Open Writing

Ned Exley had two fish ‘oils, not at the same time, though. He swapped one for another, which was just as well since his first one was on the verge of collapse. The building was old. In fact it was ancient. To gain entrance one passed through what had been another structure, then roofless, just a broken wall behind the Green Hotel.

I remember on Friday dinner times standing on the flagstones of what had been the floor of that fabrication and leaning against its outside wall. There I was one in a queue of errand runners from the local textile mills with their orders for umpteen times of fish and chips. Then there were the housewives and school kids like myself with their individual orders.

That fish ‘oil and adjacent ruins were situated in Bailey’s Yard. That wasn’t the correct postal address, but we as youngsters knew it by that name because Leslie Bailey lived there. So did his father, mother and sister, but we knew Leslie best since he was in our gang. A bright, cheery lad whose knitted jerseys always had bell-bottom sleeves.

His mother kept a house-shop, a few boxes of spice on top of the kitchen dresser under the window. Nothing much, and it didn’t always pay. One time Leslie told me that my ha’penny was the only one spent there that particular day. Like many fathers of the time, his was on the dole. So the mother ventured into the ‘spice’ trade.

It was sad about Leslie. Never very strong, undernourished because of an unsubstantial diet, he readily succumbed to diphtheria when the epidemic struck. We, as his schoolmates, contributed towards a wreath, and our gang was one member less.

Ned eventually moved fish ‘oils. It was all go in those days. He took over premises that had been a footwear outlet. The site was on the High Street next to the shop owned by Daisy Kilner, supplier of sweets and tobacco. I don’t suppose she looked kindly on the event. All that activity in the cellar next door, tatey peeling machine drumming away, the thud of the chip-chopper and the constant odour of fish -- cooked and uncooked -- wafting in the breeze. Those were the days pre-refrigeration on a regular basis, and Daisy was so prim and proper.

Willie Hargreaves also kept a fish and chip shop, an old cabin on rusty iron wheels, once used by road workers. Along one inside wall there was a long form for customers at busy periods when demand exceeded production and intervals in serving occurred between fryings. The form was scrubbed white, as was the floor, whilst hanging on one wall a small framed picture showed schoolboys creating mayhem in their classroom during an absence of a teacher. The caption was, ‘When the cat’s away the mice will play’. Presumably Willy liked it. It hung on the wall for years.

Ned’s establishment sported no unessential adornments, only the customary form, varnished in this instance, on a brown lino-covered floor surrounded by blue and white painted walls. The glass panel in the door read, ‘High Street Fisheries’ in black copperplate lettering.

It seems coincidentally amusing that whether one was approaching or leaving the village the first shop to be encountered or left was a fish and chip shop. The main roadway through the village was divided into four sections with respective names: High Road, High Street, Town Street and Syke Lane. All of which covered less than a mile of roadway, with the fish shops standing sentinels at each end of the half-mile shopping area occupying the central section.

A single tramway line ran through that area, terminating outside the Commercial Inn a few yards distant from the Hargreaves’ fish and chip enterprise. There we would gaze in fascination as the tram conductor slid a long bamboo pole from its rest along the side of the tram and used it to swing the trolley around on the overhead wire in readiness for the return journey. We watched as the destination roller was cranked into its new position. Then came the clatter as the backrests of the slatted wooden seats were slapped over to face the changed direction.

Simple, everyday occurrences, yet they intrigued our young minds, those and the attraction of the local smithy that operated in the same vicinity. We obtained our iron bullies and hooks from there, or had them repaired when the welding broke, result of hitting high kerbstone edges at speed.

Horses there were a-plenty in our young days, although motor vehicles were on the increase.

We would watch the red van of Brooke Bond Tea delivering to the shops, a chain-driven, solid-tyred Trojan model with a throaty voice. Or Tadcaster Brewery’s steam wagon patiently standing outside The Park Hotel hissing gently to itself and dropping hot ashes from its firebox. At other times beer barrels were carried by a big Leyland wagon, painted dark blue and red, the livery colours of the brewery. There were times when we would ‘clean’ the wheels of such vehicles, using our handkerchiefs, then encounter chastisement when we displayed them at home -- the hankies, not the wheels.

Playing at horses and drivers occupied our attentions from time to time. Hands clasped behind one’s back, a length of band looped from one of our arms to the other serving as reins, and away we would go, obeying the tug of the driver, With three boys present, then two pairs of arms would be crossed behind, providing the third member with a team of ‘horses’ to control.

With the advent of motor vehicles came the opportunity to ‘run’ solo, becoming some roaring monster, coughing and spluttering, darting forward then reversing. Delivering goodness knows what to goodness knows who. It didn’t matter, we were happy doing it.

The basic elements of life made lasting impressions on our young minds.

There was Joss Jackson’s barber’s shop. That tonsorial establishment was situated across the High Street from Ned Exley’s fish ‘oil. It had probably been someone’s living quarters at some time but had then been converted to accommodate Joss’s clientele.

Joss was a little fellow with a dicky leg, or it may have been an artificial one. I’m not sure. Suffice to say he went around with a pronounced limp and the use of a walking stick. When working on a customer, he would brace himself on his gammy leg and work around from there.

Always a keen chess player, Joss would often be seen competing in two games within the shop, conducting others by telephone and yet more still by post. There were times when a shave and/or a haircut came in instalments.

One boy, however, failed to comprehend any of that on the day his mother took him with the intention of having his first professional haircut. As soon as the lad entered the shop, his eyes fixed upon the figure in the barber’s chair. Covered with a white sheet for the most part, his face was hidden beneath soap lather and his throat fully exposed to Joss, who was bracing himself on his dicky leg whilst wielding an open swing razor.

No one ever learned what thoughts passed through the lad’s mind. He didn’t stay to explain but screamed at high pitch and took to his heels. He kept going full pelt for almost a mile -- well it was down hill. Perhaps his mother told Joss she would bring her son another day, if he ever came home that was.