Gladys Schofield continues her autobiography.

That was the time we got more variety in the food cupboards. Butter was used more often, though margarine was always used for baking.

And the youngest member of the family arrived, a pretty baby girl called Brenda.

A few years before this when Harold was sixteen, his friends and himself would go for long walks on Sundays, dressed in their Sunday best. The young men always wore suits. With it being a manufacturing town, material was cheap.

This was long before the introduction of jeans. That material was only used for overalls, for working in the factory to keep your other clothes clean.

Suits were thirty to fifty shillings. With most you got two pairs of trousers. Shoes were always shined each time they were worn. In fact the young men looked quite smart as shirts and ties were always used also.

The day I am going to relate was very hot. In fact it had been so for most of the summer. Only a trickle of water ran down the middle of the reservoir as the boys peered over the stone wall that surrounded it.

"I've never seen it so low," one of them said, "I wonder if any of the fish have survived." And saying this he hopped over the wall and tiptoed over the stones and debris, heading towards the water.

A ridge of baked mud separated them from the stream, and by this time the rest of them had joined him. "I wonder how hard the mud is," said another, tapping it with his shoe, "You try it, Harold. If it stands your weight it should stand ours."

Harold took a couple of steps. The mud was more like cement, so the others began to follow. But he was not so lucky with his next step, for his foot began to slowly sink as the mud cracked like an egg shell and gooey oozing slime began to bubble to the surface swallowing Harold's leg.

The boys acted quickly. Inch by inch he was slowly pulled out, one shoe remaining forever under the oozing mud. That was another lesson never to be repeated.

We had no paid holidays, and one week at mid-summer was all the workers got, except for a few days at Christmas. They were at work again before the New Year. Mum saved a little each week to see us through this holiday.

We lived so far from the seaside that we went for years never seeing it. The railways and bus companies started to run cheap excursions. Mum promised to take us on the first sunny day.

So it was decided that John, Ted and myself would accompany her on this occasion as Dad and Dorothy were quite capable to care for the family. We had not had a ride in a train yet,

I don't know which was more exciting, the ride or the destination. I took great care stepping onto the train. The drop to the railway lines was not at all inviting, but other than that it was a great adventure. I made any excuse I could to be able to walk down the many carriages through the corridors. The train seemed to play a tune as it rushed on its way. It would hiss and hoot with a diddle didee, diddle didee, as it hurried on its way, releasing a constant stream of black smoke. What a lot of character these old steam trains had.

We knew we were getting near the coast when the smell of fish and fresh air reached our nostrils through the open windows and the train slowed down to a halt. As soon as we arrived we ate our picnic lunch quickly. We couldn't wait to get our shoes and socks off to paddle in the many small pools left by the tide.

All kinds of living creatures survived in these shallow pools until they were rescued by the next high tide. Ted had a bucket and the boys collected lots of tiny crabs, some no bigger than our thumbnail. We were all ready to take them home until Mum explained they could never survive without their sea water.

It was a lovely day. Our cheeks and arms glowed with the sun and bracing wind. We were reluctant to leave the soft golden sands and spent the last hour or so wandering around the many stalls that peppered the foreshore, stopping now and again to buy a small gift and a bag of rock for the ones left at home.

We slumped into our seats on the homeward journey, too tired to run about as before. Ted fell fast asleep, only wakening when we were almost home. It was very late when we reached our station. Only one light glowed on the small platform, but it was light enough to show the face of our dad waiting there to help us home. With Ted riding on his shoulders, the journey didn't seem to take half as long as we chattered about the happenings of the day.

Last week in the middle of our history lesson Mr. Howe asked how many of us kept a diary, and nobody did. He said we lived in what he called, stirring times, and what happened now was very important in our lives and our future. Keeping a diary is an ‘aide-mémoire’. He wrote that on the blackboard.

Then he started talking about the war and Dunkirk. He wanted to know what we knew about it. I told him about going down to the Peninsular Barracks on Saturday, the 15th June, which was the day the soldiers arrived back in Warrington.

My dad said it was called Operation Dynamo. Mr. Howe said the South Lancs were lucky, because the 1st and 5th Battalions were amongst the first to be evacuated from the beaches. He told us that back in 1914 he had enlisted in the South Lancs.

We call Mr. Howe ‘Daddy Howe’ because he is so old. All the young teachers, the men that is, have joined up. We have three new teachers, two women and Mr. Howe.

Gerry Swan told us that his dad used to be in Mr. Howe’s class when he went to school and that Mr. Howe won the Military Medal in the last lot. His dad said we ought to have a bit more respect for Mr. Howe, so we dropped the ‘Daddy’.

It was funny the Saturday the soldiers came back. All the girl took their autograph books along to get the soldiers’ signatures, just as if they were famous film stars. They were very brown and healthy looking, as if they’d come back from their holidays.

When I told my dad, he said, “Some holiday, poor sods. It was a bloody defeat and no picnic. They’ve been through hell.” I didn’t tell Mr. Howe that; I expect he realised that already.

Anyway my dad was in the First World War, and he’s probably even older than Mr. Howe. He’s been retired for five years. Dad was in the Coldstream Guards in the First World War.

Rob, my brother, is in the Army. He’s in Egypt with the Guards Brigade, stationed in Cairo. He doesn’t tell us much in his letters, except how hot he feels all the time and what a filthy place Cairo is. I know he drives a light armoured car. Dad says he isn’t allowed to say much, else he’ll be censored.

I used to share this room with Rob. It’s all mine now, and it’s great having a room of my own and no one to boss me about.

I found a load of Rob’s Lilliput and Health and Efficiency magazines stashed away in his cupboard. He’d be hopping mad if he knew I’d been looking at all his nudey tarts, with their big bums and wobbly bits.

I didn’t realise I was going to write so much. It’s like talking to somebody without them telling me to shut up, and I really enjoy it. I can say anything I like, just so long as I find somewhere safe to hide it, and I know exactly where – at the back of the boiler in the airing cupboard.

2nd October, 1940

This morning Mum said that she’s going to decorate my bedroom, and I could help her. She said these days you can’t get new wallpaper for love or money.

Mrs. Jackson told her about something called stippling. First you paint the walls with emulsion. Then with a special sponge you dab another colour over it and it looks like new wallpaper. She said I could do the dotted bits; then I would feel like it was really my room.

Dad’s got himself a job; he’s working for the man in charge of all the barrage balloons at Padgate Camp. He’s something called a batman. He made it sound very important.

Mum said, “In a pig’s ear,” but anything that gets him out from underneath her feet was a good job as far as she was concerned.

He brought home a scrumptious chocolate cake with his first week’s wages. The lady in the camp canteen makes them.

Somehow I don’t think this is the sort of thing I should be putting in my diary. It has nothing to do with the war, and not very much is happening. Perhaps this is what people mean when they talk about the phoney war.

Mr. Tomlinson, our choirmaster at Saint Alban’s, gave me a solo last Sunday. I sang Bach’s Sheep May Safely Graze. I don’t like doing solos. I find them embarrassing.

Mum said I should be proud to have been chosen and wouldn’t I like to be a singer when I grow up, like Nelson Eddy. I told her, “No fear. I want to be a footballer, like Stanley Matthews or Dixie Dean.”

Lucy Nom de Plume tells of attending an Ascension Day service.

When I first started attending church a month ago my stomach used to churn before I entered the building. (”Maybe you were evil?” Laughs my very Catholic friend who believes in vampires.)

I felt so sick because I thought the worshippers would be like the enthusiastic Christian teenagers I met at university. They were nice enough but I didn’t appreciate their insensitivity towards non-believers. There was one girl who hissed like a cat whenever anyone said a rude word. It was great fun winding her up.

Of course as teenagers we all believe what we believe with great passion. At the age of 18 I was extremely prejudiced against Christians and I made no attempt to see things from their point of view. If I had been a Christian I would have been absolutely obnoxious.

The girl who hissed like a cat has probably mellowed into an open-minded and tactful woman. Similarly I am no longer prejudiced against Christians. People who go to church are just people.

My stomach doesn’t churn anymore and I’m finding it easier to have conversations with lay folk about Christianity. What troubles me these days is that I can’t tell everyone in my life that I have become a church goer. As someone who used to think about Christians in a very nasty way I know exactly how some people will see me.

My friend who believes in vampires says: “Show them your faith, it might change their minds, be proud!”

That is the worst thing I could do because it would frighten them. For me the most sensible path is the one paved with little white lies. I talk openly about speaking to priests and visiting churches but I don’t give my real reason. I say:

“I went to listen to the music.”

“My friend wanted to go, so I had to keep her company.”

“It’s something to do with work …”

I don’t know where all these fibs are leading me. I suppose I hope that the people I’m worrying about will get used to the idea that I hang around churches and might even guess the truth … but hopefully not yet.

In many ways, society was amazingly naive compared to the present day. I remember the local Referees’ Association recommending that if I sent a player off for using foul or obscene language, I must not repeat the actual words uttered in my report to the Durham Football Association. They suggested that if the player said, "F. . . off,” I should describe the offending word as perhaps, “An old Anglo-Saxon four-letter word beginning with F!” How things change…

Robert Owen recalls his days as a football referee in more innocent times.

To read earlier chapters of Robert’s autobiography please click on Two Rooms And A View in the menu on this page.

In his obituary in the Shields Gazette on 4th May, 1994, it was stated that one of the highlights of this time was in 1957, when he travelled to Wembley to see two former players from the J.O.C. League, John Dixon (Aston Villa) and Ray Wood (Manchester United), face each other in the F.A. Cup final.

Winston would be disappointed to hear that recently, due to falling numbers, the league has had to merge with another local junior league. However, John Diamond, the league's historian, ensures that records and memories of the important local junior league will not be allowed to disappear.

Refereeing in those days was a pleasure. Most teenage players respected authority, played to the whistle and didn't use foul language, especially within hearing distance of the referee. There were few cautions and sending a player off was extremely rare.

In many ways, society was amazingly naive compared to the present day. I remember the local Referees’ Association recommending that if I sent a player off for using foul or obscene language, I must not repeat the actual words uttered in my report to the Durham Football Association. They suggested that if the player said,
"F. . . off,” I should describe the offending word as perhaps, “An old Anglo-Saxon four-letter word beginning with F!” How things change.

