Open Writing

Born and bred in Almondbury, I have always loved the village, although nowadays I complain bitterly about the never-ending traffic that roars up Somerset Road and throngs Northgate, where once upon a time, as in all the best fairy stories, I could ride my treasured fairy cycle in gay abandon.

Times have changed dramatically since those halcyon days, and the cottages where I was born are long since demolished in favour of flats and shops. Our house was the end one of a terrace and the only one that boasted electric lighting, which was a luxury indeed in the 1920’s. It faced the church and was always warm and cosy with thick walls and deep window frames, plus a long back garden with far-flung views across to Lepton and Black Dick’s Tower silhouetted on the skyline.

Many were the fantasies that my childish mind wove in the stretch of grass unused except for a garage for my dad’s motorbike. It was the prairie where my playmates and I rode our make-believe horses, out-riding the Indians who were hard on our heels. Close by was the elderberry tree where we used to hide in the branches and where I fell down, hurt my knee, tore my shorts and incurred the anger of my long suffering mother. There was the five barred gate to the allotments too, which made an excellent horse when there were no keen gardeners around, although we never did any damage to it. Our parents and school teachers had instilled a strict code of discipline.

Almondbury was still a village in my childhood days. Many families had their roots there. Neighbours were friends, not just acquaintances, and helped each other out in emergencies. Mothers didn’t go out to work then.

Northgate was always the main street with most of the village shops starting from almost the top of Fenay Lane where our doctor’s surgery was held in Pent House, a place which held terror for me, as I always seemed to need a swab taken from the back of my throat, making me gip. I know no other word to describe the horrid feeling. Although Dr. Maffin was a big, bluff, kindly man who brought me into the world and maintained his interest all his long life.

Coming along the village street then we had Josh Hirst’s, the druggist’s, which had a bell that rang when one entered the stone-flagged dark interior of the shop, and he would jump out from the door just inside which led into his living room, pretending to be playful no doubt. But with his long white bushy hair and beard, he frightened me out of my tiny wits.

Next came a much nicer place, Miss Harrison’s, the draper’s. She sold reels, underwear, stockings, etc., and at Christmastime dolls. In the autumn, fireworks were sold, which she kept in a large glass case on the counter, and every time I had a ha’penny to spend I’d go and buy a firework and store them in a tin in Mum’s stone-flagged larder ready for that red-letter day November 5th. My playmates and I chumped for weeks for that great event and sometimes ‘raided’ the Fenay Laners, who of course retaliated, but I never remember any serious consequences. We were mostly a happy gang of kids. Mum always made a wonderful Guy Fawkes, and as he resided in our house prior to the event I used to grow quite fond of him and felt genuine regret when he had to go up in flames.

I remember one year when Christmas was approaching seeing a beautiful big dolly in Miss Harrison’s window with lovely dark curly hair. Dressed in different shades of purple, it captured my imagination so much I immediately christened her Pansy and rushed home to implore my Mum to send it to Father Christmas for my young sister. It was unbreakable, you see, and I had graduated to dolls with china faces by then, although I still longed for my cowboy outfit which I never got. However, to my great delight, my Mum did buy the dolly, so Pansy joined our household.

Still traversing the village street, there was Denton’s confectioner’s and baker’s and diagonally across the road next to the churchyard Taylor’s fish and chip shop, now converted into an attractive dwelling aptly named ‘Chippy Cottage’.

Wallace’s was the next shop coming along towards the tram terminus, and next door was Foster Noble’s shoe shop. He also repaired shoes and looked to me like Friar Tuck, except that he didn’t wear a monk’s habit but a leather apron. Percy Stephenson was the village cobbler proper, in his tiny shop at the top of St. Helen’s Gate. He was the prince of perfection in his trade, hardworking, reliable and jolly. His son was in my class at school. Elsie Shore, milliner, was the neighbouring shop to Foster’s, and I remember her window always had an attractive display, as women were not considered to be fully dressed in those days without a hat. The war changed all that.

Mrs. Whitehead’s shop was next in line, just past the top of Watercroft and our butcher until she retired. A wonderful little lady who had lost her husband early in life and worked hard bringing up her three children, losing one son, again a contemporary of mine at school, during the war. Yet she maintained her pleasant, cheerful personality all her life. Truly she was a shining example, and as such is remembered with affection.

