I was born in Alexandra
Nursing Home, up across Devonport Park, in Plymouth, at
about 6:10 p.m. on 11th November 1916.
The earliest tale I can remember is of my first
journey to London, where father was a Metropolitan
policeman in the Chelsea Division. After the customary
ten days lying-in period from a confinement, mother
decided we should return to London to be with Dad. My
Grandmother, Mums mother, decided to travel with
us. We arrived at Paddington Station in a complete
black-out because there was a German Zeppelin air-raid on
at the time. How the Germans have had an influence on my
mind!
To obtain a taxi at that time was a
work of art, but the cohesion between members of the
police forces paid off, and a policeman found a taxi when
Mum mentioned who my father was. Grandma, at this stage
of proceedings, felt somewhat left out and decided to do
her bit.
At least she could hold
me in her arms whilst Mum saw to the transport of the
luggage in the black-out. As soon as Mum handed me over
to Grandma I began to cry, and cried during the whole
journey between Paddington Station and Radnor Place in
Chelsea. The consternation was great.
Whatever was the matter with this baby?
And Grandma rocked me all the more! After many stops and
several detours, the taxi arrived at our home, humans and
baggage safely ensconced indoors. Mum lit the gas mantle
in the hall, baby still crying. Good old Grandma! All
this time, it was discovered, Grandma had been holding
the baby upside down! My dad frequently said that I had
water on the brain. Could anyone wonder why?
Of the history of my fathers
family I know little. Grandad Siddall was a miner, as
indeed were all the male members of the family. They were
Derbyshire folk and dwelt in the area of Chesterfield,
near the old church with the crooked spire, although I
remember when my dad told stories about his youth that
places like Old Whittington and Stavely were mentioned.
My son, Peter, is the last of our family to carry the
name of Siddall.
My father was the youngest of his
family; Uncle Joe the eldest, Uncle Fred next, aunt
Frances and then dad. Uncle Joe was married to Helen;
they had a son called Joseph, who was killed in a mine
cave-in. One Friday, young Joe did not feel well and
considered staying home from work, but Aunt Helen
remonstrated since Friday was pay-day. He went to work
and was killed.
Uncle Fred was something of a
philanderer: he loved the ladies and left them, although
there seem to be no known offsprings to lay at his door.
Like all male members of the family he was a miner,
although it was something of a part-time occupation with
him. He often went on what Aussies call
"walk-about", tramping around the countryside.
Grandma Siddall was never sure when he would come home
with his pay-packet. Uncle Fred had a great fear of the
sea, ships and boats. He once tramped from Derbyshire to
our house in Devonport.
I remember seeing his unkempt figure
come indoors. What sticks in my memory is the sight of
his boots cobbled with pieces of motor-car tyres - not
inner tubes, but pieces of the good old Dunlops! He
seemed to rock as he walked. The stranger walked in; Dad
took two looks to make sure and then said something like:
"Christ! Its Fred! What do you want?" The
reply was: "Ive come to see thee." The
retort was: "And you can bugger off again." By
this time Mum appeared on the scene and the female
sympathy started to work. Uncle Fred was taken in, taken
to the outdoor wash-house and given several kettles of
water with which to clean himself. His beard was shaved
off with dads soap and razor, although he would
retain his "Old Bill" moustache. He was kitted
out with some of Dads old clothes but he was
adamant about retaining his own boots; apparently he was
keeping them against the time of future tramping.
At this stage in his life he was simply
a "Gentleman of the Road". To me his stories
were about another life. These gentlemen knew the
whereabouts of every workhouse in the land, the distances
between them, the good, the bad and the indifferent, the
comfort of the beds, the types of food and the size of
the helpings, the latest times of admittance and,
apparently, the amount of work to be done by each inmate
before being sent on his or her way at ten o clock
in the morning. Uncle Fred said that, besides scrubbing
the dormitory floors, the other tasks were sawing,
chopping and bagging wood. In those by-gone days, open
coal fires were the means of heating rooms, newspaper and
firewood being the fuels to ignite the coal, so the
councils sold the chopped wood for firelighting to help
defray the workhouse expenses.
These "Gentlemen of the Road"
were in a sort of Catch 22 situation. According to the
law, any of these tramps could be arrested by the local
constabulary as destitute if, upon apprehension, they
could not show two shillings and sixpence - a half crown
- which is the equivalent of twelve and a half new
pennies today. They could not be admitted to a workhouse
if they had money, because they were not destitute. I
found out why Uncle Fred would not give up his boots.
Inside one boot, in the heel, was a recess to hold a half
crown piece! To some he was not destitute; to others he
was.
