I think the year was 1959,
as I was actually, in company of one of my brothers,
spending the summer holidays at home. My parents
were still doing their first of three stints in
India and usually I would have gone over and spent
the time with them but as it was only a 4 week
break, due to the Ministry of Education doing
a 'Term Adjustment Period' following everything
getting out of whack during the war, there just
wasn't the time. Anyway Mrs. Thompson was quite
capable of taking care of us and I think she and
her husband liked having the house in use for
a while, it must have been very boring looking
after a big cold empty place.
Alas Carol Vickers had gone from the village
(1957 Last Train into Staffords Wood Halt) but
most of the others were still around including
Dickie Warner, Mandy, Dave Wellman, Chris Miles,
Barbara Hatson, Tom Eager and a few others where
I can still see the face but the name is gone.
Thirteen (ish) is a strange age, you are neither
one thing nor t'uther, no longer a small child
but not yet a 'young man' you seem to be invisible
to adult eyes and even when noticed it is with
a look that says 'Come back in 5 years or so'.
The females seemed to weather this time period
better, the 'little girl' look was fading and
they were starting to fill out where girls are
supposed to fill out, however, they were still
a bit on the 'gawky' side, you know, all legs
and elbows and prone to tripping over and falling
out of the tree they were climbing. Actually
a lot of stuff was changing, but you only appreciate
this fact when looking back from the far future.
More elderly people were residing in 'Retirement
Homes' in the country. Usually they were sent
there by relatives who now had control of the
oldies money and property which had been signed
over to them to avoid death taxes. These retirement
homes were mostly the big old country houses
that had been revamped to take about two dozen
guests. The fees were pretty high as these were
not for the common man, but it did get people
'out of sight' and this is what their relatives
(mostly their children) wanted. I guess it's
just part of the make-up of the human race to
dismiss parents as soon and as cheaply as possible.
Oakstead had a couple of these retirement homes
close by but in the early years you seldom saw
the residents, it seems they were kept too short
of actual cash to do much gadding about.
There is little doubt that these oldies would
have been very bored and not a little frustrated
and angry. They had been well placed in their
community and were now, unloved, unwanted, baggage
in strange places. Their money was being spent
by children and their spouses and kids and that
must have been very hard to take, especially
when you didn't even have enough money of your
own left, to go to the cinema.
The older element from the village itself had
a few other options open to them to help fill
in the day, for the men the most favoured were
their Allotments. This was a funny system that
was extremely popular in England. You got a
designated 'Allotment Plot' from the council,
each was a bit of land about 100ft by 100ft
and you could use this to grow flowers, vegetables,
fruit, whatever you liked, everybody also put
up a small garden shed at one end of the plot
to house spades, forks and other equipment.
It would be in a much larger area of allotments,
there could be a hundred or so in any one designated
area. Now, although these were supposed to be
used to help people be self sufficient, a secondary
result was that it gave the men a place to which
an escape could be made. Many sheds held more
than a few bottles of ale and there was a deal
more pipe puffing, storytelling and ale supping
than actual cultivating.
A couple of men from the 'Everest' retirement
home applied for allotments, initially they
got refused as they weren't actual rate payers
but there was such an outcry from the villagers
that the council had to reverse its decision
and 6 plots were allocated to the home.
By the time I got home for the short holiday
the retirement home mob had been cultivating
their assigned allotments for around a year
and they looked just grand. Three were mainly
flowers and three were taken up with vegetables
and shrubs of some sort. I had heard that the
rodents that ran the home at first refused to
let their 'guests' have the allotments, however
this changed after a visit from the local constabulary
in the form of Bert Bonney and Sergeant Benbow.
They had decided to erect two large huts, rather
than 6 regular size small ones and I guess it
gave them a place to meet away from the home.
There was one difference, usually it was the
village men who tended the plots but with the
oldies it was a mixture of men and women and
together none worked harder.
