Open Writing

Around eighty years ago in the mid-to-late 1920’s, Cupid’s dart flew across the ballroom from the slim, handsome, pianist on the stage to the pretty auburn-haired girl sitting at the edge of the dance floor. His love of music and ability to play the piano had led to the formation of a quartet of musicians, who were invited on a regular basis to play for dancing in the local area – bookings for parties and special celebrations, but mainly for the more routine Saturday night dances at the local church hall.

He was used to seeing many attractive young ladies but there was just something special about this one which attracted him. However, being there as part of the group providing the music, he didn’t get much chance to chat with her. Nevertheless, week after week She turned up and sat in her usual place and they exchanged furtive glances and smiles. The short time in the interval gave them the opportunity to talk and get to know each other better, and eventually a ‘courtship’ ensued.

He lived with his family quite near to the church, and not being a drinking man, his social life seemed to revolve around church events; She joined the church and was happy to be with him, whatever the occasion – even to sit out – like a wallflower at the dances where he was on stage, at least they were together, well almost.

Their wedding day was to be 7th June 1930 – Whit Saturday – at their church, and they had gone through just the same problems as the young folk of today, who want to set up home for the first time; to rent or to buy being the question. They believed that to buy was the better thing to do and tried very hard to save for a deposit. He was a sheet metal worker, having served an apprenticeship and on being promoted to the position of foreman, with an increase in wages to £3 a week, felt able to consider buying that lovely house they had seen locally. And don’t forget the extra spare-time earnings from playing in the band. She on the other hand was a warper in a local woollen textile mill, but also had a spare-time job of hairdressing, so could add a bit more to the coffers for the house they both so wanted.

She was always well dressed as her aunt was an extremely capable seamstress and made the most beautiful clothes for others. She loved to make dresses for her niece to model, in order to bring in more business from seeing her creations being worn. The favourite Sunday-afternoon occupation was for crowds of young women and men of the day to stroll up the central avenue of Greenhead Park, effectively displaying the latest fashions and eyeing up the opposite sex. Her Aunt would never make an exact copy of any of her models, but something similar, with some slight variation usually was accepted.

She had no formal training in hairdressing, but her cousin was a qualified barber with his own shop and in her free time she would offer to help in exchange for some instruction. Quite a profitable little side-line built up at lunchtimes in the mill, when the wooden stool was set up at the end of the loom, out would come her scissors and shears, and it was ‘short back and sides’ for all queuing up there at threepence a time.

Most of their friends were moving into very small one-up, one-down type houses, but their sights were on a 3-bedroomed, stone-built terrace, with living room, sitting room and scullery, along with large cellars and an attic, plus, could you believe it, an indoor bathroom. What were they doing to even consider a house like that? Certainly for just the two of them – rather on the large side, but who could guess how many additions there might be to the family in the future, and then they wouldn’t have the bother of moving to somewhere bigger.

It has to be said that the house - No. 29 - needed lots of work to smarten it up, but to him – an all-round handyman – it would keep him occupied for the foreseeable future. The three separate cellars served as wash kitchen, coal store and workshop respectively. He spent so much time in that workshop, but what wonderful things came out of there, skilfully made by him and much appreciated by her. In the ensuing 30 years there was never a time when they ‘had to get a man in’ to tackle any maintenance or repair required, nor did he ever have to sit in a queue at the barber’s shop – he had his own private barber at home.

Opposite the row of houses was a row of shops; an insurance office, a greengrocer, a sweets and tobacconist, next was the fish and chips shop with Harriet (who today would be classed as grossly obese), behind the counter, serving your fish and a ha’porth with salt and vinegar, and last in the line was the local branch of the Co-op, where all groceries were bought. Lower down the street was a baker and confectioner, next to the paper shop, and on the corner – a drapers shop, for knitting wool, haberdashery etc. The local cinema was round on the side of the main road; only 5 minutes walk from the house, post office was10 minutes away, perhaps 20 minutes walk for HIM to get to work, allowing time to come home for lunch in the middle of the day. Their church – the focus of their lives was only 25 minutes walk away, so what more convenience could anyone wish to have when choosing to buy a house in any locality, which would suffice for the following 30 years?

Back to the wedding in 1930: prior to that time the fashion for wedding dresses had been for floor-length skirts, but one or two forward-looking designers were making changes and came up with rather shorter skirts – only just above the ankle, but that was considered rather daring. So should the wedding gown be shorter or not? Well ‘Yes’ was the answer.

Two and a half years later came the first (and what would prove to be, the only) addition to the family at No. 29.

Yes, you’ve guessed, they were my Mum and Dad, and |I was born in the front bedroom of that house, and that is where I lived until I left home to be married, some 22 years later.

The early years of their marriage proved to be difficult financially, for two reasons beyond their control. Firstly, a lifelong friend of Dad’s fell on hard times, due to ill-health (in the days before the NHS) and borrowed £200 from Dad, that was a small fortune in the early 30’s. I never knew the details, except to know that the money was never returned.

