Open Writing

My mother had been working in Aunt Sarah's greengrocery and florist shop in Derby Road, Nottingham, for much of the war period and which she continued to do for several years following the end of hostilities. My cousin Clifford was serving with the Royal Air Force in Burma, now Myanama.

On the days that my father was not home at lunchtime, which was two weeks out of three, I left my junior school at 12.15 pm to walk about a quarter of a mile to catch either a number 43 or 44 trolley bus for the one mile journey to Canning Circus. This was the stop closest to my aunt's shop.

My mother would, soon after my arrival, put on her hat and coat and together we would board another trolley bus into the Market Square in the centre of Nottingham, walk across the Square to King Street, where we would board a number 36 or 41 trolleybus or sometimes an A1 'blue' Notts and Derby Traction trolleybus to the Berridge Road stop, a distance of two miles.

I would have dinner with my mother; working class people did not talk about the mid-day meal as 'lunch' in those days, and most of them probably still do not do so today. Somehow, I always managed to do this round trip, have my dinner and walk back to school in time for afternoon classes.

The blue buses were a bit of a problem for Nottingham residents. They were required to pick up and drop off passengers within the Nottingham city boundary in return for having access to the overhead wiring. After passing the boundary they continued the long journey to Ripley, some fourteen miles away.

Many of the drivers expressed their displeasure at this arrangement by taking Nottingham city residents beyond their intended stop, no doubt with the intention of deterring such passengers from boarding their buses. This was our fate on some occasions. These blue buses also frequently failed to pick up city residents on the run into Nottingham.

Germany surrendered on 8 May, 1945. I was eight years old. I vividly remember running down Birrell Road to meet my father coming home from work shouting, "Dad, we've won the war; we've won the war."

My cousin Clifford was eventually demobbed and returned to work in his mother's shop. During the time my mother worked for her sister I would accompany her on her deliveries into The Park. This was the area of Nottingham where many of the wealthiest residents lived. Most of the houses stood in their own grounds. They were designed with upstairs downstairs perceptions in mind.

Many of the housekeepers or cooks purchased their requirements from Aunt Sarah. My mother would make a number of weekly trips with an old carriage pram loaded up with the orders. I used to help her push the pram up some of the steep roads in this most select of areas.

One of the customers was the Roman Catholic Convent quite close to the Market Square. We would make the delivery at the kitchen entrance where the nuns would help us unload the pram. I recall always being overawed by the presence of so many nuns and icons. I entered the convent with trepidation.

At junior school I was expected to wear a black blazer with a large S sewn on the breast pocket and a black peaked cap of a style which today one finds being worn only by those boys whose parents have deemed they shall be educated in privately funded schools.

My mother along with ninety nine percent of other mothers did not have any electrical appliances to help her make the family wash day a less onerous event. One day a week, usually a Monday, all the dirty clothes and linen were thrown into a tub of hot water where they were left to soak for a period of time.

She would then pound them with an appliance called a 'ponch'. The constant bashing with the ponch would loosen the dirt. The water would rapidly change from a bright blue to pitch black. At this point the washing would be pulled out of this large tub and placed in stages into a smaller one. Cold water would then be poured on to the contents and another ponching session would commence; an operation known as rinsing.

The clothes would then be put through a manually turned mangle to squeeze out as much water as possible prior to hanging the washing out to dry. I was called upon from time to time to crank the handle of the mangle whilst my mother guided the saturated washing through the rollers. Finally, she would peg out on a line which was suspended in our small yard; we did not have much of a garden.

In winter or when it was raining the clothes were placed on a clotheshorse to dry. If it was cold enough to have an open coal fire burning in the living room, it would be placed in front of it. Such action usually resulted in the whole room becoming full of steam.

A day or two later the final phase would take place. The ironing board would be erected in the living room and thesubsequent activity would, at least during the colder periods of the year, result in more steam filling the available space.