1970s London

Discovering the Capital

Alec Forshaw

• Publisher: The History Press
• Year: 2011
• Print ISBN: 9780752456911
• eBook ISBN: 9780750956468
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

Following a sheltered childhood and a sequestered education in Cambridge, and having missed out on the swinging sixties, Alec Forshaw was ready for a dose of the wider world. London in the early 1970s was where the lights shone brightest. In reality, it was still a city struggling to find its post-war identity, full of declining industries and derelict docklands, a townscape blighted by undeveloped bomb sites, demonic motorway proposals and slum clearance schemes. The streets were full of costermongers and greasy-spoon cafes, but enlivened by ghettos of immigrants and student culture. Ideas of traffic constraint and recycling rubbish were in their infancy. It was a decade which saw the three-day week, the Notting Hill riots and the last of the anti-Vietnam war protests. This sequel to Growing Up in Cambridge portrays the London of over thirty years ago as it appeared to a young man in his twenties, finding his feet, coming of age, and stumbling across the sights and sounds of an extraordinary city.

FINDING WORK

Finding a job was not as easy as I had thought, or been led to believe, but to be fair I wasn’t particularly sure what I wanted to do or was capable of doing. Temporary summer jobs picking fruit in Cambridgeshire orchards and working in Chivers’ jam factory, and pre-Christmas Post Office sorting weren’t promising prospects, and a degree in Geography, even with a decent 2:1 grade, wasn’t exactly vocational.

Careers advice both at school in 1969 and at university in 1972 in Cambridge had been virtually zero. I thought, briefly, about applying to do a teaching diploma at the London Institute of Education in Malet Street, filled in the application form, and even went for an interview. I quickly decided against it. After seven years of cramming at school and three years of lectures, supervisions and exams at college, I had had enough of academia. Apart from a few of my friends who were tied into a seven-year haul at the School of Architecture or medical college, or off to do their law exams in London, ‘getting a job’ was the thing to do.

Someone had suggested the Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ) as a possibility, so I duly went for two days of aptitude tests in their rather forbidding offices in Cheltenham in April 1972. Neither the town nor their premises appealed, and I turned down the job offer.

A colleague of my father working in the Great Ouse River Board had mentioned town planning as an opportunity. In the early 1970s, with barely a handful of private-sector consultancies, that meant local government. Off I plodded for interviews at Harlow New Town, with Frederick Gibberd, Stevenage New Town (a return train fare was 80p) and West Suffolk Planning Department in Bury St Edmunds, all unsuccessful.

Finally, in June, I was offered a job in Gillingham, Kent, and a month later, just after my twenty-first birthday, I started work as a trainee planner. The pay was £ 1,311 per annum, or after tax £81 per month, riches indeed after my annual student grant of £400. For four weeks I endured digs with a clucking elderly landlady in Abbey Road. Then I spied an advert in a shop window for a ground-floor bed-sit at No. 515 Canterbury Street, bang opposite the Town Hall and the creaking Portakabins where I worked. At £5 a week (plus coins in the slot for electricity), the rent was a quarter of my weekly wage, and I had to share a minimally equipped kitchen and a prehistoric bathroom with various odd characters who lived in other rooms in the house. But at least I could virtually roll out of bed into the office.

For all the benevolence of Raymond Williams, the Director of Planning, the motherliness of Mrs Brown, the dry wit and sagacity of my colleagues Paul Wood and John Dawson, I hated it. I was given the job of designating Tree Preservation Orders, which took me out and about and into the beautiful, rolling Kent countryside, and at least I learnt something about trees. Social life in Kent, however, was non-existent, apart from an invitation to join the local Rotary Club. Everyone, it seemed, went home promptly at five o’clock to their families in suburban houses on modern estates.

Fortunately, the ‘trainee’ part of the job title also meant that I was given day-release to do a professional planning course and sit for the Royal Town Planning Institute exams. I was offered places following interviews on the part-time courses at both the Polytechnic of North London and the Polytechnic of the South Bank, which had recently incorporated the old Brixton School of Building. I rejected the Polytechnic of North London because it was in a horrible building (undoubtedly true, and once voted the ugliest building in London) and in a dreary part of town which was difficult to get to. I wasn’t to know that within five years I would be living barely five minutes’ walk away! Instead, I started at the South Bank Poly in October 1972 in their passable premises in an old London County Council Board School in Battersea Park Road. The only other option had been the Polytechnic of Central London (formerly the Regent Street Poly, and now the University of Westminster), where the course was run by the radical socialist Thom Blair.

Majestic Battersea Power Station in its pomp, viewed across the river from Chelsea Embankment, 1974. (Geoffrey Pearce)

On Thursdays I would take the fast train from Kent up to Victoria, swap onto a slow train stopping at the first station over the bridge, either Battersea Park or Queenstown Road, and then trudge along to college for my lectures. On the opposite side of Battersea Park Road, as far south as the main-line railway to Waterloo, the Victorian terraces had recently been replaced by ugly slab blocks of Council housing, now known as the Doddington and Rollo Estates. The new service roads had been given ‘contemporary’ names such as Strasburg Road and Francis Chichester Way. Sometimes in the lunch break with a group of fellow students, I ventured into the Grove, a modern Trumans’ pub built for the estate, or the 1920s Eagle Tavern which alone had been spared the bulldozer. None of it inspired much confidence in town planning.

