them. A small fire smoked idly and one of them sat staring into the embers as if figuring out their next hunting raid. Sometimes a shotgun was in evidence and a rabbit dangled from a fence post.

Woggles had a reputation for being reckless, seeing no fear in guns and explosives. At Leyton Mills was the biggest railway marshalling yard in Britain, distributing goods to every part of the country, the trains passing the Triangle every time. If another train joined the line from a different direction, the goods train would have to stop and wait until all was clear before proceeding. This short stop would give an opportunity to any one with the inclination, to enter the goods wagon and throw any convenient package onto the grass verge.