Open Writing

In his poem ‘My Lost Youth’ Longfellow tells us:

‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I can empathise with those sentiments, for as boys our unsophisticated wills were as changeable as the wind, and today my thoughts of those times are ‘long, long thoughts’.

In youth our minds could swing as suddenly as any capricious breeze. Bat and ball would be discarded, and we could be climbing a tree or walking along the top of a wall simply on the whim of a rudderless mind. Boredom struck suddenly. The desire for change was ever present. A sod fight could and did erupt without warning. Great tussocks would hurtle through the air, and to be the recipient of one such meant the probability of soil-impregnated hair, with the dirt finding its way inside one’s clothes and all points netherwards -- if it was dry, that is. A wet sod was a different matter entirely, muddily so.

A snappy temper might be the cause of stones being hurled, but those were rarely thrown with malicious ferocity. Such missiles were, more often than not, aimed to miss, there being no intended attempt to maim, amongst our own fraternity that is. It was fun at the time. A rival gang, now that was different, a more careful aim was taken in those circumstances. I suffered a split skull during one such affray, the result of a well-aimed stone -- flung by a girl!

But more passive activities also played their parts by occupying our windblown interest. In that age necessity became the mother of invention, since funds were only occasionally available for the purchase of pastimes. Anyway, apart from the pictures or the theatre there were no ready-made entertainments on a regular basis, except, that is, the market. This entailed a once or even a twice weekly visit, and for some it was a tradition as much as a necessity, although many did parade there late on Saturday nights in the hope of picking up perishables at knock-down prices.

One butcher of the period was renowned for his late market day auctions. Harry was a small man. So, in order that he might be seen as well as heard by the crowd swarming both inside and outside the shop, he would stand on the counter, bowler hatted, a blue and white striped trade-soiled smock and apron shielding his wiry frame, with fat-splattered boots to match. In a piping voice he would commence the auction of his deteriorating wares. Joints of meat weren’t sold by the pound at such times. It was cash per lump.

The quality of Harry’s offerings left much to be desired at the best of times, but late on summer Saturday evenings, after a hot day’s grilling in the shop window with blowflies performing their pre-egg-laying dances all around, the ‘lots’ had begun to suffer somewhat. Under such circumstances Harry usually presented the underside of the joint to public view. That would resemble something edible. The reverse side was almost black, yet there was never any shortage of takers. ‘Wesh it i’ vinegar an’ watter. That’ll tak t’ smell off.’ It was a good show and cost nothing to watch.

The four butchers in our village were more decorous, and product quality was much-of-a-good-quality-muchness. Although not all shoppers would have agreed on such parity, some holding the belief that ‘their’ supplier was superior because of the appearance of the shop’s interior and that the butcher himself was more pleasantly obliging, or that there were fewer or no steps to negotiate when visiting the shop. None of which had any bearing on the merchandise.

When it came to wet fish, the odd piece might be had from the back door of a ‘fish-oil‘, although fish of this kind was also brought to the house door by three individual purveyors of my knowledge. One was a family man who, as was fashionable at the time, occupied himself one day of each week by standing in a dole queue. At other times, with a white wicker basket on one arm, he hawked his wares from door to door, with what success I have no idea. But he kept on coming. At least he had the wit not to peddle wet-fish. His stock was smoked; that kept longer.

The fresh-wet-fish man owned a pony and cart. The pony stood taller than he did. The cart was painted white. It also had lidded compartments protecting their contents from soot, cinder dust and any other airborne debris. There was a lot of it about at the time. This particular fish vendor once gave me a tanner for my savings bank. Nice little man, I thought.

Shellfish were also peddled around. These came via handcart, the owner being known by two different names, ‘t’ cockle man’ and ‘scissor legs’, since he was knock-kneed, thus resembling a pair of folding scissors.

I enjoyed both the cockles and mussels which he hawked, although my mother was none too pleased with one of the ways we cooked the cockles. These were placed on the top rib of the hot fire-grate, and when the shells opened we knew they were cooked. Trouble was that with the opening of the shell, brine contained within then frothed out and ran down the grate ribs, becoming welded to the ironware. I learned from remarks made at such times that liberal applications of Zebo, brush and elbow grease were needed to remove such encrustations.

Irvin Firth definitely sold kippers, because the smell from them drifts down to me through the years, intermingled with the scents of bananas, other fruits and green vegetables according to season. Add to that the dank odour of under-heated premises with flagstone floor situated below road level, and there you have a picture of Irwin’s emporium and domicile. He needed a box to stand on when reaching into the window display.

Mind, there were times when simply standing proved problematic for him. Those were in an afternoon following a liquid lunch,. Ten paces across a cobbled yard took Irvin from his shop doorway into the front door of the Spangled Bull -- Allsops Ind Coope Ales, or as we referred to them, Allsops Iron Hoops Ales. Whichever, Irvin was often a man transformed on his return journey. Some days we would watch for his homecoming, which at times was by a meandering route. Mr. Allsop’s beverage caused the toper’s legs to become wayward, and the outward ten paces totted up as the tippler tottered back until twenty or thirty steps would be required before he bounced through his own doorway.

This entertaining performance was, however, only the prelude heading towards the main act for us young ones. One of our number would next enter the shop and ask for a banana. They cost a penny each at the time. We knew from past experience that if Irvin’s ale had reached his generosity nerve, he would hand over the banana for free. If not, then it had to be paid for. Thus, such a venture carried with it an element of risk, but that simply added spice to the proceedings. We gambled on Irvin being full not only of ale but of bonhomie as well. If not, then hard lines. It also meant that no one else got a bite of the banana. Compulsory purchases were not for sharing. So, to avoid a mobbing, as much of it as possible -- if not all of it -- was crammed into the buyer’s mouth. Meanwhile, the air around was rent with cries of ‘spoil sport’, rotten this and rotten that and sworn oaths that never again would there be any sharing of delectables with the consumer. But by that time the banana had long disappeared, and the winds of change were once more drifting us towards new horizons.

