True Stories From the Void

True Stories From the Void I was born in London. I am from London. I am London.

02/10/2023

Hello you lovely lot. Here's a thought for the day. Things could most likely be better for all of us, but it's important to remember not to forget that they can also be a hell of a lot worse too, and in a hurry. So, be glad of what you have because it ain't a given. Be glad of the day!! GNGB!! :-)

#3. 'Her (and Him).' Here's a short story about a dear frien...
02/08/2023

#3. 'Her (and Him).'
Here's a short story about a dear friend of my mother, father and my father's parents. His name was Alec Corfield. He was already retired when I was just seven years old. From the stories my father - a former stock broker in the London Stock Exchange, told me, he was a life-long bachelor who never married, and who apparently had never had a partner.
The story was, he had served with the military armed forces in Burma as a young man: a time which had a massive influence in his life and in shaping the peaceful, good-hearted character which made my father warm to him. After his time in the army, he came back to London and got a job in a firm called Smith Brothers, a brokerage firm in central London, where he spent his whole working life, moving up the carrier ladder. Towards the end of his career he met my father Bobby, who had just started at the firm as an apprentice. Alec took my father under his wing and agreed to train him how to be a good broker. It was an arrangement that was to result in a lifelong friendship and bond.
When in his early thirties my dad used to play football in Wanstead flats on Saturday afternoons with the small Smith Brothers football team in which, would you believe, the veteran Alec, a life-long lover of the occasional whiskey and a fat cigar, was the goalkeeper! When I was born, my dad had no hesitation in asking Alec to be my Godfather; a request he gladly accepted.
My memories of Alec were the Christmases, where he would drive to us in his old light blue Ford Cortina and stay from Christmas Eve to Boxing Day and be special guest at the Christmas dinner table. He'd also ritualistically play cards and board games with us after the dinner, which was always a highlight of our festive season.
One of the reasons, so my father told me, that Alec never married was because he chose instead to take care of his lovely mother, with whom he lived all his life in their family home, at 43 Salford Road, Streatham (a house which still stands today and is still visible on Google maps, if you're curious, that is!). Another of my fond memories of this dear, lovely man, is when WE would visit HIS house in the summers, and have cool drinks, sandwiches and nice chats in his small back garden, in the presence of his dear mother. I remember her sweetly. She was ninety when I was seven, and not very spritely because of arthritis, but a very warm, kind personality who always smiled at me, like she was some kind of angel or something. I've met a few demons in my life, I can tell you - a few who I would rather forget, but I've also met some angels too, and I believe she was one of them.
Recently in an English class I was teaching, I asked someone if they could travel back to just one moment of their life just once, where would it be? When they asked me they same question, I told them that I would like to go back to that little garden, with roses and other pretty flowers all around me, and sit on the picnic blanket again in front of that kind old lady with my mum and dad and my Godfather Alec. It was a wonderful place, a sound-proof, peaceful niche in an otherwise-deafening, bustling city. And so, for you, back I go, into that garden, that little paradise. One more time...

#2. 'It.'The Ferrier housing estate in Kidbrooke, south-east London was a huge working-class concrete housing developme...
27/07/2023

#2. 'It.'
The Ferrier housing estate in Kidbrooke, south-east London was a huge working-class concrete housing development that was built between the years of 1968 and 1972, back when the clay-grey concrete panelling colour of the blocks and play areas was still fashionable and not seen as drab and bleak by most. In the year 1972 my parents and I with them were still living under the roof of my grandfather's pub in Bishop's Way, Bethnal Green, but my grandfather by then had been diagnosed with cancer, was very ill and was facing departure from the pub and work in general, so my parents were forced to look for a new home.
They were to find it in the sprawling acres of The Ferrier, firstly at 86 Pinto Way, a large, three-level flat on the third floor of that square. This was to be my first real 'home', in the true sense of the word, into which I came aged two and a half. How to describe the estate on a broader, more palpable scale, you might ask? Well, to outsiders even then it was a massive, marauding place, a somewhat intimidating chessboard network of housing blocks in sizes from five storeys to eleven, concrete playgrounds, daunting alleyways and tunnels that linked each part of the estate, with only a hint of greenery to make it friendlier to the eye - not the cosiest of environments for a young family, you might say, but back then for my parents it was, like for a lot of young working class families, at least a start. It was the first rung on the property ladder, and a chance, so they took it. And I didn't know any better yet, so nothing was lost.
In the beginning, before the skinheads, the graffiti and the gangs and their break-ins and thuggery arrived, it wasn't such a bad place to be. I have happy memories there. I remember my first football game in the pen with some mates, playing round the estate, the Queen's 25th Coronation Celebration street parties in 1977 at which all the kids and familes sat at food-covered tables in the flag-lined streets celebrating the monarch's reign, from morning till night. That WAS a celebration. That WAS a happy time. That WAS a Royal Family. All in all we lived on the Ferrier Estate until 1981. Over the years it gained a bad reputation for trouble, which was the main reason my father decided to move us off it, but I have to say it never did me any harm, and I grew up a better person for having lived in such a rough place. It didn't change my nature.
Why have I decided to tell you about it? This place, which in fact no longer exists because it was bulldozed away in 2000 to make way for a new housing estate called the Kidbrooke Village? Well, perhaps because it is a part of me - as significant as the place where I live now in its own way. And I'm not sure things like that should be lost, and buried in time, undetectable, because there is very often beauty to be found, even in the most unattractive of things. If you're ever curious to look it up, you can just Google 'The Ferrier Estate' and read and view the legend for yourselves. Makes for interesting reading, I can tell you. But, just for a breath in time, I was there. And it was me. Happy days, everyone. Be safe, be lucky, and never forget your roots. They are the reason you're still here.

