Open Writing

I imagine that everyone, for whatever reason, good, bad or indifferent, will remember their first permanent address, and Two Park Row was the address where I spent the first 15 years of my life.

“An’ remember, it’s Park Row, not Park Road,” so I was schooled from a very early age.

Park Road was the road which passed along the back of the village. It carried the bulk of traffic, which, it has to be said, consisted mainly of pedestrians, as part way along its course vehicular access was barred by iron stoops and a padlocked gate. Thus the road, cobbled with stone setts, was chiefly used as access to t’Con’ Club and a yard with its collection of cottages and small business premises, the main one being a flock warehouse. Here we would sometimes be allowed to romp around on the bales of flocks, until we began to pull skewers out of the bales and use them as throwing knives. Then we were quickly ousted, which was just as well, or it would soon have been ‘snowing’ flocks.

Across the road from the yard mentioned stood the Con’ Club. It still does. Memory recalls one sunny afternoon, a Saturday most likely. A bus was parked outside the club. It was empty, but not for long since, the door being open, we investigated the interior, as one might expect of young boys.

The vehicle had been engaged as an excursion conveyance, so that at the rear, allowing ready availability, was a stack of beer crates, complete with bottles -- all empty. Empty, that is, except for the dregs. These we commenced to consume. I sense I can still savour that beer. Of course my palate was untarnished then. It was only eight or nine years old -- my palate, that is, not the beer. Consequently the flavour of the hops and barley remains with me. But it’s all in the mind.

There wasn’t enough liquor to inebriate us, but it was drinking beer, and grownup men did that. We were too young of course to appreciate that if drunk in sufficient quantity, the beer would turn grown men back into children. That came later.

Park Row was a private row which ran at right angles to Park Road. Private insofar as it was not a thoroughfare, being blocked up at one end by a builder’s warehouse and pigeon loft.

The surface of the footway -- walking on ruddled flags was strictly forbidden -- was crushed boiler clinker, padded firm and hard by the pressure of many feet -- children’s, adults’ and those of horses. An’ by heck, didn’t it scrape t’skin off yer knees when a fall brought them in contact with the abrasive topping? And didn’t it sting when the gritty bits were being removed?

“Keep still an’ shur up blubbering. As’ll ‘ev ter get t’muck aht else you’ll ‘ev blud-pooisnin’ an’ they’ll chop yer leg off.”

“Ooo, bi quick then. Noo, ah’m nooan evin’ iodeen on it. Can’t yer use Germaline?”

‘Ahr Raw’ was ten houses long. Six of them were one-ups-and-one-downs. The two at each end, for some unknown reason, were two-ups-and-one-downs. We lived in the first one, number two.

The houses were stone built and were even numbered, another mystery since the next row of property was yards away -- well one yard away, but it was some distance from us.

Our whole row, as I’ve said, displayed ruddled flags with doorsteps and windowsill edgings piped with scouring stone, this latter courtesy usually of Bridlington beach.

“Ah thowt it wor t’time for t’spas. Mi scarrin’ stooans nearly dun, an’ ah reckon ter bring wun back ivvery year thru’ Brid.”

Eight-paned sash windows were screened from prying eyes by mind-your-own-business net curtains, dolly-yollered. Some folks had pull-on curtains inside. We had a white roller blind. I always begged the old blind at replacement time. It was good for drawing on. A spinster at number ten, her blind was blue. She had a shut-up bed as well, right in front of her fireplace. I used to wonder what was in her bedroom, but I never found out.

By the time I had reached the age of 10, there was only Grandmother and me living at number two, which meant I had a room to myself. This became my sleeping, reading, writing room, as well as a laboratory. I say laboratory. Initially I would experiment by melting lead in old Oxo tins over the gas-jet spurting from a wall bracket, then pour it into any suitable mould, such as military buttons with the backs removed. When the lead spat, I learned how hot it was.

From my very early years I recall there being other property to the rear of the houses. The building immediately behind our house was that of the Midland Bank. When new bank premises were acquired, the old bank was demolished along with adjacent buildings. This allowed a clear view from my bedroom window of part of High Street, taking in Jos Jackson’s barber’s shop, the Congregational Church and Sunday School, the Parish Church steeple with clock, and doctor’s surgery and gable end of the local fish ‘oil.

I spent many happy, mischievous times with the sash window slightly ajar, watching for a passing ‘victim’ when I would whistle, duck out of sight and then peep over the window ledge to watch the passer-by looking about and wondering who it was and from whence the sound came.

