Isle of Wight Nostalgia - Memories of an Island

Isle of Wight Nostalgia - Memories

From David Whittle recalls his youth in and around Ventnor & Niton in the 1930's

My earliest recollections are of Ventnor in 1930-31. Our first dwelling was over a carpenter's shop, owned by Potty Vincent, a local tradesman. You passed through the shop to go upstairs, I remember the wood shavings on the floor, the peculiar smell of worked timber and animal glue pervading the premises - luckily there were no fires during our residency. Later we moved to a second floor flat above the Co-operative Society shop. The sash windows at knee height looked down on a thirty-odd foot drop into the shop yard - nobody fell out during our tenancy! My maternal grandmother also lived in Ventnor, St Johns, at the top of Albert Street and later at Geneva, a flat over a shop above the High Street on the road to Trinity Church. Within 12 years all four premises were reduced to rubble by enemy action.

Rising five years old I went with my older brother Peter to Albert Street School into the care of the teachers Miss Pritchard and Miss Bennett. Here I made acquaintance with some undesirable children, all from one family to whom both profanity and fleas came easily. I was forcibly advised to forgo further association. The name of the other family is remembered but has been expunged from the text to preserve both parties from potential embarrassment.

On October 26th 1931, brother Peter's birthday, we moved to Southend, Kingates near Niton. I remember walking from the village to our new home on a cold blustery day. It was almost a mile and seemed never ending. It was a journey I came to know well, walking to and from school, and later from the village bus stop until January 1940.

My start at Niton Council School opened inauspiciously, the children gathered round me silent and curious. It felt oppressive, so I punched the nearest, Roland Dore on the nose - he bled copiously. I was taken to Miss Creeth and admonished. The next day nothing had changed, the curious silent press of children, so I punched one Clifford Peach on the nose - he also bled. I was wheeled in to see the famed Wilfred Haddock. I was more forcibly admonished and so began a painful association with the Head of gradually increasing intensity until I left at the end of summer term 1937 as one of five boys who had passed for the Grammar School. After my first two days I had no further trouble with the other children, but it was a long time before I made any friends. Visiting the island in 1997 I went to the Village Hall at Niton to view the exhibits at the annual fruit and vegetable show. I recognised the gentleman on the door as Clifford Peach virtually unchanged in 57 years. I made myself known and after a bit of prompting he remembered me, but I refrained from reminding him of our first meeting all those years ago.

The annual prize giving occurred at the end of the autumn term. The children performed one act plays and tableaux, prior to the presentations. I won the Religious Knowledge prize for the middle forms. This was a bible, which I still have. According to the custom, these were the first prizes presented. My name was not called until the very end, a mark of skipper Haddock's displeasure, that such a prestigious prize should go to such an undeserving child, but for Miss Bowen's insistence, I would not have received it at all.

Despite the vicissitudes of scholastic life, Niton was a great place to grow up in. My brothers, my sister and I knew every field and footpath within a three mile radius of Kingates. Where to gather primroses and violets, likely bird nesting sites, blackberries, conkers and apple and pear orchards where the chances of detection were minimal. The walks along the cliff to Blackgang and out to Cripples' Path were always an adventure as was the walk down into the hidden valley at Widcombe Manor and pond, farmed by the Denness family. They were a family of brothers and sisters all unmarried save one who lived at the gatehouse halfway down Redhill. They lived an isolated existence and spoke in a very broad Isle of Wight dialect, slowly and deliberately. They were very kind to us children, especially when disaster befell our family in 1938. Another eccentric character was Eva Morris, a solitary woman of indeterminate age, who lived in a small cottage on the edge of Berelay. She dressed in mens clothing and smoked a pipe, almost a recluse. Also living in Berelay were the Bridgemans, a family for whom the struggle for existence was most acute. It was from Alf that Peter and I learnt the basics of ferreting with nets and the care of ferrets. We knew how to set a snare and recognise rabbit runs. Alf also had a spaniel and a shotgun, rarely used. Cartridges cost money and even in the remote countryside, it was inadvisable to advertise your presence. One Christmas Eve he was out with his ferrets and his nets in the expectation of acquiring Christmas dinner.

