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My Common by Christopher Martyn
To this
day I remain profoundly grateful for a childhood spent in and
around the wide open spaces of Plumstead Common, and when I
went to the Roan School I got to know and enjoy Blackheath too.
For a Londoner this was an exceptionally ‘green’
upbringing. The paths which crisscrossed Plumstead Common were
where I rode trike and bike and went roller-skating. ‘The
slope’ right opposite our house in St John’s Terrace
was a downhill stretch that I rarely attempted. I was never
keen to launch myself unrestrained down anything (e.g. playground
slides) or over anything (e.g. most of the equipment in the
school gym). This failure of nerve gave my PE teacher Dad, Alec
Martyn, no pleasure to contemplate. I was an equally reluctant
swimmer, again something Dad could not understand as a trophy-winning
water-polo player. To think about visits to Plumstead Baths,
even from this safe distance in time, still makes me feel queasy.
The Common
was where we played football with jumpers for goal-posts. Despite
being a teacher - at Charlton Secondary School - and dealing
with other people’s children all day, Dad was often willing
to come out and referee our impromptu games. He would spend
hours with me kicking a ball about or getting in a bit of cricket
practice. What a saint. I didn’t totally disappoint him,
as I played in goal for the school team in my last year at St
Margaret’s. We wore shirts with dark blue and light blue
quarters, and the goalie sported a white, high-necked, thick
woolen jersey. Home fixtures were played on Winn's Common, the
largest flat expanse of Plumstead Common that also had a panoramic
view of the Thames less than a mile away. I used to think it
was called ‘Winds’ Common; it always seemed blowier
there than anywhere else. I have recently revisited this scene
of our teams’ few triumphs and many disasters. The pavilion
has gone, though the foundations remain, and the pitches are
still marked out much as they were in 1955-56. The goal-posts
are now permanent and made from tubular steel, but in our day
they were temporary and made of wood. We had to lug them –
two cross-bars and four uprights - from storage racks by the
pavilion and then erect them in situ before we could play. There
were about 140 prefabs next to the games pitches, demolished
in 1957, so there is now a lot more grass to play on. In Our
Common Story: a Celebration of Plumstead Common* there is a
map on page 48 showing the position of these temporary post-war
dwellings and their proximity to the area’s only feature
of archaeological interest, a Bronze Age barrow or burial mound,
which the authors of the book claim as proof that people were
living on or near the Common 4,000 years ago.
St
Margaret's C of E School football team of 1955-56, also mentioned
in my piece.
The names are as follows:
Standing L to R: Mr Tom Callard, Brian McCarthy,
Victor Crooks, John Stanley, Christopher Martyn, Barry Dormer,
Raymond Winchester, John Webster, David Collins, Mr Bernard
Van Eyck.
Seated L to R: David Cuffley, James Laden,
Brian Semple, Alan Manley, Keith Britter, Neil Stevens, Terry
Levett.
Winn's Commons
was also where I remember going to see local Scout troops try
out their racing ‘cars’ before the big event in
the grounds of Goldie Leigh Hospital, the annual Soap Box Derby.
The vehicles were a sophisticated development of the traditional
trolley which was simply a plank of wood and four pram wheels
with a short length of clothes-line to steer it by. The Scouts’
cars used cycle technology with pedals and a chain; they will
have been the fruit of hours and hours spent in back yards and
sheds by grease monkeys and budding engineers. A paint job plus
a distinctive number completed the preparation. I would have
given my eye-teeth to ride one of these soap-boxes, but maybe
it was better that I didn’t, given my aversion to rapid
downhill travel and the nagging suspicion that they had no brakes!
There were
plenty of places to explore and trees to climb on the Common.
Hide-and-seek was popular because some parts of the land are
hollowed out, former gravel pits, and full of useful cover in
the form of gorse, hawthorn bushes and tall grass; even the
insalubrious gents’ lavatory behind the Globe cinema off
Blendon Terrace provided a good hiding-place. Nearby there were
other man-made landmarks, like the bandstand and the war memorial.
On Remembrance Sunday, before I joined the Cubs, Dad and I would
go to the wreath-laying ceremony attended by soldiers and veterans
of the Royal Artillery. Just before 11 o’clock there was
silence followed on the hour by the distant boom of guns from
the parade-ground of the RA garrison on Woolwich Common. Once
I had joined the 8th Woolwich (St Margaret’s) I would
be in church at that time for a parish Remembrance service that
was would be attended by Old Comrades from the First World War.
One of their number, the same retired colonel each year it seemed,
would stand bow-legged but erect at the chancel steps to read
out the names of the ‘fallen’, from the 8th London
Howitzer Brigade, Royal Field Artillery. Being posh and officer
class, he called his regiment the ‘Uh-tillery’,
and I imagine he said ‘clorth’ and ‘orf’
too if he needed his batman to take the cloth off the table.