The main local landmark, then as now, was Battersea Power Station, still fully operational in 1972, with smoke billowing from the chimneys and mountainous piles of coal in the yards, extremely visible from the railway line. The power station too was still a relatively new building, and the B Station and fourth chimney had only been completed in 1955. While the 1930s A Station was closed in 1975, Battersea didn’t finally stop working until 1983, after fifty years of generating electricity for London.

Riverside power stations were regarded in the early 1970s as a perfectly acceptable and normal part of London life, neither satanic nor iconic. The older Lots Road Power Station on the other side of the river at Chelsea generated electricity for the Underground throughout the 1970s. The oil-fired Bankside Power Station, opposite St Paul’s Cathedral, was an even more recent building than Battersea, opened in 1963, and it operated until 1981. Nobody then was thinking about galleries of modern art or the problem of what to do with the leviathan that was Battersea.

After the intellectual rigours of my university degree, the part-time planning course was dull, little more than memorising lots of ‘facts’ and regurgitating the odd essay. Although the Polytechnic held its own exams for a diploma, I also had to sit the Royal Town Planning Institute’s own professional exams. These were held in the University of London’s examination halls in Taviton Street and Queen Square, Bloomsbury, depressingly huge rooms crammed with hundreds of child-sized desks and nervous students. Entrants were seated alphabetically and I never knew any of my neighbours. One was a man, old enough to be my father, called Fordham who asked me where I was from. He said he had come up from Devon and, bemoaning the 35 per cent failure rate, confessed that this was the twenty-third time he’d sat the exam. Thankfully I passed everything first time. Having completed Parts I, II, III and IV, I never wanted to do another exam again in my life.

Coming up to college in London for the day was fine and dandy and a chance to do something with friends in the evening. The worst thing was having to travel back later to Kent to work the following day. I longed to be in London permanently. Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait too long.

HARROW AND WEALDSTONE

Harrow perhaps wasn’t my number one choice for a job in London. Indeed, the London Borough of Harrow had officially only been part of London since 1965, when the former Urban District Council and Municipal Borough had been transferred from the old county of Middlesex to the newly established Greater London and it still retained its old Middlesex postal address. Harrow had been the only one of the thirty-two new London Boroughs to retain its previous administrative boundaries completely unchanged. All the others involved mergers of small Metropolitan Boroughs or other boundary adjustments. Perhaps that explained the apparent stability of the place.

Having failed to get a job in Islington in April 1973, and with little else being advertised, I accepted Harrow’s offer of a job as an Assistant Planning Officer in July. Before the interview I’d never actually been to or through Harrow. I’d never really twigged where Harrow School, as in Eton vs Harrow cricket matches and their most famous pupil, Winston Churchill, actually was.

After the huts and sheds of Kent, the new Civic Centre of the London Borough of Harrow was impressively grand; a six-storey, free-standing block, square in plan and with a smaller cube attached which was the Council Chamber, all set in a flat sea of tarmac car parking. The building was only a year old, having been completed in 1972, and I probably saw it at its gleaming best. Subsequent architectural critics were less kind; ‘heavy-handed vertical and horizontal rhythms and clumsy projecting panels’ was how The Buildings of England described it in 1991. Nevertheless, the views out from my office on the fourth floor, north over the rooftops of Wealdstone and south to the trees and spire of St Mary’s Church on the hill, were engaging.

I was allocated to the Local Plans team and the friendly chap who’d interviewed me became my amiable boss. Brian was semi-local and although he now lived and commuted in from Hemel Hempstead, he knew the area like the back of his hand. He and his colleague Jack, a northerner who’d moved down south from Louth in Lincolnshire, were both keen to make trips out of the office and equally willing to take me along too.

Although it wasn’t by any means the biggest of the outer London Boroughs it was still a vast area, including Pinner, Stanmore, Canons Park, Hatch End and Kenton, as well as North, South, West and Central Harrow, Harrow Weald and, of course, Harrow-on-the-Hill. With over 210,000 residents it was twice the size of Cambridge, my home town.

Harrow Civic Centre, 1974. (Author’s Collection)

The main immediate task at hand was preparing plans for the future development and ‘improvement’ of Harrow town centre and Wealdstone, which appeared to consist primarily of highway engineers’ proposals for building new relief roads and bypasses to serve multi-storey car parks and new shopping malls. The same, no doubt, was going on in planning departments all over the country.

