Story - Basham and Cheese - Totteridge Hill's Double Act

Basham and Cheese were not comedians. These two men in their Totteridge Hill shops helped keep us fed in World War II. Bill Basham was a frightening figure, wielding his long knife or chopper, his ‘white’ apron covered with blood, as he dispensed the shilling per head’s (5p) worth of meat and the occasional sausage to his grateful ladies and barked the amount to his cashier to ring up. But like Jones the Butcher in TV’s “Dads Army” he always came across as a very fair man. And I loved his sawdust floor.

The other side of Healey Avenue the aptly-named Alf Cheese ran his dairy business. Milk was one of the few unrationed food items. Also in those days milk was not sold in other shops. Nor were there any other dairies in the area. So Alf delivered milk to most houses in Bowerdean. He must surely have had helpers—apart from his wife Emmy who ran the shop—and a vehicle but I never saw that either, as he strode along Rowan Avenue, always in his gum boots (straight from the farm?), pulling a trolley loaded with crates and bottles. He was a fresh-faced, civilised man, who could always spare a moment to chat. But when we saw his approaching figure “out of hours” we were filled with dread. His shop phone was probably the only one in the area and messages of death and disaster often came via Alf who would turn out at any hour of day or night to deliver the bad news.

The next shop down the hill is the only one which has kept its identity to the present day. The news agents in those days were the Brodericks. He was a glum businessman who always looked as if he would rather have been out on the golf course. He was a man of few words. His wife had plenty. But as she was very deaf, he didn’t bother to reply. Having to get up early to mark the papers was visibly a daily annoyance to her. Sweets were not rationed but were very scarce, so you had to be particularly nice, to get any. One morning, as I went to collect the newspapers for my round, for some reason she offered a whipped-cream walnut (a rare chocolate treat) to a girl—who said she didn’t like them! She was lucky to get out of the shop unscathed. Mrs B. ranted at the ungrateful girl, while the sycophantic customers voiced their own love of the delicacy and their high regards for the proprietor’s generosity. She didn’t hear and her husband was playing a crucial shot at the time. I escaped to do my round—with the usual little bag of sweets in my pocket…….

Leonard Hortin who kept a grocer’s shop up the hill could have been a kindred spirit to troubled newsagent, Mr Broderick. He had come down from running an antiques shop in Beaconsfield to serving us council house tenants. But he was genial to all and brought real competition to the co-op next door. His prim sister was a contrast to her glamorous, outgoing sister-in-law. The shop made an interesting visit for an impressionable chapel lad! Add this to a twopenny (1p) bag of chips from the Wakefield twins next door (the highest shop in the parade) and I was in heaven until my ‘caring’ mother wanted to count the chips. (The twins were identical but one was reputed to be more generous than the other!)

Unbelievably – in these days of closing shops – there were three grocers on Totteridge Hill in my boyhood, not reckoning Lord’s at the bottom and the Post Office at the top – the traditional Co-op, the enterprising Hortin’s and the quiet store next to the newsagents, run by misses Ray, one very slim and the other well-built. They had their own clientele and were said to be generous, especially when people fell on hard times. So that excluded us! Patient reader (surely singular?) we’re nearly home! Please stay, as I describe my two favourite shops. To the one I was sent. The other was a twice-yearly secret mission.

In those pre-Tesco days Co-op was king. Mum and most others were totally committed. Each had a “share number” (ours 6542) and twice a year a dividend was paid on all purchases – usually about 18 old pence (7p) in the pound. Returning home from a long queue with £2 or £3 (equivalent to a day’s pay) was a cause for celebration. The Co-op horse brought our bread; Mr Coker our Co-op coal; Co-op Butcher (Mr Basham) and grocer (Mr Chandler) dealt with most of our rations. Nearly everything in the grocers was stacked on shelves behind the wooden counter. Mr Chandler, a shy gentleman, busied himself with weighing and bagging sugar and tea, wrapping the margarine or much-patted butter and slicing the cheese or rare sliver of ham. Cecil Puddephatt, the perfect grocer who later set up his own business in Totteridge Drive, and his ladies served you, putting the items on the counter and taking your money. I was sent sometimes to get the week’s groceries, with only the petrol bus coughing its slow way up the hill to watch out for. There wasn’t usually much to carry – rations being quite meagre – but this particular day I was really weighed down. Mum was horrified to find I’d cleared the entire counter and had brought home several families rations – probably a capital offence! We returned what wasn’t ours, and the Police were not called (no phone). Thus I am alive today!

Before Christmas and Mum’s birthday I used to slip quietly down to the lowest shop on the hill – Gertie Reeves ladies and children’s clothes shop. A gracious, well attired, soft spoken lady gives me her full attention, as I select the usual apron or dozen mixed-colour cotton reels. The whole shop has a fresh, perfumed aroma. The war goes on outside but here in Miss Reeves shop all is well with the world – apart from the nuisance of every price ending in “three farthings” and no-one having change. Happy Days!

 (I am grateful to my old school companion, Mrs Audrey Gellert (Fagg) and my fellow Methodist Mrs Evelyn Rolfe for their help with this article. Evelyn reminded me that QUEUING was unknown before the war: people just barged!)

David Church (Totteridge Resident)

(Note: The competition has now closed)