Open Writing

“’T oven weean’t draw. Ah’m flayed weea’n bahn t’ev t’sweep.” The key word in that statement is ‘sweep’. The need of such a service struck fear into the hearts of many already over-burdened housewives of a time long gone. Dirt and grime in the industrial areas of sixty and more years ago were the constant enemies of any housewife ‘who ‘ed owt at all about ‘em’. So the realization that the house chimney required sweeping was one of a truly terrifying proportion. It meant the potential invasion of an overwhelming force, literally an airborne torment, a veil of blackness which could, and probably would, overlay the household.

And that was the best one could hope for if proceedings went according to plan and prayer. Should there be any weakness in defences, then total obliteration of all things held dear would take place before their guardian’s eyes, and she, in helpless consternation, had to view the desecration, knowing all too well the ’fettling-up’ that was to follow.

Labour-saving devices in the majority of houses in those times were few. There was the Ewbank, perhaps, but that was limited in its use where soot was concerned. That apart, all that remained was brush, shovel, soap, water, polish and black-lead, all employed with liberal pressure of elbow grease.

It is probably true that the pre-Second World War housewife spent more time on her knees than many parsons did, and with more obvious results. ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness,’ so the saying goes. That was the order of procedure for the diligent house drudge. Cleaning came first. Then it was a quick ‘thank God that’s ovver’ before she went on with the constant round of chores. Thus, the addition of a sweep’s deposits upon the domestic domain was less welcome than a wet washday.

Still, the job needed to be done, for if delayed the result could be more tragic than even unrisen bread, soggy Yorkshers and the terrifying experience of a fall of soot, which would in all probability occur at tea-time on a Sunday. Consequently then, with such calamities looming, the sweep would be booked to attend, hopefully at a not too distant date. A date which, as it approached, brought with it an ever-increasing apprehension, voiced by the housewife in a stream of ‘Ah ooaps’: ‘Ah ooap ‘e dusn’t…’; ‘Ah ooap ‘e duz…’; Ah ooap ther’ in’t…’; ‘Ah ooap we ‘ev’nt…’, all prompted by harrowing tales of others’ treasured belongings which had ‘never bin t’same ageean sin’ they wos covered i’sooit an’ muck for all they wor weell lapped up an’ aht o’t’seet’.

Nevertheless, the fateful day arrived and in all probability, long before the appointed hour the living room, which was often the only one downstairs, had been industriously denuded of its contents. Pictures were removed from walls. Ornaments, pots, pans, kettle, fire-irons, hobs and end-irons had all disappeared from sight, some into drawers or cupboards, some upstairs, others into the cellar. Carpets and rugs either rolled back or, better still, taken up. A brodded rug could collect a lot of soot.

At the centre of this theatre of operations stood the kitchen table, that four-square household workhorse which would bear its load of buffets, buckets, small chairs and any other items discovered lurking in corners prior to the applying of a shroud-swathed overall. Old bed linen, counterpanes -- saved for that purpose and for decorating -- newspapers even, all were then draped over everything, it was hoped, in a protective screen.

The earlier in the morning that the dark deed could be performed, the better, since there was then more time to ‘get t’place pulled rahned’ before the next family meal was due, although in some cases it could take weeks before the home finally settled down after such an upheaval.

In the majority of homes in those times an open fire was the sole means of heat. There was possibly a gas ring, but no one would have dreamt of burning that simply to obtain warmth. Consequently, chimneys were, whenever possible, swept when the weather was at least above freezing, if not in summer’s full glow. Even so, the house always seemed cold and inhospitable, and the sooner a fire could be rekindled, the earlier came the feeling of homely comfort.

‘Cometh the day, cometh the man.’ And in he strode in all his mucky glory. Even if the chap had only walked from his own home and yours was to be his first job of the day, he still bore about him an air of gloom and the musty smell of soot. Should other chimneys have been swept prior to his arrival, then he brought vestiges of their contents about his person. Thus the muck started to fly as soon as he crossed ‘t’threshle’.

The tools of his trade were usually carried on his shoulder -- his bundle of rods, with brush -- and unceremoniously there dangled from them a drawstring bag which contained a large black cloth and small hand brush, well-worn.

Confronting the fireplace head-on, our hero would drop his aforementioned load on the hearth, and up would go the first black cloud in the proceedings. Removing the black cloth from his bag of tricks released another soot shower, and when said cloth was fully spread, further deposit could occur. The fabric was then spread across the entire range, its upper edge being secured on the mantle shelf by any weighted means available. Sometimes a marble clock might be pressed into service. It hadn’t worked for years, but it still ‘telled reight time twice a day’. Otherwise, pot-dogs, weighing scale weights, boots, clogs, bricks or wall-toppings, anything and everything so long as it pinned the material firmly.