Wealdstone was in reality a very mundane local shopping centre, straggling along its north-south High Street, off which ran a series of east-west side streets lined with late Victorian terraces and small factories. Major manufacturing industries dominated the area, with the giant Kodak factory employing 4,700 people, HMSO print works another 1,000, Winsor & Newton paints and Hamilton’s Brush Co. a further 900, and Whitefriars Glass over 300. Most of these workers lived in those humble, late Victorian terraces. The narrow curving road bridge over the railway line by Harrow and Wealdstone Station was a bottleneck. Beside it and just beyond the edge of the office car park, the Railway Station Hotel had seen better days and was not the place to go to celebrate, or in fact to go at all.

The Civic Centre had a subsidised staff canteen, with main meals costing 20p and puddings 5p. But with ready access to a car, and a laissez-faire regime of timekeeping, trips out to the remoter parts of the Borough were a lot more fun. There was always the excuse of ‘needing to see something’ on the way. The Queen’s Head or the Victory in Pinner High Street were popular destinations, but best was the Case Is Altered public house in Old Redding, up the hill at Harrow Weald. It seemed a strange name for a pub, but someone said it was a corruption of ‘Casa Alta’, which soldiers returning from the Napoleonic peninsula wars had called it. It was certainly a ‘high house’, with fine views from the back garden to the south. On the north side of Old Redding were the overgrown grounds of Grimsdyke, the extravagant Norman Shaw house where W.S. Gilbert (of Gilbert and Sullivan) had lived and died while heroically saving someone from drowning in the garden pond.

The picturesque half-timbered Old English-style house had been used for twenty-five years as a tuberculosis clinic and then a location for films such as The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, Ronnie Barker’s Futtocks End, and a host of Vincent Price and Boris Karloff horror films. John Betjeman had featured Grimsdyke in his 1973 Metro-Land film for the BBC. By then the house was experiencing a roller-coaster ride as a hotel, and in 1974 there were big signs in red letters on the padlocked gates saying ‘DANGER: KEEP OUT’.

Many of Harrow’s grand country houses had already been lost, and in the 1970s nobody really knew what to do with those that were left. I did manage to get inside Bentley Priory, the magnificent eighteenth-century house remodelled by Sir John Soane, which also had been the headquarters of the RAF Fighter Command during the war and their nerve-centre during the Battle of Britain. This too enjoyed a fabulous panorama from its terraces and lawns towards the south. After years of neglect by the Ministry of Defence, an outbreak of dry rot caused the closure of the mess building in March 1975 and the embarrassing relocation of the Summer Ball, attended by the Queen Mother, into a temporary marquee. It caused quite a fuss, and instigated a fundraising campaign to ‘Save the Priory’. I was lucky to see it then, because a disastrous fire in 1979 destroyed much of the original internal fabric.

When I started work I had taken lodgings in a dreary bed-sit in Welldon Crescent, halfway between the Civic Centre and central Harrow. The shopping centre in those days had little to commend it. The National Coal Board, inexplicably, had their headquarters in Lyon Road (not many coalmines in Harrow) in the prosaically named Coal House, one of a series of dull 1960s slabs built on stilts with cars parked underneath, and there were offices of local estate agents and solicitors. It was dead in the evening.

The miners’ strike in December 1973 (when they rejected a 13 per cent pay offer) and the three-day week which was imposed by the government in January 1974 propelled the NCB into the news, and boosted the sale of candles. The rationing of electricity and petrol, triggered by the quadrupling of oil prices by Arab countries, affected all commercial operations including the Civic Centre. There was humorous talk about the government banning the sale or use of various luxury items such as hedge-trimmers and hostess trolleys, even restricting households to heating only one room. Edward Heath apparently vetoed any mention of the troubles by the Queen in her Christmas message. For me, as someone with little responsibility, it all seemed rather exciting at the time, even disappointing when the matter was resolved and we all went back to working five days a week in early March.

Winsor & Newton’s factory, 1973. (Author’s Collection)

Harrow-on-the-Hill offered more congenial surroundings and attractions such as the Castle and North Star pubs and the King’s Head Hotel. I even managed to wangle my way into using the school squash courts. It was the only contact I ever had with the school. Although they owned a swathe of property in the village, they were singularly self-contained and seemed to bother no one, and vice versa. There was something rather unreal about this hilltop enclave, when at the foot of the slopes beyond the playing fields and rugby posts there stretched mile upon mile of suburbia in every direction.

The decision in 1974 to embark on appraisals and designations of conservation areas gave an added excuse to spend time in Harrow-on-the-Hill, Stanmore and Pinner. At that time conservation areas were a relatively new invention (introduced by the 1967 Civic Amenities Act), and certainly a novelty for the London Borough of Harrow. The instruction had filtered down from the Director of Development and Technical Services. Geoffrey Foxley was an architect with a reputation for gruffness, whose spacious office was, predictably, on the top floor. Although we sometimes saw him in the lift, I was too junior to have any direct contact. I went up to the eyrie only once, on my last day, mumbling my thanks before rushing off to the King’s Head for farewell drinks. After wading my way through the pints stacked up on the table, I have no idea how I ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Prologue
• Finding Work