During the summer of 1954 when Roger Bannister was the first ever person to run a mile in less than four minutes, I humbly applied to referee in the prestigious Houghton and District Junior League during the coming season. I was accepted and enjoyed the first class grounds and changing accommodation of the many collieries who had teams in the Wearside League. It was worth the extra travelling.

However, not all games were without incident. On one occasion, a vicar challenged my parentage. It was in the Durham Junior Cup, when a junior team from a church in Sunderland was entertaining another local club team. The vicar was standing in for the junior team manager and he had no comprehension of the basic requirements of the game. The pitch was unmarked, had no corner flags and he had no team sheets for me to sign. When I explained that I would have to report this to the Durham F.A., he was furious and used language that belied his profession. It meant another paragraph on the report!

The highlight of my career as a junior referee was perhaps when I was appointed to officiate in the cup final of the Houghton and District Junior League in 1956. This was played at the Riverside Park at Chester-le-Street, not far from where we used to live at Fence Houses. It was the first time I had officiated in a match with two linesmen and in front of such a large crowd. Fortunately, the game went well and I successfully applied for my senior referee's certificate at the end of the season.

Acting as linesman at higher grade and cup competitions, was an essential part of any young referee's career. My C.V. as a linesman included assisting at a Newcastle United (under 18) game at Hunters' Moor, when one of the home team was Ken Wimshurst , a former Stanhope Road School lad. Ken went on to have a useful career with several football league clubs.

In later years I got good experience 'running a line' to Jarrow Football League referee Bill Downey, when Gateshead (then in Division 3) played Berwick Rangers in a pre-season friendly.

Like many organisations, promotion in the refereeing world during the 1950's, depended on who you knew as well as ability on the football field. Therefore, when the Referees’ Association found out I went to the same church as the town's only football league referee, Stewart Blenkinsop, they thought I was 'made'. They recommended I ask him to use his influence to get me a push up the referee ladder. When I refused and said, "Any promotion I get will be based on my ability and not on who I know," they were amazed.

I continued to enjoy refereeing for many years until April 1960 when I finally shot myself in the foot with regard to the Referees' Association and any chances of promotion. They invited me to act as linesman to the F.A. Cup Final referee of that year — Keith Howley of Middlesborough. He had agreed to officiate at a testimonial match at Simonside Hall for South Shields long serving players, Baden Powell and Bobby Owen (no relation). The game was marketed as an International XI v South Shields XI. Several football league players were involved and a large crowd was expected.

The date, however, clashed with an important annual Boys' Brigade event, which I certainly could not miss. The local Referees' Association was not impressed and told me to 'sort out my priorities.'

I’d prayed a hundred times that Jesus would come into my life. I’d said the sinners prayer. I put my hand on a radio and repeated Billy Graham's call to repentence. But always I felt as though a piece of the puzzle was missing.

Now the missing piece stood out like a bright shining diamond.

The Bible told how Peter preached to the masses who believed they had crucified their Lord. "What shall we do to be saved?'' they asked. Peter, as recorded in Acts 2:30, told them “Repent and be baptised everyone of you for the forgiveness of your sins.'' In the next verse it is stated that 3,000 did so.

Here then was what I had to do; to be baptised in the name of Jesus for the forgiveness of my sins. It was clear. Obvious.

I told James that I wished to be baptised and he said I should think about it for a while longer. I was adamant. I told him I would not sleep until he promised to baptise me. He continued to suggest that I should wait a while, but I insisted. It had to be done now. It was also recored in Acts 16 that those in jail with Paul were baptised that very night.

So James made a few phone calls. Although he had a swimming pool in his back yard the water was freezing. This was the middle of winter. A church hall was to be opened up. There would be warm water.

Off we drove into the night, James and Monika lived in Kurringah Chase national park, Their church was a 45 minute drive away. We set out in the midnight hour. We came upon a truck that had broken down. There were police cars, An ambulance. We had to detour.

“See” said James “the Devil is at work trying to prevent you from being baptized.''

Now we saw across the valley a burning building.

"Now he is raining down fireballs to prevent you being saved,'' said James.

Eventually we reached the church. A dozen people had assembled to welcome me into their family. After being introduced to them I was directed to a back room where I put on a gown. I had never witnessed an adult baptism. I did not know the procedure. James told me not to worry. I would be immersed in water. When I came up I would be a child of God.

I marched into the baptistry, entered the pool and sat on the bottom, waiting for the hand of God to reach in and pluck me out.

I felt as though I had pipped the Devil at the post, beaten him in the twelfth hour.

I came up gasping, not feeling any different. Folk were shocked. I splashed those in the front row.

James then told me that he was the one to submerge me in the water after asking if |I accepted Jesus Christ as my saviour. He would hold me under for a moment, then bring me to the surface.

We did as he said.

I had to admit that the baptism was one of the most disappointing moments of my life. There were no harps, no singing angels. I had thought I would look up and see the face of God, but boy was I disappointed.

Those poeple were so nice. They sang hymns. They prayed for me. But I did not feel the heavens shake.

But I had made a commitment to reflect on what I had done, and to study. I was keener than ever to try to understand the Bible and what God wanted of me.

Henry Jackson presents another intoxicating mixture of news, poetry and personal experiences from the great city of London.

*

The first major port development for 150 years is to be built at Stanford-le-Hope, Essex, bringing cargoes from all over the world to the doorsteps of London. It will be built on the site of the former Shell oil refinery at Shell Haven and will be known as “The Gateway Containership Terminal”. The development will cost £1.5bn.

*

About 200,000 are expected to crowd into London’s East End this week-end to celebrate the Bengali New Year.

*

Nelson Mandela’s 90th birthday will be celebrated by a concert in Hyde Park. on June 27. Guests are expected to include Gordon Brown, the Prime Minister, and Bill Clinton, former U.S. President.

*

Work is being completed on the restoration of an 800-year-old mosaic floor in Westminster Abbey. Its fragile surface has been protected since the 1870s by a carpet but it is hoped to have it back in full view shortly. The mosaic was commissioned by Henry III and contains a coded inscription predicting the end of the world in 19,863 years.

*

The British National Party, with echoes of extremist political beliefs, has won its first ever seat on the London Assembly.

*

“East Enders”, the BBC’s prize show, was named as the most popular ”soap” on television. It beat “Coronation Street”, “Hollyoaks” and “Doctors”.

*

Two thousand jobs have been lost in the City of London following the recent credit crisis. And a further 18.000 jobs are at risk.

*

Mark Saunders, a wealthy 32-year-old divorce lawyer, was shot dead by an armed police response team after outbursts of gunfire from his flat in the upmarket area of Markham Square, Chelsea. He had been married for a year to another lawyer and they paid £2.2m for their flat in the square. A neighbour said that Saunders had been drinking all day.

*

A man was killed and two houses destroyed by a gas explosion in Stanley Road, Harrow, North London. Glass from the blast was found in a neighbouring street.

*

Princess Beatrice, aged 19, started work as a fashion consultant at Selfridges Store in central London’s Oxford Street to get work experience before going on to study at Goldsmith College in the autumn. She is fifth in succession to the Throne.

*

British Airways will begin to move its long haul flights to Heathrow Terminal Five in June.

*

John McCarthy, chairman of the House of Fraser Group, gave £1m to the Royal Marsden Cancer Hospital in Kensington in memory of his wife who died in the hospital last April at the age of 47.

**

Poems with Passion
My Defences Are Down
by Henry Jackson

One by one we demolished our fences
Blending into one person instead of two, Now I am left without defences
After shredding the past to make everything new.

Our love grew slowly and took long to build
With pain and laughter shaping the scene,
Never again will I be more fulfilled
Or forget anything that happened between.

The biggest impact you made on me
Was your fleeting smile, slightly hidden,
Like a shy bird in the heart of a tree,
A real joy but slightly forbidden.

I melt to the sound of your voice
That envelopes me like a shimmering cloud,
Never ceasing to make me rejoice,
Or even offer thanks to Heaven above.

I revel in your soft hazy perfume
That floats like the sound of a distant bell,
From Day One I knew I was not immune And immediately fell under your spell.

I could go on all day and all night
Without stopping, or in spurts,
All I really want to say is
I miss you, darling, it really hurts.

**

The Women in My Life---4 (Maggie)

At first glance Maggie looks like a tall Chinese woman, an Eastern princess or the cool concubine of a Chinese warlord. At second glance, and there always was a second glance, you realised that all the guesses were wrong and you were confused. Maggie was a tall American woman with short, dark hair, a wide mouth with perfect teeth and slanting eyes and as American as they come from upstate New York.

She was just 50 when we first met and when I looked into her eyes I could not make up my mind if they were sea green, burning yellow, misty brown or velvety violet. Finally I came to the conclusion that they could be any one of them and it depended on her mood, the time of day or the time of the month. She changed like a human chameleon, a tantalising but vivid mixture of emotions. She was always unpredictable and out of reach. I nediscover the real Maggie hidden deep down in the remote recesses of her soul.

Maggie was the daughter of a Presbyterian minister in a comfortable outback of New York State. She went to one of the best private girls’ schools in Boston and spoke English English enlivened occasionally by a French word or phrase or an Arabic word or phrase or a Chinese word or phrase. She smiled reluctantly but when she allowed it to happen it looked like a bright beam or a quivering light in a dark room. But if she was angry, which was often, or if someone or anyone offended her, the smiling eyes became thunderbolts and lightning flashed.

Soon after graduating with honours at an American university Maggie met and married Ted, a rising star in the British Foreign Service, who achieved quiet prominence in the shadowy world of the British Secret service. Together they lived first in Saigon when it was still the glittering Paris of the Far East, then in various parts of Arabia and finally in Hong Kong, the prize appointment, where he was head of the Secret Service.

Ted was tall and handsome in a vaguely Eastern manner and initially was destined to follow in the footsteps of his English father who was the Editor of an English language daily newspaper in Shanghai. He graduated in Peking University but broke with tradition when he left school and spent two years in the saddle in Mongolia helping to look after the vast herds of sheep that had to be moved on all the time to protect the food that grew under their feet especially in the winter because if they stopped in one place at any time they would freeze into solid blocks of ice.

