Life
at The Fountain Inn
Thanks
to my parents being publicans, I spent almost the first ten
years of my life living in a pub. The last one we occupied,
before returning to ordinary life, was the Fountain Inn in
Sydenham Street. It was there I passed my ninth birthday.
We spent at least one summer at Whitstable and probably most of two
winters. We were there during the East Coast floods, which
occurred on the night of January 31st. 1953. However, later that
same year, we had moved to Sheerness in time for the Queen's
Coronation, so I imagine we moved sometime in the Spring.
The pub was a very tiny building, little larger than the adjoining
terraced houses built at the same time. It was (and is) on a
corner site with only a yard and small store at the rear,
so I had no garden to play in. However, that suited me, as for
the first time, I had a sea front and the beach over which I
could roam at my leisure.
The bar at the front was a so-called
"Snug", next was a "Bottle and Jug" and
finally the Public Bar which at best was only 12-14 ft. wide and
20-25 ft. long. A door at the end of the bar led to the first
floor living accommodation, which comprised a small kitchen,
perhaps a bathroom, a small living Room and two bedrooms. The
photograph below was taken in 1994 and shows some form of attic
room which, I don't recall, but I think it was part of the
original layout.
The Fountain Inn in 1994
The Bottle and Jug was for Off-Sales and we had a number of customers who
literally did bring a jug to be filled with beer. The public bar
had a dartboard, a few tables where on the many quiet evenings Dad taught me to play cribbage and a couple of wall-mounted
pinball machines which required ball bearings to be caught in
fixed or moveable cups. If one won on these machines, then a token
for tuppence, six pence or, best of all, half-a-crown would be
issued which would be redeemed by Dad from a special tin of money
kept for the purpose. Every fortnight or so, a representative of
the company which owned the machines would visit to redeem all the
tokens handed over. I soon discovered that if one knocked seven
bells out of the cup control levers, the machine would often
disgorge a token without having had to pay to play. When Mum and
Dad weren't around, I was able to supplement my pocket money by
this means but didn't abuse it as the rep. may well have noticed
that the odds no longer seemed in favour of the machine.
It was still a time of some post-war austerity. Indeed, sweets only
came off ration whilst we were there. It was wonderful to be able
to buy whatever one wanted in sweet shops thereafter. I think that
Mum and Dad had accumulated a reasonable amount of savings as a
result of the business they'd done in previous pubs, elsewhere in
the country, but the Fountain Inn took all their savings and
resulted in the following years at Sheerness being relatively hard
times. I remember many bleak winter evenings in the Fountain's bar
when a blazing fire in the hearth plus several, popping and
hissing gas convector fires were essential for warmth and to make
the customers welcome. However, the latter were noticeable by
their absence. Frequently, the lighting and heating costs
considerably exceeded the bar takings.
Beach
Memories
Whitstable
beach was a place where, for many years, clinker-built boats had
been built, repaired or dismantled. Consequently, a careful eye
and raking of the sand and shingle would result in a rich harvest
of copper nails, an Oxo tin full of which was allegedly worth ten
shillings at one of the local scrap merchants. I never got round
to filling a whole tin. However, I still have a few of the
nails and my old Oxo tin! The nails on the beach, scraps of
beach-combed wood, string and cloth or plastic enabled one to
build small sailing boats, usually with one or two outriggers for
stability which when launched on a calm sea with an off-shore
breeze would sail off until lost from view. Many probably ended up
on the shore at Shellness at the far south-eastern tip of Sheppey.
Rowland Hilder, the artist, had a cottage at Shellness and I
wonder if he ever found one of my craft in his littoral
wanderings?
Early
Sunday morning, Dad would take me down to the beach for a
"swim". However as I couldn't actually swim, it mainly
comprised splashing around in the shallows and walking shrimp-like
on my hands in the water. I recall it usually seemed perishing
cold. Dad never actually ventured in.
