9. CAN I SERVE YOU NOW SIR?...
Food in Wartime Farnborough - Part 1
Wartime memories of Farnborough Kent children
by
John Riches. 2004.
Before the Second World War amazingly half the population of Great
Britain suffered from some form of malnutrition. Boils, sores, rickets
and other disorders caused by a poor diet were commonplace. One of my
earliest memories is of my Grandfather – a farm worker all his life –
sitting in front of the fire at his home 36 High Street, piercing the
lid of a tin of condensed milk to pour some of the oversweet gooey
liquid in his tea. Tinned milk was far cheaper for poor families than
the real thing that was produced in the milking parlour of Chapman’s
Farm within 30 yards of where he sat. My Mum had read reports that fresh
milk was much better for growing children than the canned variety and
came to an arrangement with the cowman “Ginger” that we should have a
daily jug of fresh milk passed straight from the milking parlour over
the hedge into the garden of 3 Prospect Place (Now 12 Pleasant View
Place). It was only the scares about people becoming infected with
tuberculosis from milk and our government’s insistence that it should be
pasteurised, that ended that happy practice.
The Ration Book of William T Curd 1870-1963. The
stamps of Matthews the butcher and Wray's Stores show the names
of the local retailers where Mr Curd obtained his meat, fats,
cheese, bacon and sugar. He received an allocation of meat
for his chickens in lieu of an egg ration - hence the blank.
Photo provided by Mr Arthur Curd.
Surprisingly,
as the war progressed, the diet of ordinary Farnborough people improved
considerably. We all had ration books in those days giving us a weekly
entitlement of 8 ounces of sugar, 2 ounces of butter, 6 ounces of
margarine, 2 ounces of tea and meat to the value of one shilling, plus
two pennyworth of corned beef. Unlike today when you can draw money out
at the pub, buy petrol at the grocers or groceries at the garage, those
were the days, before supermarkets had been invented, when there were
lots of small specialist shops in Farnborough. My Mum bought most of our
grocery rations from Mr Cecil Follett who owned the small shop at the
bottom of Pleasant View. I was often sent to see Old Pottlebelly as he
was nicknamed irreverently by his wife, to get the week’s supply of
butter. As the shop had no electricity and thus no refrigerator, Mr
Follett would go down into his cool cellar to bring up a half-pound slab
of butter. Its pack was marked with lines dividing it into four,
two-ounce sections. He would solemnly cut off six ounces from the pack,
weigh it and then place a small piece of greaseproof paper over the open
end. Some of our neighbours bought their groceries at Wrays Stores by
Farnborough Green that is now an Estate Agent. There, the butter still
came in large pats and Mr Wray, my friend Paul’s Dad, would ceremonially
slice a piece of butter from the slab, weigh it and then shape it with
wooden pats. Then with a final flourish he would make a patterned
impression on the pack with a wooden seal, before wrapping the butter
carefully in greaseproof paper. There were no plastic bags in those
days. Other neighbours went all the way to Palmerston Road for their
groceries claiming the shop there was better.
We bought our meat from Mr Wallis the butcher whose shop was
close to the present day post office. Mum would often send me
down the village to get some best end of neck of mutton to make
a stew. Old Mr Wallis was fascinating to watch. He was truly
ambidextrous and would lift down a carcass of a sheep from the
hooks that lined the tiled walls of the shop, cut down to the
bone with a knife held in his right hand and then chop through
the bone with a cleaver held in his left.
He wrapped the meat in newspaper
and then yelled the price to Gladys the cashier who sat in a wooden
kiosk taking the money and answering the candlestick style telephone
with the refrain, “Farnborough 4, Wallis Butchers.” His sons Bill and
Fred ably helped Mr Wallis at times. Some neighbours went to Matthews
Butchers closer to Farnborough Green – a shop that closed only
comparatively recently.
Each month we had 16 food points to
spend as we wished. This system invented by the Germans meant that you
could go into any shop in the village to buy baked beans, tinned fruit,
spam, or anything else that you fancied. They were all marked with their
cost in both points and shillings and pence. Mothers hoarded food for a
rainy day and when the war in Europe eventually ended in 1945, tinned
fruits and jellies mysteriously appeared on the tables at the street
parties that celebrated VE Day in Pleasant View and throughout the
village.
The delicious smell of baking bread wafted from Mr
Moule’s New Bakery by the 1st Farnborough Scout hut and from Wicken’s
bakery in the Square adjoining the car park of ye Olde George and
Dragon. More discerning people claimed that Batchelors bakery at Locks
Bottom produced better loaves but we never bothered to find out if that
was true. Although bread was never rationed during the war, lots of
people lamented the demise of white bread and the substitution of brown.
The sweet and tobacconist shop kept by Scotsman Mr Tasker
opposite The Woodman had closed shortly after the outbreak of
war. But there were other places for we children to spend our
personal points and obtain a very small monthly sweet ration.
The decision was tortuous. Should we, on our way to school up
Starts Hill, visit what we called The End Shop close to
Farnborough Green kept by sisters Maud and Ivy Waller? We always
tried to buy our sweets when Maud was serving, as she was always
cheerful and ready to chat. We tried to avoid Ivy who appeared
glum and found difficulty making small-talk with young children.
Or should we wait until after school and go “down the village”
to Mr Frederick Wiffen’s sweetshop and tobacconist – a shop that
has thankfully lasted until this very day? Fred Wiffen was
somewhat intimidating! Children would quietly open the door to
his shop to be greeted with a brusque “What da ya want?” There
was a huge array of large glass bottles arrayed in shelves
behind his counter. Some contained sweets from which you had to
make your choice. He would carefully lift down your requested
acid drops or mint humbugs, scoop some out with a special little
trowel and place them in a polished weighing machine. Then when
he had accurately weighed up two ounces he would slide the
sweets into a conical white paper bag and then twist the top
with a well-practiced flourish and thrust them into your hand.