Secondly, Dad’s father suffered a heart attack in his 50’s and was an invalid for many years – this meant no wages coming in and doctor’s bills to be paid regularly, which ended up with Dad and his four siblings each contributing half-a-crown, (2/6d) each week to help their mother pay the bills. I remember my mother saying how hard it was to hand over that amount each week from her £2.10s.0d housekeeping, when she could well have used it herself. Pensions and benefits were definitely not as we know them to be today.

Like most young brides of the 1930’s my mother left her job in the mill and became a full-time wife and mother, but her hairdressing skills were not lost and by that time she had learned how to do Marcel waving – quite the ‘in’ thing at the time. She and Dad had converted the smallest bedroom into Mum’s Hairdressing Room – straight forward at the top of the stairs – and friends and neighbours from round about came on a very regular basis, along with the ‘short-back-and-sides’ brigade.

As a youngster I would stand and watch the transformation from a lady arriving with straight, newly shampooed hair, to the creation of ‘tramline’ waves and curls – so much desired at that time. I still recall that acrid smell of human hair which was subjected to much higher temperatures from the tongs, heated on the gas jet, than the so-called ‘hot brushes’ or straighteners of today.

I admit to enjoying listening to some of the grown-up conversations which were held in that room – you know what is said regarding any woman and her hairdresser! – well I guess it was ever thus. I liked Mrs Watts best of all – she lived next door and came every Saturday afternoon for her Marcel wave. She was a staunch Spiritualist and had some amazing stories to tell, particularly after there had been a visit from some clairvoyant to their church which was at the bottom of Ramsden Street. I suppose to a child’s mind it was very mysterious stuff!

My father’s association with the dance band ended at the beginning of the war, but a different group of friends and he formed a concert party known as ‘Jack’s Jollities’ who went round the districts entertaining folks and helping keep up moral in the dark days of the war. The piano which stood in our sitting room was played less frequently as years went by, as Dad suffered a works accident, losing the little finger on his left hand, which made for difficulties and though I struggled with lessons for a time, never became a proficient pianist. I turned my fingers to dressmaking instead.

As our house was situated so conveniently for buying almost anything we could possibly need on a daily basis, I only recall 2 men doing the rounds with horse and cart; the ‘Pop’ man, who delivered ginger beer in gallon-size earthen ware pots/jugs, and a tatty looking man who would clean out all the outside drains. However I do remember the rag and bone man going to my Grandma’s house and also the milkman ladling milk into her own jug from his huge churn.

One Sunday morning I remember particularly well and as usual, I was sitting with my parents in church. The vicar was just getting into the flow of his sermon when a rustling sound disturbed the quietness. The verger was walking down the aisle and he proceeded to the pulpit, up the half-dozen steps to whisper something in the vicar’s ear. There was a lengthy pause, followed by an announcement from the Reverend Corrin. “It is with regret that I have to tell you that, from 11 0’clock today Great Britain is at war with Germany”.

Yes, it was 3rd September 1939 and I was almost seven years old.

I cannot remember what immediately followed that sombre statement. Being so young I suppose I could not anticipate what being at war would mean for us all, but I do recall very clearly some of the happenings in the years that followed.
My father, being in a reserved occupation, did not have to join any of the armed forces, but became Air Raid Warden in charge of our local headquarters, situated in a chapel building almost opposite our house. He was in possession of a device called a Ripley Alarm, which indicated an advance warning of an approaching air-raid – maybe 15/20 minutes before the siren sounded. This device was something like an over-sized shoe box with a bell or buzzer and lots of wires inside, and it had to be plugged in to a power point. It lay on the floor beside my parents’ bed and at the first buzz Mum and Dad were up and dressed within minutes. Dad had to go the Wardens’ Post and muster his ‘troops’, whilst Mum and I would go down to our own air-raid shelter in the cellar which was quite large, the largest area had a fireplace and sink with running water, where the weekly washing was done.

I remember the galvanised tub and wooden posser and the backbreaking effort which seemed to knock Mother up for the rest of the day. Then there was the wooden mangle to extract some water before the clothes were hung out – weather permitting – or draped on the clothes-horse in front of that cellar fire, creating so much steam. Behind that area was Dad’s workshop and alongside, the smaller coal store and then the under stairs section. It was there that Dad’s handiwork was put to the test. He had shored up the walls and ceiling with stout props and built us bunk beds along one wall. There were shelves stocked with tinned food and blankets and changes of clothes, in case we should have to spend a long time down there. In the event, despite numerous air raid warnings, the worst I remember were a few incendiaries on the Hygienic Stove Company in St. Thomas’s Road – probably intended for the I.C.I. in Leeds Road, and a bomb on Pat Martin’s mill at Lindley.

As part of our war effort Dad decided to start keeping poultry in the back garden. A special allowance of corn could be claimed, pro rata to the number of friends and neighbours who had been persuaded to ‘register’ with us for their eggs. Of course this corn was not sufficient to satisfy the hens completely and had to be supplemented with adding all our potato and vegetable peelings along with any other scraps, which were boiled up daily and mixed into a mash. This was Mum’s job and became almost as important as making the main meal for her family each day.