Sunday
School
Swimming was my much
preferred option in Summer when on Sunday afternoons for a period,
I was required to attend Sunday School. Since neither Mum nor Dad
ever went to church except for weddings, Christenings or funerals,
I can only think it was to give them a little bit of piece and
quiet for a brief while or merely to appease some zealot of a
customer who thought it would be good for me. I don’t recall any
personal enthusiasm for my attendance. The church hall was dry and
musty and unlikely to be the setting for an early conversion. The
best thing about going was having a small album in which, each
week, one stuck a coloured picture with a tract underneath as a
reward for or acknowledgement of one's attendance.
The
Corner Pubs
Whitstable had no shortage of pubs. Another, the "New Inn",
virtually backed on to ours on the corner of the next street. When
we, or they, ran out of a particular bottled beer, we, or they
would transfer a crate or two to tide each other over until the
next brewery delivery. I don't know how it worked as we were an
Ind Coope pub and they came under Shepherd Neame. Perhaps it only
worked with branded beers like Mackeson or Guinness?
The development of pubs in Whitstable is described in "Ales and
Tales", published by the Whitstable Improvement Trust in
1993. The area of grid-pattern streets around "The
Fountain" was developed in the 1840's and 1850's as the
"New Town" to cope with the expanding populace involved
in the local oyster and shipbuilding industry. Each street
virtually had its own corner pub, hence the proximity of the
Fountain and the New Inn (originally known as the Bricklayers
Arms). There is a line drawing in the book showing the houses
under construction in Sydenham Street, including specifically,
“The Fountain”
The brokers who introduced Mum and Dad to the Fountain Inn and who
actually arranged the take-over of the tenancy were from Chatham
and I subsequently worked for them from 1961 after I left school,
until 1973. It's a small world.
School Life
During my time in the town, I attended Whitstable Junior School at the end
of the High Street. I have limited recall of my days there
although many of the faces in the photograph I have submitted to
the website archive are well remembered. I still have a miniature
Archie Andrews head which I swapped with one of my fellow pupils
for something of mine he coveted. Peter Brough and Archie Andrews
were very popular on the radio then.
One day during the summer
whilst playing in the playground at lunchtime, one of the boys said
someone was looking for me at the gate. It was my older sister and
her husband, paying a surprise visit (they lived in Middlesex)
and I was delighted with the ice cream they had thought to bring
me. Strange that such small trifles (well actually a Wall's ice
cream) are all the memory one has of some periods in life.
Another
less delightful experience was when something I ate at lunch
violently disagreed with me and, during the afternoon, I had to use the
school toilets which like most in those days were unspeakable.
As it was, I had reached the W.C. too late with the expected
consequences! When the end of playtime bell rang, I stayed in the
toilets until everybody had returned to class and then crept out
of school and ran all the way home. Actually it was more of a legs
tightly together shuffle. When I got home I opened one of the
ground floor windows and climbed through. When Mum found me, I
broke down in abject misery but with her tender, loving care, a
hot scrub down and clean clothes I was soon feeling a lot better.
Aren't Mums wonderful?
A
Quiet Drink at the Bar
When not in such dire straits, the afternoons at the Fountain were times
for Dad especially and often Mum as well, to have a sleep ready
for "opening time". I would often have to let myself in
the same way, through the bar window. This gave me a chance for a
surreptitious sampling of the beer from the beer pumps, properly
known as beer engines. To have operated the pump would have
resulted in too much noise, so I usually just wrapped my lips
around the tap and sucked hard. Unhygienic but lovely.
The
Local Bakery
On the way home some days, I would call in the town bakers and buy two
plain bread rolls to eat on the way home. Two rolls then cost a
penny (1d.). At home when I was sent to collect bread from the
bakers, our more local bakers in Harbour Street (I think), I would
surreptitiously peel a lovely strip of new bread from the side of
the loaf and eat it on my way back. If noticed, I often paid for
it with a clip round the ear from Mum. They also had a specialty
of Chelsea buns, which they would re-cook by dropping them back in
the boiling fat of the doughnut cooker. My mother loved them. No
worries about cholesterol levels then!
The
Guinea
One good friend I had at school was Harry Gamble. His mother and
grandmother were the licensees of the Guinea Inn along Island
Wall, one of the very narrow streets containing mainly old
weatherboard cottages close to the sea front. Harry always had a
flushed appearance and was asthmatic. We never kept in touch after
I left Whitstable but, whilst we were friends, I used to go round
for tea and, in the evening, he and I would play act for the
"entertainment" of his grandmother. I think Harry was
her only grandchild and she always indulged us by offering
enthusiastic applause and reward for our efforts. One frequent prop in our plays
was the large collection
Harry had of German bank-notes from the hyper-inflationary 1920's.
