Open Writing

We hadn't been home long before Lily, the mother of Dennis with whom I had been evacuated, came knocking at the door. By then, Dennis was an apprentice at Smith's Docks, over the river in North Shields. During the long, cold winter nights of the post-war years, Lily and her daughter Beryl used to occasionally come around to our house in the evening. The next week, we used to make a return visit to their house in nearby Taylor Street. On each evening we used to play cards, Ludo or Snakes and Ladders which I thought was the purpose of the evening, until one night my mother said, "No, it's to save coal - it's much cheaper to heat one room than two."

Lily and her family had a very hard life and she was always borrowing money. Their level of poverty was clearly demonstrated late one night when she appeared at our door in a very distressed condition. "Can I please borrow the ferry fare to North Shields so our Dennis can go to work tomorrow?" she begged. My mother gladly obliged. Lily always returned whatever she borrowed and many years later, I believe Dennis went on to become a teacher of craft subjects in a local school.

During the post-war years, my Aunt Kate and Uncle Bob's house in Cranford Street was always the centre of family activity. In my child-like innocence, they always appeared to be much better off than the rest of the family. They had an inside toilet, a piano in the front room and got the Radio Times every week. Some of the family used to meet there every Sunday night. Aunt Ada came down from Newcastle and often stayed overnight. My mother called after visiting Jenny and they enjoyed a game of whist and a good gossip. Aunt Kate was a formidable woman, extremely hard working and very kind. When she found out that I had joined the Boys' Brigade at nearby St Andrew's Church and would be passing her front door every Friday night, she asked me to call in for a pleasant surprise. That surprise was some weekly pocket money from each member of the family. I called there every Friday night between 1946 and 1950 until I started work, and their generosity helped me through a difficult time when our resources did not always extend to pocket money.

About this time, a female relative of the family was bed-ridden with some serious long-term leg trouble and unable to look after herself. Without hesitation, my unconventional aunt turned her front room into a bedroom and looked after her relative for over a year. If there had been an Olympic medal for kindness, I am sure my Aunt Kate would have been a strong contender.

I have never enjoyed weddings. Even as a youngster, I saw them just as an excuse for the family to meet, talk, eat and drink - often to excess. Fortunately, with being born about 15 years behind most of my cousins, there were few weddings to attend. The one exception was when my Aunt Kate and Uncle Bob's youngest daughter, Irene, married Tom Purves a draughtsman at Reyrolles in October 1948. Worse still, the wedding was on a Saturday - my most precious day of the week. As expected, we got an invitation. The arguments then started. "Do I have to go? I've got a football match in the morning and a B.B. game in the afternoon. Can't they move it to a Sunday?" I asked. After days of pestering, my mother finally gave in and it was agreed that I could go absent with permission. In truth, I doubt if anyone missed a boisterous thirteen year-old.

Any memory of the post-war years must include some mention of the bustling back lane environment. This could be acutely observed from our two rooms and a view flat. With men back from active service and children returning from evacuation, the back lanes were a new focus of work, play and secondary trading.

Most people used the back door so there were always many comings and goings, none more so than in the Reed Street area, when hundreds of dockyard workers arrived home every day for lunch about ten past twelve and returned, duly replenished, at ten to one.

Other comings and goings were often to a shifty looking individual at the corner of many back lanes. He was the 'back lane bookie'. With eyes everywhere, he waited for illegal betting slips to be furtively passed to him, often by dockyard workers on their way back to work.

The majority of housewives washed on Mondays so this was the busiest day of the week with drying clothes displayed every few yards across the lane. Woe betide any back lane tradesman who was foolish enough to test the temper of an overworked housewife by appearing on the first day of the week!

Such tradesmen included coalmen, and the rag and bone man. In many ways, coalmen were terrifying creatures, often with bright eyes gleaming out of faces blackened by coal dust. They also had to be strong and well built to continually shoulder hundred weights (112 lb) of coal from their horse and cart, to various coal house locations. Coal was very scarce and expensive just after the war, but essential to every household. Many coalmen were bribed for extra deliveries and I'm told that some housewives found enterprising methods to pay!

A different rag and bone man seemed to appear every day. They used to shout, "Any rags or bones?"- the words hardly decipherable as they shoved a barrow down the lane. If I remember rightly, they used to exchange practically anything for a goldfish or threepence and demand payment in money. Looking back, after the war the rag and bone men must have had a difficult time because few household goods were replaced and even less were thrown away. It was the age of 'make-do-and-mend'. Shoes were re-soled, stockings were darned, collars of shirts were reversed and clothes were altered as children grew. During any spare time women used to knit and men made or repaired toys for their children.

Perhaps the most regular back lane visitors were the corporation bin men. They came twice a week to empty the ash filled dustbins. Rarely was anything but ash found in these containers, because any inflammable rubbish was burnt on the household fire. For example, old newspapers were a very important commodity when lighting a fire. Some fish and chip shops refused to serve customers who did not supply their own paper for wrapping, and old newspapers were regularly cut into appropriate sizes for toilet needs.