The war was in its third year and, being an eleven year old boy, I found it all very interesting – especially the tasks we had to fulfil to help with the war effort. After school our duty was to report to gun sites and help fill sand bags, to collect waste paper or scrap iron, or sometimes we would be guinea pigs for the ambulance service.

But today was Saturday, so we could do our own thing. My mate, Jimmy Coomber, decided we should ‘attack’ the Home Guard headquarters at the end of our road. My shoes weren’t waterproof enough to walk through the slush and snow, even though my mother had put cardboard insoles over the holes. I noticed my father’s fur-lined boots and decided they would be just right. Without telling my mother, I put them on. They were about ten sizes too big for me but that was ok, the main thing was my feet were dry and I thought I looked quite the part!

Armed with our catapults, we left home to begin our assault on the battalion headquarters of the Hamworthy Home Guard, at that time captained by Mr Lake, landlord of the Potters Arms. They were housed in an old manor, the home of a Miss Sally Clark who, when the war began, had been given notice to vacate the property. The house had many rooms, including a cellar, plus coach house, stables, a large walled garden and a long semi-circular drive in front. It was well protected from bomb blast by sand bags (many of which my friends and I had filled).

We approached the building through some bushes at the front, step-by-step moving stealthily into the walled garden at the rear. We entered the stable block and then the coach house. There were still bales of straw in there from the days when it must have been a welcome sight for horses, being the last feeding and watering place for them on the lower Hamworthy peninsula. There was no sign of life. How strange we thought, here we are a country at war and there wasn’t a Home Guard in sight. With our loaded catapults, we had ‘captured’ the unit’s headquarters without firing a shot! If we’d managed it so easily, what would the Germans have done?

It was nearing time for dinner, so we decided to make our withdrawal by the same route we arrived. All the snow had turned to sleet and there was plenty of cold slush on the ground, but my feet were still dry because of the boots. Suddenly we froze – a Special Police Constable was cycling towards the entrance. To my amazement and horror, Jimmy fired his catapult at him! I can remember to this day the sound the stone made when it hit the framework of his bike.

There was no time to stand on ceremony – we turned and ran as fast as we could into the walled garden with the policeman now on foot in hot pursuit. With hearts beating and lungs panting we reached the wall at the bottom of the garden. Jimmy leaped and pulled himself up over the six-foot high brick wall and I closely followed. I jumped and pulled myself up with great determination but, in the process, and to my dismay, one of my boots fell off!

For a few seconds I was left with the choice of fleeing home wearing one boot and facing the wrath of my father, or dropping to the ground and being caught by the policeman. I chose the latter. The constable told me to hand over my catapult but I told him I didn’t have one – luckily I had thrown it over the wall. Not believing me, he started looking around on the ground, when his eye caught the dropped boot.

‘Where did you get those boots?’ he asked.

I thought to myself, good news, he’s not interested in the catapult. Proudly, I answered ‘They’re my fathers!’

‘Then I’d like to meet your father,’ he replied. ‘You’d better take me to your home.’

Now there would be trouble from both of them!

I had no choice but to accompany him, so off we went. We made our way through the slushy snow, the policeman pushing his bike beside me. He questioned me about my friend Jimmy – what his name was, where he lived – but I wouldn’t give him any information. Foremost in my mind was, why was he so interested in my dad’s boots?

On arriving home, I was told to go upstairs and to remain there until sent for. My father, who worked at the J. Bolson & Son shipyard, would be home for dinner shortly and would soon sort it out. (And sort it out he did – including me!) The constable and father had a talk, I was sent for and everything was explained to me. It turned out that the catapult incident was secondary. It was the boots that stole the show! The policeman said that the boots I’d been wearing were in fact government property and my dad had bought them from a sailor off one of the ships that was in Bolson’s shipyard for repair. In other words, they were obtained on the black market! The policeman, having written down all the information, closed his note book and, just as he was leaving, said to me with a chuckle

‘The trouble with you, young feller, is you were too small for your boots!”

Eventually my father was summoned before the Magistrate’s Court where he was fined five shillings (a lot of money in those days) and the boots confiscated. After his court appearance, the outcome sent a shockwave through the shipyard. Men removed or discarded all kinds of clothing, tinned food, footwear, blankets, tobacco etc. and it all came about because two young boys decided to ‘attack’ the Home Guard unit headquarters!

Just think, if Captain Luke and his men had been at the manor house that day, they would have asked us to chop firewood and given us a cup of tea, and my dad would still have had his fur-lined boots and been five shillings in pocket!!