Cloth edges were more tricky. This in a time before Sellotape. The nearest one came to that was stamp-edging, which was often stored for such an occasion. Otherwise it was nip and tuck with, perhaps, drawing pins, a sweeping-brush propped against it or, in a last resort, someone leaning on the whole structure, facing outwards of course.

Finally the scene was set, and in a business-like manner the sweep would poke the first of his rods through the centrally placed hole in the sheet and attach his brush head onto it, securely, it was hoped. All that remained to be done then was push and screw, as up the flue went brush and rods. The procedure continued until a look-out, already on duty outdoors, triumphantly reported, ‘It’s aht!’, which meant the brush had emerged from the chimney and was cascading soot all around.

Next came the tricky bit, tense moments which would bring answers to the questions that had been banging away in the brain of the agitated housewife ever since the venture had first been mooted. ‘Would the chimney-pot crack?’ ‘Would the brush get stuck?’ ‘How much muck would come down?’ ‘Would it be muck only and not brickwork?’ and finally, ‘Where would it all finish up?’

Retraction of brush and rods brought solutions. The dull thud of the black stuff landing in the fire-grate meant there had been a sufficient quantity to merit the sweep’s services, and so long as it was only a dull thud, this meant that the chimney lining wasn’t being dragged down as well. Then, as the rods emerged, to be detached, there also came the realization that the brush hadn’t become stuck, up, on its way down, whilst the silence outdoors signalled a chimney-pot still in its entirety.

But now came the messy bit, a gathering of the black mass. It was expected that the sweep should remove the bulk of the soot, which he would do. But the man had a living to make, and probably there was a list of other tortured souls awaiting his ministrations. Consequently, as soon as formality, or audacity, allowed, he would be off on his dusty way, after first receiving payment of course.

Thus would begin the painstaking task of restoration in the family home, a situation which called for a softly, softly approach. ‘T’thick o’t’muck’ might have been shifted, but now was the time to broddle ‘t’remnants aht of all t’’nicks an’crannies’ with the aid of hand brush and shovel. A coal-rake helped clear the space beneath the oven, all the time attempts being made to keep the soot grounded. If airborne, there was no telling where it might end up. The main aim was to remove as much grime as possible before applying scrubbing brush and soap. Soot is often oily, and so is not a good mixer with water, tending to smear and calling for large amounts of soap, which further adds strain to the domestic budget.

Eventually the time would arrive when a fire might be kindled, and slowly, slowly the house would begin to regain its feeling of a civilized dwelling. Meantime, the housewife would keep a wary eye on the fireplace, attempting to judge whether all the efforts of earlier had proved successful, and thus allowing ‘t’oven to draw’ with its customary and satisfying roar, whilst at the same time hauling the last lingering vestiges of soot-smell up the newly swept chimney. The situation brought sighs of relief all round, along with ‘Ee, ah’m fain an’ glad that’s ovver!’

As with other household tasks, there were DIY methods of chimney sweeping. One such was explosive in nature -- stick a firecracker under the oven and blast away the offending obstructive accumulation, one hoped. The trouble, or troubles, with that way was when the blue touch paper had been lit, all control of the operation was lost. When the firecracker exploded, it was anybody’s guess what the result would be. Bets could be taken as to the success or failure of the enterprise. Would the time-worn oven bottom be blown through? Where would the soot end up? Would the home-made protective screen contain the potential avalanche of the stuff from enveloping the living area? That was always a problem. Finally, would one banger be sufficient? Dare one risk a double or a second blast? The variables were many and volatile.

Another way of flue-fettling was by the employment of a hen -- a live one. It had not escaped the notice of ingenious man that when held upside down by the legs, a living hen never failed to flap its wings, unless they were pinioned in some way. Why not then put this natural instinct to good use in the sweeping of a house chimney? The modus operandi was for someone to reach the chimneystack on the roof outside. That someone would be in possession of a length of cord, weighted at one end. This weight was to be lowered down the flue, where upon reaching the bottom an accomplice exchanged it for the hen, which, when secured by its leg or legs, would, at a given signal be hoisted upwards, beating its wings meanwhile in natural fashion, thus dislodging the sooty accumulation. It behove one to be nimble in the application of some form of screen as soon as the hen’s wings were released, because immediately that happened, then both soot and feathers began to fly.

Precisely what condition the bird was in when hauled clear of the chimney-pot is left to the imagination. No doubt it would be a relief to the creature. But then it could well have been a matter of passing from one pot to another, since ‘t’ oven owt t’ waarm up nicely nah’. Even so, the nation never took to the flavour of smoky chicken as it did to bacon, crisps and kippers, which allowed the gap in the market to be filled by the products of a colonel from Kentucky. Thus the poultry world was spared the ignominy of being hauled up sooty flues to satisfy the appetites of countless customers.