Their denominations were in multiples of millions of Deutschmarks.
My last memory of the Guinea Inn was of the 1953 flood-waters
lapping the top of the door to their Kitchen. The pub was set
below the level of the road and one went down a slope at the side
to get to their yard and ground level accommodation. Consequently,
the floods made the place uninhabitable and I don't know if they
ever returned after it had been restored. It closed as a pub in
1981.
Flood
Memories
As most readers will know, the 1953 floods were caused by a combination of
a Spring tide, a severe storm, on-shore winds and very low
pressure sweeping a tidal surge down the East Coast of England.
Parts of the town were under nearly five feet of water and only
the roofs of some parked cars were visible. Although we weren't
living on a hill, the location of the Fountain was sufficiently
elevated for us to escape flooding altogether.
Within a hundred
yards of us in most directions there was at least a foot of water
in the streets and houses. Revisiting the town in recent years, it
is apparent that a house that was opposite the pub has been
demolished at some time since the 1950's. It is possible that the
flood-waters had the effect of softening the sub-soil causing
subsequent structural instability. Certainly in the 60's and 70's,
there were still houses in Sheerness that I looked at, which had a
"tidemark" up the walls left as a legacy of the flood
waters.
For the children of Whitstable, the floods provided an
opportunity for wonderful adventures. School was off, of course,
so we "helped" fire-crews manhandle their pumps along
the narrow roads near the beach and they even let me and some
friends hold on to the hose nozzle laid out across the beach to
discharge the water they were pumping from peoples' houses. Of
course, the crews knew in advance that the water pressure would
make the hose thrash about like a demented python which even a
gang of 8 or 9 year olds would have difficulty in controlling! We
got fairly soaked in the process and on reflection it was probably
quite dangerous but things were more relaxed then. I was very
impressed that any bollards that got in the way of the pump crews,
were removed without ceremony, with a sledgehammer. We also tried
“rafting” old doors across the more shallowly flooded roads
but never very successfully.
Another feature of the storm, which had caused the floods, was that many
of the beach-front warehouses had had their beach-side elevations
completely torn away. They were thus not only open to the
elements, but also to marauding bands of adventurous children who
saw only excitement and no danger in these semi-derelict and
collapsing structures. One was full of sacks of grey, granular
material which was probably chemical fertiliser and possibly
dangerous to handle. We had enormous fun swinging from ropes hung
round roof beams now exposed and dropping onto the soft heaps of
sacks. Our parents would, no doubt, have had fits if they could
have seen us. It's a miracle none of us got seriously hurt during
those few weeks.
Harbour
Recollections
My beach-combing efforts often resulted in me dragging large lumps of
timber through the streets to Mum's lukewarm approval when I got
home. One Saturday evening, I was at the harbour, when one of the
local fishing boats returned with a good catch of sprats. In
shovelling them onto the conveyor into the harbour-side fish
sheds, the fishermen dropped a lot on the quayside. I gathered a carrier-bag full
with which, I staggered odourously home, to Mum's genuine
delight. The harbour was another place of interest and fun and
again, on reflection, immensely dangerous. There were many Thames
spritsail barges still trading in and out of Whitstable mainly
carrying grain, I think, from East Anglia. The harbour was a place
smelling of a mixture of tar, creosote, fish, coal, oil and the
sea. It seemed far less an industrial site then than it is
now. It is now far less accessible than when I was small but
smells much the same.
At night, the oil lit navigation lights
reflected green and red off the water accompanied by the lapping
of the black oily water against the wooden barge hulls and the
soft slap of the hemp rigging. For a very brief while, Dad went
into partnership with some others and operated a small fishing
boat, trawling for a particular type of seaweed which it was said
had some industrial, cosmetic or food use.
One evening, I was on
the quayside when they returned and, determined to show to all
present that I was connected with these "men of the
sea", I called to Dad to throw me their mooring line and I
would tie them up. The rope was probably thicker than my arm and
would have probably knocked me off my feet when thrown, anyway.
