DAVE'S VAULT OF EVIL.

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The Wargrave Manor House.

From a very young age, (as I remember) the Manor House grounds at Wargrave were always accessible to the villagers.
Although we didn’t have right-of-way, there was a kind consideration from the owners at the time, who didn’t feel threatened in any way by allowing walkers, children and possibly ‘poachers’ to roam the land.

I never even realised until I was in my teens that the land we used as an extended playground WAS infact ‘private’ land at all. (Of course, these days you can’t even take photo’s within spitting distance without a burly, armed security guard questioning your motives).

There was a lad who I shall only call Dave in this blog entry, because if he’s not in a maximum security prison serving life for multiple murder or torture right now, he might Sue me, (or worse).

He was the chap who had the BIG bowie knife, a rip hook in one hand and a real ‘Colt 45’ in the other. (With real ammo too, which in those days you could buy from ‘Hammants’ at Henley perfectly legally). He also had the attitude and ‘mentality’ to match. He was about five years older than me, but I still think he was pretty lucky to count me as his friend. All the other lads kept well clear, to their credit.

Dave had a couple of sheets of corrugated tin at the bottom of his garden, which were propped up and used for target practice with his Colt 45. Fine, but he used to get me to hide behind it, pop my head up, and then move one way or the other. The game was, that he had to guess which way I’d moved and then try to hit me. The bullets would comfortably pierce the tin, but had slowed down enough not to pierce ME! It did used to sting quite badly, but you didn’t dare come out until Dave had tired of his target practice.
That’s just the kind of lad he was, bless him.

If you were to be stranded in some remote location with no hope of rescue and NO food, Dave would be the last person you’d need around, because he’d definitely EAT you.

Back to the Wargrave Manor grounds, and the field to the left of the main gate as you look at it. Inside, what looked from the road like just any other clump of blackberry bushes, was the entrance to an old air-raid shelter. Dave decided this day to hack his way through the brambles to the opening, which was covered with yet another piece of old corrugated tin.
Amongst all of Dave’s regular ‘exploring regalia’, he had a torch. So it seemed like a great idea to go down and explore. We might find all sorts down there. Dead bodies, hidden treasure, who knows? So we crept down very carefully with ME obviously leading the way, hacking at all the cobwebs and stuff with my trusty hawthorn branch. (Always carry a hawthorn branch when you’re an exploring kid. It’s strong, springy, and very hard to break).

There seemed to be several compartments down there. It was bigger than we thought it’d be, so we were having a good ‘mooch’ around. Then Dave said he was just going back to the entrance to get his bag of ‘regalia’. I didn’t suspect a thing, and stood there waiting. Not long I might add, as the ‘Evil Dave’ decide to turn off his torch, bolt for the exit, and cover it up with the tin, making it pitch-black down there. I shouted and shouted for Dave to stop messing about, but he didn’t answer, or wouldn’t answer.

To say panic set in would be a bit of an understatement. I was terrified of spiders at the best of times, and this was my worst nightmare. I fumbled and felt my way around for what seemed like forever, shouting out to Dave all the time, with no answer. Eventually I found the exit steps and climbed them as fast as I could. Only to hit my head on the tin, which was secured SOLID. I pushed and pushed with no joy whatsoever. I shouted and screamed at the top of my voice hoping to attract the attention of the people who lived in the house on the opposite side of the road, but no luck.

Eventually, I heard a little snigger from above, and realised that Dave was actually SITTING on the tin so that I couldn’t move it. He thought it was extremely funny, and couldn’t stop laughing all the way home. I, on the other hand, had nightmares for months after.

But STILL I would go back and call for him to go ‘adventuring’ with.

Some of us never learn I suppose. As you probably have already guessed, there’s more to come from the ‘Dave’s vault of evil’ in future posts.

Catch you later,

Pete.


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Henley Regatta -The Fair & Rastus.

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Henley Regatta -The Fair & Rastus.