An outer door from the cellar led to the back garden, basically an area of grass with a path leading to a small stone building, in past times the outside toilet, but after a little effort from Dad, became a Des. Res. for our family of chickens. It was complete with a long wooden perch and nesting boxes along one wall, each containing a deep cushion of straw and a ceramic egg, which I was told, made all the difference. Our feathered friends had the freedom of the entire garden, which had been fenced off to keep out any unwelcome intruders.

To say these birds were mere egg producers would be far from the truth. Be they White Leghorn, White Whinedot or Rhode Island Red – each one quickly and firmly established itself as a family pet, recognised by name. Books on poultry keeping were avidly studied and the finding of the first tiny eggs alongside the larger pottery ones, when the pullets attained that certain age, was a real thrill. Charts were meticulously kept to record the production of Daisy, Maisie, Dolly, Mary and Betty (and numerous others whose names escape me) and any variance from what the text books said was the ‘norm’, had to be investigated. Maybe an addition to the diet was required and I recall permanganate of potash being put into their drinking water, though for the life of me, I can’t remember what that was for.

However, it was soon to be discovered that the hens would have their problems, as well as we humans. Dad had to find solutions for soft-shelled eggs, in-fighting, and the reason for the pecking of combs and wattles until the blood ran down. When one of the birds looked decidedly off colour, though showing no obvious reason for its malaise, Dad consulted our near neighbour, Mr Ellam. He’d been raised in the country and seemed to know instinctively about things rural – no need for text books. He gladly came to cast an eye over Flossie and declared she was crop bound. Sure enough, feeling through the cushion of feathers at the base of the neck was a hard packed crop about the size of a small tennis ball. “No problem” said Mr Ellam, “Let’s take her indoors and I’ll deal with it”. He sat on a stool in the cellar with the bird firmly supported between his knees, and with a deft hand, smartly plucked out a few feathers over the crop. A razor blade made a small, neat incision through the outer skin and the wall of the crop, and before you could say ‘Winston Churchill’, his finger had cleared out the offending mass. This was followed, equally quickly, by a neat stitching job, using a darning needle and linen thread from Mum’s workbox, and in no time at all Flossie was back, running about the pen with her pals.

In due course, inevitably, our family of chickens became old hens and had to face the beckoning stew pot – but can you imagine how we all felt about the prospect? What may have been imagined as a very welcome addition to the meagre, weekly meat ration, became a possibility too awful to contemplate. Dad firmly declared there was no way he could bring himself to pull the neck of any of his charges, so once more had to call on the services of Mr Ellam. As for the prospect of a roast chicken dinner or chicken pies, our so-called registered customers had the benefit of those, as Mum couldn’t bear the thought of cooking and consuming members of her extended family.

Needless to say, the war was far from over and Dad was committed to supplying eggs for some time to come, so had to decide how to augment the declining numbers of hens. Initially he had bought young pullets on the point of lay, but this time opted to buy day-old chicks, which needed to be kept in an incubator. This he had built himself and had experimented for some considerable time to ensure that the series of light bulbs under the dome, switched on in various combinations, could produce just the right temperature for the well-being of the new chicks. The incubator was housed in our large attic and, as you may imagine, became the focal point for all the children in the district to visit after school. Out of a clutch of probably 2 dozen day-old chicks there were several weaklings which had to be weeded out and mercifully put out of their misery. Over ensuing years we did manage to become a little more detached and look on the poultry keeping more as a business. Dad got around to being able to kill, pluck and draw the birds when necessary, but I do not recall ever eating any of their flesh.

The whole experience could not have been a greater contrast from his job in engineering, where his company manufactured catering equipment – ovens and heated cabinets for the hotel and catering industry.

After the war it was good to see the back garden restored and to be able to buy our eggs at the local Co-op just down our street.

And the house – No 29? Well my parents lived there until 1960; The hairdressing had become hard work physically to Mum and instead of the enjoyment it used to be, had now become a chore. Dad’s firm had been bought out and at the age of 58, as he was, found it difficult to adjust, so he had accepted the offer of a job with another firm, in a similar line of business – to see his time out until he reached 65.

The road which had been the centre of their universe since the day they wed, just wasn’t the same any more; most of the shops nearby had changed hands and many neighbours had moved house or passed away, so they felt the time was right for a move all round.

With thoughts of retirement on the horizon, they moved to a 2 bedroomed bungalow in a different part of town,, which would be much easier to maintain in their later years

Who would have guessed they would live in their bungalow for as long as they had been in their first house? Happy and contented with their lot, Dad lived to be 85 and Mum to 89,
his funeral was on what would have been their 58th Wedding Anniversary. Their connection to, and support from, their church never waivered – in Dad’s case that had been over 80 years.

As for me – I never go back to see that house in that street.

I just prefer to remember it as it used to be.