Open Writing

“Domestics” they call them these days, but in the old days they were simply known down Garlic Lane as “family rows”; and, believe me, there were plenty of them. In fact when a good old-fashioned row got going it was sheer street-theatre and the whole street leaned over their back-yard walls to watch it. But if a row turned violent, as they sometimes did, it was either broken up by the neighbours or P.C. Nutton, the community policeman who lived round the corner was sent for. You see, cops lived on their patches then and didn’t commute from their expensive houses in the suburbs to patrol the town in panda cars.

P.C. Nutton was a burly, old-time copper who lived at the bottom of Byrl Street. His house was like the rest in the terrace except it had a plaque on the wall by the door which said he was in the West Riding Constabulary. He was a very respected member of the community which he knew well. He always said it was his job to keep men out of prison, not put them in it. And I reckon he saved many a marriage when he had to intervene in a domestic, by taking the husband to one side and knocking some sense into him verbally as well as physically. Both the constable and the vicar were much loved figures down Garlic Lane; men who looked after their flock in quite different ways but with the same result – communal harmony.

Yet there were times when that harmony was shattered, for people being what they are fell out and squabbled, especially husbands and wives. Now if they’d had a father like mine their fallings out would not have been so heated, even violent some times. My father just before I married gave me some very sound advice: “You’re bound to have the odd quarrel,” he told me, “because marriages aren’t made in heaven. They have to be worked hard at here on earth all your life – and damned hard work it is, too. But always remember this: if you’re wrong, apologise; but if your wife’s wrong keep your mouth shut else you’ll never hear the end of it!”

There were marriages down Garlic Lane which were stormy to say the least; some of them reaching tornado level. I’ve mentioned Bob Cowling before in one of my tales; how he had his fancy women, one of whom lived in town and ran a fancy corset and ladies’ underwear shop. When Bob’s wife and three daughters had had enough of his playing out, they visited the lady friend’s salon one day and persuaded her to try on a corset to see how it looked. When she’d stripped down to her undies and laced herself up to parade before them, they bundled her into the street and locked the shop door leaving her stranded in the middle of Keighworth. The lady never entertained Bob Cowling again but he soon found pastures new to play in.

Two notable ‘domestics’ occurred when I lived down the lane; one involved the Sawyers who lived down the street and were always rowing. The climax came one summer evening when Bill Sawyer had been out drinking and arrived home to a nagging wife. Their row culminated in Bill’s chasing his wife up the street with a carving knife. Bill was a big chap so P.C. Nutton was sent for. He quietened Bill down and took the knife from him before taking him home and giving him a good talking to, saying that if anything like that happened again, he’d run him in and let him cool off in the nick.

While it lasted, it was good drama watched by the whole street. But another bit of wife-chasing drama happened some years later when Tommy Holmyard, who owned the scrap-metal yard down Garlic Lane and was a director of the Rugby League Club, came home unexpected from the club one Saturday night and found his wife in bed with a player called Kelly. Tommy grabbed his shot-gun and chased them naked outside, firing shots over their heads all the way up the lane till he was stopped by a copper and relieved of his gun. That ‘domestic’ had a happy ending for Tommy remained true to his wife but moved out of town. Kelly also left town but never played for Keighworth again; and the very next match the rugby crowd bawled the old song: “Has anyone here seen Kelly? K..E double LL..Y.” with typical Keighworth subtlety.

One famous row down the street involved a yard-brush. For what reason I never knew but two families in the street were always rowing. One was the Overly family at the top of the street, and the other was the Lockworth family at the bottom. Came the time when Eddie Overly was slanging it out with Elsie Lockworth with the whole street watching on over their back-yard walls and enjoying every moment. The row lasted a good half hour till Eddie ran out of steam. (No man is a match for any woman in arguments.) When Elsie had finally talked Eddie out, he stalked back into his yard and brought out a broom which he stood against the wall, shouting: “I’ve had enough! Talk to that!” Then he turned and bowed to the onlookers before going back inside. Elsie was floored. She’d no answer and retreated red in the face with rage. I don’t remember any more rows between them and the Overlys moved house shortly after.

I can’t leave the topic of ‘domestics’ without mentioning the Keighworth Henpecked Husbands’ Club, which met at intervals at a lonely pub on the moors above the town. They were a group of hearty tipplers who made henpecking a virtue, an excuse to get away from their wives for a day out. When I got to know some of their wives I could see why the club was formed, and as far as I know it’s still going strong, though limited to 50 in membership.

But having presented marital life down Garlic Lane in a rather negative way, I’ve got to say that most marriages lasted a lifetime despite all their ups and downs. And therein lies a moral. For all the squabbles and for all the nagging, divorce was rare in the old days and couples seemed happy enough to tag along with each other to the end once they’d married. One can only assume that somehow people were more resilient than they are today; taking their spouses how they found them and not what they expected them to be all their lives.

John Waddington-Feather ©