KEITH WATERHOUSE

Those old basin blues

There used to be a little periodical, a monthly ragbag of jokes and cartoons with the extraordinary title of a Basinful of Fun.

            I was reminded of it by a letter from Mrs Annie Fenn of Leeds this week, conveying the mournful intelligence that, they have filled in the basins.

            The basins were a series of shallow quarries in the middle of an enchanted forest – well more a little wood, really – which was the training-ground for my boyhood apprenticeship as cowboy, outlaw, smuggler, ape-man, castaway, detective, engine driver and such like career opportunities.

            Where A Basinful of Fun comes into it is that it never occurred to me that there was anything unusual about such a title. The basins were such enormous fun that it seemed altogether natural and proper that someone should want to name a joke book about them.

            How these four or five craters came into being I had and have no idea, though theories were legion. One was that they were old mine workings, another that they had been caused by a stray bomb from a Zeppelin in World War One, another that they concealed hidden gold looted from a treasure ship that had foundered on the Leeds and Liverpool Canal

            By far the most plausible or anyway the most popular, explanation was that they had been formed by rockets landing from Jupiter.

***

            Sometimes when the August sun filtered through the trees, we would catch the glint of metal in one of these basins and would dig feverishly for the concealed spacecraft. In this way we unearthed many rare objects such as old sardine tins, and once, what was either a time worn Abyssinian coin or a tap washer.

            The basins were all things to all boys. To the bike riders they were the speedway track or the Wall of Death. To the owners of chariots in the form of a plank on four pram wheels, they were the Roman Coliseum. To the underprivileged, deprived of any form of transport accept an imaginary bucking bronco they were the foothills of Arizona.

            My own special delight, as a wounded colonel in command of the First Leeds Mounted Aerial Marine Infantry, was to find the basins occupied by kids from the local Catholic school. If our council school platoon were present and correct in sufficient numbers, we would fight the Battle of Mons.

                                                 ***   

            (No doubt my correspondent, Mrs Fenn, being of the younger generation, took part in the D-Day landings on the basins where she would have been allowed to be a nurse.)

            In winter the basins filled up with water when they became the Atlantic or the Mississippi River. In high summer when the clay surrounding the basins became baked hard and stippled with little cracks, they were the    Sahara Desert on the moon.

There was never any single moment when any of us saw them for what they were – a few small depressions in the middle of a wood.

            Back to Mrs Finn and her letter: ‘My friend and I (both in our thirties with assortment of kids) make our annual pilgrimage every July to where we – and you – were brought up. Always we hear the call of the basins. We swoop down into them making the ancient animal noises known only by our tribe, watched by the younger generation who stand in wonder. Once this ancient ritual is accomplished we are refreshed and invigorated enough to face another year. 

          Anyway imagine our surprise this year when we turned the corner where the basins should be in sight and saw a ploughed field there instead. I thought I had better write and inform you of their passing

            Indeed, yes. It is depressing news, but it had to be broken, otherwise I should have had an even nastier shock. For by coincidence I was up in Leeds myself this week where someone wanted to take my photograph in some of the old haunts, and I as near as dammit headed for the basins. Heart attack material that could have been, to find crops growing where Mars, the Grand Canyon and Lake Geneva used to be.

            I did, however, drive past a deserted adventure playground. It didn’t look anything like the foothills of Arizonato to  me.   

And finally, just a reminder, by Eric Allen, of how we used come across the basins, which I suppose were in Halton, on our walks or bike rides, from East End Park on our ‘Route 66’ to Temple Newsam

            The Basins   

                                                                                            The Basins  

 By Eric Allen

Who remembers ‘The Basins?  The Basins were to be found on the Red Road edge of Temple Newsam. They were to be reached along Black Road and through Austin’s farm and were a site of great adventure for young ‘dare devil’ bicycle riders.  The basins had originally been mine workings and their spoil heaps. Some had paths going around the sides making them like the fair ground ‘wall of death’ The largest basin had a path going down one side into the bottom and up the other side, this was the best run for the young ‘dare devil’. Unfortunately on many occasions the rider did not have enough speed to carry them up the other side, which ended up with a quick dismount and a hard push to get the boy and bike up the other side before it toppled back on him.

My Hero

By Dave Carncross

By the time we were ten years old or so, we were all veteran cinema-goers – the main venues being the Easy Road Picture House, the Star and the Princess. We liked anything which involved soldiers, cowboys, cartoons and comic book characters. We all had our own favourite film heroes but I had a real one much nearer home – next door but one to be precise. His name was Richard Chappelow.

The Chappelows were a lovely family. Jenny was like an extra sister. She was the same age as me but always seemed older. She was fiercely intelligent and always seemed to regard me with an amused tolerance and affection – as though I was a big, daft dog or something. David was the eldest and a really nice lad. Richard was, well, just Richard. Their Dad, Alf, left them when Richard would have been about thirteen years old and I never heard any of them mention his name again. May, their mother, had an uncanny resemblance to the film star June Allison and was just as nice. She went on in later life to write a few romantic novels and got them published. Jenny married another good local lad, Jim Croll, had a family and found the time to get a BA degree in her thirties through the Open University. David married and ended up inAustraliaalthough I think he had a spell inSouth Africafirst.

Richard was without doubt the toughest, most resilient lad I ever met in my entire life. This is not to say he was a hard case, far from it, he was a gentle, good natured, easy-going sort and universally popular. We junior males in East Leeds at that time always set great store by not being perceived as being `soft` and tried to take the knocks as they came without any outward show of being hurt. This was not always easy even for kids who only had to endure their own fair or average share of misfortune. The difference with Richard was that, if there was an accident waiting to happen, it would invariably be waiting for him. Whatever occurred, he would always behave the same, never cried or whinged and had seemingly bottomless reserves of mental fortitude. When anything happened to him and bear in mind that I had plenty of practice, I would closely watch his face for any sign of normal frailty but never saw any.  Perhaps a tightening of the jaw muscles or a momentary closing of the eyes would be all that escaped his iron control. I was always amazed and mightily impressed by how he dealt with the `slings and arrows` which were constantly besieging him and I always knew for an absolute certainty that I would be found badly wanting in similar circumstances.

The first time I ever visited the dreaded `Dispensary` on North Street it was just to keep Richard company while the medics reassembled whatever part of his anatomy had been damaged that particular day. We were greeted by a groan from the Sister of `Oh no, not you again Richard !! ` He was a regular client there and was probably on first name terms with most of the practitioners there as he was at the LGI and St. James` casualty departments as well.  If we’d had such things then, it might have proved cost-effective to assign a personal paramedic to follow him around at all times. Perhaps a prescription for a full-body suit made of Kevlar for protection against impacts of all kinds, fully wired to afford insulation against electric shocks and corrosive chemicals would have come in handy. There must be many doctors who served their apprenticeship repairing bits of Richard. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had been invited to their graduation ceremonies, been made Godfather to their children and attended the odd retirement party or two.

We decided to paddle in the small lake atRoundhayParkone hot summer’s day just next to the sign forbidding us to do exactly that. Nothing happened to any of us except Rick. He stood on a broken milk bottle which cut deep into his foot damaging a tendon in the process. He had an operation and finished up with a plaster cast right up to his knee to hold his foot in a downward direction. To have to wear a `plaster` was like being the given a Queen’s Medal for Gallantry and all the lads were deeply envious. He kindly allowed us to draw on it and sign our names. Rick had always been very fleet of foot and, although the operation left him slightly flat-footed for a while, it didn’t seem to affect his running speed at all. He was still quicker than me even flat-footed. Mind you, he was quicker than virtually everyone else inEast Leedsat that time. I even tried running in a similar manner just to see if my sprinting improved but it didn’t.

Once, during a stone fight on t`ollers, we were sheltering behind our brick barricade sorting out fresh ammunition. I ventured a quick look over the parapet and saw a roofing slate scissoring through the air towards me and ducked instinctively as you would do. The slate sliced a neat furrow along my scalp but Richard had bobbed up behind me and it hit him dead centre in the forehead with a dull thud. I had a very satisfactory, showy but superficial cut which bled impressively but didn’t hurt really. Richard, however, went off to renew acquaintances with his old contacts at the Dispensary and added further to his ever-expanding stitch collection.

One dark winter’s night, we were engaged with loads of the lads in a vigorous game of Relieve –Oh when he took a bad fall on the cobbles. He got up holding his arm and immediately asked me to go home with him.  For him to ask for any sort of help was a first so I asked him why and he said “ I’ve dislocated my elbow“. I asked how he knew and he said “ I’ve done it before“. We walked back to his house but his Mam and Dad were at the pictures and his brother David didn’t believe him. We went to our house and my Mam took one look at his ashen face and told my Dad to ring for an ambulance. The ringing had to be done from the local call-box so we all went down together and waited for what turned out to be a car driven by an ambulance driver. Dad had to go to work (on nights) so I went to the LGI with Richard by myself. Bear in mind that I was about twelve, he was a year or so older and it was about 10pm by this time. The doctor in Casualty had a quick feel through his jacket and said `X Rays – wait here`. Rick said `Carny, quick get me shirt off! ` I asked why and he said `cos me vest’s black bright`. I managed to get his shirt and vest off and nearly fainted when I saw his arm at the elbow. It looked as though the bones had been moulded into a figure of eight and it was grossly swollen. I think by then that I must have looked as bad as he did. The doctor reappeared and ushered him off into the next room leaving me profoundly glad to follow his instructions to sit there and wait while they put the arm back into place. I heard the odd muffled, stifled whimper and they came back about 20 minutes later and Rick’s arm was in a sling. He already looked better and we were just deciding what to do next when Rick’s Mam arrived so we all went home together – me with the offending vest still stuffed up my jumper.