Dad luckily had more sense than I did and denied me my brief
moment of glory on that occasion.
Those were probably the dying months of the Canterbury to Whitstable
railway line, which ran through the Tyler Hill tunnel on the
outskirts of Canterbury. The low height of the tunnel required a
special design of cut-down locomotive which by then, only operated
goods trains to and from the harbour. In the harbour, the wagons
were shunted by being hauled by ponies. At the corners of the
harbour, the lines turned through 90 degrees by means of turntables
which we kids would play on at weekends by releasing the locking
mechanism and turn, by scooting them around from the edge. We thus
had our own permanent merry-go-rounds.
Music
of the Time
Music didn't figure prominently in one's life in those days but popular
music, especially American, was starting to be noticed. I recall
being very fond of Guy Mitchell singing "She Wears Red
Feathers And A Hooly Hooly Skirt" (perhaps “Hula hula?)
when living at Whitstable and hearing it again instantly
transports me back to those times in the pub. It’s strange how
music can trigger so many, oft forgotten memories. Previously,
when I was very young, the song "In A Monastery Garden"
would for some unaccountable reason, have the effect of reducing
the baby me to floods of tears. Consequently, when stuck for other
amusements, my two older sisters would sing it to me, to see the
effect.
The
Smogs
In the November or December of 1952, we had the worst
smogs ever experienced in Britain and Mum had to collect me from
school for several consecutive days. The smog was so dense that
people were bumping into each other on the pavements and vehicles
could only proceed at a slow walking pace with somebody guiding
them in front with a torch or flare. It was these conditions which
gave Mum the chronic bronchitis from which she suffered the rest
of her life.
The Cinemas
Whitstable was the first place I recall going to the
cinema. The cinema I remember best was "The Oxford”.
Breakdowns were not unusual and once Dad and I were there when the
film or projector broke irreparably and everybody was given their
money back.
I went to see "The Thing", a sci-fi film with
Dad, which scared the daylights out of me and, on another occasion
with Mum, I saw a Superman film which was about Martians landing
on earth. They had large bazooka-like ray guns which dissolved
rock and hydrocephalic-like,
large heads. Mum and I walked home through the cold town after the
film and I very reluctantly had to go straight to bed, where I
cowered under the sheets for a long while, convinced that the same
Martians were going to land in Sydenham Street that night, and of
all the possible victims, would choose me to abduct and take back
to Mars!
A film about submarine warfare also scared me and, in the
end, Mum relented and we left before the end. She was a bit annoyed
to say the least. I don't think I was particularly timid but,
clearly, adults don't always realise the impact of films or other
dramatic events upon children. It's a bit like my children, when
young, hiding behind the settee in the early days of Dr. Who being
broadcast on T.V.. Most of their generation confess to the same
reaction.
I think that it was at Whitstable that I first went to
Saturday Matinee and Dad would sometimes give me money to go on my
own at weekends to see the normal programme. I saw some of the Bob
Hope, Bing Crosby and Dorothy Lamour "Road" pictures
there and other regular favourites were Laurel and Hardy or Abbot
and Costello who were then at the peak of their popularity.
Reading
& The Old Library
Books became a feature of life at Whitstable leaving me
with the passion for reading which remains to this day. On the way
home from school, I would visit the library which was in the High
Street, not far from the Junior School. The children's section was
upstairs, an oasis of quiet, warmth and light with a wonderful
treasure trove of volumes. The hallowed silence was broken only by
the gentle hissing and occasional popping of the gas convector
fire housed in its tall brown case with the flames dimly seen
through the orange glass vents at the bottom. The wooden floor,
furniture and shelving were highly polished and the whole place
smelt of polish, books and warm gas - lovely!
At home, I also was
allowed to have both The Beano and Dandy regularly, which the
newsagent always let me have two days in advance of the
publication day, a rare privilege I thought. Many of the current
comic heroes, Korky the Kat, Desperate Dan, Roger the Dodger were
to be found then and there were many others who are no longer
illustrated - The Tin Fish, Archie the Robot, The Pobble (who was
from Mars but not frightening) and General Jumbo.