Ted spoke the official and the unofficial Chinese languages plus all the various dialects and in repose looked like an inscrutable Chinese aristocrat. Living close to the Chinese enabled him to think like them, a gift that stood him in good stead in his chosen profession..

Maggie caused several diplomatic incidents in Arabia because she insisted in taking part in all the social events which did not go down well with the sheikhs. At one Arab banquet she sat alone in an adjoining room while the festivities proceeded and on another occasion, when she refused to give way, she sat at a banqueting table with everyone else but was hidden away behind a three sided canvas screen.

When they arrived in Hong Kong there were no barriers and Maggie became a triumphant and popular hostess. With Ted they lived an eventful life and bought a Chinese sailing junk that they used at week-ends. If she and Ted could have lived for ever they would have chosen to live in Hong Kong. They occupied a large house at the top of The Peak which also served as HQ for Ted’s operations and enabled him to keep a constant and watchful eye on China, Japan and the Eastern outposts of Russia.

They came on leave to England every second year and chose to stay in Ide Hill village in Kent where I lived in the largest house in the area that was the centre of local social events. We became great friends and I took a guarded liking to the exotic and enigmatic Maggie. With her husband Ted she often sat down round a big open log fire in my billiards room, exchanged details of experiences in various places all over the world, drank generously, and even sampled the arcane mysteries of Mah Jong.

(Continued next week)

**.

David Cameron’s daughter Nancy has been granted a place at a top State primary school, St Mary Abbots Church of England School in Kensington, two miles from their home.

**

Famous Quotes

The injuries we suffer and the injuries we do are seldom weighed in the same scales---Aesop

I’ve tried several varieties of sex. The conventional position makes me claustrophobic and the others give me a stiff neck or lockjaw.
Actress Tallulah Bankhead

An Englishman can get along without sex as long as he can pretend it isn’t sex but something else. Arts critic James Agate

All marriages are happy—it’s living together afterwards that is difficult.
Anonymous

**

Today in History

1469. Italian politician and philosopher Niccolo Machiavelli was born in Florence.

1850. James Barrie, creator of “Peter Pan” was born.

1937. Margaret Mitchell won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction with “Gone With the Wind”.

1945. VE Day.

1961. Alan Shepard took off from Cape Canaveral and became the first American in space.

1979. Margaret Thatcher was elected the first woman English Prime Minister.

1994. The Channel Tunnel opened.

**

Me

I am 95 years old. I survived 5½ dangerous years in the Navy during the war, lived through three tumultuous marriages and successfully overcame the challenges of starting up my own publishing business. I am also hard of hearing, have sight in only one eye and survived a triple heart by-pass operation. My memory can recall events that happened 70 years ago but not always yesterday. So I am annoyed and even angry when someone pats me on the back and says “Good morning, young man” or something equally inane. So please:

Cut the crap!

I am also a long time soup lover and can create really tasty mouth watering soups ranging from the popular tomato soup, the Italian minestrone soup, onion soup, chicken soup, lentil soup and many others. I got my recipes from the recipe book written by the famous chef Auguste Escoffier and I am sad that in my recent move I lost this guide to perfect soups.

This week I decided to give my new cooker with all its shining equipment
a test and I made tomato soup. It was good but I have made better in the past. I suspect that because I missed out onion it lacked the classic bite for which tomato soup is noted. I will try again.

My well informed friend Avril points out that Boris Johnson was elected Mayor of London and not Lord Mayor of London, as I reported last week. The Lord Mayor is head of the City of London, presides over a court of Aldermen, and holds office for one year. He is based at the Mansion House.

**

Inner Circle
Friends and family

Polly (Bristol)
The owner of “Marco Polo Travel” returned from a trip to Peru on an inspection tour of the hotels. While sightseeing around Lake Titicaca and other beauty spots she climbed to the top of Huayna Pichu, the iconic peak behind Machu Pichu, the only woman in her group to do it and the oldest.

'Where, prime minister?'

'Over there, in the corner, talking to Elly Trent.'

'I'll go and find out.'

'Yes, you do that ... Well?'

'His name is Cliff Culp.'

'The former jockey?'

'That's him. Full marks, prime minister.'

'Who invited him?' '

The minister for sport.'

'Ah, tell Elly that I would like a word with her.'

'I'll go at once, prime minister.'

'Yes, you do that ... Oh, hullo, Elly, you look lovely.'

'Thank you, prime minister. It's an honour to serve under you.'

'How very charming of you to say so ... Now, why did you invite Cliff Culp? This is supposed to be a reception for opinion formers.'

'Cliff is the racing tipster of the Daily Blare.'

'Oh, is he? ... Well, I hope he's not taking you for a ride.'

'No, no, prime minister - that's your prerogative.'

'Now, now, Elly ... Tonight, then, usual time?'

But Sergey Petrov is about to discover that there is much more to life than money and success in this splendid story by John Waddington-Feather.

For more of John's satisfying tales please click on Feather's Miscellany in the menu on this page.

Always an opportunist, like all Communist Party officials, he embraced the new creed with open arms, and as a well-qualified engineer with the right contacts, he soon found a plum job in an enterprising company drilling for oil in Siberia. Its managing-director became a multi-millionaire overnight.

However, his new job wasn’t as plum as it might have been. Well-paid, yes, but with Spartan living conditions in an harsh climate and a three-day journey by road every time he went on leave to Moscow. He could have gone by air, but he was sick for days afterwards each time he flew, so he took the long way each time he went home.

In summer it was quite pleasant when the roads were firm and not a mud-trap. But winter was another story. He rarely went home over winter when travelling by road ground to a halt. Roads, even highways, became treacherous and inches deep in mud when they were not ice-bound and pot-holed. There was also the chance of a late blizzard, too, and to be trapped by one of those in temperatures plummeting below minus 30 degrees Celsius meant certain death from hypothermia. Every winter, unlucky drivers were found frozen behind their wheels.

Though he’d abandoned Communism, like many former members of the Party, he never really believed all men and women were equal. He saw where the main chances in life lay and took them. Number One was always first and that’s why he had risen high in the Party ranks. That’s why he quickly landed himself a well-paid job when the Party crumbled.

But he remained an atheist. His gods were very much of this world: wealth, possessions, power and prestige, and his gods looked favourably on him. He had a comfortable home in an upmarket part of Moscow, he held a high position at work, he owned a smart car and wore expensive clothes. His women, too, were always expensively dressed when he took them to the best restaurants and clubs or to his holiday home near the Black Sea. Yes, his gods were very much of this world and smiled broadly on him.

The God of the Christians and other faiths was a myth. He’d had that fact dinned into him from an early age as a young Communist and by his father. Religion was the opiate of the people and he was quite content with his political opiate without the need for others. The Party opiate was tangible and brought profit. Religion was unprofitable in the USSR; simply a sop for the elderly and ignorant, and the Church was riddled with planted priests, put there to keep an eye open for Christian dissidents, who were soon weeded out. But since the collapse of Communism in the 1990s, slowly, very slowly the Church regained its integrity and began to grow.

Sergey’s grandmother, Babushka Markov, had remained loyal to the Church throughout her life. Like many of her age-group she clung steadfastly to her faith through all the traumas of Communist Russia. The young priests may have been Party spies, but the Christian Church is more than its priests. The Orthodox Church with its beautiful icons, its wealth of candles and incense, its rich liturgy and singing embodied the spirituality of its elderly congregations. Prayer was their mainstay, but that meant nothing to Sergey who’d never been taught how to pray. It was mere mumbo-jumbo. His brain-washing on that score was complete and remained with him even when he embraced capitalism. His soul was dead.

When his grandmother died he went to her funeral, the first time he’d set foot inside a church for many years. He remained behind while the rest went to her interment in a cemetery some way off. For her sake he took one last look around the old church which his mother had also attended till his father forbade her.

He didn’t like funerals; still less the interments afterwards; all that “dust to dust, ashes to ashes” business reminded him too closely of what atheists believed happened after death – oblivion. It was part of his creed he tried to blot out. Life was for making the most of while it lasted with no thought of what lay beyond, and capitalism was now providing him with all he wanted. He was richer than ever he’d been and there were more goods than ever to spend his wealth on.

Yet he was polite to the old priest, Father Dmitrov, who insisted on showing him round the church, which he’d served all his long life. He also had not gone to the interment which a younger priest was taking. The bitter weather kept the old man indoors.

“I knew your grandmother and mother well,” he said as they strolled towards the door. “They were regular worshipers here and I baptised your mother.” He glanced across to read Sergey Petrov’s face. Better not to ask why the younger man had not been baptised. There was much hostility to religion in the past and he sensed Sergey was against it.

Sergey didn’t comment only smiling politely at the garrulous old man. “I loved my grandmother dearly,” was all he said. “I spent much of my childhood with her when my parents were working.

“Then you will be blessed by her love, my son,” said Father Dmitrov. “Love is at the heart of our faith. It comes from God.”

Again, Sergey made no reply and as they entered the porch, he thanked the old priest for showing him round. He was about to leave when he was halted by a striking mural in the porch, the painting of a tall man carrying a child on his shoulders. It was larger than life and dominated the porch; and it was different from all the icons he’d seen. They had solemn unsmiling faces, but this one was smiling and lifelike. So lifelike it might have spoken.

Sergey asked the priest who it was. “He’s the patron saint of this church, Saint Christopher,” he replied, “and he’s also the patron saint of travellers. Tradition has it he unknowingly carried the infant Christ across a river.”

Sergey gave another polite smile. How could these Christians believe such fairy tales? Nevertheless, he felt drawn to look more closely at the saint before he left.

His car was not far away and packed ready for the long journey to Siberia. He glanced at the sky which was heavy with snow and hoped he’d reach his first night’s lodging before it fell. It was hazardous driving once it started snowing.

He’d a smooth run out of Moscow and was well into his journey before the snow came. There was little traffic on the road. None when he hit the unpaved highway out in the wilds; yet he had to keep going. He’d three days of hard driving ahead.

As dusk fell, the snow grew thicker and by the time it was dark a full-scale blizzard was blowing. To make things worse the road had deteriorated into a muddy trough and he began to be worried. Although he’d filled up with petrol before he left, the gauge was running low and he’d still some distance to go. He couldn’t go fast for the snow was drifting across the road and the mud brought him almost to a standstill at times.

