My mother would use the ferry boat some days when she’d been shopping in the High Street. Now, if you wanted to get the ferryman’s attention from the Piplers side of the quay you had to shout at the top of your voice “OVER” because if he was in his wooden hut he couldn’t hear you.

My mother could never shout so she had to wait for someone to call out. He didn’t like rowing for a single fare, so he would wait for 3 or 4 people, and on occasions mum couldn’t wait any longer and would walk all the way round over Hamworthy bridge to our home in Harbour Road, which reminds me of we 3 Boys Big Swim.

We used to swim from the ferry steps quite often, when the ferryman wasn’t about because he didn’t like his steps getting wet.

One day he caught me off guard and threw me in the drink. I went down very deep and I found myself just like a “limpet” fixed to the bottom of the mine sweeper moored at the quay. I was scared. Slowly I eased myself to the surface seeing the shade of the water getting lighter. What a relief to breathe again.

One day three of us boys decided to swim the quay width when the tides were still. We set off and slowly swam to the other side of the ferry steps.

One boy even did “Dog Paddle” all the way. Standing at the top of the steps we looked across the quay at the distance we had swum.

Then the three of us had to make up our minds, do we swim back or walk all the way along the quay over Hamworthy bridge then down Harbour Road, back to the ferry steps at the Shipwrights Arms? Walking bare foot, and just swimming trunks it was quite an achievement for eleven and twelve year olds.

At some time later, I decided to do the swim again, hoping to swim to the “Piplers” side and back. I asked an older lad (a teenager named George) to accompany me this time.

When we set off the tide had started running (ebbing) and at two thirds of the crossing I was beginning to feel the strain and this time I was drifting off course towards the Fish Shamble Steps. I shouted to George for assistance and he nursed me to the steps. I was so glad he was at hand otherwise it could have been a sad ending, and this time the ferryman rowed us back to the Hamworthy Steps.

The event taught me one thing, especially when you’re young. You can be over confident and sometimes you don’t give enough thought to the task you are undertaking. Most old Poole lads swam in the quay, and it was allowed. People came out of the pubs and threw coins in the water and we would try to gather them, it was almost impossible, you had to be extremely lucky to bag one.

When I was called up for “National Service” in 1950 into The Royal Navy I thought “I’m glad I can swim”.

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?!

It was a well run, disciplined school where boys were segregated from girls – meaning no distractions from the opposite sex! Teachers’ tools of punishment were bamboo cane, chalk board rubber, measuring rule, slipper or anything else they could lay their hands on. One teacher specialised in flicking the backs of your ears if he caught you talking to a classmate during lessons. Detention with 500 to a 1000 lines was a more likely punishment from the kinder tutors, but most preferred the cane as it was swift and positive. The handicap for pupils was having to continue to work with painfully stinging hands, for instance dipping the pen into the inkwell and trying to write.

Teachers who didn’t have the resolve to use the cane would send a boy to the headmaster who would administer it.

Having been caned on numerous occasions I will tell you of a few:

Mr Albert Sharp, who was my teacher, entered the classroom and called us to attention.

“Good morning boys,” he said and I replied from behind my desk lid “Good morning Bert”.

I was called to the front and had two strokes of the cane for ‘insolence’. What a way to start the day.

The next time, I was chasing a pupil around the classroom during dinner break and the duty tutor was the science master, Mr ‘Milky’ Hartnell. Now this teacher was noted for his accuracy when caning. He had a long thin bamboo and he would line up your hand with precision and rise right up onto his toes and dispense with lightning speed. At first you thought he’d missed, until you felt your hand slowly catching on fire (very painful).

On one occasion, I was caned by the headmaster for back chatting a prefect when I thought he was wrong.

Then, one morning when entering the school corridor in the required single file column, we passed the hall and a sudden urge found me nipping in and bouncing down the parallel bars. To my horror, H P Smith was stood watching and, this time, I got two strokes on each hand (four of the best, we used to say).