The part
of the Common which we thought of as ‘ours’ was
the area immediately adjacent to St John’s Terrace. My
Granddad played bowls during the summer months on the greens
virtually opposite our house; my Dad and my godfather, Vic Mann,
very occasionally played tennis on the nearby hard courts; and
I loved to hone my putting skills on the nine-hole green which
originally was at the top of our road but later re-located to
the other side, overlooked by the houses in Heavitree Road.
I had my first encounter with stinging nettles in the fenced
off area behind St Margaret’s church, just where Bramblebury
Road led onto the common. We all wore short trousers in those
days - rarely in ‘longs’ before the age of twelve
– and so my legs were stung to kingdom come. How the hot
tears flowed as I ran back home. Never was an incautious trespasser
more appropriately punished!
The
photograph of the gentlemen was taken in 1946 or 1947 in front
of the pavilion close by St John's Terrace. My Grandad, William
Henry Livett, is second left, middle row (or first left, if
you think the man to his right is really in the back row!) he's
the fairly tall distinguished-looking guy. I believe these were
members of the Plumstead Common Bowls Club, but I'm not absolutely
sure.
Just beyond
the eastern edge of Plumstead Common, across King’s Highway,
was Rockliffe Gardens. I loved going there, perhaps the destination
of a Sunday afternoon walk with Dad. It was on several levels
because it was built on the side of a steep embankment, and
each level was connected by crazy-paving paths and steps. I
dearly wished we could have a garden like this at home; our
back yard was minuscule and utterly featureless. On the top
level there were ornamental flower-beds, a rectangular fish-pond
with water lilies, and a sequence of rose arches leading to
a summerhouse. Down below there was a weeping willow tree standing
sentinel beside a more rustic kind of pond. When as a student
I worked one summer holiday for Woolwich Borough Council Parks
and Gardens I was assigned to duties in Rockliffe Gardens, weeding,
cutting off tree suckers and mowing the narrow strips of lawn.
It was the best job they gave me in six weeks or more. Only
one public garden, in my view, could surpass Rockliffe, and
that was the Well Hall Pleasaunce with its Tudor Barn smelling
of old wood and wax polish, its enchanting mix of borders, low
hedges, walls, paths and archways.
At weekends
we would watch cricket games on the pitch in front of the Brown
School as a succession of 53, 163 and 180 buses came and went
from their Warwick Terrace terminus nearby, the crews walking
to a café on the corner of Old Mill Road for refreshment.
There were always bowls matches to watch as well. Even now I
can hear the plocking sound of wood on wood, and see the players
run a few steps down the lane before stopping and shielding
their eyes as they look into the late evening sun to find out
how near the jack they get. Several days a week during the summer
months my Granddad walked up from his home near the bottom of
Ancona Road, to our house where his ‘woods’ were
kept. Once he was in his eighties he found the slog up the hill
increasingly difficult, but then . . a ‘godsend’
as he called it. London Transport introduced the 192 bus route
from General Gordon Square to Garland Road via Griffin Road
and Waverley Crescent. I am sure that service extended his playing
days by several years.
At the top
of our road was The Lodge, traditionally the Park Keeper’s
house. Adjacent to it was the original stable yard which by
the 1950s was used inter alia as a depot for the tractor we
saw working every day on the Common, pulling the three-piece
gang mower or a trailer full of tree and hedge prunings or whatever,
according to the season. The L.C.C. Common Keepers (or ‘Commers’
as we called them) wore brown tweed suits. They were like policemen
in some ways. Each one had a unique number punched in the oval
metal badge that was stitched the to the front of his brown
felt hat. We were generally scared of them or at least wary,
because they seemed determined to keep us under the thumb, chasing
us off this patch of grass or reprimanding us about that imagined
transgression. Adults in authority were like that in those days:
always telling you off, threatening to report you, stopping
you having fun. The Lodge is a handsome-looking house (see Our
Common Story, page 28) with its white-painted upper story and
rich reddish-brown brick, so unlike the soft, grubby yellow
brick that our house was built of, in common with hundreds of
thousands of others in London.
Plumstead
Common was and is London’s best kept secret. In sixty
years I have met few people who have heard of it, let alone
know where it is. I suppose if you had stood at a bus stop in
Regent Street in 1960, say, and saw a 53 approaching with ‘Plumstead
Common’ displayed on its front, you might have wondered
where that was. But then I hadn’t a clue about Wanstead
Flats or Dollis Hill. North of the Thames is another country.
I am just so glad to have had a share in that best-kept secret.
*This
book, published in 2004 by the Plumstead Common Environment
Group, is a treasure-house of personal recollections and illustrations
which no self-respecting ‘Commoner’ should be without.
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