During the school holidays us kids were more or less free agents because our parents were all at work. In some ways I think we very quickly became aware that we were responsible for ourselves and the independence from virtually constant supervision that prevails in these days made us better at risk assessment in general. From the age of about eleven, we used to go all over on our bikes – Otley. Ilkley, Wetherby, Collingham and the like and never gave it a second thought. I often wonder if my Mam and Dad ever really realised just how far afield we wandered.

Collingham was a favourite venue for swimming. We used to go to one of our secret places which was reached by much fence climbing and running crouched down like Indian trackers alongside hedges, all the while dragging our bikes along. It just occurred to me now to wonder how we knew how to get there? Perhaps it was received knowledge passed down from generation to generation of East Leedsers. We used to sneak our swimming trunks out from home and, if we were lucky, a towel as well. If no towel, it was get dried the best way you could – usually on your shirt or wait until the sun did the job for you. Fate decreed one day that it was time for Rick’s next accident. He told me he would show me his newly acquired racing dive technique and prepared to launch himself off the bank. Now, swimming and diving were the only athletic pursuits at which I was definitely better than him so I stopped him, pointing out that the water was far too shallow at that point. He wouldn’t have it, argued that a racing dive only took you just under the surface and launched himself out energetically almost parallel with the surface. He seemed to stop dead as soon as he hit the water and I heard an unearthly, gargling underwater shriek at the same time. He stood up slowly, turning towards me with the water lapping gently just under his knees. He looked as if he had just been wrestling a wolverine or had had a lively encounter with a honey badger which was particularly out of sorts that day. All down the front, from forehead to feet, he was one giant graze – spitting out a mouthful of bloody gravel through busted lips with small stones dropping at intervals into the water from his numerous lacerations. In a very matter-of-fact voice he said `You were right about that, Carny` and retired to lick his wounds. We always thought it was best to leave him alone at these times as long as we were sure he hadn’t actually broken anything again. Later on he came to the conclusion that the water should have been deep enough but that he’d made a minor miscalculation on his angle of entry.  I felt that `minor miscalculation` didn’t quite cover it – a bit like setting off due west fromLiverpooland somehow managing to miss Ireland but we didn’t fall out about it.

In brief, there were the times …………………

When he was wrestling with his elder brother David and brought his head up sharply so that David’s top teeth cut a perfect semi-circle into his forehead.  He explored that wound with expert fingers and pronounced conclusively that it didn’t need stitches.

When, in our early 20`s, we were both playing for one of the Leeds and District rugby league open age teams. He was a marvellous player and completely fearless as always. He was at full back and came weaving through at pace after collecting the ball from a kick through. Suddenly, without being tackled, he hopped to a stop and put the ball down carefully. He sat down on the pitch, rolled down his elastic knee bandage and there was a clean cut right across his kneecap. We had no idea how it had happened but, of course, stitches were involved again. The following Thursday night at training he turned up complete with his bag containing his playing kit. I said there was no way he could train with the stitches still in but he said he was having them out on the Friday and wanted me to take his bag home with me so that he could play on the Saturday without his wife knowing. As it happened, there was no game because the ground was too hard due to frost.

We decided to make some toffee. It was his idea and we were in his house alone during the school holidays. I didn’t know how this was done but he said he’d seen his Mam make it and produced a jar of treacle and a bottle of vinegar. I liked treacle and was all for eating it straight out of the tin with a spoon but he went ahead and mixed it with vinegar into a stiff paste somehow. This was spread into an old enamel baking dish. Their old black cast iron range oven had a gas element at the back and he tried to light it with a taper made from newspaper. The time lapse between turning the gas on and reaching in with the lit taper was too long however and there was an almighty bang and rattling of the cast iron oven plates as it exploded. It blew Rick backwards clean over the sofa. He scrambled up and shocked though I was I remembered to turn the gas off. His eyebrows, eyelashes and the front of his quiff had disappeared and his face was studded with grime and tiny pieces of rusty cast iron but he was still clutching the taper. He had a good swill in the sink and, after tidying up as best we could, he felt that we might have gotten away with it. Looking at his new bland, featureless face with its faintly curious expression and unique hairstyle to say nothing of the remains of the treacle mixture here and there on the wallpaper, I wouldn’t have put money on it but kept my thoughts to myself.

I was stung on the index finger of my right hand by a wasp in 1997. I remember it quite clearly because it was the first time in my life it had happened and was very painful. Being 57 years old at the time, I managed not to cry (well, not much anyway). During the summers of our childhood, it was a daily, sometimes hourly occurrence for Richard to be attacked by wasps, bees or any other insect which liked biting or stinging people. The cure then was to apply a dolly-blue bag or a dock leaf. I personally thought a mainline injection of morphine might have been more effective but the stings didn’t seem to bother Richard much or indeed at all so maybe he had developed some level of immunity over the years.

Richard’s brother, David, had a beautiful J.T. Rodgers` racing bike. Metallic blue with chromed forks. Richard was under a permanent but ineffective instruction never to ride it. Came the time when we crashed together at speed attempting some intricate manoeuvre and the lightweight alloy front wheel of Dave’s bike was buckled into an `S` shape. As usual, Richard was impervious to the cuts and miscellaneous contusions which he and I had suffered but we both realised the enormity of the problem we now had with the wheel. I had a spoke key at home but had no idea how to use it. By trial, many errors and intense concentration we virtually dismantled the wheel and rebuilt it. Few things in my life have given me as much satisfaction as seeing it spin straight again when we put it back on the bike. Dave never found out (unless he ever reads this).

There was a time when he had his chest heavily strapped to the point where it was difficult for him to breathe. I can’t remember now how he had broken his ribs and I’m tempted to invent some bizarre set of circumstances which brought this about such as being run over by the cricket pitch roller or a chance meeting with a water buffalo which had escaped from a private zoo somewhere. It was probably something more mundane such as being head-butted by the Co-op milkman’s horse.

I have dismissed the assortment of broken fingers, cuts, bruises, torn ligaments, broken noses which adorned Richard’s daily existence as being too trivial and numerous to mention. Falling in rivers, out of trees, trapping toes; fingers etc were just an everyday thing for him and not worth recording here. These things happened to all of us but not as frequently as they did to Richard.

Richard left school at fifteen. I had another two years to do because I was about eighteen months younger than him and also at grammar school leaving at sixteen. He joined Andrews Flooring and Tiling as an apprentice. I did think that entering a trade which inevitably involved working with sharp, pointy metal tools, glassy materials and powerful abrasive machinery might just be tempting fate a bit too far but, as far as I know, he stayed at that company which is still on the go for the rest of his working life. Perhaps he used up all his accident quotas in his earlier days. We lost touch completely by our mid-twenties. In those days, National Service, moving to another area ofLeedsand employment or social patterns could mean you would just never bump into each other again.

Rick died a good while ago from a lung complaint, I believe. Jim Croll, his brother-in-law, told me that the doctors never seemed entirely certain what the illness actually was. With Rick’s luck it would have been a unique alien ailment brought to Earth from the Andromeda galaxy by a speeding speck of meteoric dust which managed to travel for 2.5 million light years just to hit him and him only. Mind you, I don’t think he would have been much help to the Doctors in that he wouldn’t have allowed himself to tell them just how rough he felt. There was a marvellous series of comedy TV programmes many years ago called “Ripping Yarns“ and Michael Palin was the star. In one episode his character caught bubonic plague and was covered in running sores and scabs. He passed it off as “Nothing to worry about – just a touch of the bubos“. Through my laughter I thought of Rick immediately. That was him to a T. My hero.

                      And anyone who knew Rick would concur with that!

In October’s blog the question of the publication: Urban Grimshaw and the Shed Crew was raised and a few old East Leedsers across the world were sent copies for their comments. Of course if you haven’t read the book you may wonder what all the fuss is about. The author of the book, Bernard Hare, purports to be an ‘Eastie’ himself, born in East Park View in 1958. Returning to the area in the 1990s he finds: feral children, car stealing joy riders, drink and drugs, underage public sex, lawlessness and living standards of absolute squalor. Unfortunately, this book is finding its way into the hands of folk new to the area that are unaware of its provenance and think the area was ‘ever thus’

            I think Mr Hare’s book strikes us so violently because he is so detailed in naming the streets and places that were dear to our hearts hence giving  credence to his story: East Street, Batty’s Brush Works, Mount St Mary’s Church and Steps, (we used to train for football running up and down those steps), Richmond Hill, East Park Drive, Glensdale Terrace, East Park View, Accommodation Road, Londesborough Grove, East End Park Bowling Green, and the Slip Inn are all mentioned and his finely detailed description of his walk back from the Royal Armouries crossing  over that which can only be our dear old ‘Paddy’s Park’ to finally arrive in Glensdale Terrace.

            Perhaps we shouldn’t shoot the messenger but rather accept that we, who were lucky enough to be born in East Leeds in the 30s 40s and 50s, have probably created a utopian vision of the area when really it was just that we were young at the zenith of the generations and it has been down hill for everyone ever since?

 Here is what our old champions – all born within a stones throw of East Park -   have had to say about the book:

********

Wendy, East Leeds Lass, born in the Charltons, who now lives in Perth, Australia, has this to say:

Sorry, I just can’t read anymore of this book, ‘Urban Grimshaw,’ I was in conflict about the authenticity of the author’s story. I lived in the Charltons in the 1940s and my grandmother lived in the Ecclestone’s. I would cut through the streets mentioned in the book while walking to work at East Street Day Nursery in the 50s and I can honestly say I never witnessed anything Bernard Hare describes. Good writers should entice you into their story not turn you off at the very beginning.

I found the writing alienated me in the very first chapter and my mind was closed and resistant through the next chapters. I think the author needs to be seen as valuable. Perhaps he was overlooked as a child, and saving others gives him a ‘feel –good’ appreciation.

Sorry not interested in reading anymore.

Wendy said after that she had to put the book down and have a glass of wine.

Eric, born in East End Park – travelled the world, says:

I have to say that I barely recognise the portrait described in this book and there is very little resemblance to the East End Park that I knew.