Devonport man born and bred! The
first photograph of dad - Harold Siddall - in
Navy uniform. Taken in August 1937 at the bottom
of Cornwall Street, Devonport by the ferry jetty
At this time, we lived in Grans
house, No. 20 Cornwall Street, the first street to be
built in Devonport. The street leads down to the River
Tamar at a point called North Corner. From North Corner
journeyed the steam ferries to Torpoint and Millbrook, on
the opposite bank of the river. Uncle Fred was having a
fine time. Gran Paul was keeping him in pipe tobacco, Mum
was washing his clothes and among the women the sentiment
was: "Poor man!"
I was enthralled by his stories of life
on the open road, sleeping, when forced, under hedges,
snaring, skinning and cooking rabbits, doing the odd job
for a farmer for a meal, although it seemed that farmers
were inclined to be suspicious of tramps, never letting
them sleep in barns or under hayricks, for fear of their
setting them alight. My mothers brother slept in a
room in the attic and a bed was put in there for Uncle
Fred. He was in clover; he began to put on weight with
this new mode of life and it struck me one day, when his
face began to fill out, how like my dad he looked - a
real Siddall.
Dad owned a sixteen-foot rowing boat, a
good boat for river work. There was no way that Uncle
Fred could be induced to go out in that boat. One day on
coming home from school I discovered Uncle Fred was
missing. Dad had found him some work on a farm on the
other side of the river, which meant crossing on the
ferry. That did it; twas time to become a
"Gentleman of the Road" again and, after
receiving ounces of pipe tobacco from Gran, toiletries
and clothes from Mum, checking his half crown was safe,
he set off on his travels. "Watter!", he said
in disgust and we never saw or heard from him again! I
used to earn good marks in school writing stories about
tramps.
When I was born, Grandad and Grandma
Paul, my mothers parents, either owned or managed a
public house in Pembroke Street, Devonport. Grandad had
served in the Royal Navy, initially as an armourers
cooper, then when steam propulsion took over he became a
shipwright. There were three children: Uncle John, the
eldest, who became a Royal Naval shipwright and was
killed in H.M.S. Warrior at the Battle of Jutland
in 1916. (Strangely enough, I was captured and became a
Prisoner of War twenty five years to the day after that
battle.) My mother came next - Florence Elizabeth Paul -
and Reginald Bertram was the youngest. All of the
children attended the Royal Naval and Military School,
which was built for the children of service men. The
three towns (Plymouth, Devonport and Stonehouse) were
predominantly garrison towns in those days and almost all
the livings emanated from those services and their
ancillaries. John was a shipwright, Mum had passed the
essential examinations to become a music teacher, but
Grandfather Paul reckoned that she would be of more use
working in the public house and looking after her younger
brother.
When my dad became a Metropolitan
policeman it was discovered that he was a good sportsman,
excelling in football, cricket and swimming. Because of
his swimming ability, he was transferred to the
Waterguard branch of the force. This meant being in the
security branch of the Royal Dockyard in Devonport and
patrolling the River Tamar in a launch, against any
waterborne attempts at crime. My dad became what was
known derisively by the river fraternity as a Water
Rat. Other than sport as a pastime, having one or
several pints of beer seemed another type of recreation
when off duty. Beer and a public house went together;
Grandparents public house was near one of the
Dockyard gates. So it came about that P.C. Siddall met
Flossie Paul. Grandad did not take to the policeman who
began to occupy too much of Flossie Pauls attention
and apparently gain several snippets of information about
the water fraternity at the same time! But true love will
out! Against all opposition from her father, who was
losing an unpaid barmaid and nanny, Florence Elizabeth
Paul, spinster of this parish, married Harold Siddall,
Police Constable, and I believe this was in 1913.
Promotion came and he was transferred to the Chelsea
division in London. They settled in Radnor Place, where
my Mum was able to commence giving piano lessons.
Early in the Great War, whilst on duty
one night, my father dived into the River Thames to save
a man in difficulties in the water. The man was an Army
Captain in charge of the Army Post Offices in that area.
He had become convinced that spies were sending their
mail through his branches and decided to commit suicide
by drowning. In the struggle during the rescue he bit the
top off one of dads fingers and severely kicked his
thigh so that the thigh muscle was split. Dad spent some
time in hospital and never really recovered from this
injury - his sporting days were over. He was ultimately
awarded the Royal Humane Societys Bronze Medal and
decorated by King George V. So, my children, you had a
Grandfather who was decorated by his King and have a
Mother who was decorated by her King.
After the Great War ended, my father
was no longer fit enough for police duties and he left
the police force. We came to No.20 Cornwall Street,
Devonport, where my parents rented rooms from Gran Paul
and began a career as shop keepers under the Grand title
of General Dealers, which meant they sold anything and
everything in commodities for households. Seemingly
Grandad Paul had died in harness, of delerium tremens,
in the public house in Pembroke Street. Grandma bought
two houses, one of them being No. 20, and lived off the
rents. We had the ground floor and tenement, Gran had the
first floor; another family had the second floor and the
front and rear attics were bedrooms under the roof. And
now, perhaps, here commences the autobiography.