Our heater was the coal-fed oven grate, although we felt more warmth from the gas light (providing the mantle was in good condition.) There was no hot running water. Ours was heated by the copper in the scullery which also provided hot water for mum to wash the clothes on a Monday. It was built into a corner, consisting of a large cast iron cauldron-like bowl with a fire grate built into the brick casement. Mum’s gas stove was also in this small area, plus a ‘butler’ type porcelain sink with cold water tap and wooden draining board – a far cry from the present day ‘fitted kitchen’ (except the sink, which appears to be quite the thing these days!)

In winter time the cold water system would freeze, due to the main feed into the house being fitted to an exposed outside wall in the small courtyard. To thaw the frozen pipe, dad would light a brazier which he nicknamed “The Devil”. Not only would it do the job, it gave we kids a nice warm glow.

At the end of the yard stood our outside – and only – loo. A comfortable retreat where we could go for quietness and to flush away any cares or woes. That was unless our neighbours decided to use theirs at the same time, because the toilets were back to back in our terraced cottages and only separated by a thin partition wall. As a matter of fact we would often hold conversations with our neighbour whilst we both sat on the ‘throne’. The interior contained a lavatory with a wooden seat manufactured by a ‘Mr Crapper’, plus a cast iron cistern with a pull chain fitted on the wall well above head height. It had an old wooden door; a hurricane lamp hung on a pipe for ‘night duties’; concrete flooring with a slope towards the door for drainage and a top of the range toilet mat called a ‘wooden duck board’.

During the Second World War, toilet rolls were unobtainable so we resorted to the next best thing – newspaper, neatly cut into squares and tied with string to a nail on the wall. The upside of such paper was that, if bored, we could read a bit of news (even if a little out of date) while in the closet. The downside was flushing it away, as newspaper is not too absorbent. Hence frequently blocked drains. Most families in such times, like us, had no bathroom or running hot water, but we did have the luxuries of the tin bath, the copper and the water closet, plus gas lights, candles and oil lamps…..I could go on and on.

But we survived! What more could I ask for?!

All employees ceased work for the day and were encouraged to enter events like the Greasy Pole, the Dinghy Race, the Flour and Soot Fight and swimming and diving competitions. All these events took place from the slipway at the Number 1 Yard, Ferry Road, Hamworthy at high tide. The Greasy Pole was a favourite. A wooden mast, boom or telegraph pole, most importantly without splinters, was extended over the water with a flag secured at the outer end. The Greasy Pole entrant would sit astride the pole and shuffle along it until he retrieved the flag and brought it back to shore. The next person would take the flag and replace it at the end of the pole and so on. This might seem straightforward enough, but this was a Greasy Pole and it was covered in tallow (the grease we used for launching ships) so many competitors landed in the drink long before they got to the end of the pole. Another Greasy Pole event involved two competitors sitting astride the pole trying to knock each other off with pillows. That wasn’t so bad if you were one of the first entrants but once those old feather pillows had been in the water a few times you felt like you’d been hit with a sack of rivets.

 Definitely Poole Quay, not sure if it’s the time
Tom writes about, though.  Maybe you know?

The most exciting event for us apprentices was the dinghy race from Number 2 Yard at West Quay Road to Number 1 Yard. There were several different small vessels available and the teams drew lots for them. Once, I remember my team of six drew the heaviest boat. We were issued with ‘Long Toms’, paintbrushes as long as broom handles, for paddles. The start was sounded and we set off with the tide in our favour, paddling furiously with

our broom handled brushes. At first, the lighter vessels forged ahead but once we established a co-ordinated rhythm, we started gaining on them and by the time we reached Hamworthy Lifting Bridge we were amongst them. Our stamina was strong (teenagers don’t seem to get tired) and, realising we could win this race, we put in an extra burst of effort. Sadly, in doing so, we started to go off course, colliding with our opponents brush paddles. This was no Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race and mayhem broke out. The brushes were used as water swabs to drench each other, boats were boarded and capsized and many of us ended up in the ‘Hoggin’ (water). Everything ended in disarray and the race was finished. Who won? Not us, but we had a marvellous time.

The Flour and Soot Fight went much the same way. Two teams in two boats, one carrying soot and the other flour, with the object of the game to turn your opponents black or white depending on your ammunition. One chap I remember was swimming around with a cardboard box over his head and shoulders to protect himself from the onslaught.

Recently I stood on Bill Elkin’s ferry steps where the Shipwright Arms used to stand on the Hamworthy side of the Quay. I thought “Do the employees of boatYards have exciting, chaotic, fun events like that anymore?”