I lived slap bang in the middle of Bernard Hare’s described boundary and roamed its highways and byways for over 20 years. I can therefore claim to know the area pretty well

I would differ from his boundary description, it was much less defined than that and in some parts I would not go so far and in others extend further. For example I would consider the true EEP to be roughly bounded on the west side by the railway cutting so far as Ascot Avenue, then a line across Ascot Avenue, Vinery Terrace, Ivy Avenue Street to Skelton Terrace Road then down to Ings Road along to Osmondthorpe Lane cutting south to Neville hill Railway Sidings. People either side may consider themselves to be in or out of the EEP area but it’s a matter of opinion and there was certainly no rigid defined boundary.

It was never described or considered to be an ‘estate’. An estate was generally characterised by several features which distinguished it from the mix of housing which even today prevails in the area. An estate almost always comprised:

(1) Council/Social housing all of a similar style and construction (although   now there are a few private estates).

(2) All had medium to large gardens (mostly neglected)

(3) More structured layout with wider streets, grass verges and some tree lined avenues

(4) In general better facilities than many EEP residences, such as indoor toilets, H & C running water, indoor toilets, bathrooms etc.

The EEP area was never an homogenous area such as this with it’s mix of 19^th century terrace housing, some back to back along with more modern housing, preceding any general understood notion of an ‘estate’ in Leeds.

I’ve never, ever heard the soubriquet ‘Easties’ applied to the residents or the artefacts (he refers to Eastie Curtains when describing shutters) {or perhaps could he be referring to boarded windows?}

The author clearly knows the area in general, most of his descriptions of the streets are quite accurate but some are not. For example he describes Londesborough Grove as tree lined. It never was and still isn’t. It was as he also describes, too narrow for street trees and even today has no garden trees. Even the lower part, which runs on to East Park Parade was wider but still devoid of trees ‘till well into the 60s but now has the odd garden tree on the east side. Nor was East Park View blocked off by the Slip Inn. True it was diverted but not blocked off

So much for the geographic content but it is the anthropogenic theme of the novel which is dour and depressing and portrays a community which is alien to that I remember through the 40s, 50,s and early 60s.

My clear memory of the area and community was one of vibrant, friendly, safe and relatively crime free environment. There was little anti-social behaviour and the streets were generally free from the litter and detritus. Indeed most houses took particular pride in keeping their own stretch of pavement and road well swept. The pavements were periodically swilled with water, brushed clean and the doorsteps ‘donkey-stoned’ on a weekly basis. Some rented houses were granted 6d a week reduction in their rent just for keeping the flags and doorsteps in a clean state.

Of course there was the odd bit of drunkenness and punch up in the pubs etc, but rarely, if ever the extreme violence which is so common today for the most trivial of reasons, nor the gratuitous profanity that seems to be everyday language by almost everyone. ‘Bad’ language was usually reserved for the tap room or the workplace and never in front of ladies or children. Drug taking was unheard of .

The appalling feral behaviour described in the book just wouldn’t have happened in those days. The parents would have brought the miscreants to heel and failing that so would the community. Although EEP is now described as an inner city area with crime rate attracting the priority of the West Yorkshire Police, it is the Glensdales, Templeviews and the Charltons which has the majority of the  crime. The bulk of the remainder is still a respectable working class community.

It’s difficult to believe the accuracy of the depth and range of the behaviour, it seems extreme. So much so, that I wonder if the author has used the technique of many authors. They take scenes of unconnected events and people, weaving them into a composite picture to try and portray a reality. It may well be that contemporary residents have created their own ‘turf’ boundaries and glossary of terms but I think he has used his knowledge of the area to create a contrived and sensationalised urban story of decay, crime and social breakdown. Although it’s a novel, it’s presumably intended to portray life in the real but its gratuitous use of profanity, lewd and lascivious behaviour is, in my opinion, the only thing that sustains the ‘plot’ i.e. it’s junk.

Whilst parts of the area are now undoubtedly dreadful and unpleasant places to live, unlike the days of yore I can’t help feeling it’s an exaggerated perspective, designed to sell a few books.

I’m only grateful the EEP I knew and remain intensely fond of is light years away from the Hogarthian nightmare described in this book.

Something else has just occurred to me that should have been blindingly obvious. The book claims ‘the shed’ was located between Londesborough Grove and East Park View and that was where the chicken coop of my friend, JT’s grandparents lived. Those houses had quite big gardens and the coop was big enough to hold a few of us from time to time.

John: an East Leeds lad who had a career spanning the continents before retuning to Leeds has this to say:

It wasn’t the easiest of reads – I could only manage a chapter at a time: drugs, thieving, car burning, glue sniffing were never part of my life – or my peers. What a sheltered lot we were.

I’m not sure if this makes sense but the reading of it gave me a feeling of claustrophobia, hemmed in and uncomfortable, hence one chapter at a time.

I left East End Park in 1964 and returned toYorkshire in November 2001.

I cannot equate with the people or portrait of lifestyles. The Svengali/Fagin character, who I assume was the author, was unrealistic in that context. He writes well but unconvincing. It’s not theEast Leeds I recognise.

*********

Audrey Lived in Charlton Place – now long time removed to Brisbane. She observed a general deterioration of the district when she returned for her father’s funeral in 1987. Audrey concurs nearest to Bernard Hare’s description of the old district.

          Unfortunately, I can relate to how some kids have been abandoned, Not abandoned as in left on the road side but left to their own devices with no structure whatsoever. In our day neighbours would step in and give kids a bath and a meal or take them in when their parents were having a fight. There are so many ‘do-gooders’ quoting rules but not prepared to roll up their sleeves and take charge and the kids are left to flounder along spiralling out of control. No matter where you live there is an area of survival of the fittest which turns into ghettos of squalor. In 1987 my mam still lived in Charlton Place. I was there for Dad’s funeral. Only about three houses had the same long term occupants I remembered when I lived there.  I don’t know how much rent Mother paid but it must have been cheaper than most areas as almost everyone was on the dole or some welfare payment. I was upset at the state of the houses with their grimy appearance. Mum had a window cleaner who came once a week she was the only one in the street he cleaned for

If the area had been in BrisbaneI would have avoided it like the plague. Strangely I didn’t feel any fear at all. At that stage I had to use a walking stick to get around but I still didn’t feel vulnerable but I wouldn’t have left a car parked outside overnight as I fear it wouldn’t have had its wheels in the morning.

All the shops were still operating but had wooden padlocked shutters over the windows after closing up.  The streets were extremely quiet after dark, no sound of people walking home from the pub or chip shop. I found it eerie. About twelve months later my brothers got Mum a unit down near Upper Accommodation Road, somewhere round about The Yorkshire Penny bank and The Hampton Pub. It was units for elderly people. My brothers said it was safer as the Charltons had become like a war zone. What is the answer to the problem? EDUCATION, its no good blaming society. Everyone is responsible. Don’t be afraid to stand up and have a say. Make those who have the power to alter things take notice of what you have to say.

Doug: born in the Glensdale Terrace in the 1930s and now lives near Adelaide, Australia. 

As for Urban Grimshaw and the Shed Crew I don’t know where my feelings end up. It seems to pretend to be autobiographical, with Bernard Hare talking about himself. But, while he certainly writes as an insider to that culture, it doesn’t seem credible to me that a grown man in his thirties would join such a young bunch as the shed crewers. If it is really true, it is equally incomprehensible that he wasn’t lynched somewhere along the line for being a ‘nonce’. Whether he was innocent or not it would have been hard for him to avoid accusation.

But even as fiction from an insider it paints a depressing picture. I can believe there are pockets of such deprivation and sub-culture, but it’s harder to believe that it would be widespread over an entire district. We have pockets of extreme ‘delinquency’ here in some suburbs ofAdelaide. The gang of 49 is currently at war with society, with car thefts and ram raids, only the other day there was an abduction if a mother and child. The police know them, the courts have put them away in prison for periods but as soon as they have served their time they repeat the offences. Sadly they are mostly drop outs from school, from families absent of parents, and no hope of future other than what stunts they can pull and where they can get their next fix. So I can fully believe there are such pockets in Leeds and in East End Park.

Again I link back to your memoir. We were lucky to be part of a social class that had a positive culture. Though lowish in the social pecking order we were encouraged to finish school and do apprenticeships. As a youth I really cared about the impressions that the good citizens of Glensdale Terrace had about me. We were poor but decent. How awful that the whole fabric of socialisation has crashed for these young people.

Whether it is appropriate to blame Maggie Thatcher and those she represents, I do not know. But something essential has been stripped from society. People have to have a sense of future. If they are continually belted byBabylonthey will sink to the depths of this poor bunch unactualised kids, who in the postscript are not doing too well as adults either.

There is a sense of approval that the author seems to bestow on his own efforts and on the kind of integrity and loyalty to each other that these kids have. I’m sorry I can’t endorse that approval. Sigmund Freud (whose views I do not always subscribe to) once wrote that each new generation of children is like an invasion of the barbarians and it is the duty of parents and societies to socialise them and bring them under control Somehow, socialisation has failed. Somehow the id has to be brought under the control of the ego and superego.

Authoritative parents, good education, and prospects of some kind of respectable work, have to be reinstated.

Well at least Mr Hare has given us a talking point. Perhaps he will reply with a comment on this site?

In the next couple of month’s the champions of our Old East Leeds will be replying on this site to a circulating book with the title: Urban Grimshaw and the Shed Crew by Bernard Hare. The author portrays our area in the 1990s as a very dark place filled with crime and drug abuse – and the resident ‘Easties’  are describes in the credits by Christopher Cleave of the Sunday Telegraph as,

‘A true story of a terrifying joyride through Britain’s hell-bound underclasses.  