Now, unbeknown to the retirement home staff,
the oldies were actually making a few quid by
selling produce to the fruit and veg shop in
the village, they asked a reasonable price and
got the business. Selling a few fruit and veg
wasn't going to make them rich but it did give
them a limited amount of money in their pockets
and to them money meant freedom. They also started
to make a few fruit pies which they sold to
The Green Jug Tea Room; actually business was
quite brisk as there were extra police in the
area trying to get information about dodgy brandy
that was turning up in the area. It was good
stuff but not legally imported and that made
the powers to be a bit miffed. Dad's delegate,
as the acting local magistrate (only a part
time role) got involved as he was supplied with
all the information from the police, they had
to keep local magistrates in the loop and fully
informed about progress. Now, the irony of the
situation is that my family right up to the
Second World War had been very active in the
smuggling trade, indeed they had been since
around 1790. Brandy, or rather Cognac, wine
and later tobacco - all run in the dead of night
between France and the Sussex coast, where we
just happened to have a holiday house. Even
then a family member was the local magistrate
so the chance of getting caught was very slight.
Only one mile from the centre of Oakstead was
Old Oakstead which consisted of one street running
up a hill. On this street could be found five
pubs, not bad for an out of the way place, but
the road had once been the main link between
London and the coast. History has it that in
the 15th Century a mayor decided he did not
want any pubs in the town so he sent them packing
(later, one dark and windy night, he disappeared-
funny that) As a consequence the four pubs concerned
moved just down the road to their present location,
joining the Old Bell which was already there.
All five pubs had survived a dozen wars and
were again flourishing, this was a time when
the licensee was born to the trade and the pubs
handed down father to son - naturally this also
made them a bunch of rogues but of the nicest
kind.
Now it appears that there was little doubt
that the local pubs were flogging dodgy brandy
but proving it was something else again, the
stuff was turning up for miles around and neither
the pubs or the customers were complaining;
it was cheap for the pubs to buy as there was
no duty on it and this, in turn, made it cheaper
to customers. So, apart from Her Majesty's Customs
and Excise bods, (who nobody cared a fig for
anyway) everybody was happy.
All the pubs had bottles taken away for testing
to see it it was genuine or dodgy and all came
back as genuine - the fact that the pubs had
a nationwide spy system and knew days before
the cops turned up that there was to be a raid,
just might have had something to do with it.
For me and my mini-cohorts it was an exciting
time, police cars and strange men in suites
moving around the place, just like in the movies.
We spent most of our days camped on the footpath
of Old Oakstead watching the drama unfold and
getting more than a few chuckles out of the
situation - somebody should have told them that,
in places, the road was too narrow for two police
cars to pass each other without severe paint
and bodywork damage; shame on you Constable
Bonney and Sergeant Benbow ... But there again
they asked for it, just because they were big
time plods from the county capital was no excuse
for them to treat our local police like country
bumkins. OK, so they weren't perhaps Scotland
Yard material, but they were part of our village
life and well liked by the community'.
It was hard to be torn away from action to return
to school, but it had to happen and I had to
leave just when things were getting interesting.
By mail Mandy kept me informed of developments
but it appeared that the big investigation had
gone cold and things had almost returned to
normal. What a long term that seemed but at
last it was over and as my parents were back
in England for Christmas, I was again going
home.
I had left with most of the leaves still green,
now the trees were bare, the ground frozen and
hoar frost whitewashed just about everything.
On the first day I sat in McGregor's munching
sausage filled buns with Mandy and Dickie. By
now all the police had gone back to Croydon
leaving an unresolved case and that made everybody
very happy. However, things were about to change
and not for the better.
Most of what follows I only learned from parents
(listening in to conversations) and other village
kids. Some of it took a couple of years to become
clear - but never advertised.
About a week before I got back the 'Everest
Retirement Home' was burgled and a lot of the
oldies stuff was taken. People were outraged
at such a callous crime and the hunt was on.
Two days later a black Hilman car suddenly caught
fire while parked at the Village Green end of
the main street. Nobody was in it so it was
all a bit of a mystery but the opinion was that
the engine must have been left running to keep
the heater going. However, when the volunteer
fire brigade got the fire out the boot was opened
and there was all the loot from the break-in.