He began to panic when his tank registered empty and was on reserve. There was no other traffic in sight and he was some miles from his lodging. He was alone, terrifyingly alone in a howling snowstorm with the temperature well below freezing.

Why he didn’t know, but he began talking to himself; not in prayer but giving voice to some inner expression of fear which surfaced. He could see nothing in front or to the side because of the driving snow; no sign of life anywhere. Even the signposts were blanketed out. Worse still, growing stronger by the second, the frightening thought nagged him that he would freeze to death once his small supply of reserve petrol ran out. He wouldn’t last an hour without heat and his hands were already numb.

Just when he’d reached the end of his tether, a dark shape loomed in front. It was a vehicle of some sort and he flashed his headlights frantically till the lorry, for such it was, pulled over and Sergey pulled in behind him. He got out of his car and struggled to the lorry in the teeth of the gale. When he reached the cab he yelled at the driver: “I’m out of petrol! Can you give me a lift?”

“Of course,” the driver replied. “Get in!”

Sergey hurried round the front of the vehicle and climbed in beside the driver. His cab was warm and welcoming for the heating was full on and the radio played popular music, and as soon as Sergey was inside he drove off.

“You going far?” he asked.

Sergey explained where he was heading. Once the blizzard had blown itself out, he would pick up his car the next day and continue his journey. Then he looked closer at the driver. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” he asked.

“Probably. I do this run often,” came back the reply, and the driver turned and smiled warmly at Sergey as if enjoying some private joke.

Sergey recognised him then. It was the face on the mural in the porch of Saint Christopher and he was gob-smacked! It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t! His mind was playing him up. It must have been driving so long through the blizzard which was playing tricks with his eyes. He was imagining things. But the longer he sneaked sideway glances at the driver, the more certain he was that it was St Christopher’s face he was looking at. He was so stunned he couldn’t speak and the driver concentrated on his driving. Only the radio broke the silence between them.

He took Sergey right to the door of his lodging and wished him a safe journey to Siberia. Sergey drew out his wallet and wanted to pay the driver, but he only laughed and told Sergey to put it in the poor-box the next time he went to church. Sergey was about to say he didn’t go to church, but with a final wave the driver left him and went on his way, leaving Sergey much to think about.

During the night the blizzard died down and the next day dawned bright and clear. Sergey recovered his car and continued his trip safely, but he couldn’t get the stranger who’d given him a lift out of his mind. He’d saved Sergey’s life and he never found out who the driver was though he made exhaustive enquiries. No one had seen him on the road. No one knew anything about him. He might never have existed.

When he returned to Moscow on his next leave, he went to St Christopher’s Church and stood in the porch looking long and hard at the mural. Yes, it was the lorry driver all right, down to the last detail: his hair, his complexion, above all, his smile and the twinkle in his eye.

He went there often after that, not to pray or worship for he could never bring himself to make the great leap of faith which requires trust; but he did begin attending church at intervals and he did place anonymously a handsome sum of money in the poor-box. So great a sum that when old Father Dmitrov opened it, he thought a miracle had happened.

John Waddington-Feather ©

Eric Biddulph joins the world of work.

To read earlier chapters of Eric's autobiography please click on The First Seventy Years in the menu on this page.

I never viewed it as anything other than a temporary position. I began looking for something better almost as soon as I arrived in the job. Perhaps because of my relatively better performance with figures compared with writing I applied for posts in bookkeeping or accounting.

One application was made for the position of junior audit clerk with a premier Nottingham firm of chartered accountants, Mellors, Basden & Mellors, which by an odd coincidence was situated in adjoining premises to the NAAFI. Much to my surprise I was called for an interview conducted by Mr Scothorne, a senior partner and a brilliant accountant as evidenced by his achievement as a major prizewinner for his performance in the 1938 examinations of the Institute of Chartered Accountants.

He told me that I would never achieve a high position within the profession because of my total lack of educational qualifications. Furthermore, I would not be an acceptable candidate to become articled to a chartered accountant. His candour was refreshing and not wholly unexpected. I immediately identified with him as my mentor, despite our radically different backgrounds. He mapped out a plan that would, after several years of lengthy study, mainly in my own time, enable me to qualify as an accountant.

In the 1950s there were several accountancy bodies. A chartered accountant held the accolade of top dog. There were two other bodies, neither of which required expensive articles, which in any case, my parents would not have been able to afford. The Incorporated Society of Accountants and Auditors was the favoured second best.

The Association of Certified and Corporate Accountants was the qualification I was advised to pursue. Mr Scothorne's reasoning was as logical as it was simple. I would be able to commence studying phase one towards the qualification without having to satisfy the Association of my educational attainment. When I reached the age of 21, I could apply for exemption from this requirement on the grounds of age and experience. It was anticipated that by then I would be sufficiently experienced to be permitted to enter the first phase examinations.

Mr Scothorne invited my father to a separate interview to discuss my future should I join the firm. Looking back over more than fifty years I realise what an unusual series of events had occurred. I have never ever heard of an employer inviting a parent of a potential employee to an interview. What was particularly bizarre was the wide gulf in social position which existed between Mr Scothorne and my father. "I liked the look of the boy. I decided to give him a chance," Mr Scothorne told my father.

On 15 June, 1953, resplendent in a new suit, I walked up to the reception desk at Mellors, Basden & Mellors: Chartered Accountants. My first real taste of the world of work was about to begin.

For more of Paul’s sparkling words on great music please click on Views And Reviews in the menu on this page.

“The Land without Music” was an anti-English polemic, penned in 1904 by Oskar Adolf Hermann Schmitz, who didn’t seem to have noticed that this was already no longer true. However, when the idea – that England was the only cultured country without its own music – was first mooted in 1866, it held rather more than a grain of truth. England, probably too busy with the Industrial Revolution and what-have-you, seemed to have tucked its indigenous “classical” music away in the cloisters.

Of course, some Englishmen – notably Parry, Stanford and Sullivan – were writing much fine music. Sullivan’s brilliant operetta music was uniquely “English”, but sadly it didn’t “travel” well. Otherwise, at best they imparted an English flavour to a menu already served, consumed and digested in mainland Europe. Musically, England was a backwater, producing plenty of also-rans but no front-runners.

An unlikely saviour was at hand, namely the self-same provinciality that had caused the “problem” in the first place! There was this young, talented musician who had been born, bred and educated entirely in the provinces. Consequently, he was steeped in England’s “concealed” musical culture and, having matured in relative isolation from the European mainstream, his musical language had “English” written right through it. Compared to his precedents, Elgar’s arrival on the international scene was explosive: with the Enigma Variations, the sun rose on the Land, and it could no longer be said that the Land was “without Music”.

The idea for the variations came from playing a guessing game with his wife, tweaking a theme to characterise his friends. Although he worked them out thoroughly, Elgar insisted that “personal allusions only concern my subjects and myself”. The “enigma”? Elgar teased the world: with his goes another, well-known theme – but which he never let on. Solutions abound, some subtle, some silly, but all irrelevant when the new voice of England beckons. Vital and volatile, fanciful and fiery, but above all it was pervaded by a profound and unprecedented spiritual nobility. It’s a sobering thought that here Elgar was just finishing cutting his milk teeth – the First Symphony was just around the corner!

Leaking into the popular pageantry of “Pomp and Circumstance”, Elgar’s trademark nobilmente enriched the counter-subjects to his orchestrally athletic main sections. Strange to relate, these marches were written simply as entertainment, unlike the two Coronation Marches with which Walton proved himself a worthy successor. These were, though, no mere imitations. Even the earlier Crown Imperial, written for George VI’s coronation, contains some juicy jazz inflections, and is capped by a climax fit for a full symphony.

Whilst Elgar was “ennobling”, Vaughan Williams was ripening in the meadows. Believing that composers should “express the whole life of the community”, he turned to the Sixteenth Century and to folk-song. This made him one of Elizabeth Lutyens’s detested “cow-pat composers” (she’s now better-known for that term than she is for her music. Enough said?). Originally for military band, the English Folk-Song Suite is an unassuming confection, of nine singularly sweet-smelling “cow-pats”, yet its Intermezzo breathes the same timeless air as the magnificent Fifth Symphony.

Now to the “Land with Music to Spare” – and controversy. Suppose a supremely-skilled sculptor reassembled shards of a shattered Michelangelo, correlated though extensions of his own invention. Should we condemn his work because it “isn’t Michelangelo” – or rejoice because it “is beautiful”? Recently, two Englishmen courted controversy, basing works on Elgar’s sketches. Whilst Anthony Payne “re-constituted” Elgar’s unfinished “Third Symphony”, Robert Walker emulated our hypothetical sculptor. Elgar’s efforts to write a piano concerto had resulted in sundry sketches, left languishing in the British Museum. Prompted by David Owen Norris, Walker investigated and found numerous gleaming jewels, undeserving of their musty fate.

Even augmented by other finds – including a recorded “improvisation” that’s apparently a middle movement draft – these fell well short of a concerto’s worth. Walker decided to sift out the red herrings, solve what he could of the incomplete jig-saw puzzle, and absorb it into a concerto of his own. Was this a rash decision? Like Payne, Walker faced the wrath of Elgar purists. Yet, why? Composers have done this since time immemorial, but does anyone get snotty-nosed about (say) Liszt’s operatic Réminiscences? Anyway, Walker also saw a unique opportunity to write “The Last (British) Romantic Piano Concerto” – and wanted to thumb his nose at those grumps who grumble, “They can’t write music like that any more” – because, by George, they can, you know!

What should you expect? Ah. You’ll hear the “new improved” version, with extensively-revised outer movements, whereas I know only the original! Nevertheless, prepare to be amazed, at vaulting climaxes deliquescing into idyllic interludes, and at abundant effervescent hyperactivity. There’s no slow movement; instead a whimsical waltz-intermezzo teeters teasingly betwixt parlour and music-hall. The work’s like a chocolate-chip cookie: the finest Elgarian chocolate embedded in mouth-watering Walker’s biscuit. The question is: where does the chocolate end and the biscuit begin?

© Paul Serotsky, 2005

The exuberant Liz Robison enjoys what she sees on a visit to Ireland – excepting that which floats.