Was this the legacy we set down for them in the 1940s/50s? Were we ever an ‘underclass’? Whatever happened between the fifties and nineties? Read it and weep – or better still leap to its defence with your comments as I hope our champions across the world who enjoy this site will strive to do in the coming months.

In the meantime here are a couple of tales of East End Park in better times. Stan Pickles sets the scene in the 20s and 30s and Eric Sanderson in the 40s and 50s.And I take a nostalgic Sunday afternoon stroll around the park today.

Remembering East End Park in the 20s and 30s

By Stan Pickles

East End Park  had a little duck pond with railing around it, which was so attractive with mothers and young children throwing titbits for the swans and ducks to dart after. The flower gardens, the grass with its neatly cut verges and the lovely landscaped floral arrangements all combined to make the park a delight for everyone. All presided over by Dolphus, the ‘Parkie’ who kept a lookout for any mischief-makers and woe betide any troublemakers.  You will note I didn’t say ‘vandals’. There were no such people in that day and age.

Recollections of the ‘monkey walks’ in the 20s and 30s when young men and girls paraded up and down in innocent flirtation come to mind. Our walks began in East End Park on Sunday afternoons, when we paraded up and down the main drive past the little duck pond and beautiful landscaped flower gardens. The park was always a picture with its newly painted forms in a lovely green and the lawns a ‘sight to behold’. Always on the lookout for our favourite girls strolling by, we would sit around talking of the films we had seen the previous night at the Shaftsbury, Princess or Regent cinemas or in noisy argument about the rugby match at Headingley on Saturday afternoon. Of course, when the girls came round the conversation changed and there were other things on our minds.

Often we would make for the big area of grass near the bandstand to join the crowd lounging about and listening to the band rendering overtures from: The Maid of the Mountains, The Desert Song, The Merry Widow and all the rest of the popular music of the times. Just before we left to go home for tea we would have the last half-hour enjoying an ice cream or a bottle of pop with the girls and our last chat. On leaving the park our parting words were usually: ‘See you up the Beck tonight.’ For the ‘Monkey Walk up Killingbeck was our Sunday night rendezvous. It was always well packed on the paths between the Melbourne and the Lion and Lamb, boys and girls chatting up within the range of the old gas- lamps. All though our teenage years we looked forward to being: ‘Up the Beck’.

Remembering East End Park in the 40s and 50s

  East End Park- a Neighbourhood Gem.                                  By Eric Sanderson.

Those familiar with East End Park will be remember its extent and facilities – always very well maintained by a team of groundsmen and patrolled by a very strict “Parkie”.

From the wide, sweeping lawns, well used tennis courts, bowling greens and beautiful Rose garden to the extensive football pitches, garden allotments and large children’s playground complete with paddling pool/model boating pond, it was a paradise. There was even good train spotting facilities for those so interested as the Neville Hill sidings ran alongside the southern edge of the park.

A wide tree lined avenue crossed the park fromEast Park  Parade Railway Bridge to link up withVictoria Avenue at the other end. At each end was a huge set of wrought iron gates which were always locked & I never saw any traffic passing through. Indeed, it was prohibited to ride your bike within the park boundaries in those days.

During the late forties & early fifties, it was even forbidden to walk on the grass and the lawns were littered with signs enforcing this.

Of course , these two prohibitions provided endless opportunities for a bit of harmless fun & to tease the Parkie, who as I remember was a feisty little chap who always carried a stout stick with which he could whack any errant youth who happened to cross his path. In those days, he would think nothing of such treatment & most parents felt he was fully justified in exerting such discipline.

We would run across the lawn, shouting from a safe distance, to attract his attention and then disappear into the hills before he could catch up with us.

These “hills” were another attractive feature with winding, foliage lined footpaths through perhaps a couple of acres of elevated landscape giving fine panoramic views over south Leeds & beyond.

At other times, we would sweep along the avenue on our bikes, much to the parkie’s rage but he could never catch us until one day, he managed to put a savage & final stop to this particular piece of sport.

As one group whizzed through and passed him standing in the middle of the avenue, he jabbed his aforementioned stick into the wheel of one of his tormentors. This brought the offending cyclist to a sudden halt and accompanied by a hefty cuff around the head brought the practice to an immediate & abrupt end.

            The undulating terrain of the park provided many grassy embankments and slopes & many’s the time we were laid back, taking in the sun & gossiping whilst watching Skelton Grange Power Station being erected.

Yes,East End Parkwas truly a gem in those days and many an idyllic summer day was whiled away within its treasured grounds.

A Stroll around East End Park Today

By Pete Wood.

I am happy to relate thatEast EndParkhas lately had a spruce up and is now looking in fine fettle. The children’s play area has had a make over as have thebowling greenfacilities and the tennis courts’

I love a wander around the old district on a quiet Sunday afternoon.  I park as near as I can to the site of oldSnake Lane. There is a beautiful new rugby pitch on the site of ‘the top pitch’ all level, railed and well grassed – far superior to that of our old ‘Snake-pit’ days. If it’s the rugby season the East Leeds Rugby Club may be playing a game on here that I can stop and watch for a while, or if it’s summer perhaps East Leeds Cricket Club will be playing at home. Well done East Leeds CC – top in the longevity league amongst the East Leeds Institutions – still batting away after all these years.

Continuing my walk I find the Copperfields standing much as always but the line to the coal staithe has gone along with the ‘MonkeyBridge’ and the ginnel. Daredevil lads still scale the precipitous navvy but now with the aid of ropes. Several of the streets in the Cross Green’s and St Hilda’s have been removed leaving grassed spaces in between giving a less cluttered look and the housing stock has been renovated. The Charlton’s, Glensdale’s, Londesbro’s and Garton’s are tidy but metal grating door securities are much in evidence.

The ‘watering holes’ have been severely culled. The Bridge field, Black Dog,Waterlooand Prospect pubs are down. The Cross Green, Hampton, and Fish Hut are closed.  The Spring Close and Cavalier are open but ‘to let’ and the slip is a supermarket leaving the Shepherd and the Yew Tree to stagger on alone. The old school buildings of St Hilda’s,Ellerby Laneand Victoria are no more. TheEast EndParkSpecialNeedsSchoolis ‘last old school building standing’ but put to a different use. I believe there are bits of old Mount St Mary’s Primary School in the old Victoria School yard and bits of old Victoria Primary on the Shaftsbury playing fields. There is a modern All Saints Primary School near toYork Roadand a Richmond Hill Primary near to the site of the old Zion Chapel. Mount St Mary’s still flourishes as a major college. The Easy Road Picture House of course is long gone; the Princess is a fish and chip shop, the Regent a tile warehouse the Star a health gym and the Shaftsbury a shell.     

            So I wander onto the park itself. The Parkie’s House remains unchanged. Sometimes there is a bowls match in progress, I set myself down in the bowling-green and watch for a while. Better still if there is a brass/silver band playing near the tennis courts. I settle myself down beside a tree and listen to the band and let my mind drift back to a time when the park had a proper band-stand or when we chased the girls on here, diced with death on the mighty long-boat on the way to Cleggy’s woodwork department at Victoria School on Friday afternoons, or perhaps the times we played tennis, sometimes with the hell of having only one ball, or played football a hundred a side on one of the three football pictures near to the railway on Sunday afternoons. I remember on one occasion when the referee did not turn up for a formal match that I had to referee the game myself – timing the game by the clock on the old engine shed in lieu of a watch and waving a handkerchief in lieu of a whistle.

My life unfolds before me and I’m thankful to have spent some of the best bits of it here on good oldEast EndPark.

               Brass band near tennis courts                                 Parkie’s house still stands

Once again Audrey (ex pat East End Parker – now living in Queensland) allows us to peep into her life at Ellerby Lane School, Leeds, where she particularly remembers the tattoo at Roundhay Park in the early 1950s. (I’m sure a few more of us remember that tattoo, too.)  Later we are regaled by her tales of the type of magical nights you can only experience as a teenager. Well done Audrey! We’re right there with you.

Anything out of the ordinary routine of day to day living was cause for enthusiasm, eagerness to know what was going on.  Be the first one to know so you could tell others.  In other words, being a nosy parker.  A motor car stopping outside anyone house brought neighbours to their doors on the flimsiest of excuses; checking to see if it was raining; asking if anyone had seen the postman, milkman, and the paper boy.  Just an excuse to be out in the street and not being nosey at all.  They just happened to be outside at the same time a car stopped at number???  If it was a small Grey Ford Prefect or a Black Morris Minor you could almost guarantee it was the midwife.  That was to be expected really as Mrs. Whoever was due to give birth.  A dark coloured sleek car was usually a doctor’s car.  Although an ambulance meant someone was seriously ill it still caused excitement in the street.  Any other type of car had tongues wagging and speculation of which it was that was rich enough to own a car.  As soon as the car departed suddenly Mrs. Somebody had to immediately tell Mrs. Who-knows-a-car owner something important.  The rest of the onlookers waited until she came outside again.  She didn’t say anything at all but went into her own house and closed the door.  Seconds later one of the ladies remembered she too had something important to tell Mrs. Who’d just found out who owned the car.