On the other side of the road from us was the rather splendid Kingates farmhouse, let into the side of the house abutting the road was a sort of raised platform for mounting your horse. The old house was owned by Mary Linington nee Heald, daughter of the vicar of Chale. The attached farm was run by the Whittingtons, who also occupied a small end part of the big house. Mary was a beautiful woman married to Eddy a small saturnine man but a good horseman. It was this shared interest which brought them together, an unlikely couple. The Liningtons grazed their horses on a bit of rough grazing about two to three hundred yards behind our house. Many was the day when Eddy was out attending to the horses, that he was summoned to lunch by Mary leaning out of the upstairs window enunciating in a loud but cultured voice "Eddy! Dinners ready.

Next door to us lived Polly Richards a First World War widow. Her daughter worked across the road as maid. Her father also lived there. I remember him as an old man with a long white beard. He died in the thirties. About 50 yards from our house was unmade Crockers Lane, leading up to Head Down. About thirty yards in lived my mother's friend Grace Penny with three children of similar age to us. Her husband was a good bit older than her, a veteran of the trenches. He was chauffeur/handyman to the owner of Westcliffe, one of the large houses on the Undercliff. The Undercliff from Blackgang to Ventnor had a very benign climate and was the site of many grand houses owned by the gentry and upper middle class. They employed many domestics and gardeners from the surrounding villages especially Niton. They competed in the local horticultural shows, their exhibits being entered under the name of their gardener, but no one was in any doubt as to who had won the prize.

As we ranged over the countryside we got to know all the residents. We always said hello - we were very polite children, not only did we know them, they knew us and our misdemeanours soon filtered back to Southend. It was a long time before we twigged what was going on. Another cross we had to bear was young brother Brian, rising 5 in 1935. We were obliged to take him with us on our walks. In an effort to discourage him from disclosing incriminating information to our parents, he was told about the non-appearance of Father Christmas, should he divulge any embarrassing facts. He took it all in. Supposing we had indulged in one of our favourite occupations throwing stones over the cliff at Cripples Path, on our return home in answer to the inevitable question "What have you been up to?", Brain was the first to reply "we didn't throw any stones over the cliff". He was a distinct liability.

Soon after moving to Kingates, father got a job working for the Ventnor Trading Company, a grandiose name for a ramshackle business owned by one Arthur Selwyn Hayward [Captain]. Captain Hayward was single and lived with his mother and the housekeeper, Miss Bull, in a new green-tiled house, called Dormy Cottage, on the Whitwell Road, Upper Ventnor. Arthur played golf and mother was wealthy, indulging her son's vision of being a successful businessman. One of his schemes was pig-farming. He conceived the idea that pigs could be raised on grazing and that further feeding was unnecessary. Put into action his animals became known as the Ventnor Greyhounds! The venture failed. Nothing daunted, he set up Ventnor Trading, a three man concern, digging chalk out of Rew Down, crushing and burning it and selling the lime to the farming community. There was a temperamental tractor driving the crusher, a kiln and a 2 ton Chevrolet lorry. The chalk was hewn out of the hill by hand. Father was the principal driver, but he helped in the other operations. His shoes and outer clothes became a dull white, impregnated with chalk and lime, the dust from which caught at your throat. The company staggered on, the farmers were notoriously slow payers, but the wages were always paid. By 1936 Peter and I were moving up through the school into Skipper Haddock's class. Father began thinking about suitable careers for his sons. His father had been a retired naval pensioner . No doubt fired by edited highlights of his father's career he yearned to follow in father's footsteps. His mother however knew that being a dirty rough sailor was not for her George, so he was apprenticed at Vospers, the Portsmouth shipbuilders. Having a trade in those days set you apart from the common herd.

So it was that Father revived his own dreams through his sons. He acquired an Admiralty pamphlet, 'Careers in the Royal Navy'. Here appeared the Holy Grail. "Become an Artificer Apprentice". I perused the blurb carefully, a carefree life, plenty of sport, healthcare, training for a prestigious career with opportunities for a commission and the clincher, a starting pay of 9d [Ł0.04] a day. Dreams of endless aniseed balls and liquorice sticks came into view. It all seemed too good to be true. Five years on, this brutal truth was confirmed. My eyes went to the small print. "Anyone suffering from a self-inflicted disease would not be paid." Visions of me lying on some distant sickbed, abandoned, penniless and covered in spots rose before my eyes. I had found the snag. I was a bright boy. I pointed out the offending passage to Father. There was an embarrassing silence followed by some humming and haring and a completely spurious reply. Five years on and I found the answer to that too.