Growing up in the village of Wargrave in the 50’s was a
full time adventure, and unlike today, a totally ‘white’ one. By that I mean there were no coloured people in the community. There were foreign residents, but all were white. So when a young lad called ‘Rastus’ started as an apprentice chef at the St George & Dragon Hotel it really was a novelty. He instantly became the talk of the village.

Call me ‘pushy’ if you like, but whenever anyone new came to the village, I was generally the first one there to claim them as ‘my mate’. The village was then, and probably still is a magnet for overseas visitors, and back in the day, there were several railway coaches down at the railway siding that were permanently hired out as ‘holiday homes’.

People from all over the world would take their vacations camping in these fully equipped train carriages, and I was a bit of a ‘goal poacher’ as far as befriending the kids that holidayed there. So when Rastus came on the scene it was only natural that ‘I’ got to him first. Albeit that he was 16 and I was only 11. (I always thought I was 17, even at the age of eight. Still do)

Everybody in the village took to Rastus as he had the wickedest grin and greatest sense of humour. Wherever he went, he lit up the place. He was an orphan from a children’s home in Somerset, so it was even funnier to hear him speak in a strong west-country accent. But growing up in an orphanage environment made him very street-wise, and for a slightly built chap, he was as tough as old boots. Which brings me on to our visit to the Henley Regatta Fair.

Rastus, being a worker, had bought himself a little BSA bantam to race about on. He used to let us ride it up the ‘Straight Mile’ on the way to ‘Crazies Hill’ next to the Wargrave Manor grounds after it got dark. One of the best feelings in the world is the very first time you ride a motorbike and you feel that power ‘dragging’ you through the air at what seems like phenomenal speed, but probably only 20 or 30 miles per hour. Naturally, I was always begging him to take us on the back somewhere, just to get that ‘rush’.

The summer before I left Wargrave in 1963, Rastus said he’d take me on the motorbike to the Henley Regatta Fair. He’d pay if I wanted to go. Naturally, I didn’t need asking twice, but then he gave me a crash helmet to put on. In those days, only ‘squares’ wore crash helmets. Wearing them was a personal choice which not too many people took up. So at first I said “no way”, but then he said I’d definitely need it and he wasn’t taking me unless I put it on. (So I did).

We arrived at the packed fair that was in full swing, and because we were on a motorbike, could park up right next to the fair. But instead of just leaving the helmets on the handlebars which was the ‘usual’ thing to do in those days, Rastus said we needed to take them with us.

Now I don’t know if you’ve read my previous post about the Henley Royal regatta Fair, but I did mention the overpowering and bullying tactics of the ‘Hooray-Henry’s’ at the fair. We wanted to get onto the dodgems, and we wanted to ‘stay’ on them for several goes, so when our chance came we made a bee-line for a car and got in with a bit of bumping and bashing.

OK, we’re going round hell-for-leather, whacking the Hooray’s as hard as we could, (when we weren’t getting whacked first that is.) then Rastus told me to put my hand inside the helmet and grab the webbing inside as tightly as possible, we were staying on this little missile and no Hooray was going to get us out.

The cars stopped. The usual bashing, thumping and screaming started as the Hooray’s ran riot grabbing all the cars for themselves. (Until they got to ours that was).
Rastus was first to take aim and fire with his helmet, and in a state of sheer panic, I followed suit. We were swatting them like flies until they gave up and we got another ride in the same car.

This was fine until it came to the end of the second ride, because they were about to employ ‘new’ tactics. They came at us with brollies this time, so instead of hitting them with my crash helmet, I put it on my head to protect it while I just lashed out in defence. Rastus, on the other hand took a different tack. He gave me his helmet to hold and then started to set about them like a whirling dervish.
Kids think these days that Bruce Lee was fast, and he was. Well Rastus was certainly the fastest I’d ever seen in my life and he frightened the life out of the Hooray’s.

Strangely enough, the dodgems seemed to return to some form of order and normality after that, and we stayed on for several more rides before the money ran out and we high-tailed it back to the Bantam and off home.

Happy days.

Pete.

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