The owners of the car were three men staying
at The Hoskins Arms and they were soon in custody,
after all you can't get much more caught than
they were. Naturally they denied everything
but as they all had criminal records it was
'case closed' even before the trial, (which
only lasted a day) and they got put away for
6 years.
Things started to return to normal, the Everest
Mob now had two very nice vans which they used
to deliver fruit, veg, flowers and a mixture
of pies, not only in Oakstead but to surrounding
villages. The oldies were now an integral part
of the village and it would have seemed strange
without them, they were such a cheery bunch,
always at the pubs or cinema or at Aggies for
the dancing, yep they were real goers and it
was reported that the home itself was now quite
the 'place of carnal sin'... go oldies.
Then, about a month after the trial, something
very nasty happened. Mavis Seal (one of the
oldies from the home) was delivering some pies
to the Green Jug when a car screeched to a halt
and a chap got out waving a revolver and forced
Mavis and Miss Haley (the shop owner) back into
the tea room. It was thought that it was a robbery
but that was never quite (to the public) determined.
What is known is the Miss Haley (being a special
constable) wasn't putting up with any guff from
a two bit thug, neither was Mavis. The Green
Jug had a nasty counter, one of those where
a flap lifts to let you move in and out from
behind it. It was open when 'The Thug' forced
the two ladies through but when he followed
a quick flip if the wrist by Miss Haley had
it crashing onto his head and it was a very
solid and heavy flap, all the villagers knew
to keep well clear. This resulted in the gun,
as it was dropped, going off but only into the
floor. The robber then ran back to his car and
took off - but this was not his lucky day. The
incident of the ladies being forced into the
shop had been observed from Boots the chemist
and by the time the car shot off, Sergeant Benbow
and one other were in hot pursuit in the police
car, no siren but it did have an electric bell
which was just as good. The two cars shot out
of the village and then took the small road
north. Up onto the Downs and then in an endeavor
to throw off the police the thug took a left
onto the small track that led to the Chalk Pits
- boy was that a bad move. He never even slowed
down when the track ran out, just sailed into
the air for a few seconds, until gravity took
over, then plunged into the old quarry - my
Oakstead was becoming an interesting place again
after slumbering for a hundred years or so since
the time of highwaymen. Needless to say the
chap was very deceased.
There things would have ended as far as
I was concerned but at the age of 17 my parents
were killed in a coach accident in France and
as my two brothers were overseas, I was left
to go through all of Dad's papers and stuff.
Most of it I simply passed to the family solicitor
Mr Turner of Turner, Turner and Farquhar but
one file I kept hidden and later read with so
much joy that the pain of the hour was diminished.
I won't put down everything as there was a lot
of legal stuff, just the core material.
The story behind the 'official story
It had all started with the 6 allotments being
assigned to the oldies from the 'Everest' retirement
home. You see, people didn't take the oldies
very seriously this was the first mistake. Within
the home were ex civil servants, some from high
positions, High ranking military officers, High
ranking ex police officers, Ex company directors
and company owners, artists, accountants - well
you name it, they were there ... and they were
pretty angry at the world, the way the people
that run the home treated them and with their
relatives. However, all that expertise could
never be left dormant for too long before the
tiger awoke. The allotments were just the first
step of a plan that just grew and grew.
The first six plots grew to 10, then to avoid
any questions they got another six in another
council area using real rate notices as proof
of residence, borrowed from the legitimate owners
for a small fee.
They started off small, fruit, veg, flowers,
which got sold to shops within about a 6 mile
radius. From this money they started to 'acquire'
brewing equipment. One of the home residents
had been head distiller for a large English
gin producer and knew the job backwards. One
of the two original sheds was set up with three
kettles (I think that's what they're called)
the other for bottling. At first it was pretty
small time but the produced about 50 cases a
week under the name of 'Alpine Gin' - a joke
or code as the home was called Everest, which
also had two meanings. At first they only had
one van as it was all small time, but later
this grew to six - but only two sets of duplicated
number plates so that it appeared they only
had two.