The first time I had a ride in a private car I was about 10 years old. EllerbyLaneSchoolhad organised an excursion to a Tattoo inRoundhayPark.  I’d no idea what it was but I wanted to go.  I was very surprised when I told Mum about it and she knew what a Tattoo was all about.  Seemingly they’d had them before the war and Mum thought they were great.  But the cost of it!  Uncle Joe and Uncle Walt said they’d give me the money so I could see what a Tattoo was.  I paid the money and was given a paper to take home that gave details of date and time and I had to have someone waiting for me when the bus returned us to school after the event because it would be 10 p.m.  Mum said I couldn’t go.  It would be too late at night, too dark, too cold.  None of the other kids who were going lived near us.  I cried.  Uncle Walt saved the day and said he would be waiting at the school.  The day arrived or I should say the night arrived.  Mum took me to school, instructing me all the way not to get lost or they’d never find me, not to talk to anyone, do as I was told and not to walk home on my own if Uncle Walter wasn’t there to pick me up.  Instant panic “What am I to do if he forgets?”      “You stay there and wait for someone to come “   ” Mr Holmes said we can’t go if there’s no one to bring us home.”  I had visions of being left on my own in an empty playground at midnight because Uncle Walter had forgotten me.  Mum said she’s sure he’d be there and shoved me on the bus.  None of the kids I was friendly with at school went on the trip.  I knew the kids but wasn’t in their groups.  Only the boys had gangs, we girls had groups.  I can’t remember too much about the Tattoo.  As anyYorkshirelass I loved brass bands, the louder the better.  There was a lot of marching in lines, Navy as well as Army uniforms then the pipe bands and men in kilts.  I remember them having to dismantle a gun on wheels then move the bits to the other side of the floodlit arena with rope and pulleys and put it back together again.  After it finished we were told to hold the hand of the kid next to you and follow Mr. Holmes.  I was a quiet kid at school, mostly because I was small and had to watch out my younger brother didn’t get bullied.  Yes, instructions from Mum again.  That was another reason for me wanting to go on the trip;Normanwas too young to go.  The girl next to me was Valerie Kay, another quiet girl.  We were both so quiet and shy we didn’t know each other was on the same bus.  She only lived 4 streets from my street so I thought if Uncle Walt wasn’t there I’d go home with her.  It was pitch black of course at that time of the night and no idea where we were until we arrived back atEllerby Lane.  Lots of parents were there but I couldn’t see Uncle Walter.  Valerie’s father had her by the hand walking away.  Close to tears I daren’t move.  I don’t know if I was more scared of being left on my own or of Mr. Holmes going mad at me because no one was there to take me home.  Mr. Holmes had a fierce temper if you stepped out of line.  A deep voice from behind me “Come on lass.  Let’s be getting thee ‘ome afore tha mam chews ‘re nails down t’  knuckles.”  Uncle Walt was a gate keeper on the locks on the river Aire.  He spoke very broad old fashionedYorkshirelanguage with lots of thee’s and thou’s and as strong as an ox.  

God! Was I glad to see him.  We started to walk.  Mr Kay, Valerie’s Dad asked if we would like a lift home.  Uncle Walt thanked him but said it wouldn’t take us long to walk.  Mr. Kay said we had to walk past the end of their street so why not get in the car.  I was so excited.  Me and Walt climbed in the back.  The interior light was on and I was so thrilled, everyone could see me in Valerie Kay’s father’s car.  As soon as we started moving I was disappointed Mr. Kay turned off the interior light, no one could see us inside.  We stopped outside their house in Glensdale Grove, thanked Mr. Kay very much for giving us a ride and Walt took me home.  He asked if I’d liked the Tattoo.  I said I had and I’d liked all the brass bands and seeing them marching.  He asked what the best thing had been.  I said without a doubt ” The very bestist thing was us having a ride in Valerie Kay’s car.”  He roared laughing and said maybe Mr. Kay could have a side line and make some pocket money charging 2d. a go giving rides round the streets. 

When I was 17 Auntie Maggie next door was constantly asking when I was going to get myself a chap.  Her grand children were either going steady, engaged or married.  It wasn’t uncommon for girls of 18 to be married and by age 22-24 have 2 or 3 babies.  Mum ruled with an iron fist.  I was only allowed to go to the youth club at Richmond Hill Methodist church.  Only because my cousin Dorothy was allowed to go there too and we went together.  She was 2 years older than me and liked playing the general knowledge quiz games they had,  a lady tried to teach the girls a thing called tatting.  It’s something like crocheting but a shuttle is used instead of a crochet hook.  The lady was so damn fast at doing it everything was just a blur.  The boys had the use of a dart board.  I was bored out of my brain.  A boy who went to our school turned up one evening and started playing the piano.  His name was Desmond and he could play like Winifred Attwell.  It was honky tonk lively music, the kids loved it and gathered round the piano.  The person in charge told him to stop and locked the piano lid.  He said we were not at the youth club to be entertained we had to join in.  Desmond went home and that was the last time I went to the youth club.  Auntie Mary, Dorothy’s Mum, told my Mum she should make me go back to the club as it was very nice and I wouldn’t meet any rough boys there.  I didn’t want to meet any rough boys anywhere but it would have been nice to meet some who were allowed to talk and laugh and not to have to sit in a circle and answer general knowledge questions.  Dorothy continued going and was happy with the crowd of people her own age.  Working in a factory broadens your outlook on life so when one of my workmates suggested we went dancing at the Majestic Ballroom my eyes lit up.  No use telling my Mum where I was going she’d have chained me to the table leg.  She lived at Cross Gates and said I could stay over night at her place as the dance hall didn’t close until 11:30 p.m.  My mother would have had a pink fit if she’d known.  I’d never been to a ballroom and imagined girls in long gowns and boys in dark suits waltzing around.  She said it was nothing like that but I had to wear a nice dress.  Mum’s idea of a nice dress was a pale blue or pink with puff sleeves, Peter Pan collar and a flared skirt.  Jean said I could make one.  We worked on a sewing machine we could make anything. Couldn’t use the sewing machine at home so had to sneak it into work and make it in the tea break.  Had to watch out that the forewoman didn’t catch me so sewed like a demon.  At that time some magazines offered cut out material with instructions how to sew it together.  I sent for a tailored dress and jacket.  Had it sent to Jean’s address of course.  It was a simple straight dress with no sleeves and a round neck.  The jacket had three quarter sleeves, a round neck with a collar, and three buttons and barely came to the waist.  The picture in the magazine was a silver grey colour.  Jean said it looked elegant and not to bother making the jacket up because I’d only need the dress to go dancing.  What it didn’t show in the magazine was the top of the dress had to be fitted to the bottom half.  We thought it would be just 2 pieces of material, front and back, with facings for the neck and arm holes.  Couldn’t send it back so I had to make it.  I’d been so devious, told lies, so much planning I was going to go to the Majestic Ballroom if it was the last thing I did.  It took 2 days for me to make it as we only had two 15 minute tea breaks each day.  The material was not a silver grey but a dark grey colour.  Jean said it would be more elegant than silver grey when it was made up.  It was the word elegant that got me.  That, plus the magical world of ballroom dancing.  My head was filled with romantic notions of meeting my Prince Charming.  In my haste to finish the dress before Friday I attached the top of dress to the skirt part but had the back of the dress top to the front part of the skirt.  Not until it was finished did I realise what I’d done.  Couldn’t burst into tears at work everyone would want to know what was wrong.  Rolled it up, shoved it in my bag and thought I was doomed to be an old maid forever.  No one had asked what I was sewing in the tea breaks as the dark grey colour was similar to suit material.  In the lunch break I took my bag into the ladies toilets with my friend Jean in tow.  Nearly in tears told her I’d made the dress back to front.  She told me to try it on and she’d see if she could do anything with it.  We were in the canteen toilets so there wasn’t the usual crowd of women smoking like chimneys.  When I had the dress on she said it fitted me like a glove.  I said she was lying, it was back to front.  ” It’s only the top bit that’s the wrong way round but look at it you’ve made yourself an empire line dress.  Look in the mirror.  It looks lovely.”  Instead of fitting on the waist line it was just under the bust line.  It didn’t look too bad ” But what’s it like at the back?”  She gave a wolf whistle ” Smashing.  If you’d put both front bits together you would have had to fill in the gap with some lace.  It would have been too low on your chest.”  I still wasn’t convinced.  The rest of the week I was thinking up excuse not to go on Friday night.  Friday dawned, more doo’s and dont’s  from Mum before I left for work.  I’d told her Jean and me were going to the Regal cinema at Crossgates.  Lucky me.  I’d already seen the film so could answer her questions on Saturday when I came home.  She only went to see musical films, singing and dancing pictures as she called them.  I knew she would ask the neighbours if they had seen ‘ Interlude ‘ I think it was called.  It had Rossino Brazzi in the lead role and was so romantic.  I knew the answers before she asked the questions.  Nervous as a kitten but excited as well we joined the ticket queue at the Majestic Ballroom inLeeds City Square.  All my Christmas’s had come at once.  Large men at the entrance dressed in tuxedos, white shirts and BOW TIES.  WOW! Just like they are in the films.  They said ” Good Evening ” as we walked passed.  We smiled and said good evening back to them.  In the cloakroom I asked Jean who those men were.  A one word reply Bouncers.  ” What’s a bouncer?”  In case there’s any trouble they sort the fellas out and throw them out on the street she told me.  My God! My mother was right.  I should never have come.  There’s going to be a fight.  She then told me they never have any trouble at the Majestic it’s a nice crowd they have in there.  After putting on more lipstick Jean had given me out into the ballroom we went.  She knew some girls who were already there and we joined them.  The band was playing a slow tune and only a few couples were dancing.  More of a shuffle than a dance.  Suddenly she whispered ” You do know how to dance don’t you?”  I said I did.  Uncle Billie had won medals for dancing and loved to teach all the girl cousins to dance.  Uncle Billie taught us Victor Sylvester style dancing.  A group of young men in nice suits, white shirts and ties came nearer to us.  One by one they asked the girls if they’d like to dance.  Then came my turn.  He was only as tall as me so he’d be about 5’4″ as I had high heels shoes on.  He didn’t dance like Uncle Billie at all.  I could hardly breathe.  I pushed him away, he pulled me back.  We were still in the same spot, we hadn’t moved an inch.  I asked if he didn’t know how to dance.  He put his face along side my cheek ” Sure I do honey ” in a broadYorkshireaccent.  I nearly laughed, who does he think he is? Clark Gable?  I turned my head sharply and caught him on the side of his head with the frame of my glasses.  That made him jump and moreYorkshireaccent ” Bloody hell, what did you do that for “  Sweetly I said ” Sorry. I wanted to look where we were going you don’t seem to know.”  He stood still, moved back a little ” I haven’t seen you here before “  All I said was haven’t you?  Maybe it was the dim lights, the music, excitement who knows.  I was a different person.  I wasn’t the shy timid young girl. I was in a dance hall with a real live band and bouncers outside in tuxedos.  I was a grown up. I had my elegant dress on. I had face powder and lipstick on my face. I knew how to dance and dancing is what I was determined to do. He mumbled ” Do you want to finish this dance or what?”  I said I was waiting for him to start.  He left me on the dance floor on my own and walked off.  So much for my dreams of a knight in shining armour sweeping me off my feet. 

