Open Writing

It was 1939, late summer. I was 15½ years old and had been working in the mill for almost one and a half years, learning to warp. It was an interesting job, but I can’t say that I cared for the environment or the fact that, as the junior, I was the general dogsbody for all and sundry. Added to that, the canteen had caught fire and been burned to the ground. So now I had to shop for everyone.

The daily run took me to Dawson’s butchers, renowned in Milnsbridge for pork pies and roast ham. I did once faint in this shop whilst waiting for my turn to be served, for no reason other than it was very cold outside and, I presume, warm and crowded in the shop. As I was not in the habit of passing out, I caused quite a degree of consternation amongst my older friends and thereafter was not allowed out without a cup of hot Bovril, not my favourite drink. But I did as I was told.

The iced squares came from Whiteleys and the vanilla slices from Jaggers, and of course the fish and chips from Jolliffs at the top of Factory Lane. I suppose I quite enjoyed these trips around Milnsbridge, the first to place the orders, the second to collect the goods. Come to think of it, I can’t remember how I carried it all, but I did.

At this time we had a team of painters in our room painting the ceilings and girders, and as is always the case, quite a lot of banter ensued between them and the warpers. The youngest of painters, only in his late teens, used to regularly entreat me to go to Manchester to the dogs with him. But I’m afraid that didn’t appeal to me at all, and I used to tell him there was enough with one of us going to the dogs.

So it was on Friday, September first, when out on my shopping expedition I learned that Germany had invaded Poland and brought the news back into the mill. My report caused so much consternation, and I have to admit that I had no idea just what the outcome of this action would mean to even our small group of people.

Sunday morning, of course, brought the announcement at 11 a.m. that we were at war. I remember the silence in our house and the tears streaming down my Mother’s face, and I wondered why this should so distress my down-to-earth Mother. But I was soon to learn.

Six weeks later I left the mill and went to work at Broughs, a retail and wholesale grocers, as a shop assistant. In those far-off days you had to sit an exam, or test should I say, to prove you had the ability to handle money and count correctly. So it was in October 1939 I started my new job.

It wasn’t an easy one, as everything arrived in bulk and had to be weighed and packed, even bicarbonate of soda, baking powder, coffee, tea, rice, lentils, peas, salt, soda, dried fruit, butter, lard and margarine. We had a boy who weighed only potatoes and one who weighed only flour, and we had ten men who travelled the various districts to collect orders. Saturday journeys were delivered with our regular wagon drivers, and then on these journeys the money collected at the same time. The others were collected on Friday evenings. Only single women were employed, but all this was soon to change as 1940saw the first of our men called into the forces or, if unfit, to work on munitions. So the married women were also called to work, and the regular staff one by one had to take over the men’s job as travellers.

By the time May 1940 arrived I was sent out with two journeys, one the Newsome-Hall Bower-Primrose Hill area and one Meltham-Netherton-Berry Brow, out to Oldfield and Deanhouse. I was 16 years three months. Mondays and Tuesdays I travelled by bus to collect the orders, around 50 customers on each journey. I was given a list of customers’ names and addresses, the number of the bus and ask for your next customer as you go.

After a few weeks I found the shortcuts on both journeys and enjoyed my travelling days. The orders delivered during the week were part of the hired lorry driver’s job, but on Saturdays we accompanied the drivers and collected our money on delivery. The mid-week bills were collected by the travellers on Friday evenings, leaving the shop about 5 p.m., starting the round by around 5:30 p.m. when husbands would have arrived home with the wages.

Thinking about it, now it would be impossible to send out a girl, or boy for that matter, in the blackout to collect money, a leather bag over one shoulder and £5 change to start, returning with around £100 or more in 1940 - 41. One would need a bodyguard in this age and climate.

In those days New Year was not a holiday. In fact Christmas Day and Boxing Day comprised the Festive Season, so we worked. The first New Year’s Day of my travelling days fell on a Friday, and I had one customer who was a Geordie. (Broughs was a Newcastle firm, by the way). On arriving at this lady’s house, she insisted that I have a drink with them, as it was their custom to celebrate New Year in preference to Christmas. She then poured out half a tumbler of port wine, wishing me the compliments of the season. Never having tasted port wine or any other alcoholic drink, I emptied the glass and went on my way. I completed the journey with a feeling as though walking on cotton wool and arrived back at the shop singing merrily. Nevertheless I cashed up and was balanced to the last halfpenny, nothing short of a miracle.

I have never walked on cotton wool since, but I suppose there is still time.