Little John Spencer, awakened by the call of the rooster in the back garden, tiptoed across the creaking floorboards to lift the latch of the leaded window. The bees at the end of the garden were in full flight after busily taking off one by one upon emerging from the slot at the bottom of their hive. As he listened, the old rooster repeated his call, which was echoed by calls from other roosters further a field, bringing the day to life.
I, little John Spencer, rushed over to my brother and shook him, saying, "C'mon, we've got to get up." Dressing as we went down the stairs, we tumbled through the open door and emerged into the sunlight.
"Let's go!" Christopher cried.
"Now don't go too far away. and be back for breakfast in half an hour," said Mrs Parker.
"Yes, Auntie," we chorused.
It was a beautiful summer morning in late July 1932. A lightly scented breeze wafted over the myriad of summer flowers near the cottage. We hurried down a long path and crossed the road over to "Turners" farm, where I was subjected to other unfamiliar smells. I saw the brook flowing over a slippery wooden causeway. Hanging over the brook were bushes with white marble-sized seeds that looked like small snowballs, which sheltered the fish in the brook from the sun. As I looked around at that moment, I could feel only happiness. My six-year-old mind focused on the tranquillity of my surroundings and said, "This is where I belong. I never want to leave it... ever."
My elder brother, Christopher and I had arrived here at the village of Charlham in Oxfordshire the day before. We had travelled by train and bus from London, where our earlier years had been a succession of uncertainties and disappointments
There had been no bright stars or claps of thunder to herald my arrival into this world - only an expression of deep concern from my parents, who wondered how they were going to support this new addition to the family on an already overstretched budget.
John Leonard Spencer, son of Albert George Spencer aged thirty-seven and Victoria Violet Maude Spencer, nee Stephens, aged twenty-nine, was born on the stroke of midnight within the sound of Bow Bells on this auspicious day. According to London folklore, if 'Bow bells could be heard,' it meant I was a true Cockney. Also, being a Thursday's child, 'I had far to go,' or If a Friday's child, loving and giving, a poetic promise borne out in many generous portions later in life.
1926 was not a good year to enter the world. There was much political strife, coupled with industrial strikes, job shortages, and a generally undernourished population. Very few people escaped the deprivations that continued into the early 1930's.
I remember little of my first years, although I vaguely remember my brother, Christopher, who was seventeen months my senior, born on Christmas day 25 December 1924. I also recall older children dressing me in a paper suit and the unusual aroma of a confection that sold on the local streets (which I have never smelled since.) Then there was the barrel organ, which we knew as a Hurdy Gurdy. A swarthy looking bloke with a large, red-spotted kerchief tied around his neck and a monkey on his shoulder sang to the Italian music he played, while the monkey foraged through the singer's hair. Occasionally the monkey collected a penny or two in a tin can. If the tin can rattled at the end of the day, they would eat.
When I had reached three years of age, my father proudly polished his medals and buttons and went to summer camp with the Territorials. When the camp was over, he returned with his fellow East Kent regiment ex-soldiers ('The Buffs") to our humble home where one ex-soldier played the bagpipes. This was a frightening experience for me. No wonder enemies retreated in disarray after listening to that terrible sound! Sadly, my father, the late tramway worker and ex-army sergeant, died as a result of recurring problems from a head wound he received on the last of his three tours to the battlefront in France during WW1. My father was only forty years old. My mother provided most of the information I have regarding my father.
By my brother's birthday, Christmas day 1929, I was nearly three and-a-half years old. Beth, our baby sister, born 15 July 1928: was eighteen months old, and Christopher was five years old.
After saying goodbye to Granny Stephens, our family went 'hop picking' in Kent for a few weeks in the summer. Travelling to the hop fields in old Lorries (trucks) was something I thoroughly enjoyed, along with the new experience of clean, fresh country air and the great smell of the hops! No wonder men like beer! The vines of the hops reached higher than my mother's head. Since I was encouraged to help, I would occasionally pick the hops lower down.
The facilities at the campsite were very basic. Our sleeping quarters consisted of clean mattresses filled with straw on wooden bunks. We brought our own bedding, clothes, and cooking utensils. Children would fish and swim in the nearby river. The smell of wood fires and cooking our meals are things I will never forget.
Tough times called for desperate measures. After the winter and another trip to the hop fields in Kent, my mother decided to stay with elderly relatives at Folkestone in the county of Kent, who would provide board and lodging in exchange for household duties. It was very hot on the day we arrived and the walk into town seemed never ending. My mother asked a woman at a posh house for water, and the lady was kind enough to give us a meal as well.
We moved into a house not far from the beach, where the fishing 'boats' were propped up with poles. Most of the time, the fishermen would give me a bucket of dabs (small flatfish), which we all enjoyed and kept us on side with the elderly relatives.
Late in 1930, my mother asked me to look out the bedroom window. She told me I was looking at the Airship R101. Remembering that spectacular sighting, it saddens me to say that it was the first and only occasion I would see it, as unfortunately the R101 crashed later in the same year.
By late 1931, the whole country was in a depression. If food was available, few could afford it. I was now five years plus. For some unknown reason, we moved to the town of Dagenham in the county of Kent near London to live with other Spencer relatives. I vividly recall the cold winter and going to school for the first time.
I learned later that our mother became enamoured with an already-spoken-for male member of the Dagenham Spencers, which was probably the reason our family was given our marching orders by an irate female family member. The short stopover at the local workhouse was as far down the social ladder as anyone could go.
My father's brother rescued us from this disastrous situation. Uncle Ted, a bachelor, was a serving member of the army who attained the rank of captain after rising from the ranks, but unfortunately died in his fifties from an alcohol-related problem. Our short period of residence with our paternal grandmother was full of conflict. It was about this time that I was hospitalised with diphtheria. Statistically, I was one of the few survivors of this medical ailment.
Life went on until the bubble burst. My mother and relatives decided it was time we were someone else's responsibility. So, in early 1932, Saint Bernard Homes, Hackney, London E8, accepted us.
Despite the absence of my mother, whom I missed terribly, we were provided with warm clothes, shoes, and nice clean beds in a dormitory with shiny polished floors.
The food was palatable so we had no cause for complaint, but there were no second helpings. The members of the staff were good to us. We occasionally went for walks past the docks and other interesting places. We had a communal toy system, over which many minor wars were fought.
As I lay awake late in the evening, I could see the neon lights of the Roxy through the window of the dormitory. I remember wondering if it was a cinema or dance hall. It fascinated me. I remember hearing the football results announced on the radio and thinking, "What is this Arsenal team?" and "Who is Ted Drake?" I found out later. However, Wally Hammond, the cricketer, was my favourite sportsman. He scored more runs than Ted Drake scored goals.
Nonetheless, I still missed my mother and home (wherever that was) and often cried myself to sleep. I was now a very bewildered five-and-a-half- year-old.
The early months of 1932 passed. Without ceremony and unbeknown to us, my sister Beth, then four years of age, was taken to Saint Bernard's Girls' Home. I don't recall any emotion about her departure, but then most children seem to take these things in their stride.