Open Writing

However good Bob Charlton’s garden produce was, it did not stop me getting my usual winter illnesses – a series of very bad sore throats - as soon as the cold weather arrived. On one occasion we had to have a doctor’s visit as I had a very high temperature and a sore throat. I was surprised, therefore, when the doctor drew back the bedclothes and tested if I could raise each leg from the bed. I do not know yet what he was looking for, but he seemed satisfied with what he found. He recommended that I should have my tonsils removed but said this was impossible until a long time after the war had ended. This was during pre-National Health days, and I believe the visit was paid for by the Charlton’s colliery insurance.

Before the start of the National Health Service in 1947 many families had their own favourite prescriptions for various illnesses, which were dispensed for a small fee at the local chemist. Such a prescription for sore throats existed in the Charlton family and, apart from the above occasion, it had worked fairly effectively for me.

It was called the ‘Fosters’ Bottle’, presumably after the original prescribed. I used it extensively until I returned to Shields, when several chemists in the town refused to dispense it. One said, “This is poison and very dangerous!”

I replied, “I have taken it for years and it hasn’t killed me!” But he refused to change his decision.

Friday night was always bath night at Fence Houses. It was a time when Bob Charlton and his son were guaranteed to be out and wherever I was there was a standing order for me to be back home for 8.00 p.m.

The large tin bath, which lived on a nail on the back yard wall, was brought into the living room, placed in front of a roaring fire and filled with hot and cold water until the required temperature was obtained. After the bath, it was straight to bed with a hot drink, usually at about 9.20 p.m. I recall the time because most people listened to the nine o'clock news on the wireless and after that there was a ten-minute programme entitled 'Into Battle'. In our house it was called 'Into bed.'

There is a saying, 'Hear of a death, hear of a birth'. This turned out to be a true saying in our family in December 1943. First Jennie gave birth to a son called Malcolm and made me an uncle at eight years of age. Then, three weeks later, my grandfather Chapman died. His funeral was a grand affair. He had been a member of Harton Miners' Lodge, and was well known in the mining community. Many of his former colleagues attended,and I recall the cortege being led down Marsden Road by the Harton Colliery Band.

My mother had a very difficult time during this period. She wanted to be there when her first grandchild was born. Her father was ill and her mother needed her help, and at the same time she had a job and a son to look after. She used to travel through to South Shields most Mondays and this became known as her 'day off'.

On such days, I was sent to John's Aunt Annie's for tea. She was much older than my mother and had much less patience. I didn't enjoy going there because I regularly got a reprimand for my behaviour. Perhaps I was partly to blame because I recall John's aunt shouting at me and saying, "You either have your finger up your nose, or your hand down your trousers."

When returning from South Shields, my mother could travel by three different routes. As a result on a Monday night about 10 p.m., I was always standing under the road sign at the bottom of Finchale Terrace, watching the buses coming from Sunderland, Chester-le-Street and Houghton-le-Spring. Most road signs were removed for security reasons during the war, but this one certainly wasn't. Was this an accident or did the authorities believe that no enemy agents would ever want to travel via Fence Houses?

When we travelled together during the school holidays, we usually returned via the Sunderland route. While waiting at Westoe for the Sunderland bus, we saw many motor and trolley buses go by, but it was the occasional tramcar that I remember best. As the old, rattling tramcar struggled round the Dean Road corner, and round again into Sunderland Road, we always heard it coming before seeing it appear. The noisy public service vehicle was on its way from Mile End Road to the Ridgeway, which was the last tramcar service to be operated in the town.

I enjoyed the return via Chester-le-Street the best. The No 62 bus conveniently left the top of Stanhope Road at quarter past the hour and there was always something to see en route. We passed the half-built gymnasium at Boldon School, which was started in 1939 and not finished due to the war, until 1946. At Boldon Colliery the conductor used to have to get out of the bus, to direct the driver during a very difficult three point turn.

The highlight of the journey was when we passed RAF Unsworth, which until 1943 was Sector H.Q. for Fighter Command. Here, if we were lucky we saw some real aeroplanes. Finally as we approached Chester-le-Street, there were hundreds of tanks, jeeps and army motor vehicles stored on the closed dual carriageway near Birtley.

As a child, I was always asking questions. The trouble was most of these questions were well in advance of my years. Perhaps this was demonstrated one day on the No 62 bus as we returned to Fence Houses? I was nine years of age and after passing RAF Usworth, I started asking many questions about why the Second World War started. After answering me to the best of her ability, my mother later told the family that I then said in a loud voice, "Why didn't England always have a large army, navy and airforce and then nobody would declare war against us?"

That remark must have been heard by half the bus because, as an aged gentleman alighted, he slipped a 3d piece into my hand and said to my mother, "You've got a right one there Missus".

Another well-remembered occasion when returning via this route, was when the bus was late in arriving at Chester-le-Street and we missed the last bus to Fence Houses. Nowadays, most people would get a taxi but not in 1944. Even if we could have afforded one there was none available due to the petrol rationing. There was nothing else for it but to walk the three lonely miles, mostly uphill and in the war-time blackout. With no passing traffic, it was rather frightening crossing the River Wear bridge with the spooky outline of Lumley Castle in the moonlight. It was then up Castle Dene bank with the quiet and still golf course on each side of the road.

My mother was very fatigued when we arrived at Finchale Terrace about midnight. I somehow enjoyed the adventure.