Do visit the Web site of Liz’s internationally famous potter husband Jim Robison http://www.jimrobison.co.uk/

Our hotel was new and very ostentatious – glass and marble and pretentiously luxurious drapery. (There seem to be a lot of words with –ious in them in the last two sentences. Enough, already.) The hotel was comfortable enough and the food and service were fine, but it is an example of a phenomenon that we have seen develop gradually over the more than thirty years that we have been visiting the country. Ireland is a modern European country now, not a quaint rural backwater. There are remote, quiet and beautiful places, but they exist alongside the accoutrements of modern European life – development, clogging traffic, immigration and industry.

The tourist industry is still too bound up with the quaint leprechaun/ shillelagh/ colleen/ thatched cottage kind of images, and previous rural poverty and famine and the necessity of emigration now almost seem to have acquired a veneer of glamour.

Places we visited which gave pleasure include Mizzen Head, Ireland’s most south westerly point, the towns of Fermoy and Arklow with their broad rivers and fine bridges, County Wexford as a whole, which was new territory for us, and Lismore Castle in County Waterford.

I am a huge fan of Joseph Paxton who was head gardener to the Bachelor Duke of Devonshire on his estate at Chatsworth in the mid-nineteenth century. He went on to design the Crystal palace in London, and municipal parks as well as to invest in railways and become an MP. Now I discover that he also found time to design the rebuilding of the Duke’s Irish seat at Lismore Castle and design and execute beautiful gardens there, which were at their very finest when we were there. The sight and smell of a carpet of bluebells is always a heady experience.

Wild flowers were in abundance on the banks at the side of quieter roads and Clematis Rubens Montana seemed almost wild – scrambling up poles and trellises and over fences and walls. Everything in County Wexford was much further on than at home in West Yorkshire. However, there had been sunshine in the week we were gone because things were much further on than when we left.

Our visit to Cobh, near Cork was interesting for the wrong reasons. We were trying to get to the museum of emigration housed in an old railway station there, but the town was clogged with traffic because the largest cruise ship in the world, the Spirit of Independence, had docked there in its deep harbour as part of its maiden voyage from Southampton. It is huge – people buy apartments on it and live there, I believe. It is also very ugly. And we could not believe that so many thousands of people would turn out just to look at it. Though I have a theory that Cobh, (at one time called Queenstown), was such a port for emigration for thousands from famine-struck Ireland, that there is perhaps a folk-memory there which prompts people to turn up to see traffic in the harbour. The Titanic called at Cobh on her ill-fated maiden voyage.

Next weekend sees the first ‘Potters’ event in the calendar: a fair called ClayArt at Denbigh in North Wales. Two hundred potters display and sell their work and there are demonstrations and kiln firings too. It is also good to catch up with friends and colleagues on the social side. The setting in the beautiful Vale of Clwyd makes one have fingers crossed for good weather.

The weather will not affect this weekend’s main event – the annual Gymanfa Ganu (hymn singing festival) of Yorkshire Welsh societies, held this year in Harrogate. They always choose a chapel with a balcony as the venue, so the singing is stereophonic. A real treat.

More from me in a fortnight.

Eileen Perrin recalls what life was like in the 1930s.

Eileen's vivid memories are the stuff from which history is made.

As most small girls I liked to dress up, and remember finding Mum’s small amber-coloured cigarette holder, which she had used when cigarette-smoking became all the rage in the 1920s. I put it in my mouth and was instantly revolted by its horrible stale taste. Since then I have never wanted to smoke. And thank goodness Mum never became an inveterate smoker. She lived to be 96.

At the back of Mum’s dressing table drawer I found a small round flower-patterned box of Phul Nana face powder. Knowing she used Yardleys face powder in a round fluted box with a bee on the lid, she had probably bought Phul Nana years before.
I researched and discovered that Phul Nana was sold in the 1920’s. ‘Phul’ meant Indian flowers and the word Nana was an allusion to the Nana Ghat, a place where it was said a mist comes across to hide the faces of goddesses who are crossing there. So, Phul Nana meant something like Indian flowers in the mist.

I recall other names, like Californian Poppy perfume and Bourjois Evening in Paris in a dark blue glass bottle with silver stopper, and the ever-popular Yardley’s Lavender Water, and Lux toilet soap, advertised in Womans Weekly as the soap ‘used by the Stars’. Oh, and Ponds Vanishing cream in a white opaque pot with a pink lid.
Thinking of this took me back to an afternoon when my older cousin Rosie, then nine-teen, had been introduced to the delights of Ponds by Mum. I watched them bending forward over the kitchen fireguard to look into the oval mirror over the fireplace as they smoothed the white cream into their faces.

In our upstairs front room we put on our wind-up gramophone and Rosie showed me how to do the Charleston. We both had shingled hair, which was all the fashion, and I had begun to feel I was very grown-up, though I could only have been about nine or ten at the time. I had my hair cut at Mr.Kosky’s in Bradbury Street.

On Sundays I wore white ankle socks with black patent leather ankle strap shoes, and would look in wonder at the pure silk Ballito stocking displayed on a dummy leg poised on the glass-topped counter of Z.Dudley our local department store in Kingsland Road, Dalston. Mum always bought her corsets there.

After every purchase the assistant would put the bill with the customer’s money into a cylindrical canister hanging on a wire just above her head and pull a lever which would shoot it right across the store to the cashier’s office, from where the change would be sent back in the same way.

In 1939 at the start of the second world war clothing was rationed and silk stockings disappeared, not to be seen again until the G.I.’s came over. America entered the war after their fleet was bombed at Pearl Harbour, Honolulu in December 1941.

The generous G.I.’s gave their girl friends silk stockings, and the young brothers and sisters enjoyed chocolate Hershey bars, while their mothers kept quiet about the odd tin of butter, dried egg or joint of bacon.

It was a shame that our family saw none of these.

In the 1930’s along the front of the counters in Liptons grocers, were large cube-shaped tins with glass lids, full of loose biscuits. Cheese was bought by the piece from huge blocks, cut by using a cheese-wire. The Co-op gave small gift tokens of tin to save up for free grocery: Pearks had Gold Tip tea in packets with coupons to cut out, saved towards a tea-set of lemon and white flower-sprigged china, which we had.

Butchers’ shops had sawdust on the floor. Shoppers knew the names of cuts of meat, chuck steak, shin of beef, neck of lamb, half a shoulder, belly of pork, calves liver, pigs fry, lamb tongues, and rump or fillet steak, cut to order and weighed on scales, then wrapped first in white, then brown paper. Greaseproof paper came in later.

Pigs trotters, cow heel and tripe was sold from Prince’s, a different kind of shop, near Dalston Junction, specialising in offal. You could buy ox tail or lambs tongues and brains, tripe, or brawn set in jelly in white enamel bowls, and blocks of beef dripping.
On Friday and Saturday evenings Best’s the butcher, opposite Ridley Road market, sold faggots, pease pudding and bright red saveloy sausages, all hot, and taken home in one’s own pudding basin.

Next door to them was Allardyce the bakers, from where we bought coburg or cottage loaves and crispVienna rolls, and for Saturday tea, cream horns and chocolate éclairs. Their jam doughnuts and Eccles cakes, bakewell tarts and apple turnovers were a constant joy to a small girl, whose mother bought these treats when Dad found employment again after the Depression when he was taken on full time night work for Odhams Press, at The Daily Herald, packing newspapers in Long Acre, London.

Some Sundays we had topside of beef, put to roast in the oven, and placed on a trivet above the Yorkshire pudding in its tin beneath, so that the meat juices could drip into the batter. This could only have been when Mum used the kitchen’s old black-leaded iron oven, built into the side of our open kitchen range. It would not have worked with the new-fangled gas stove, when the pudding always had to go on the topmost oven shelf. Our ‘afters’ were usually a tin of peaches or pineapple with custard.

On Mondays we had cottage pie. The cold beef was minced with onion, breadcrumbs and crumbled dry sage, moistened with Oxo gravy and done in the oven, with a rice pudding topped with nutmeg, cooked at the bottom of the oven.

Fishmongers had blocks of ice delivered to them in open lorries. Huge ice blocks wrapped in sacking were manhandled to the tailboard with big iron pincers. The ice blocks were carried into the shop on a man’s shoulders

Chemists’ shops had beautiful huge decanter-shaped glass bottles of brightly coloured water on the shelf above the shop window, and as in all shops - grocers, linen drapers or dress shops, they had chairs where customers could sit

Jack Merewood was in the thick of the bitter battle for Italy.

To read earlier chapters of Jack’s vivid story please click on To War With The Bays in the menu on this page.

4 November: ' ... On revolver inspection got a rocket from our nice Troop Leader in spite of the fact that it's an old one and the marks won't come off ... working on tanks ... then all of us had a row with Lyle.'

On 5 November we were told we'd be moving on the 7th. That day: 'Up just after 4 a.m., had breakfast and finally left at 7.45. We'd made friends with some of the local people, and I particularly with an old man with whom I'd "talk" regularly. It caused some amuse¬ment when he kissed me goodbye ...

‘Through Cesena and finally stopped near Forli. Jerry's still there. The RAF is certainly giving him a pasting and we're sat watching the Spitfires dive-bomb inces¬santly. We moved on after dark, must have looked a very im¬pressive sight. Civvies stood about watching us. Stayed overnight in houses in a village. Fine billet this, tables, chairs, cupboards, wardrobes, mirrors.'

The fighting was still just ahead of us. We'd had the Gurkha infantry with us, quiet, fearless men, for whom we had great respect, and now they were replaced by the New Zealand infantry.

One of their sergeants came and said they'd just found eight Italian men down a well, all with their hands tied behind their backs and shot through the head. As we pushed on we also came to a well and we found another seven men down there who had suffered a similar fate, a gruesome sight. What sort of men were these we were fighting to commit such atrocities as this?

10 November: 'Snow on the hills not far away. We found spring beds and slept on them last night. Few shells landed. Should have advanced, but there is a river in front and it is swollen and we can't cross it. Stayed here another night. Shells and bombs don't half rock this house.'

The rain poured, the fields turned to mud, and we came to the river. The flood had subsided a little, a survey was made, and a point found where a crossing could be risked. It was pretty deep and our hearts were in our mouths as our tank entered the swirling muddy water, but we made it to the other side and to our relief met no opposition.