I was asked to dance by someone else and he didn’t try to squeeze the life out of me but he couldn’t dance either.  Not many of them could.  A man who Jean knew tapped her on the shoulder.  Smiles all round as she and the other girls said hello to Charlie.  Jean introduced us, we shook hands and Charlie said ” A new face.  Fancy a twirl round the dance floor?”  I had no idea who he was and he was a lot older than us.  Married man screamed in my head.  He held out his hand ” Come on then before the band stops playing.”  So I did.  Just as Uncle Billie had taught me.  He was a terrific dancer.  No squashing, no sweaty hands, no trying to nibble my ear, we danced round and round the floor.  He said ‘ Your really enjoying this aren’t you?”  I said I was and he was the first man that night who knew how to dance.  He laughed ” Did you really think all these blokes come here for the dancing?”  Very naive I asked why else would they be there if not to dance.  He shook his head ” Did your mother not tell you?”  Tell me what?  Still dancing ” What did your mother say as you left the house?”  I mumbled.         ” What’s that you said?”  Feeling guilty and caught out ” She doesn’t know I’m here.  I told her I was going to the pictures.”  I felt sure he was going to tell me to go home on the next bus.   He asked what would Mum say when I didn’t get home until after midnight.  I told him I was staying at Jeans house.  He squeezed my hand, twirled me round, big smile on his face ” That’s all right then.  I live near Jean and give her a ride home if we’re both here on the same night” and twirled me around again.  He brought me back to Jean and her friends when the music stopped playing he’d seen someone he knew and he would see us later.  I asked her who he was.  ” He’s nice isn’t he, lovely dancer, he lives near me, often gives me a ride home.”  Hesitatingly ” He’s a bit old for you isn’t he?”  She laughed out loud ” Charlie’s married.  He makes no secret of it.  His wife’s lovely she just doesn’t like dancing and Charlie adores it.  You’re quite safe with him.  He’ll give us both a ride home tonight so we can stay to the very end and not have to run to catch the last bus.  Well I never did find my Prince Charming on any dance floor.  I had some good times though and plenty of laughs, some sore feet at times as well.  A lot of the times caused by young men standing on them and other times by wearing stiletto heeled shoes with pointy toes.  Ah! The fashions as well as the times we’re a changing.

The first time a ‘ chap ‘ brought me home in a car I’ll swear the whole street knew before he stopped outside our house.  I said thank you for the ride home and opened the door to get out.  He gave a mournful ” Aw don’t I get a kiss goodnight?”  I gave him a smile ” Only if you want a description of your car, licence plate, an exaggerated account of kissing and canoodling at this time of the night to be all overEast EndParktomorrow morning.  I value my reputation too much to be classed as a scarlet woman ” and got out of the car.  His window was wound down and his parting shot was ” I’ll tell all my mates you’re madam freeze “   I said he could suit himself what he said, making a mental note to tell all my friends to steer well clear of him.  Mum of course was waiting up for me. Who was that? What have  told you about letting boys bring you home?  You’ll be getting a reputation.  I don’t know what I’m going to say to the neighbours.  I told her to tell them to mind their own business and went to bed.  If it had been either of my brothers that would have been an end to it.  Saturday morning she dragged it up again.  Sunday morning once more because I’d gone out dancing on Saturday night as well.   I was doomed to be the object of the neighbourhood gossips she didn’t know how she was going to hold her head up.  I laughed and said if I could weather the storm as I had done nothing wrong I’m sure she’d manage too.  That got me clip round the ear and one of our many shouting matches erupted.  It never entered my mother’s head the entire street could hear us yelling.  The neighbours who hadn’t been behind twitching lace curtains when the car had pulled up were soon informed by those who had.  Auntie Maggie wanted to know about my ‘ chap ‘ practically had the banns read out at the church.  I told her he wasn’t a boy friend just someone who’d given me a ride home.  Instantly from ‘ nice chap ‘ to Jack the Ripper ” Oh you gotta be careful our Audrey.  You shouldn’t be getting in cars with fellas.”  She was the only one who called me Audrey and it grated on my nerves.  Mum thoroughly agreed with Maggie and they spoke about me as if I wasn’t there:  I keep on telling her Mag but does she take any notice?  She’s going to end up like that lass in the next street.  I don’t know what’s got into her but if she doesn’t mend her ways she’s going to get whatfor.”  Maggie tut tutting and nodding her head.  I knew as soon as Maggie left she’d be straight into Martha’s house telling her poor Nellie’s daughter is leading her a merry dance.  They’d be shaking their heads with lots of sympathy for poor Nellie and who’s have thought her daughter would turn out like that ……and enjoying every single minute.  It was me this week it would be somebody else next week. 

By then I was not the timid young girl who never answers back to an adult.  I worked with women older than my mother and we were all on an equal footing in the factory.  Someone yells at you, you yell back.  I’d got friendly with a lively girl called Sandra.  She made everyone laugh, knew all the latest fashions, pop singers, film stars.  I bought vinyl records of Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Andy Williams and she bought records of Elvis, The Beatles and we both loved Aker Bilk and Kenny Ball.  We were both old enough to go into pubs, the pair of us barely 18.  She’d got in with a group of girls who used to go to the Compton Arms on a Saturday lunch time.  Drinking in the middle of the afternoon!  The height of decadence!  She said I aught to join them they had a great time.  My mother WOULD have thrown me out if she’d smelt beer on me in the middle of the day.  One Monday morning at work Sandra said it had been Fab at theComptonon Saturday they’re had been a jazz band playing..  Everyone wanted to hear about it.  She said they didn’t play there regular it just happened their car had broken down so they’d gone into the pub until a mate picked them up in his van.  They were Uni students and had formed their own jazz band and they had a regular paid job to play every Friday night at a jazz club over a pub atKirkstall Road.  Boy O Boy did I want to go???  We worked out how to get there for the following Friday.  Sandra lived at Halton Moor and could get on a number 14 bus that would take her to city square where she would wait for me to catch a number 4 bus that would take us as far as Kirkstall Abbey.  The pub we wanted was across the road from the Abbey.  I had to walk toYork Roadto catch almost any bus that would take me to city square.  I was beside myself with excitement.  We danced to live bands at the Majestic but this was Jazz music.  We got off the bus before the Abbey and crossed the road into a small pub.  She was greeted by all and sundry, old as well as young people wanted her to sit with them.  Back then all pubs were smokey places, didn’t bother us as along with everyone else we smoked cigarettes as well.  We were sophisticated we smoked Peter Stuyvesant king size cigarettes.  Everyone else smoked Players or Senior Service unfiltered cigarettes.  I kept asking where the band was. Every time I asked she stood on my foot under the table.  Eventually as girls do we went to the ladies.  Don’t ask me why, girls go in pairs to the loo.  As soon as the door was shut she said ” Will you stop asking about the band.  It’s not at this pub.  I come in here because I’ve got to know people and they think I go home when this place closes but I go over the road to the jazz club.”  I asked why we couldn’t go to the pub where the Jazz band was over the top.  A startled ” Are YOU kidding?  It’s The Star and Garter there’s a fight outside there every night the pub closes.”  She’d brought me to a pub where they fight every night?  I could almost see my picture on the front of the Yorkshire Post.  My mother would kill me before she slung me out into the street.  Sandra said it would be O.K.  We’d stay where we were until closing time, stay on the same side of the road until the cops had cleared the drunks and brawlers away in the Black Mariah and then we’d join the queue.    There were crowds of people hanging around.  Cop cars and the black van, cops shoving men into the back of the van and eventually they all drove away.  Sandra grabbed my hand ” Come on hurry up, elbows out, they only let a certain amount in.”  We ran and pushed our way towards the front.  We were all jammed together as we moved up a narrow wooden staircase.  A small window at the top of the steps was where we paid our entrance fee.  I think it cost half a crown to get in.  Could not see a thing once we were inside.  Sandra gripped my wrist and yelled not to let anyone separate us as she pushed herself further into the room.  We were making our way toward the only light in the place as she’d said that’s where the band played.  Light?  It was a single red light bulb.  My eyes were getting accustomed to the dark and I could see figures slightly higher than us under the dim red light.  There was a drum roll and a cheer went up from the crowd, then silence.  Suddenly a male voice ” Sandra you made it?  Is that your friend with you?  Come on gents give the ladies a bit of room, let them through.”  There was a small gap and Sandra dragged us both through to the front.  There we were, right at the front.  The drummer crashed the cymbal, a male voice said one, two, and…away they went.  The crowd cheered, the music was loud, and the atmosphere was electric.  We were packed in like sardines and we all had a wonderful time.  They must have played none stop for an hour before they had a break.  There was a makeshift bar near us that only sold cider.  We drank it.  You couldn’t move far in any direction so the band joined us two and introductions all round.  I cannot remember any of their names but I do remember the trombone player.  He was 6ft. tall, bright blue eyes, red hair and a big red moustache.  He was the larrikin of the group.  When Sandra introduced me he took my hand and kissed the back of it.  He wouldn’t let it go ” Come along darling.  Can you play the trombone?”  I said I didn’t have a clue how to play any musical instrument.  ” Lesson number one darling.  This is the bit you blow into.  Take a big breath and blow, I’ll handle the notes.”  I did as I was told.  I can’t remember who’d told me but at some time someone had said you place the mouth piece flat against you lips and blow like hell.  They were all surprised when I got a note out of it.  He picked me up and planted a big kiss on my lips ” You’re the first girl whose every known how to blow a note.  Can you play the trumpet?”  I couldn’t play anything.  They gave me the trumpet.  I did it again.  Johnny one note, that’s me.  They got back on the stage and played for another hour and then it was time to go home.  When we got outside the last bus had gone.  No idea what we were going to do.  If you missed the last bus at the Majestic there was a taxi rank down one of the side streets.  No taxis where we were.  We weren’t scared to walk in the dark but it would have taken us until dawn to walk home in high heeled shoes.  The band saved the day.  We were feeling sorry for ourselves when they came out of the small narrow door at the side of the pub.  They realised we’d missed the last bus so offered us a lift in their van.  We said we lived on the other side of town.  They said they lived at Crossgates, Seacroft, Halton Moor, Harehills andRoundhay Road.  Only a slight detour toEast EndParkso we piled in.  No safety belts back then.  The drummer owned the van so he drove.  I sat on the trombone players lap in the passenger seat.  Sandra was sat on a cushion in the back with the drum kit, a double base, the base player, the trumpeter and clarinet player.  We laughed and sang all the way to my house.  Going upEast Park DriveI said they would all have to be quiet as my Mother would go raving mad as it was with me being so late.   They wanted to take me to my door but I said dropping me off at the end of the street would be fine.  Our house was only the third one from the end of the street.  We were giggling at we drove upEast Park Drivewith lots of telling each other to shush so as not to wake the neighbours.   I got out of the van with lots of whispered ‘ good nights see you next week, hope you don’t get into trouble ‘ and a giggling Sandra ” See you on Monday with the rest of the slaves.”  High heels clicking on the pavement I took 3 steps, turned and waved as the van door closed quietly.  Then they laughed, a blare from the trumpet echoed down the street, much revving of the engine and tooting of the van horn and they roared off with trumpet still playing. 

