VICTOR DAVID JONES
8TH MAY 1945 – 15th OCTOBER 1998
To the sound of church bells and much rejoicing a new baby boy entered the world of the Jones family home at 49 Elfrida Crescent on the morning of the 8th May 1945. Later, in the street outside, a huge bonfire was built and with whatever food and drink could be scraped together from war time rations the neighbourhood ate, drank, sang and generally celebrated the event. Coincidentally, it was also VE Day, the day on which the war in Europe officially finished. To commemorate this fact, the new baby was given the name Victor.
However, his was not the only birth in that household that morning as the family cat delivered a litter of kittens in the coal cellar. Naturally we children were happy over the birth of a much needed additional male child to offset against the multitude of females around the house, namely maternal grandma (Florence Ada), Peg and Pat. Naturally the adults were extremely pleased at the arrival of the new baby, but for us kids, one child seemed somewhat insignificant compared with the multiple kittens that our cat had produced.
From very early on Vic had asthma, a condition which at times left him gasping for breath and had all the family extremely concerned over his wellbeing. However, he survived to develop into an extremely boisterous young boy who, despite the disparity in ages between them, insisted in joining in all the games of Ken and George.
Whilst still very young Vic was sitting in a pushchair and, presumably, minding his own business, although being Vic this could not necessarily be guaranteed, when he was bitten by a dog; in absence of information to the contrary, it is assumed that the dog survived.
Being so much younger than his siblings meant that he did not often have the opportunity to play such games as those in which a young boy would normally indulge, however, this did not usually bother him because, instead, he would join in those of Ken and George, invited or not.
Cricket was one game in which Vic was to play an early part. Around 1950 cousin Albert Brenack, thanks to his parents, Rose (née Jones) and Harry, had provided us with some very good quality cricket gear. During the holiday periods, as a result of possessing this equipment, we were able to organise various games of cricket with some neighbouring children and school chums. Generally, these games were played at Beckenham Place Park and would start as early as possible after breakfast; this usually meant that play would start on grass which was still very damp from the dew.
At this time Vic was only 5, however, the fact that he was so much younger and smaller than the rest of us was of little consideration to Mum. She, not wanting a miserable and moaning child moping around the house and getting under her feet, insisted that it would be no hardship for Ken and George to have their little brother accompany them. Vic was between 5 to 7 years younger than the rest of the group, which at around 10-12 years old would have normally preferred to play with people of their own age and physical capabilities, but they accepted the situation; the fact that we owned the equipment may have had some bearing on their level of tolerance or, of course, we just attracted very nice people.
Much of the time he tended to be a happy, carefree companion but certain things about the games he did not enjoy. For example, he didn’t particularly like to chase after the ball when it had been struck perhaps some 50 or more yards, or depending upon his frame of mind perhaps no more than a few feet, beyond him. On those occasions when he was more reluctant than at other times to collect the ball he would, as if he had all the time in the world, saunter after it at a snails pace, his hands buried deeply in the pockets of his short trousers. Vic’s shorts would flap about his knees, his shirt, struggling to enjoy a separate existence, would be almost totally adrift from his waist band whilst his very blond hair would look as if a comb had not been within arm’s length of it for a long time. With as much patience as we could muster we would await the return of the ball. Naturally, after several episodes of this we would position Vic where it was to be hoped that the ball would not venture.
However, one of the most exasperating aspects of his game then was, having once the opportunity to bat, his reluctance to surrender the bat when out. With Vic the fact that his bails may have been knocked off or one or more of the stumps was standing at a drunken angle was not necessarily an indication that he should depart but merely a point of negotiation for the continuation of his innings; he always wanted and, for the sake of a quiet life, often got further opportunities to continue his batting. This doggedness was to stand him in good stead later in his life.
1956 was a year of some change in the active life of Vic for it was then, having reached the age of 11, that he left Elfrida Primary School and joined the comprehensive school located at Sedgehill Road, Bellingham. Elfrida Infants and Primary School could be said to have much to answer for, because it was that institution at which all six children had attended or would attend for the greater part of their initial education. Or perhaps one should offer up some sympathy to the staff who between the years 1940 to 1964, except for a brief break from 1956 until 1959, had had to contend with one or more of the Jones clan.
1956 provided what must have been the most exciting incident of his early years although it started as merely a summer holiday. George’s friend, Vic Snowden, owned, at Leysdown on the Isle of Sheppey, a chalet which the family were able to rent for a week. It must have been relatively large since it was able to accommodate Peg, Ted, George, Ken, Vic, Pat and Fred or we slept in shifts; time is kind and one’s memories fade.
For those who have never had the opportunity to visit Sheppey, think of any of the most beautiful white sandy beaches which you may have been lucky enough to visit or picture one of those earthly paradises beloved by television advertisers. Then, having insulated yourself with a wonderfully warm feeling, try to imagine what the exact opposite of this might be like and you will have arrived at a fair approximation of the nature of Leysdown’s beaches. Sheppey lies in the Thames estuary and provides all the benefits which may be derived from black, slimy mud, constantly churned up by the ebb and flow of the tide.
Therefore, it is hardly surprising that Fred and Vic should have decided to escape from that rather uninviting spot and try their hands at sculling back and forth along the shoreline in a rubber dinghy. Unfortunately the tide and the winds were against them and before long they found themselves drifting a long way from shore in the general direction of the continent of Europe and unable to return. Fortunately someone spotted their predicament and called out the rescue helicopter from RAF Manston; unfortunately the helicopter was already answering another call. Eventually, from somewhere along the coast, a lifeboat was launched and the intrepid travellers were rescued and returned to shore.
Somewhere in the family archives there exists a local newspaper report describing the condition of Fred and Vic at the time of their rescue. Its rather fanciful language indicates that they were suffering from exhaustion and possibly starvation, dehydration and, probably, in the last stages of typhoid, bubonic plague and woodworm. As at the time she was pregnant with Julie and extremely concerned about the safety of her husband and her brother a veil is drawn over Pat’s greeting of Fred on his return to shore.
Later, when not attending school, he was a regular and active visitor at Albacore Crescent, Lewisham during the time Pat and family were living there. He enjoyed playing with Julie and Janice and, weather allowing, Pat would take them all to Ladywell Recreational Grounds, one of the entrances to which was a few yards from The Watson’s flat.
Vic loved sweets and so when he first left school and was earning some money, which would have been around 16 years of age, he would on a Sunday afternoon send Ros, then about 8 years of age, to the local shop, probably Atterton’s, to buy a variety of boiled sweets. Once these had been acquired he would settle down to watch ‘The Saint’ or a black and white gangster movie or cowboy film that was so much a part of Sunday afternoon viewing during the early 60s. Ros confirms that he did allow her the odd sweet but, possibly in consideration for her teeth, not too many.
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