'... bit of shelling, that's all. Then crossed River Montone. We went a bit wrong with our tank and nearly ended up with Jerry. Haley and I caught two chickens, chicken for supper.' Next day: 'Did very well today, got a chicken and six cabbages.'

14 November: 'There's snow in the hills. Had to sleep in tank last night, frozen stiff in spite of being well wrapped up. At 5.30 a.m. we left in the mud and pouring rain and soon engaged the enemy. We exchanged fire, but though shells dropped around us we had no casualties and forced the Germans to retreat.'

We were now fighting from village to village, farmhouse to farmhouse, and in many of them we found people huddled, waiting for the war to pass. There were fields of mud, dead animals and poultry, and I felt sorry for the people, and especially the poor children. The rain turned to snow, and the conditions were atro¬cious. Still, for all this dreadful weather we continued to advance.

I thought about last winter in the snow, but we were only playing at fighting then. I thought about Suzette and the peaceful, happy farm at Aumale, and was thankful that she and her family had not been touched by this war. Suppose the fighting had reached Aumale, this would have happened to them. I couldn't bear the thought.

But these were families just the same, their homes and farms in ruins, and we were part of this ruthless war. The Germans must know they couldn't win, and yet, even in retreat they continued to fight. Not only were the lives of our young soldiers being thrown away; so were their young lives too.

16 November: 'Had a first class bed last night, in a house ... Set off at first light and tried to get round the left flank, to relieve No. 2 Troop, but stuck a few times, and the area became impassable be¬cause of the mud. So in the end Squadron Leader recalled us. We returned to farm of last night, and the family there were very happy to see us back. Finally tried again, and we got up to 2 Troop.'

Next day: 'Had to sleep in tank again because so many shells about. Humphries killed a duck for dinner. In afternoon he really blasted us and we had to sit in tank all the time. Shells dropped everywhere and tank hit all over the place with shrapnel.'

18 November: 'Ration wagon got hit last night as he brought up supplies. We got out and helped him to unload. Took rations off in dark and no one hurt... The ridge we're on is alive with Jerries and guns. Slept in tank again last night. Very cold and uncomfortable. Poles have been pushed back a bit on left, which leaves us in rather a dangerous position. We should have been relieved but can't get back. Jerry pounded us again at dinner-time. Dropped one right alongside us, shrapnel marks all along side of tank and big holes in idler.'

18November: 'Still here last night which meant another cold and bone-aching night of attempted sleep in tank. He was dropping them all night, but no "Moaning Minnies" for a change.'

The Moaning Minnies were a type of rocket, which when fired made a loud wailing sound like a siren. You heard them fired but, unlike a shell, you couldn't hear them in the air, so you crossed your fingers as you waited to hear where they landed. They were terrifying weapons.

The fighting continued fiercely. The Army rigged up searchlights and trained them on the ridge opposite and the RAF pounded it with bombs and machine-gun fire. Night and day there was no rest. The noise was deafening. It was like living in hell.

On 20 November we launched a big attack. We advanced with the infantry while the artillery fired over us from behind, and in front the Spitfires bombed and strafed. We played our part too. I knocked out among other things a self-propelled gun and hammered the village in front. 'Then he let us have it, and did everything but hit us. Edged forward 500 yards to next farm.'

After over two weeks of exhausting, nerve-racking fighting the 10th Hussars took over from us and with relief we withdrew. But the Germans were still showing no signs of surrender.

Bait to feed, to offer food; a packed meal; contents of a
lunchbox
Ban curse, to swear
Band string, rope, yarn, cord. band
Barf hill, especially one which is long and low
Barn child (especially a young child, infant) barn Same as bairn
Beck A stream, a brook
Bensel, or Bensil to beat, to thrash
Biggerstang A scaffold pole
Blaeberry A bilberry
Blake sallow, yellow (of complexion)
Blek boose A division or partition in a cowshed bas
Brig, brigg A bridge
Baht Without
Bahn Going, bound
Bairn A Baby
Balk A large beam or beam of scales for weighing
Bat or Stroke 'He's not struck a bat' - he's not done a stroke
Betty A guard placed in front of the fire to keep the ashes in, also
known as a Tidy Betty
Billy A machine for slubbing cardings
Blether Complain, whinge
Blithering’ (g) (adj) confounded, as in “You blitherin’ idiot!”
Botch To do a job carelessly
Brass Money
Brat A child, or an apron.
Brokk’n Broken
Brig A bridge
Brussen Burst (applied to sacks); lucky (applied to a person)
Bust/busted Broken
Buffet A small stool
Buffet To strike or slap, especially at the side of the head
Bunt A bundle (of cloth)
Burl Pick small pieces of hair etc. from cloth
Buzzer Mill whistle or siren

cahr to settle down, to become quiet
cam bank, slope, ridge
Carr marshy woodland or shrubland
Clap to apply quickly, put down quickly or slap with the hand
cleg horse fly
cletch family of young (e.g. children or chickens)
collop, scollop, or scallop thick slice or lump of food, usually ham, bacon or potatoes
crake crow
Caird A card or comb for dressing wool
Cal Gossip
Capt Surprised
Causey A pavement, footpath , causeway
Causey edge Kerb
Chip ole/oil Fish and chip shop
Chunter Grumble ineffectually
Clammed or clemmed Cold; hungry, short of food
Clicks Hooks for moving packs of wool
Clinker Hard cinder found in furnaces
Claarts, claahts, or clouts Clothes
Claht eead Cloth head. A term of oipprobrium.
Cloise or close Field, perhaps from enclosure
Clooathes Clothes
Cop Yarn spun on a spindle
Cop Catch
Cossie Swimming costume
Cropper Cloth dresser
Crozzil or Crozzle Hard cinder found in furnaces, cooked crisp, as bacon
Cut Canal

Deg Sprinkle)
Deggin-can Watering-can).
Din Noise
Do A commotion, a party, a lively time
Donned up Dressed in ones best clothes
Druft A drying wind, a draught
Dale valley
dee to die
ding to hit heavily, knock, throw down violently
doit to become forgetful or confused; to allow things to slip
from memory; to be failing (with age)
Dollop A lump of something (usually soft, like mashed potato)

ettle To intend, to aim to
ey An island, or dry area in a marshy place
Ee Exclamation
Ee ‘eck! Expression of shock or surprise
‘E He, him
Ee ‘ad He had
‘Eead or ‘Eeyad Head
‘ey A cry to attract a person’s attention
‘ey up hello
‘ey up what’s happening?
‘ey up whatever is the matter?
‘ey up That looks strange!

Fell Hill, mountain slope (especially rough moorland)
femmer slight, light, weak
flags flagstones flat, thin, rectangular stones used for paving, roofing or flooring
flaik, fleek, or fleak Hurdles, railings, fence, or open wooden storage rack
flit to move house (an archaic English name for a bat was
flittermouse).
foss, Force waterfalls, rapids (Thornton Force, Janet's Foss, etc)
Fether Father
Feyther Father
Fadge Bundles of cloth or wool in a pack sheet skewered with
wooden pricks
Fast Puzzled or stuck
Fearnaught A brand of wool mixing machine
Fent A fag end of cloth, three-quarters of a yard beyond the
length of a piece. Weavers used to claim this to clothe their
children
Fettle To clean, especially used of mill machinery, or set
something in order
Fettler A machine cleaner
Flags Paving stones.
Flibbertygibbert Empty headed girl
Flit Move
Fold A yard, field, or a collection of houses standing in a yard
Frame To set about a task effectively
Fruzzins Hairs coming off the cloth when finished or from yarn
when wound.

Gain near ("gain hand")
quick gegn
garth small grass enclosure adjacent to a house
gat got
gaum, or gawm heed, notice ("Ee taks noa gawm" = "He takes no heed,
pays no attention"); common sense
gormless lacking in sense)
gawp to stare, to gape open-mouthed
gill, or ghyll A small narrow valley or ravine
gilt An immature female pig
gimmer An immature female sheep (before it first gives birth to lambs)
glocken to start to thaw; when snow begins to clear away
gloppened, glottened astonished, surprised, flabbergasted
gowk cuckoo
graave to dig ?
grain fork in the branches of a tree; where a stream branches;
prong of an eating fork
greet to weep, to cry continuously
groop the slurry drain in a cowshed; open sewer
Gaffer The boss or foreman
Gainest Nearest
Galluses Braces
Gang or gan The verb ‘to go’.
Gers Grass
Gig A kind of knife used to remove knots from the cloth
Goit Channel or ‘gate’ cut to carry water to the mill
Ginnil A narrow passage between buildings
Gyp or jyp Pain, punishment, or a severe telling off

hagg part of an area of woodland, especially on a sloping bank
handsel money given to someone to seal a bargain or bind a contract
happen perhaps, maybe, by chance, as in "Happen I'll go home today"
haver oats (e.g., as in havercake = oatcake)
hey up look out, be careful
Higg – usually ‘Igg temper, annoyance, to take offence at something

Hank Thread wound on a large cylinder. A hank of wool or
cotton is 840 yards; 560 yards in worsted
Heft Carry

Ice-shoggles icicles isjukel Appears to be related to Standard English icicles ing(s), eng(s) meadow(s), especially water meadow near a river eng Now usually found only as an element in place names, such as Fairburn Ings, Bean Ings, etc. jannock fair, right, just (justice) jamn keck (descriptive of hollow-stemmed plants) kjot keld, kell spring or well kelda Usually found as an element in the name of a landscape feature ket carrion; raw meat or flesh; offal; rubbish ? cf Icelandic ket/kjöt, Swedish kött and other Scandinavian cognates for meat. ketty nasty, rancid See ket above. kilp pot hook, pot handle kilpr kytel working coat of coarse material ? cf Norwegian kittel kist large box, chest or trunk kista Related to the Standard English chest kittle to tickle kitla kittlin kitten

‘Ooam Home
Oppen or opp’n Open

laik, leck to play leika The verb laikin' is also used in some parts of Yorkshire for days off work or having no work to do ("He's laikin' today" = "He's not working today").
Note: As in most Yorkshire dialect words, the final /g/ is not sounded.
laithe, leeath barn, agricultural building hlatha Frequently found as an element in place names, such as Newlaithes lam to strike hard, to throw hard lemja lat late latr May be simply a vowel change from the Standard English late, but the close phonetic similarity with the Old Norse word suggests otherwise. leck to sprinkle with water ? cf Icelandic lek, leka, lak (= to leak). Probably related to the Standard English leak/toleak. lig, ligg to lie down, to leave resting in place liggja This may be the root of the term for a builder's or plasterer's ligger board, where mortar or plaster is left in place until needed ling heather lyng lisk groin, where legs join ? cf Norwegian lyske. loose, lowse to exit or leave from somewhere; to finish for the day and go home (as from work or school). ? cf Icelandic laus, laust, etc. (= loose, free, vacant). In Yorkshire, to be found in expressions such as "Football's looseing" (= the crowd is leaving the football ground at the end of the game), etc. Probably distantly related to the Standard English loose in the sense of 'being free'. lop flea ? cf Danish and Norwegian loppe ( flea) lug (1)
lug (2)
to pull or carry.
a knot or tangle in the hair.