My Mother threw the door back on its hinges ” What time do you call this?”  she bellowed.  I said I’d no idea but I was sure all the neighbours would be able to tell her in the morning what time I’d got home.  She was so flabbergasted she didn’t say a word, just stood there holding the door open.  I went straight to bed.  I knew I’d have to pay for being cheeky the next morning but tonight I was on cloud nine.  We’d had a fabulous time.  The music was still ringing in my ears, the young men in the band were great fun and I’d had my first kiss by a man with a moustache.  The next morning there wasn’t the ranting and raving from Mum as I was expecting.  She unnerved me asking in a quiet voice where I had been the night before and who’d brought me home.  No more lies.  I’m not a good liar and knew sooner or later I’d trip myself up and she would have shackled me with a ball and chain, mentally if not physically.  On my guard as I was sure it was the lull before the storm ” We went to a jazz club onKirkstall Road.  Sandra knows the people who play in the band.”  Getting ready to dodge the clip round the ear I was certain was going to be delivered Mum yelled “Kirkstall Road!  Why the hell did you go all the way out there?”  Obvious answer

” Because that’s where the club is and these fella’s get paid for playing there.”  She quietened down ” They’re proper musicians then?  They get paid for doing it?”  I said yes wondering what was coming next.  She chewed the inside of her mouth and a lot of hmmm and a sigh.  Still quiet voice ” Well the next time they bring you home tell them not to kick up such a noise at that hour of the morning.”  My God!!! What’s come over her?  I didn’t question it.  Coming home from work Monday night a couple of neighbours called out Hello to me as I walked passed their houses.  Big smiles on their faces.  As soon as I went indoors I asked what was wrong with Mrs. Simpson and Miss Smith.  Mum said she didn’t know and smiled to herself.  I said the were cooking something up and I knew it had something to do with me.  The neighbours were friendly saying Hello, Good Morning when they passed in the street but not usually with beaming smiles for no reason at all.  Dad came in a few minutes later ” What’s up with Mrs. Simpson and old Alice grinning likeCheshirecats.  They said your Audrey knows how to have a good time.  What are they on about?”  He looked directly at me waiting for an answer.  I shrugged my shoulders and glared at Mum.  Dad looked at Mum who was chewing the inside of her mouth again ” What the hell’s going on?  If those two old gossip mongers are saying stuff about her I’ll soon sort them out.”  Mum said they’d wanted to know who had brought me home Friday night as they could have woken the dead with the racket they kicked up yelling and blowing trumpets.  Dad slept like a log and hadn’t heard a thing.  Dad was still waiting for an explanation.  ” So I told them she has a boy friend that has his own band but they won’t be making a noise again because she’s told them not to.”  A few weeks I reigned as the girl who was going out with a band leader.  The tale grew with each telling.  From a bunch of Uni. students to the likes of Joe Loss, Ted Heath and almost Count Basie and Duke Ellington fame I had big smiles from everyone.

 

 Red Walls

 Not much to see is there? But Red Walls was an iconic play ground for East Leeds lads and lasses. It was reached down the equally iconic Black Road. We would set off on our walking expeditions to Temple Newsam equipped with our liquorish water and perhaps jam sandwiches – we could always pinch some ‘tuskey’ on the way. We would be off down Black Road, perhaps a paddle in the beck at Red Walls and on via ‘The Basins’ to Temple Newsam. Special days on that route are so memorable they are with us for the rest of our lives.

Roy Marriot remembers an illicit day playing truant and going fishing ‘Tom Sawyer’ type to Red Walls; Eric Sanderson sets the scene for bike rides down Black Road; Muriel Parking (nee Bailey) fondly paddles in memories with her dog, Queenie; Janet Elliott (nee Lawler) gets butted by a nanny goat and Eric Allen dares to ride the ‘Wall of Death Basins.’ Plus a map of the location of Red Walls.

 (Next month more Audrey)

   GONE FISHING

  By Roy Marriott

I was in Mr, Holmes’ class (Chuck) atEllerbyLaneSchoolfrom Sept 1945 to Sept 1946. As many of the lads will remember, who were fortunate to be taught by him, he would often end the afternoon lesson by reading from a story, maybe just from 3-45 to 4-00 p.m. I certainly enjoyed it, I’m sure the rest of the class did too.

            I well remember him reading ‘Tom Sawyer’ the part about Tom and his friend Huckleberry Finn playing truant and going fishing was especially enjoyable. A very good friend of mine was Brian Helley, his father was a regular in the forces – I can’t remember which branch, though I remember Brian had to leave Leeds because his dad was posted somewhere near Driffield. I think he left in late ’46. Anyway Brian and I had been enthralled with the idea of playing truant and going fishing. That morning the weather was glorious and as Brian, Frank McGann – another good friend – and I walked home from school we were hatching out a plan. Brian lived quite near to Eddie Purdy’s shop onPontefract Lane in one of theClark streets – I cannot remember which one. Anyway after he’d had his dinner Brian came round to our house and said, ‘Come on then – let’s go fishing!’

            I didn’t need asking twice. I got an empty dried milk tin from the kitchen, punched a couple of holes in the rim, added string and managed to secrete my fishing net. I don’t think my mother even realised what was going on. Off we went, just as we got to the top ofClark Lanewe met Frank coming along Pontefract lane. He was not interested in joining us but he did agree to tell Mr. Holmes we had been sick on the way home and that was the reason for our absence. Our destination – where else of course but down Black road to Red Walls. 

            We had no way of telling what time it was – but we just about filled the tin with tiddlers, sticklebacks and bomb-bellies when our tummy clocks told us it must be just about tea time. So off we set for home. Brian managed to get hold of a jam jar and we transferred a few fish into it.

            When I got home I smuggled my tin upstairs into my bedroom (which was in the attic) fortunately my mother did not come into my bedroom that night. The evening was very warm, the poor fish didn’t stand a chance; there were far too many for the size of the tin. The result being that the next morning there was this awful smell. My Mam thought it was coming from the quarry. The first chance I got I took the can outside and emptied it down the drain. I felt really upset for ages afterwards because I had caused the death of so many fishes.  While you are catching fish it’s great – but you do really have to know how to take care of them. Playing truant – Never again!

            One thing that was amazing, we got back home, around the time we would have if we had been at school. The next morning Mr Holmes asked how we were, I wonder if he knew what we had been up to – he really was a great teacher.    

                                  Eric Sanderson Remembers  Red Walls.

I spent many happy hours down there at the Red Walls. Isn’t the stream in fact nearly the end of Wyke Beck before it finally tumbles into the river? During the long summer days and before we had bikes, we’d often meander down towards there, sometimes down Red Road, past the Basins and cut across Halton Moor but more often than not, down Black Rd with a few distractions like Oxley’s field or even Knostrop Army camp with it’s water filled tank obstacles, brim full of wildlife ready to be caught with a few basic implements.

In those days, the stream was very clear, especially a little further upstream as it ran over Halton Moor, and many’s the time when we’ve drunk the cool, clear water on a hot summer day. We’re still here and I never remember anyone suffering any ill effects, so it can’t have been too bad.

It must have been fairly well unpolluted because it had lots of Sticklebacks & Red-bellies in those days.

It was also a good way to cool off by stripping off shoes & socks, sit on the bank down by the Red Walls and let the lovely cool water do its work by refreshing our red hot and aching feet. 

When we were a little older, we used to use it as a turning point for bike races from the top ofBlack Rd, down there and back, it was a good test. A problem we had to avoid however was the huge potholes, created by the Leviathans from the open cast coal mine and the cause of more than a few tumbles.