I also bought
The Topper and Beezer, which were first published when we lived in
Whitstable. The first edition of the former had a free gift
comprising a gun shaped paper clapper, which had to be flicked
downwards rapidly for it to make a loud crack. The latter included,
as its initial gift, a cardboard boomerang which sometimes worked.
If only I had kept all those now valuable delights. Some of the
first characters to be featured in the Topper or Beezer included
Mickey the Monkey and Beryl the Peril who are still to be found I
think.
The comics went on our paper bill. Just as well, as at
twopence each for the Beano and Dandy and threepence or fourpence
each for the others, my sixpence-a-week pocket money (unless
supplemented by the pinball machines) wouldn't have gone far.
Earning Pocket Money
I
had to earn my money by helping Mum and Dad, which included
filling shelves with bottled beer and going to get the copper coin
and other change from the bank for the pub tills on Saturday
mornings. For protection, I usually wore my cowboy outfit and
swaggered down the High Street with six-gun on hip. When I got
back, I had to help polish the brasswork and copperwork in the pub
and usually took the opportunity to polish my pocket money as
well.
The beer was drawn from the barrels in the cellar by pumps
properly known as beer engines. These had a lot of brass ornament
on the handles, which always looked good after polishing. However
the polish gave the beer a funny taste when, as narrated before,
getting home from school in the afternoon, I would sometimes creep
behind the bar and surreptitiously suck some beer from the pump
spigot. I didn't dare pull the pump handle in case I couldn't stop
the flow or some spilt and I was found out. That would have
resulted in a good hiding from Mum.
It was always she who
administered punishment and I never recall Dad laying a hand on me
once. I used to run like mad to avoid Mum's retribution until the
day at Sheerness when I was about 13 and Mum, attempting to reach up to hit the now much taller me, just resulted in
me standing there in tears of laughter. The more I laughed the
harder she hit me and the less it seemed to hurt until she,
exhausted, started to laugh too. I never loved her more than at
that moment and 27 years after her death, I still miss her every
day.
The
Local Grocer
On the opposite corner of Sydenham Street was a small
grocers where Mum would get most of her daily shopping. It was all
polished counters inside with a bentwood chair or two for
customers to sit upon whilst they gave their orders. Biscuit tins
with glass topped lids were arrayed in a tempting row in front of
the counter and their contents were weighed by the half or whole pound. Dried
fruits would be scooped from barrels and packed in grey or blue
paper bags and all tea was sold as 2oz. or 4 oz. packets of tea
leaves or in presentation tins. The "Mazawattee Tea" tin
I still have is a tin originally filled with tea, that I bought
Mum as a Christmas or birthday gift. One of the shop chairs was
normally occupied by an enormous, sleeping, marmalade cat who
would rarely move unless pushed.
Reflections
Bearing in mind that we were only at Whitstable for some
18 months, it is surprising how many fond memories I have of the
place. I thought of
it then as a bleak little town of narrow back streets and me
being left very much to my own devices. Certainly in winter, the
wind used to whistle bleakly up the High Street as one walked past
the Bear and Key Hotel. However, one had a wonderful freedom which
sadly few 8 or 9 year olds can now experience. Would one now dare
to let them go to the cinema on their own?
The summer was one of the occasional delight of a rowing
boat on the boating lake, swimming on the beach either in the town
or along at Seasalter and the occasional treat of an ice cream on
a Sunday up on Marine Parade at Tankerton. Returning now reveals
that many of the town-centre buildings are delightful,
weather-boarded places of considerable
charm and attraction which,
thankfully, escaped the wholesale destruction wrought in the
1960’s in the cause of “progress” in so many other Kent
resorts.
My time in Whitstable didn’t coincide with that of
Peter Cushing’s residency but I imagine he frequented many of
my old haunts and I enjoy nothing more, on one of my frequent
visits back to the town, than to sit in his place in the tea rooms
and wonder whether his ghost and I share similar memories of a
delightful place.
John Butler,
April 2007
©
John Butler
Footnote: On behalf of
all Simply Whitstable readers, I would like to thank John for
taking the time to record his memories and for allowing us to
publish them on the web site.
|