Jacks Part of a loom
Jerry A finishing machine that removed rough surface of cloth
Jip or gyp Pain, punishment, or a severe telling off
Joss The master

Ketch to catch
Knock on To get on with a job
Koil Oyl’ or ‘ole Coal place
Kop Catch

Lake or Leik To be idle, out of work, to play
Leck or weet To wet as in wetting the cloth with stale urine to bring out the grease
Leet To meet with
Lig Lie down
Lithairse Dye house;
Lister A dyer
Loose fluff, often under a bed
Lug (n) Ear
Lug (v) Pull or carry
Lug ‘ole or ‘oyl Ear

Lumb Chimney
Lurry A wagon, lorry

Mah-th Mouth
Maister Master
Maun Must
Maund thissen Watch out
Midden WC
Middlin’ Moderate, or fair (health)
Miln A mill
Milner Originally the one who put the cloth in the milling stocks
Mongi Idle
Mule Spinning machine
Mullock Mess or muddle
Muff Make a small noise
Mungo Old rags and woollen material, shredded to be rewoven
Mun Must

mawk maggot mathkr mawky is also descriptive of a surly, unfriendly individual. mell sand dunes melur Now found only as an element in place names, or as a landscape feature name. mense decency; neatness, tidiness. mennska mickle much, greater, large mikkel Sometimes found as an element in place names (e.g. Micklethwaite) and, in York, in the street name Micklegate. middin, midden dung heap, rubbish tip, dustbin myki-dyngja midden is also found in Standard English, but is generally restricted to use in an archaeological context, whereas in Yorkshire it is an everyday term. minnin-on a snack which staves off hunger until the main meal of the day minna (= to remind) May be related to the use of mind in phrases such as "Now mind you wash behind your ears", in the sense of remembering to do something. moss bog, marsh mose Now found only as an element in landscape feature names, such as Fleet Moss, Holme Moss, etc. mot, motty marker used when ploughing; something to aim at; a rendezvous ? cf Norwegian mot (i retning) (towards, in the direction of) and Swedish mot (towards). muck; mucky dirt, manure; dirty, messy.

Nah then Hello
Nah then what’s this?
Nah then How are you?
Nah then I don’t believe you
Nah then Stop that!
Naw No
Nob’dy No one
Noan Not
Nogs L-shaped pieces of iron placed on the beam to hold the
warp
Noils Short fibres of wool removed by the combing machine
Noit Business
Nope To hit, especially on the head
Nooa No
Nooan Not
Norther Neither
Nowt Nothing

nang troublesome, painful, irritating angr A nangling (or nankling) task is one that is tiresome, fiddly, intricate and awkward to perform. nay no nei Rarely used now in its specifically negative sense, but more often found as a precursor to some admonishment or reprimand ( "Nay, lad, tha's doing' that all wrong ! " ) ness headland, promontory næs Now to be found only as an element in the names of landscape features or in place names (e.g. Hackness, Holderness). cf French nez, as in Cap Gris Nez, etc. nieve fist

Okker To hesitate
‘Ole Hole, or place.
Ollis Always
On’t th’ed On the Head
Oss To stir; move, to begin
Owt Anything
Ower or Ovver Over or above
Ower much Too much

poke sack, bag, pouch poki May equally have come from the same English root as pocket rack judgement by eye of accuracy, alignment, length, etc. (rather than by the use of a ruler or other instrument). ? Usually heard only in the dialect expression "..bi t'rack o' t'ee" ("..by the rack of the eye"). cf Swedish rak (straight) and Norwegian rak (direct, straight, erect). ram, rammy smelling strongly, pungent ? cf , for example, Icelandic rammur, rant, etc (strong, pungent) and Norwegian ram (pungent). reckle to poke, to stir (especially of a fire in the hearth) ? cf Icelandic reka (thrust, run through something) reckon to pretend, to think, to consider reikna Found also in American English, used in similar senses. rick, reek smoke, to smoke reykja reek has passed into Standard English where it has undergone semantic shifting which appears to have followed the course smoke=>smell like smoke=>smell unpleasant like smoke=>smell unpleasant (of anything), as in "He reeks of whisky". But, dialectally, the original meaning is retained. Riding One of the three former administrative parts of Yorkshire (North, East and West) þriðjungr (= a third part) The Ridings were disbanded in 1974, which stimulated the initiation of an annual Yorkshire Day (1 August) by the Yorkshire Ridings Society, which continually urges the reinstatement of these Viking-originated divisions. The East Riding has since been restored. See also wapentake. rig-welted descriptive of a sheep which is stranded by being laid on its back hrygg (spine) + velte cf Norwegian ryggrad (spine, backbone) and velte (overthrow, overturn); Swedish ryggrad (spine); Icelandic hryggur (back, spine) and velta (tumble, fall). The Standard English ridge may be associated with rig. rive to tear or split

Paand or Pahnd Pound (£1)., also to beat (pound upon)
Perch To examine cloth by putting it over a rod, pole or perch, in
order to remove burls or motes
Pick To throw the shuttle
Pick The line of weft laid through the weft
Piggin A lading can used to transfer hot water from the boiler or
copper into the wash tub or vat, or other small vessel
Poise Kick
Porty woof
Posser A device for possing clothes.
Pund Pound (lb) weight or ₤1.00
Put’t’wood in’t th’ole Close the door (put the wood in the hole)

Rant A Fair
Rant To gob on abaht summat
Raht An intensifier meaning ‘very’
Real Good or outstanding
Reet An intensifier meaning ‘very’(Right meaning very).
Right an intensifier meaning ‘very’.
Rordin’ A Riding; a third part eg: T’ Weast Rordin’ or Raahdin’
Rovin In wool spinning where the filaments are drawn out to a
greater length
Rush A festival – also seating in a cinema as “T’tupp’ny rush”

Saig Saw
Saigins Sawdust
Sam To pick up or gather, to lift
Scoow-il School
Scribble To give the first rough carding to wool or cotton
Sharp quick, as in “Look sharp!” also Bright intellectually
Shauve Slice (of bread)
Shift thissen Move yourself
Shiftless Feckless
Shivvins Small bits of wood or shavings in the wool or bits off the
yarn (shavings)
Sh’in’tin She is not at home
Shi’ll nooan She will not
Shi-waint She will not
Silin’ Raining
Sithee Look here (“See, thee”)
Shoddy Waste material thrown off by machines, used for low
priced cloth
Skep or skip A willow basket
Skitter To hurry one's work
Slaace Slice as of bread
Slawit Slaithwaite, a small township of Huddersfield
Sliver A long carding of wool; a splinter of wood
Slub To draw out cardings into greater length
Slubbin’ Drawing out carded fibres to lengthen them
Sluffed Disappointed, distressed – “Well, a’hm fair sluffed!”
Stamperds The four posts supporting a loom
Splaht Splatter
Splahted (vt) Splattered
Starved Feeling cold
Starved Hungry
Stocks Part of milling machinery
Strinkle To scatter or sprinkle
Summat something
Sumpoil Sump hole – the place to which surplus liquids flow

sackless ineffectual, simple-minded, lacking in energy or effort; also innocent of wrong intent saklauss scale summer dwelling and pasture skali Found usually as an element in place names, particularly field names. See also seat. scar, scaur cliff, or rocky outcrop with a steep face skera Found mainly as an element in the names of landscape features, such as White Scar, or settlements which take their name from a feature (e.g. Ravenscar) scuttle basket for holding grain; metal bucket for coal skutill The metal bucket for coal meaning is found in Standard English seat, set(t), side summer pasture or dwelling place sætr Found usually as an element in place names, particularly field names. See also scale. seaves rushes sef seg hard callous of skin on the hand sigg Now used as a trade name for crescent-shaped metal studs put in the soles of boots and shoes to prolong wear. sile, siling to rain heavily, as in "It's siling down" ? cf Norwegian dialect sila. Also Norwegian and Swedish sila (strain, filter). There is a suggestion here of liquid running quickly through a strainer or filter. sike, syke, sitch small stream or gulley, gutter. ? cf Icelandic síki (streamlet, rill flowing through marshy ground). skahme, skyme to glance sideways furtively or scornfully ? cf Icelandic skamma (revile), Swedish skamsen and Norwegian skamfull (ashamed). Probably related to the Standard English shame/ashamed. skeelbeease division or partition in a cowshed skelja (to divide) skeller, skellered to be warped or twisted (especially of wood) ? cf Norwegian skjelende (squint) and Swedish skelögd (cross-eyed). skell up to upset, overturn, knock down ? cf Icelandic skella, skell, skall (crash, fall wiuth a crash, throw down) sken to look at with screwed-up eyes, peer intently ? cf Swedish sken (to glare), Norwegian skinne (to glare).