Of grocers, our village sported three, all being well patronised. In addition, there were two other shops selling a variety of consumables, of which our purchases were ‘spice’ and the occasional bottle of pop. One of the shop owners was a small woman who also required a box to stand on, in this instance so that she might see over the high counter. She also suffered a speech defect, and it behove one to stand upwind when in conversation, especially in a stiff breeze, to avoid a spraying.

Like many shops both then and now, Anna would display items of her stock on the pavement outside. One time I recall a box of garden peas being on show. Well that was too much of a temptation for us young ones, and we swooped, grabbing handfuls of pods and haring away, shedding our booty in the process. Anna had seen crime being committed and hurled her banshee screams after us, unimpeded by the speech defect.

Daisy Kilner was very different. Well, you’d expect it of her with a name like that, wouldn’t you? Her shop was across the road from the aforementioned, and inside the walls were lined with glass-fronted showcases. No high counter here, rather one which sported yet more glass, top and front. The shop then was orderly arranged, as was the owner, a matronly-bosomed lady, small in stature and of indeterminable age. Well, all adults were to us. Daisy always wore what my mother called a ‘modesty vest’, a delicate piece of fabric strategically placed to hide any suggestion of cleavage. She viewed the world through rimless spectacles, the lenses of which were as highly polished as the rest of the shop’s glassware.

Sweets and tobacco were Daisy’s main stock-in-trade. She was also agent for a firm which re-charged wireless accumulators at a cost of 6d per charging. In addition, the lady owned property, ‘Craig-y-Don’, a row of semi-detached houses, an oasis of respectability, segregated from us of the mob by wrought iron gates mounted on large stone gateposts, upon which the words ‘Craig-y-Don’ were displayed in carved and gilded letters. Amusingly perhaps such delectable property was flanked on one side by the aforementioned purveyor of kippers etc., Irvin Shaw, and on the other side t’ Co-op butchers.

Periodically a man would arrive at Daisy’s shop to renew the window display, which consisted of dummy cigarette packets mainly. On seeing this, an operation we had been watchfully anticipating, we would enter the shop and enquire politely if we might have the old exhibits. Permission was invariably granted on the proviso that we didn’t scatter them on the roadway. We always promised not to and, surprisingly, we kept our word. These packets and boxes were used as toys at home. They cost nothing yet provided hours of amusement, and when we tired of them they helped to light the fire.

Exley’s the grocers received their butter in barrels. The white wooden staves of these were begged by housewives, who bunged them under their ovens on baking days to obtain super heat. We sought the lids and bases which, being round, made for good shields if we could get them to hold together with crossed batons and when a leather hand-grip was attached. Again we found free enjoyment, and when the shields eventually fell apart they followed the barrel staves under the oven.

On the wall outside Marshall’s baker’s shop was hung an XL chewing gum machine. Here the catch-penny gimmick was that every fifth penny inserted into the machine brought the prize of two packets of gum. It was not long before a groove was scored onto the face of the knurled handle at the side, a device signifying the position of a double pay-out. Needless to say, we in the know inspected the situation prior to introducing our coin.

Pennies in those days did not come freely. To earn them errands needed to be run for neighbours and school teachers. The standard rate at the time was ½d per errand run, and that didn’t happen every day.

When liquorice root came in season we would buy lengths of it for ½d. This was weighed out rather like twist or pigtail tobacco. Such roots were long, whip-like strands which we would chew until our mouths were filled with the tendril. Then we would draw it out to reveal a revolting tow. This was customarily lashed about, and it behove one to keep well clear, thus avoiding being sprayed with root fragments and spittle. A lash of this kind across one’s face wasn’t pleasant either, and one such often acted as a catalyst for a fistfight.

Staying with the subject of liquorice, Tommy Craven kept the Town Green Hotel. He represented the ideal pub landlord, ruddy-featured, rotund and of cheerful disposition. One memorable day as we juveniles passed by Tommy’s establishment he was stood in the doorway, a large clasp knife in one hand and an even large piece of liquorice root in his other hand. We had never seen liquorice of such dimension. It resembled a substantially sized carrot. “’ere yer aahr,” said Tommy, and with his knife cut hefty slices, one for each of us.

Such was the general appearance and the unforgettable flavour of the root that we were still enraptured by it in early manhood when, as members of H.M. Forces during World War II we met on rare leaves together and would relive that event, the like of which I have never since experienced.

Thinking of kind actions and lingering flavours brings to mind the time when four of us decided to walk to Leeds, a distance of nine miles --one way! I don’t remember any consideration being given to the need of having to walk back the same number of miles, since none of us possessed any money.

Such an expedition was rather ambitious, if not foolhardy, considering that at the time we were nine and ten-year-olds. Even so, distance walking was nothing new to us, yet by the time we had reached Hunslet, some seven miles distant, we had had enough and decided to retrace our steps.

Some two miles into the return journey thirst made its presence felt, so we popped into a sweets and tobacco shop and politely enquired if we might have a drink of water. The shopkeeper cheerfully presented us with a full glass to share, and we drank gratefully. It was then, to our astonishment, that what we took to be water was in fact lemonade! Wow! And it wor for nowt! Our thanks were profuse, and we went on our way rejoicing, arriving home in time for tea as if nothing untoward had happened. We knew to keep the day’s events to ourselves. That way chastisement was avoided. Amongst ourselves, however, we then had a second memory to cherish, one to savour along with Tommy Craven’s liquorice.

As the man said, “the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”