#1. 'Them.' Back in 196...
20/07/2023

#1. 'Them.'
Back in 1967 my grandparents were the managers of a pub in Bethnal Green, East London, called The Crown and Anchor (now no longer in existence), which was situated at 147 Cheshire Street. By all accounts, this pub was a nice, trouble-free, homely place, frequented by ordinary working class Eastenders, market traders and the like. It was also visited on a few occasions in the space of about a year, by a (notorious) family of criminals, known as The Kray Brothers. The general, age-old rule, law and right of pub landlords over their patrons is that they could ban (or 'bar') any unsavoury clientele from entering their pubs. In the case of The Kray Brothers, who were by then known and feared as some of the most violent and unpredictable criminals in London at that time, barring them was unfortunately not an option. My grandfather Daniel Charles WIlliam, an ordinary, working class man with no criminal affilations whatsoever who was a placid, gentle, peace-loving man who hated violence and violent people, only wanted a quiet life, so he chose not to try and antagonise the family when they appeared in the bar by telling them to leave, but by taking a gamble. On the rare occasions when they came through his door, my grandfather was civil and nice to them, allowed them to drink their beer, have their quiet chats in the corner of the bar and leave without incident. Fortunately for him and my family, this proved to be the right decision. The story with my grandfather and them, as it was told to me by my father, goes like this. The Kray Brothers never used to visit the pubs in the East End, because by that time the police were looking to arrest them for numerous crimes, but one morning in very early 1968, The Kray Brothers walked one afternoon into my grandad's pub. By all accounts, as it was very early after opening, there was nobody in the bar except them and my grandparents, yet. Reginald (or 'Reg', as he was known) Kray, walked up to my grandad who was sitting at the bar quietly reading a newspaper. He said to my grandfather that he needed a favour urgently. He needed to get 200 pounds sterling in a hurry. My grandfather was a kind and simple man who didn't want any trouble from the mafia, so he openly confessed that he only had 200 pounds in the safe. That was everything he had, and was about to refuse to help Reg Kray when, reaching into his inner jacket pocket, Reg pulled out something small. It was a gold and diamond necklace that had belonged to his then-deceased wife. He told my grandfather that the necklace was very special to him for obvious reasons, and it was worth about 200 pounds. He told my grandad that if he was able to lend the money, Reg would let him keep the jewellry as security in his pub safe, for just one night, and return the next morning to collect it, with the money for the safe in cash as well. Apparently my grandmother Gracie who was a much more careful and, if the truth is known, braver person, was against the idea, but knowing who the Krays were and what they could do if something stood in their way, she conceeded and my grandfather took Reg Kray's necklace, put in the safe for the night, and handed him his life savings, not knowing if the criminal would return it. Not even knowing if the necklace was valuable or not. The next day, just after pub opening hours, Reg Kray returned with his brother Ronald. They were only in the pub for ten minutes before they left in a hurry, but Reg gave back the 200 pounds he had borrowed, and my grandad gave him back the necklace. Why would I share a story like this with any of you, you might ask? Why would I want you to know? Well, my family were in the heart of London in the sixties, when it was all happening, good and bad. They saw it all, the good and the bad. And they survived it. Life is basically moments, good and bad, lucky for some, unlucky for others. My dear father shared this family story with me not long before he passed away, and so now, I'm sharing with you. Hopefully, more stories, of my escapades, are to come. Be safe, be lucky, and keep your eyes open, All! :-)

20/07/2023

Ello! This will, hopefully, be a page of mine dedicated to telling some of the stories from stages not only in my life, but in the life of my family, because though you would believe it, I do have a story or two to tell - all true, mind - every word of it, nothing fabricated or colored in with neon pens. The last two years have not been easy for me. It is time I at least tried to even up the score between life and me. For my Polish, English-speaking friends, I hope you find the things I write hear informative and interesting, giving you new light on a picture you only think you already know. I hope that you enjoy the histories I intend to share with you. Trust me when I say that they have been an entire lifetime, and sometimes more, in the making. A long time ago now, Facebook used to have an option called 'create stories'. They took it away for some reason, so we have to make do with what we have on the table, so to speak. The first short-'ish' story I'll tell you concerns my grandparents, who in the late 1960's were publicans in the east end of London. I want to share it with you before it is lost completely in time, and it will be with you all later today...

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