skep, skip large wicker basket (especially that used for storing and moving materials in a textile mill) ? May be related to the Icelandic skápur (cupboard, wardrobe, locker, etc), in the sense of a container. cf also English skep (wooden or wicker basket; a straw or wicker beehive) and modern English skip (large metal container for waste), in which case the 'Yorkshire' words may be non-dialectal. All may be derived from an ancient root word for ship, in the sense of a 'carrying container' and as one primitive form of craft was the wickerwork, basket-like coracle. skift, shift to get out of the way, to get a move on ? Clearly associated with the Standard English shift (to move, to deviate), but the sk- element may suggest a regional variation derived from Old Norse. skimmer to shine brightly, to sparkle ? cf Swedish skina (to gleam or shine) and Norwegian skinn, skinne. Probably associated closely with the Standard English shimmer (to shine). skitters diarrhoea skita skive to split or pare leather or hide skifa skrike to shriek or cry out loudly skrækja Clearly related to the Standard English shriek (cf modern Swedish pronunciation of /sk/ as /sh/) skyr shire (county) or part of a shire county. ? Speculative ! Socio-political and administrative systems which have developed differently in the Scandinavian countries make cognate detection and comparison difficult. May be derived from the Old English scír, scíre (now shire) but with a 'hard' /k/ replacing the English 'soft' /c/ in 'Scandinavian' England. Now found only as an element in place names, such as Skyrack ('shire oak'), part of Leeds. slack a small valley or depression in the ground slakki Found mainly as an element in the names of landscape features. slape, slaape, slippy slippery ? cf Icelandic sleppa, etc., (to become free, to escape, to get off), Norwegian sleip (slippery). It is possible that the Yorkshire dialect forms had the early meaning "..to slip away". In some parts of Yorkshire, slape ale is a free drink of beer, or beer bought for one by someone else. Obviously related to the Standard English slip, slippery, etc. I also found the slippy variation in use in Co. Meath, Ireland, suggesting that it has wider currency in other varieties of English. slocken to quench thirst, to drink greedily ? cf Norwegian slokke (to quench), Swedish sluka (to swallow); also Icelandic slökkva (to extinguish, put out) in the sense of quenching. snod smooth, sleek; short (of a fleece) snoðin (= bald) spelk, spell small sliver of wood used in thatching; splinter of wood in the skin. ? cf Norwegian spjelke (splinter), Swedish splitter (splinter). spittle small, flat piece of wood used for putting bread in and out of the oven. ? cf Icelandic spýta, etc., (a piece of wood) spretch to crack (as in eggs when they hatch) ? cf Norwegian sprekk and Swedish sprikka (crack). staddle, staddling frame of posts and beams; foundations for a haystack ? cf Swedish stadig (steady), Norwegian stadig (steady, settled, stable) and Icelandic stadur (placed (upon), to be standing on). Throughout England, the stones on which grain houses, etc., stand (often mushroom-shaped to prevent ingress by vermin) are known as staddle stones and this appears to be a related term. Also possibly related to the Standard English steady. stang pole, shaft, stake, wooden bar stangar See also biggerstang stee, stey ladder; stile over a wall or fence stige steg male goose (gander) steggi steyl handle, shaft ? cf Norwegian stylte (stilt). Probably related to the Standard English stilts (posts, wooden supports). stithy, stiddi (blacksmith's) anvil steði May be related to the Standard English steady (see staddle, above). stoop, stowp, stoup post, gate-post, distance marker (milestone), standing stone stolpi Sometimes found as an element in place names (e.g. Yeadon Stoops) storken to set, to stiffen, to coagulate (especially when cooling down) storkna stour, stower rung of a ladder; a stake or pole staurr strang strong strangr May simply be a vowel change from the Standard English strong, but the close phonological similarity with the Old Norse suggests otherwise. swarf, swarth grit worn from a grindstone; mixture of grease and grit or metal particles (such as iron filings)

tang projecting part of a knife to which the handle is fixed tange To be found in Standard English usage and not, therefore, solely dialectal tarn lake or pond (especially in an upland location) tjarn Found mostly as an element in the names of landscape features, such as Malham Tarn. teem to pour out, to empty (especially to pour away a liquid but also unloading a cart, etc) toema Found in Standard English in such expressions as teeming down (raining heavily) and teeming with people, etc., but the more generalised usage to indicate emptying remains dialectal. thoil to be willing to give; to afford; to endure, tolerate, put up with ? cf Icelandic þola, Swedish tåla (to brea, put up with), Norwegian tåle (to tolerate). Found in Scotland as thole. Probably all related to the Standard English tolerate, toleration, tolerable, etc.. Found in Yorkshire usually in expressions such as "I can't thoil it" (= "I would like to have it but can't bear to part with the money for it") thorp(e), t(h)rop village or small settlement þorp Now found only as an element in place names (e.g., Priesthorpe, Knostrop, etc) and as a family surname. throng, thrang, threng very busy, hard pressed, crowded out with work ? cf Icelandic þröng, etc. (narrow, tightly pressed; compelled, forced [in the sense of being pressed to do something] ); trang (narrow), Swedish trång (narrow, tight). All probably related to the Standard English throng (crowded, to form a tightly-packed crowd, etc.). thwait(e) village or small settlement tveit Now found only as an element in place names (e.g., Linthwaite, Micklethwaite, etc) and as a family surname. toft(s) small farmstead with enclosed land; later applied to a village or small settlement toft Now found only as an element in place names (e.g., Altofts, Willitoft, etc) and as a family surname thrums ends cut from the warp thread while on the loom, during the weaving of woollen cloth (were at one time commonly used for home rug making)

T’ The
Taew or Tow To strive
Tay Tea
Tail goit Channel from the mill; tail-gate
Tenter Frame for stretching cloth to dry on tenter hooks
Tenterer The tenter operator
Th’ The
Tha You, thou
Thahn Yours (thine)
Tha’ll You will
Tha a’n’t Thou hast not (you have not)
Tha mun You must
Tha munt You must not
Tha’ll no’an or noo-an You will not
Tha wain’t You will not (imperative)
Tha Wot? You what? (what did you say/mean)
Ther wer There was
Thi or Thee You
Thahn Thine (yours)
Thine Yours
Think on! Remember!
Thissen or thyssen Yourself (thyself)
Thoil To bear; endure; not begrudge; spare
Thrape Be busy
Thrapin’ Working hard
Throng Busy
Thrum The short ends of the warp cut off from a piece of cloth
Thump Local name for a feast or fair
Tag or Tig To touch (as in children’s games)
Toit To keep in toil; to keep in good order
Tuner One who tunes or sets the looms for weaving

Ummer Local word equivalent to in force (but not meaning) Hell, emphasised as ‘bloomin ummer’
Us Our. eg, “We’re off on us ‘olidays”
Umpteen Countless
Uppards Upwards
upskittle to upturn, turn over, restore to upright position

wapentake historic sub-division of a shire county, with a periodic assembly at which freeman could vote by a show of weapons. vapntak The wapentakes in the Danelaw equated with the hundreds of the more southerly 'Saxon' counties. In Yorkshire, the wapentakes were sub-divisions of the Ridings and, though the latter were dismantled in 1974, wapentakes survive for some administrative/legal purposes. See also Riding. whinny gorse, furze, thorny vegetation ? cf Norwegian hvine wye young cow up to about three years old kviga
Wain’t Will not
Wafter A piece of rag used to cause a draught to scatter fluff
Wallop Hit, strike
Wallop Beer
Wanty A girth for a pack horse
Wappy Quick; a short cut
Wind To wind bobbins
Watter Water
Wassup? What is wrong?
Wim wam An impulse or fancy, a name given to an imaginary perch
for ducks
Winteredge Winter hedge; clothes horse (Clooathes ‘oss)
Wit Common sense
Worsit Worsted
Wom or Hooam Home

Yark To jerk; pull or snatch
Yeead or Yed Head
Yeed Head
Yetton Kirkheaton, an ancient township of Huddersfield
Yo’arn Yours

Yacker, acker acre - an ancient measurement of land
Yawd horse of inferior breeding
Yest yeast

Yorkshire Phrases

Ah dooant nooaa I don’t know
Ahm bahn wham I’m going home
Allus at t’ last push up Always at the last minute
Ah wer or Awer famished I was hungry
Ah wer fair famished I was extremely hungry
‘As ee bin in? Has he been here?
E’s goin’ dahn t’ nick His health is failing
Ah wor fair starved I was very cold
A reight gooid sooart A good and kind person
’E wor ’ard on He was fast asleep
‘E teks a good laak’ness He is photogenic
Gerraway Get away (hard ‘G’ as in ‘Gun’)
Gerrawaywiyer Get away with you (statement of disbelief)
Gerroff Get off
Gerroffit Get off it
Gerronwi’it Get on with it!
Gerronwithi I don’t believe you
It caps owt It beats everything
It’s nut jannock It’s not fair
Nobbut a mention Just a small amount
Shintin She isn’t at home
Well, ah’m fair capped! I am very surprised
Worshein Was she in?
Livin’ tally Living together as if married, but without benefit of clergy
Livin’ ower t’ brush Living together as if married, but without benefit of clergy

Put ‘t t’wood in’t ‘t’oil Put the wood in the hole (Close the door)

Wats ta getten? What hast thou gotten? (What have you got?)
Wats tha getten? What hast thou gotten? (What have you got?)

A Powem I’ Brooad Yarksha
(A Poem in Broad Yorkshire)

Mi Native Twang
By John Hartley - 1898

In the Broad Yorkshire Dialect Translation for the Underprivileged

THEY tell me aw'm a vulgar chap,
An ow't to goa to th' schooil
To leearn to tawk like other fowk,
An net be sich a fooil;

Mi father, tho' he may be poor,
Aw'm net ashamed o' him;
Aw love mi mother tho' shoe's deeaf,
An tho' her e'en are dim;

Aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk
Its crucken'd streets amang;
For thear it is aw hear fowk tawk
Mi own, mi native twang.

An may health, wealth, an sweet content
For ivver dwell amang
True, honest-hearted, Yorkshire fowk,
'At tawk mi native twang.

~ Translated by Ronnie Bray – Born 1935
~ Huddersfield, Yorkshire, England ~ ~ ~

Copyright © Ronnie Bray
2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004
All Rights Reserved

To read more of Bill's moving poetry please visit his Web site http://www.freewebs.com/nirvanasgate/index.htm

Dark days visit;
We see the pallor shades of gray,
We learn, we see the envy greens in the eyes of those
Who have stayed to long in those gray places.

I have seen these things, but above all my color; Passions Red!
Of life and it's many colors, this palette of never ending beauty!
Pity for the man with the color blind heart and soul!

He needs only to surrender to life's rainbow,
Allowing himself to be blessed by these;
Life's colorful hues .