Then there was Hill’s fish and chip shop, usually alternating openings with Taylor’s. And next again the Aladdin’s Cave of Mac’s sweet shop, where we would press our noses against the windows on cold winter nights, gazing at the fantastic display of selection boxes, crackers and gorgeous sugar pigs, much too good-looking to eat. Well, I though so. Having eyed a gigantic pink and white one, and waking up on Christmas morning to find Santa Claus had fulfilled my dream, I promptly ensconced him in a prime position in front of Mum’s window and couldn’t bear the thought of eating him.

Do you recall being told the tale of Sweeney Todd the Demon Barber of Fleet Street? Well the shop next to Mac’s belonged to Jim Butterworth the Almondbury barber, and there I had to endure my hair being cut, enveloped in a cape and kneeling with my chin resting on the head rest of the chair, my eyes riveted on the trapdoor towards the rear of the shop, and my imagination running riot about Sweeney Todd’s victims disappearing down the trapdoor into the cellar to be made into pork pies. Well, I can laugh now, but at that time I couldn’t help being an imaginative child.

Continuing along the street, next came Duce’s Café and shop, Howarth’s drapers, Dodson’s the greengrocers, Shaw’s hardware and post office, the Depot sweet shop, which took in parcels sent on the trams, another butcher’s shop, then Teddy Capper’s the sculptor’s, which fascinated me with the macabre gravestones in the window, Newsome Jessop’s the newsagents, the chemist’s, Fowler’s grocers, and finally another fish and chippy, not forgetting the so-called ‘New’ Co-op and butcher’s on the opposite side of the road. So there were ample shopping facilities in our village, as in addition there were shops at the junction of Fenay Lane and St. Helen’s Gate leading up Westgate from the War Memorial on the corner of the churchyard.

There were two schools in the village, the Church School about a hundred yards behind the Church and the Board (Council) School approximately the same distance down Fenay Lane. And there was our ‘jewel in the crown’ King James’s, the historic grammar school founded in 1608, set in lovely surroundings down St. Helen’s Gate.

Until the age of eleven I sped with winged footsteps through the churchyard to the Church School, come rain or shine, and never reluctantly, for I enjoyed my lessons there and fortunately continued in the same vein at Longley Hall High School, which was also situated in glorious surroundings, the former home of Sir John Ramsden.

This move necessitated the use of a bus to enable us schoolgirls to get home and back at lunchtime. Trolley buses had now come on the scene, our route being the first to be converted in Huddersfield. I must add that we always walked to school each morning and back again after lunch. The school was situated off Dog Kennel Bank and had a drive a quarter of a mile long, so we were not lazy girls.

We were not allowed to be, as I can hear now the voice of my first form mistress still ringing in my ears, “You were given legs to walk with, not to climb on buses. You must not be lazy girls.” I didn’t need telling. I spent my ha’penny bus fares on marshmallow snowballs and Saturday cowboy matinees at the Lyceum, this was with my Mum’s permission. But bless my form mistress. She was wonderful, strict but always fair, and when I met her years later in an adult evening class, she was just the same. Even in death she was still true to her principles. She left her body for medical research. My husband and I attended her memorial service, and I shall always be grateful for her influence on my young life.

With the change of school, however, a new phase of life had begun. Days of being ‘one of the boys’ were at an end. My playmates, all neighbours’ children, had been mostly boys, and anything they could do -- like ‘Annie Get Your Gun’ -- I thought I could do better. But now came the day of reckoning.

According to my Mum, girls in school uniform didn’t climb trees nor disappear down to the Rushfield stream to dam it up and swim, causing anger to the farmer who once scared us into climbing the waterfall and trekking all up Farnley Line and through Mollicar Woods in wet swimming things to get home. They didn’t ride allotment gates for horses. So childhood habits had to be abandoned and left behind, and the growing up process had begun.

It was inevitable and in some aspects, I suppose, enjoyable. There were still the village events, carnival, Sunday school concerts. I’d always attended the Methodist Sunday school and loved dressing up, and learning lines was never a chore to me. The annual fair still came -- Almondbury Rush, to which our gang gave a rapturous welcome, going down to Fenay Bridge to meet it. We spent every available minute and every penny on it during the few days it stayed, riding the big horses which went up and down to lilting music until they were superseded by the Noah’s Ark, to my great disappointment. I still have a soft spot for the big horses.

Time flew by and the war came. Our ‘growing up’ was precipitated, and sadly many of my friends and contemporaries are named eternally on our village war memorial. They too loved our village and gave their all, and we who are left cherish golden memories of our childhood and the days that used to be.

‘When you go home tell them of us and say
For your tomorrow we gave our today.’