Another of the ‘Notes of the Week’ articles by E.B. published in the Whitstable Times in the latter half of the 1940′s. Supposedly from the diaries of two visitors and their families from London, it does rather extol the virtues of the town as a holiday destination.
Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones, two London businessmen and lifelong friends, came down to Whitstable with their families last week-end for a short and well-earned holiday. While they were here each of them kept a diary. Interesting diaries both of them are and – as it was Mr. Smith who suggested the idea – we will give pride of place to his diary and read it through from start to finish.
Friday, August 2nd.
Just arrived. Awful journey. Departure train crowded when we got to Victoria. Separated from family in the struggle to board train. Managed to find seat by wedging myself between very fat lady and thin, old gentleman with perfectly bald head, leperous features and no eyebrows, who glared at me through a pair of rimless glasses. My attention soon given to a boy – odious little monster – fidgeting about on the seat opposite. His mother, stout, podgy female who never left off smiling, kept feeding Horace – that was his name – with sweets and chocolates and calling him “duckie” and “darling.” His new shoes – sand shoes I think you call them – frequently scraped my shins as he waved his legs around. Seeing that this seriously annoyed me he became friendly and, wriggling off his seat, pawed at me with his sticky fingers. “Horace, ducky,” said his doting parent, “Do keep still, darling. Sing something, dearie, now do, there’s a sweetie!” Springing obediently to attention, the little horror opened his mouth, and proceeded to stun his unwilling audience with a nerve-racking rendition of “I’ll walk beside you.” When no applause greeted this vocal effort the fond mother of the precocious Horace looked surprised and offended. “We call him the little nightingale,” she said proudly. “Now try again, ducky. Give them ‘Angels ever bright and fair.’ I’m sure they will like that one.” I fled into the packed corridor and fought my way down to the far end. “Angels ever bright and fair,” indeed! Screeching demons! Jones has just looked in and asked me to come out for a drink at the nearest local. Happy thought.
Entry made in Mr. Smith’s diary two hours later. “Went with Jones to a dozen, or more pubs. ‘Sold out’ notices on all doors. Drink a weak lemonade before going to bed.”
Saturday, August 3rd.
Up early this morning. Good breakfast put on table by landlady, a nice, homely soul who has lived in Whitstable all her life. The house is her own property. Husband dead. He was connected with the oyster fishing industry. Oysters out of season. If you like them, she says, you can get plenty of cockles and winkles. Jones and his family call for us and we all go out to see the sights. Streets crowded with people, shops ditto and everyone spending money like water. One thing we can’t buy – not a single cigarette anywhere. Our Susy and Peggy Jones get very irritable because of this. Secretly I’m rather glad. Those girls smoke far too many cigarettes. Do them good to be without.
Make our way to Tankerton, passing through the harbour, where we stop to look at the ships and boats. An old seaman we get into conversation with tells us that the harbour has three wharves and eleven working berths, and a craft capacity of 1,175 feet. Five barges can be dealt with at once, three loading and two unloading. Ships up to 1,000 tons come in he says, steamers from the Continent, Ireland and United Kingdom ports. Dredging operations are going on. All very interesting.
I like Tankerton. Nice, green slopes to lie on and look at the sea. Lots of people swimming and paddling in the water. Jones wants me to have a dip, but I’m not keen on it, so he goes in with the young folks, while I sit on the beach with Mary and Jones’ wife. They are knitting as usual and I smoke a pipe and read the paper. When Jones has had his swim we cut across to a big hotel on the front. Find plenty to drink there. They put on a good lunch. We all have a fine time and go for a trip in a steam launch before having tea in a sort of garden park called the Towers. A very pleasant evening, with music and dancing on the lawn under the trees, and then a long walk along the front and back down through Whitstable to our boarding house. Sleep like a rock.
Sunday, August 4th.
Jones, who got up early, comes in with the Sunday papers. Looks a bit peeved. I ask him what’s the matter. When he tells me I have to laugh. It seems that on his way down to the paper shop he spotted two or three boys who had a cat and were tormenting it. Jones stopped them and they ran off. One looked round and shouted, “Yah, furriner!” Had the boy called him, “ancient Briton,” now, Jones would have been pleased and puffed up, without a doubt, for he took the part of an ancient Briton in an historical pageant at Stockwell last Christmas. But to be dubbed a foreigner touched him on the raw. When our landlady heard of it she laughed too, and told us that when she was a girl all strangers coming to Whitstable were regarded as foreigners.
Spent a quiet and enjoyable day. We all went to All Saints’ parish Church for morning service. Beautiful country round it. In the afternoon went on some high downs just outside the town. Liked it so much we stayed there until dusk was falling. Magnificent sunset. Slow walk home to supper and to bed. Sleep like rock again.
Monday, August 5th.
I’m writing this before we go to the station. Spent the day at Seasalter. Nice place. Perfect combination of sea and country. I’d like to get hold of one of those dinky, little bungalows you see there. Must see what can be done about it. Just the place to spend the weekend in. Everybody in our party saying what a ripping time they’ve had and wishing it could be longer, even our Susy and Peggy Jones, although they are thinking ardently of those cigarettes they mean to buy at the first kiosk they come to after leaving the train at Victoria. I’ve bet Susy a packet of twenty Player’s that the kiosk will have no more cigarettes to sell by the time she gets there. As we leave for Whitstable railway station a dark thought crosses my mind. Shall I have as fellow passengers again, Horace, the little nightingale, and his fond mother? If so, I shall be tempted to wring the little demon’s neck.
The diary kept by Mr. Jones was one of extreme brevity. Here it is:
Friday, August 2nd.
I was told on the train coming down that there were more pubs in Whitstable than in any other town of its size in the land. The pubs are there, all right, and along with Smith I went to most of them, but could we get a drink? No. sir, not so much as the dregs from a barrel of four ale. They were one and all sold out. Disgusting!
Saturday, August 3rd.
Happy time once more. Plenty of beer.
Sunday, August 4th.
More beer.
Monday. August 5th.
Beer drying up swiftly, but was lucky enough to dip my beak in one or two pints.
E.B.
