Page 33 - My Story (final)

Grandpa Lanzer had bought each of his children a house and then had them pay him back over a period
of time. We had collected quite a bit of money as wedding presents so had a deposit for a modest house.
The house we bought was very modest. It was a two-family workman’s terraced house in Streatham near
Streatham Common Station, had a sitting tenant on the ground floor and was on the market for £675. It
seemed solid enough – Auntie Fanny came along and got down on her knees and stuck her head up the
chimney and declared it OK – and each flat consisted of a kitchen, breakfast room, living room, bedroom
and outside loo. Well, the loo was actually part of the house, but you had to go out the backdoor and
make a sharp left to come in again. There was no bathroom. We made an offer of £600 and got it. The
bank accepted £200 as a down payment and we had a mortgage of £400 which we paid off at about £3.10
a month. There was a nice old man living downstairs who took parcels in for us and let the coalman into
the back yard to deliver coal – our only form of heat.

We set about painting and making improvements. The first improvement was a bath. We made
room for this in the kitchen and put a counter on top of it. The counter was so heavy, it took two of us to
lift it so we both had to be in if one of us decided to take a bath! We installed a very modern(then) grey
tile fireplace in the living room, a low brick wall with wrought iron gate in the front of the house and
painted – and painted and painted. Phil O’Grady helped – bless him, he painted for a beer and his supper!

We loved that house and were happy there (we’ve probably been happy everywhere) although it
had one serious disadvantage. The walls were thin, and we could hear every sound from next door so
that if we had a row, it had to be in whispers! Do you know how difficult it is to maintain a position in
whispers?

About four years ago we saw the very house, 9 Fallsbrook Road, being advertised for sale. The
price? £600,000! I am sure the whole area has been gentrified, along with most of the poorer spots in
London. We could probably no longer afford to live there! The moral of this, I suppose, is to NEVER sell
a piece of real estate.

Now we needed transport. Need is the wrong word – you never need your own transport in
London, but it’s nice to have. We neither of us had driving licenses, either, although Peter had a limited
one allowing him to drive the Vespa. So, we set about learning to drive.

Peter was auditing for Teddy in those days and one of his clients was Tooting Tyres owned by a
Mr. Mullen. One day he went in there and Rose, Mrs. Mullen, said, “George found just the thing for you
yesterday. He was at the junk yard and there was this car, in good condition. He gave a tenner for it but
you can have it and run it until it starts costing you money.”. “It” was a 1935 SS Jaguar, black, long and
sleek with a running board. They were right, it ran beautifully but burned a gallon of oil on the shortest
trip. We didn’t have it for long – it became too heavy for me to push – but we both learned to drive on
it.

The next car was a 1934 Austin 10 sold to us by friends June and Brian Ludlow. We paid £10 for
it on the understanding that if we made a profit when we sold it, they would receive 50%. The Austin ran
well but had a hole in the floor beneath the passenger seat which let the rain in. We eventually sold it for
£15 and Brian got his share!

We lived happily at Fallsbrook Road for three years. We furnished it in a very modern style (now known
as mid-century). We’d had our eye on a lovely dining room suite in Pratts of Streatham for some time and
were waiting for it to be offered on sale. We’d go in week after week, stroking it and gently scuffing the
legs when the salesman wasn’t looking. Then one day that blessed salesman called and said it was going
in the next sale – were we interested? Were we? We were down there like a shot making arrangements.

The neighbours at Fallsbrook Road were friendly and helpful – one of them was a builder and he was
always willing to do odd jobs for us at a reasonable price. We liked Mr. Jones, the Welsh milkman – well,
he was a bit dour, but his wife was helpful and the people in the corner shop were, too but best of all we
liked Mr. Rapp, the butcher. It was Grandpa Lanzer who told us to look out for Mr. Rapp – they had been
interned together on the Isle of Mann. It turned out, Mr. Rapp was just around the corner from us and I
learned more about cuts of meat and ways to cook them from him than from anyone else, ever. He also

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