Later I discovered that a length of band with a weight tied to one end made an excellent pendulum. I could get a 15 to 20 foot swing, and when I let go it nearly hit the gable end of the fish ‘oil. Had I let go when the opposite swing had been reached, the weight would have ended up in the park.
Well, there had to be a park hadn’t there? So there it was, and is, then across the road from our house, its wall running along Park Road.

To complete the quartet of ‘parks’ is the Park Hotel, or was, since it no longer aspires to being an ‘hotel’ but is now known simply as The Park. Yet to me it will ever be T’ Park Hotel, Tadcaster Tower Ales, with its front door within spitting distance of our only entrance.

On Saturday nights I could look from our other bedroom window into the pub’s singing ‘oil and hear the ale-voice choir in action as the weekly cares were drowned in Tadcaster brewery’s mild and bitter.

It was a regular sight in those times to see women leave the pub with their shawls clutched tightly in front of them with one hand, the other hand being hidden beneath the shawl. What were being hidden were jugs of beer for home consumption. From one house along our row, a small young boy would be despatched each Sunday around midday. He would carry a pint pot in which to bear away his mother’s Sabbath intake of ale. She never received full measure, as the son would always stop en route to help himself to a liberal swig, much to the disgust of many of the neighbours. All this whilst father was in the pub swilling away a week’s collection of fruzzings from his throat and chest, him being a woollen mule spinner.

The pub is stone built, as were the already mentioned houses, road surface and park perimeter wall. In fact stone was the prevalent building medium. There were exceptions, t’Con Club’s side walls and our lavatory. What a combination.

For ten houses there were five lavatories, of the water variety. Those serving the top four houses were of brick construction, the remainder of stone, presumably at some time these had been earth closets since they possessed attached ash-pits. It was a dusty job for Corporation workmen when, with horse-drawn high-sided, two-wheeled cart they would arrive to shovel in a midden-ful of ashes. Housewives would pray that they wouldn’t come on a washday. The same went for coal deliveries. If this happened, there was a frantic rush to haul in lines of newly boiled and washed clothes.

Harking back to the woollen spinner referred to earlier and still on the subject of waste disposal, there was the weekly ceremony around 1:30 p.m., shortly after his partaking of the traditional Sunday dinner, when he could be seen trotting across the row, braces dangling behind him, Sunday newspaper clutched in one hand, the other hand holding up his trousers, heading for the house of deliverance.

It was quite noticeable to all residents that when the weather was inclement, the ‘necessary steps’ were much quicker than when the elements were more favourable. Having said that, there were yet other times when the situation called for speed, irrespective of the climate. One then knew what observers were saying, “ ‘ee’s bin eitin’ summat ut dusn’t reight suit ‘im,” or some such remark.

Behind the pub was what seemed to us a large open space, t’pub yard. Among the buildings and outhouses around the boundary were the landlord’s ‘en ‘oil and a small lean-to shed. It was this which attracted the attention of our gang. We gained access and converted it into a den, complete with candle in a half-pint milk bottle -- there were no windows. The bottle was suspended from the roof by a bit of wheel band.

At the time we would be about four of five in number and just at the experimental stage of smoking. “Can yer mak t’smoke cum dahn yer nooase?” Such procedures being entered into firstly out of curiosity and secondly because it was the ‘done thing’ for ‘men’. Again, we were being misled by adults, but then in those days adults were unwittingly fooling themselves. We would pool our coppers and invest them in the most exotic brands of cigarettes stocked by the local chemist -- De Retz Minors, Piccadilly, Batchelor’s Cork-tipped.

Of course, filling the lean-to with tobacco reek attracted attention, and we were discovered in full puff by the landlord and his sidekick.

Among our gang was a lad who owned a dog named Spot, a yellow and white mongrel. I regularly made a fuss of the mutt, and he took a liking to me.

What we learned afterwards was that whilst the landlord and his lackey were attempting to fit a padlock to the shed door with the intention of confining us there and then summoning the local constabulary, Spot had belted round to our house and by his agitated barking had alerted my grandma to the realization of something being amiss. She followed the dog, which led her to the place of our imprisonment.

Words did pass between the adults, but the only ones I remember were from Grandma when speaking to me and saying, “Come on home.” I did, and the rest of the gang traipsed after me, leaving our would-be jailors open-mouthed and speechless. Grandma was very grateful to Spot. So were we.

Park Row is long gone, as are most of its inhabitants of my time. Part of the site is now the pub car park. Part supports modern houses. Yet I doubt that many of the tenants realize the memories which lie beneath their feet. The old cellars are still there. Wonder if there’s a way in?