Then a great stroke of luck sent a new resident
to the home who, before his kids got it away
from him, had run 4 fishing boats on the Suffolk
coast. What his kids disliked was that these
boats were heavily into liquor smuggling (if
you stick to fishing you stay poor) - they liked
the income but being jumped up little snobs
didn't like the business, or their criminal
father.
Once this chap was a part of 'The Gang' they
could expand and not be restricted to selling
their gin in the local area. They sent 'Elite
English Gin' to the continent and in return
got real Cognac, this, although beautiful to
drink, was little sold in pubs due to the price
once all the taxes and duties were loaded onto
it. Then, just to keep the cargo holds full
they also brought in cigars and cigarettes.
Naturally, while all this was going on, the
legitimate trade in fruit, veg, flowers and
pies still went on and in fact kept expanding.
They didn't actually have anything to do with
the boats running to and fro this they left
to the professionals in the form of the old
fisherman and his ex cohorts. Now all this took
a lot of organization. The bottles came from
6 different companies, the cardboard cartons
arrived blank and were stenciled in the sheds,
labels they designed and printed themselves.
Then there was distribution, fuel, marketing
(very tricky), transportation, payments made
here and there to ensure silence - yes, a hell
of a lot of organization and who better to do
than a bunch who had been doing it all their
lives. Rejects from society that decided to
form their own. A new retirement home opened
up about 7 miles away and guess who owned it
- right, the Everest Mob. This they called 'Longhurst'
and used it to undercut Everest which went bad
and had to be sold - guess who bought it - right
again.
All this had to attract unwanted attention;
for a start the London (Soho) Boys were losing
out on trade in liquor and they wanted to know
why. Being 'in the know' about things they soon
got onto the Everest Mob and three men were
sent down to put the frighteners on the oldies.
This they did but during the night after the
encounter the home was burgled and all the loot
turned up in the boot of their car, which just
happened to draw attention to itself because
it caught fire in the main street - strange
that.
Next, two (not one) men were sent down to get
nasty and we know what happened there. It was
always reported as one man but there were in
fact two of them in the car, I guess one stayed
in the car as driver ready for a quick getaway.
Now, let's get real. There had, in local circles,
been suspicions about who was running the smuggled
liquor show for quite a while. The local police
and Dad weren't fools but it wasn't until things
got nasty that they decided to 'unofficially'
do something about it. Sergeant Benbow (in plain
clothes) and dad went to see them at the home
and explained their future if they didn't put
a halt to certain activities. It was made quite
clear that they had reached the end of their
rope and unless they complied, official action
would be instigated. So that was that - the
smuggling and distilling stopped and they just
reverted to putting all their energy into the
legitimate side of the business. Actually it
was no big deal as, by this time they owned
four homes and two hotels. Plus they had a small
20 acre farm which was used for produce to keep
things running. They were allowed to keep their
illegal egg trade going. Let's face it, the
government might instigate a law that said all
eggs must go through the Egg Board, but this
meant that eggs were about a week old before
they got into the shops and with about 40% added
to the price. Everest Eggs were in shops the
following day (with a fake Egg Board Lion Stamp
on them) - Oh well you can't get all the criminal
element out of such a scary gang.
Really nobody should be surprised at this sort
of operation. The English village has really
only been a peaceful place since the mid 19th
century. Prior to this they were all into something
or other and bandits and highwaymen ruled the
roads - that's why the big fortified houses
were there as a protection.
Plus, when people who have been honest and hard
working all their lives, suddenly find that
it has availed them nothing, the incentive to
be honest rather thins. Good people, left with
nothing, locked in a society that doesn't give
a dam. I can understand perfectly that some
crime becomes very acceptable.
There was one other thing in the file I found
quite amusing. In the allotments could be found
certain large plants that the oldies explained
were Indian Sunflowers - I bet they got a big
chuckle out of that. Dad knew what it was as
he had spent many years overseas on Indian and
other Asian stations. Today we call it Marijuana
- no wonder the oldies were always so blasted
happy.
