Fidler in the Hood: The Ruth Webster story
Ruth is an amazing woman, sharp as a whistle and immaculately turned out, with a treasure trove of memories of Margate.
GREETINGS. The second half of the year has begun; the countdown to Christmas starts this week and it’s exactly two years since I was anointed Uvongo scribe.
As readers recall, last week’s article was about the Oxenham-le Roux wedding and sure enough, I received a phone call from a local woman to tell me ‘she knew all about the original Oxenhams’ who settled in Margate in the 1930s.
My trusty ballpoint pen and notepad in hand, I popped along to the Margate Retirement Village (fondly referred to as the ‘Inn of the Sixth Happiness’) to meet the one-and-only Ruth Webster, surely the doyen of all South Coast residents? What an amazing woman: sharp as a whistle, immaculately turned out, with a treasure trove of Margate memorabilia and memories of living here since 1937 – exactly 80 years ago.
The Bothma family
Ruth (nee Bothma) brought her photo albums and clear and concise memories of life in the 30s, 40s and 50s, along with the six decades that followed. Born in Bulawayo, Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) in 1929, that would make Ruth 87 – a fact she was quite proud of.
The Bothmas moved to Johannesburg in the mid-thirties, then to Durban and finally arrived in Margate in 1937. Ruth’s father, prominent musician and brilliant pianist Dan Bothma, had been invited by the late Carl Erasmus (owner of the original Margate Hotel) to play for evening diners and mornings at the ‘Tea Gardens’ in Margate (owned by Gwen Castleyn and Lolly Futcher). ‘Bothma?’ I wondered aloud “That name rings a bell.”
Ruth replied “You’re quite right. You interviewed my brother Noel and his wife, Judy early last year and sister-in-law Jill, who was married to my late brother Robin.” It all fell into place. When I met Noel, he had ‘tickled the ivories’ on his piano – a chip off the old block, just like his father. Jill helped me locate a rare collector’s LP album of Peggy Lee, so this story was coming together.
Hotel guide for Margate
Ruth recalled every hotel and shop in Margate when the streets were dirt roads in the 30s. Manaba was known as ‘Thanet Sands’; two banks opened once a week, there were 13 private hotels in Margate and just one licenced hotel – Margate Hotel.
Further towards the beach were the ‘Tea Gardens’, built rondavel-style, with an added dance floor. Ruth literally gave me a ‘whirlwind tour’ of a long-gone-era of tourism in Margate, each establishment being located and described so vividly: The ‘Lekker Rus’ (now the Margate Medical Centre) was a popular venue and next door was the Majestic Hotel, then Oxenham’s Hotel, which became the Mayfair Hotel.
The Oxenhams arrived in the 30s, a leading business family in Margate with a bakery in Pietermaritzburg. Charlie Oxenham was the head of the family who always wore a tie round his trousers waist, never a belt nor braces. Obviously he was under the influence of Fred Astaire, whose movies were featured at the nearest bioscope Sinclairs Movie House in Port Shepstone.
One shilling (12d) for children, and 2/6d for adults. The Bothmas bought the old La Garde Hotel in March 1939, which became an accommodation centre for refugees from Egypt and the Middle East, due to the outbreak of WWII. Sounds familiar?
Bathing beauty
My head was spinning listening to Ruth’s ‘tales of old Margate’. It was too much in one go, my grey matter nowhere at the same level as Ruth’s. I made a mental note (ha ha!) to to do a follow-up story.
“Ruth”, I replied, “you’ve told me all about life in Margate sixty to eighty years ago, but how about you?” “I married Gordon Webster in 1950; the first ‘happy couple’ to be wed in Margate’s Anglican Church. We were married for 22 years before I was widowed in 1972. Never remarried and still here to tell the tale.”
Ruth showed me a wonderful old photograph of herself at 19 on Margate beach. Gordon certainly ‘made a good catch’ as Ruth was undoubtedly one of the local beauties. Reflecting on Ruth’s tales of old Margate, it must have been a genuine tropical paradise in that long-ago era. Golden days, as they say. Nowadays, ‘Fings Ain’t Wot They Used To Be’. But we still live in our wee patch of paradise. See you, Rob.
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