The most severe caning I ever suffered was administered by Mr ‘Podgy’ Hillier, the woodwork master. Myself and another pupil, Raymond, started throwing wood shavings at each other, quickly getting more boisterous. Suddenly, Mr Hillier appeared and we had sawdust and wood shavings in our hair so we knew what to expect. Six strokes of the cane, this time on one hand. It was so painful!

Back at our benches, we watched our hands swell. Raymond’s suffering was worse as the master was cross-eyed and, by mistake, twice hit Raymond’s wrist – he cried that day! ‘Podgy’ came to our benches later.

“You two don’t seem to be making much progress.” Surprise, surprise!

We never told our parents, they would conclude we deserved it! My, how times have changed!

Let me introduce myself, Tom Scott, born at number one, Battery Cottages, Harbour Road, Lower Hamworthy, about fifty yards from the Broomehill Boundary Stone, which is still in place.  I was educated at Hamworthy First School followed by Henry Harbin at eleven years old.  A five year apprenticeship followed, at local shipyard ‘J Bolson and Son’, then compulsory national service as a Shipwright Petty Officer.  Since then I have been employed in various disciplines with numerous companies!  I have always held a deep interest in this area of my birth and am pleased to share some reflections with you, of a young lad’s life growing up in the 30’s and 40’s.

High Street Poole, Dorset

Can anyone recall what previously stood on the current site of Woolworths in the High Street?  Well I’ll tell you; the ‘Amity Cinema’ known to locals as the flea pit.  (Before that, it was a meeting house which moved to Lagland Street and eventually became ‘Lagland Street Boys Club’ of which I was a member.  (I’ll tell you more of that another time.)  Saturday afternoon at the flea pit was the highlight of the week for my mates and me.  Sixpence treated us to films like ‘Flash Gordon’ and his ‘Trip to Mars’; ‘The Lone Ranger and Tonto’; cowboy films starring favourites like Gene Autry, and Roy Rogers with his trusty steed Trigger. Laurel and Hardy were also popular entertainment for we boys. 

The seating was in the auditorium and balcony which was supported by ornate cast iron columns.  Sometimes a courting couple would find themselves divided by a column (not very conducive to holding hands) and it wasn’t unusual for an overcoat to fall from the balcony palisade, where it had been draped, on to an unsuspecting person below.  Being shown to a seat could be cause for concern for another reason.  If you were a big lad you had a seat to yourself but if you happened to be slim, like me, you had to share.  There was no choice.  “Two in a seat or go home” was the threat.  The great embarrassment of the situation was compounded when on occasion the seat had to be shared with a GIRL!! (Eight and nine year old boys didn’t much like girls back then) 

During the break an usher or usherette sold ice creams, peanuts and wine gums.  The empty ice cream cartons or peashooters could be used to hit the backs of people’s heads or the screen whilst cheering the hero or booing the villain.  My Dad told me that during the silent movies shown at the Amity in earlier days, a man wearing a top hat played the piano as film accompaniment.  Again, empty ice cream cartons were used as missiles by the audience to try to knock his hat off! 

Even my grandmother attended the flea pit and once went to see a Charlie Chaplin film.  Charlie was smashing a lot of crockery and my grandmother got so involved that she stood up, shook her walking stick at the screen and shouted “Stop!”

If some of us became too unruly during the film, Mr. West the manager of the Amity, and a man we youngsters feared, would expel a whole row of children regardless of who was involved.  Would that happen today?  I think not, it would probably cause a riot.

After the show we would pop next door to Joe ‘Bright’s’ cake shop (Joe was Mayor of Poole at the time) and ask if they had any “Stale Gargies” (stale cakes).  Homeward bound we would re-enact some of the film’s action in Bradfords disused warehouses situated near to St. Clement’s Lane (Stinkies to us) to complete a happy afternoon’s outing.

 +++++

*The Archive photograph reproduced from :-

“POOLE – A Pictorial History” by Ian Andrews
(Phillimore 1994 ISBN 0-85033-948-0) This title is currently available

from booksellers. Other old Poole photographs are sought. Please contact via Ian Andrews

(e-mail:- ikda@ikda.demon.co.uk)