I’m sure many others will say the same but, as the Paddy ran close by, it was occasionally a relief for our weary legs after a tiring day and to save trudging back to the top of Black Road, to hop onto the back of the slow moving Paddy Train for a quick ride to the top, dropping off just before Cross Green Lane

 OUR QUEENIE

By Muriel Parkin (nee Bailey)

It was coming to the end of the summer holidays: soon we would be back at school. The family decided that if the weather kept fine we would have a walk downBlack Roadto the blue bell wood. We often went to the blue bell wood but only with Mam and Dad. When Sunday arrived the weather was fine, Mam got on with the dinner early and Dad decided we should give Queenie, our dog, a bath as she had been confined to the house for a number of weeks. After dinner my sister and I did our usual job of washing up and clearing away the dinner crockery and then we were ready for off: Mam, Dad, Brenda, Baby Andrea, Queenie and of course me.

            Queenie was my dog she had been bought for me when she was weaned at six weeks old; she was a white bundle of fluff with just the two patches of brown in her coat. Anyway I had her on her lead until we reached ‘Red Bricks’ (Red Walls).

            There had been another occasion at Red Walls when I had ventured into the stream and stood on some glass, it cut my foot quite badly and I had to walk ‘tip toe’ all the way upBlack Roadhome. The glass was in fast and Dad had to remove it with pliers. Anyway on this particular day we didn’t venture into the water  but there were plenty of other boys and girls playing in there who all wanted to stroke her. I was so proud to be her owner. Unfortunately she had no tail to wag for them as she had been ‘docked’ by the man we bought her from; she just had a stub for a tail and a long ringlet at the end which was soft and wavy like her coat.

            Dad wanted us to push on or we would lose the day and that is when everything went wrong. I let Queenie off the lead as we approachedAustin’s Farm and she bolted. Straight into the duck pond she went as we looked on in horror. Our lovely white and tan dog came out a horrible shade of green and dripping with slime.

 We finally arrived at our usual place to find Mam and Dad’s friends were already there. We had a lovely day playing hide and seek in the farm yard and Queenie was allowed to romp around to her heart’s content and as blackberries were in season and we had taken a basin with us we were able to collect blackberries too.

            Eventually the evening sun began to show, telling us that it was time to go home. By the time we got to the end of our street people were taking advantage of the warm evening to sit around in the street talking. I ran up the street as fast as my legs would carry me with Queenie on the end of the leash looking like and old rag. She had dried but oh did she smell! This meant she was not allowed to go into the house until she had another bath. Two baths in a day for Queenie. We had to use the ‘Peggy tub’ for our own bath. We had some sandwiches and off to bed ourselves. What a wonderful day!

Now Mam and Dad are long gone and we three sisters are in our old age but we still talk about those childhood days and laugh, we couldn’t have had better days, they were fantastic. 

The Nanny Goat

By Mrs Janet Elliot (nee Lawler)

(What a lovely little tale)

When I was twelve years old me and Brenda Johnson, Beryl Morgan and Pat York, all fromVictoriaSchool, went off down to Red Walls to catch tadpoles in a jam jar. We used to take with us: jam sandwiches and a bottle of liquorish water. We were very happy in those days. On the way back we climbed over a fence and took some rhubarb to eat on the way home. As we were walking away a nanny goat escaped out of a field and chased us upRed Road, it ran straight past Beryl and chassed Brenda, Pat and me. It caught me and butted me up the backside. I suppose it served my right for pinching the rhubarb! 

And finally

The Basins

   By Eric Allen

Who remembers ‘The Basins?  The Basins were to be found on the Red Roadedge of Temple Newsam. They were to be reached along Black Road and through Austin’s farm and were a site of great adventure for young ‘dare devil’ bicycle riders.  The basins had originally been mine workings and their spoil heaps. Some had paths going around the sides making them like the fair ground ‘wall of death’ The largest basin had a path going down one side into the bottom and up the other side, this was the best run for the young ‘dare devil’. Unfortunately on many occasions the rider did not have enough speed to carry them up the other side, which ended up with a quick dismount and a hard push to get the boy and bike up the other side before it toppled back on him.

And by popular demand a map showing location of Red Walls.

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By popular demand another great tale from Audrey – formally of East Leeds but now of Queensland, Australia. Audrey tells her tales superbly – I’m standing on the step with her reviewing the bride and her family in the back streets of East Leeds

Weddings were major events in our childhood.  Any wedding of neighbours, they didn’t have to be related to you was a cause for excitement.  Not so much if it was a male member of the family but if the bride was leaving from the family home we hung around outside the house early to watch all the coming and goings.  Relatives, friends, neighbours in and out of the house hours before the bride left to go to the church added to the excitement.  Mum, Auntie Maggie and Martha who lived next door to Maggie started out with the pretence of cleaning the outside window,  sweeping the pavement and then scrubbing the stone step outside the door.  It just happened they were all in the mood to add sparkle to the house, nothing at all to do with watching the procession of people at the brides house.  No one owned a car so everyone arrived on foot and most had to pass our house to get to the brides home.  Before the relatives started arriving friends and neighbours of the brides mother were running between their own place and the brides every few minutes.  Some with tea pots, others with a plate covered with a tea towel, children of these neighbours dispatched to run errands to the small shops for sugar, tea, bread as the supplies ran out.  Important things like nylon stockings, mens black socks, dress making straight pins the ladies took upon themselves.  Everyone forgot they had to have pins for the buttonhole carnations or the brides mothers ‘spray ’of flowers, usually two carnations and a bit of green fern.  This was wedding stuff important to the day so had to be right.  Mum, Maggie and Martha would say hello as the lady made to walk past.  She was on an important mission so a curt ‘hello’ back was all they got.  They waylaid her on the way back though.  “Everything going all right at number ???  She getting a bit jittery now?  Have you seen the dress yet?”  She couldn’t resist.  After all she was in the know and the rest of the neighbours wasn’t.

 “Mrs. ???? has just come back from the hair dressers, she looks smart. Mr. ???? hasn’t started to get ready yet and she’s going mad at him.  They’ll be lucky if they’re ready on time.”  Have you seen the dress?  “No, not yet, but by all accounts it’s lovely and everyone will be talking about it for ages.”  Off she goes at breakneck speed only to pass another neighbour on another mission to the corner shop.  Aspirin and sticking plasters (Band-Aids) New shoes had rubbed blisters, somebody else had a headache.  She also got waylaid on the way back.  Shop keepers didn’t put packaged items in paper bags so the 3 musketeers saw what was in her hand.  “O I hope nobody is poorly love.  What’s wrong with them?”  Important neighbour on mercy mission. “It’s nowt much.  Two of thum ‘ave got blisters wi’ new shoes an’ t’other got an ‘angover.  ‘Servers ‘im right, the silly beggar.  ‘is wife’s tol’ im if e spews she’ll kick is arse oll way ‘ome.’  Eager musketeers “Is it Mr.??? who’s got an ‘angover??”  They were informed it wasn’t Mr. ??? with the hangover because Mrs.??? would have killed him, it was his brother.   After she dashed off to administer relief of blistered feet and a thumping headache the 3 women with the cleanest pavement and doorsteps in the street passed comment.  The complete history of the bride’s family was discussed.  It’s been said often and it is really true the people who lived in terraced back to back houses were the salt of the earth.  Always, always someone to give a hand to absolutely anyone who needed it.  It made no difference if you’d spent most of your life rowing with your neighbours if they were in desperate need of help you gave it.  It also meant that everyone knew about everyone’s family history as well.

 From the cradle to the grave lots of people never lived anywhere else but the house they were born in.  My own Father was adopted by Grandma Coley as a baby.  Lived his entire life in the same house.  When Grandma died Dad took over and had his name put on the rent book.   He married mum and they lived there until his death in 1987.

The time for the approaching wedding was getting closer.  People were now running in and out of the house.  More relatives in their best clothes were arriving.  Auntie Maggie wanted to know if all of them were going to the church in the hired cars.  Mum said it would cost a fortune, Martha said they’d need a corporation bus.  Lots of laughing at the thought of a big green double decker bus coming into the street and everyone scrambling for a seat.  No more running to the corner shop.  Mum said it must be just about time for them to leave and we’d better get closer if we wanted to see anything.  As if someone had flicked a switch suddenly the street was filled with women and small children.  They gathered in small groups near the bridal home.  Out came various people dressed in their Sunday best.  The men in dark 3 piece suits; trousers, jacket and waistcoat all matching.  A gold fob watch in one waistcoat pocket with a gold chain fastened to a pocket on the other side of the waistcoat.  White shirt and dark coloured tie and a carnation button hole.  All wore black shoes and black socks.  The ladies all wore hats and gloves, flowery dresses, matching dress and coat or a 2 piece.  The 2 piece was a skirt and jacket of the same material and colour.  New shoes and handbags and carried in the crook of the arm like the Queen did.  They didn’t acknowledge anyone who’d come to gawk.  Noses tilted in the air, hand threaded through their husbands arm off they walked out of the street.  For all their airs and graces they were the ones who were not going in the hired cars and had to walk to All Saints Church,Richmond HillMethodistChurchor Mt. Saint Mary’s if they were catholic.  Relating all what happened is not because I was a child who took too much notice of what people were wearing it was the running commentary issued by Mum and all the other women scrutinising every thread, every style from top to toe of every wedding guest.  Plus more family history from the onlookers;  I remember when that one ran around with the yanks during the war; I remember her uncle getting carted away in the Black Mariah when he belted his wife; When they were little poor little buggers never got new clothes at Whitsuntide.  If these women had been invited to the nuptials none of this would have been mentioned of course.  None of us had any money; everyone of us had skeletons in the cupboard.  I found it very entertaining listening to all this information.  Of course when I asked questions later I was told to mind my own business I shouldn’t have been listening.  Lots of it was very funny.  Things that were related to blackouts, fire watching, rationing and pawn shops.  Uncle Walter, Maggie’s husband, had died years before.  At every wedding we went to watch she always said the same thing “It’s to be hoped the wedding ring is 24 carat gold.  You get more at the pawn shop if it is.  Mine spent more time behind the counter than it did on my finger.  Walter never knew the brass curtain ring I wore was not the ring he’d married me with.  Mind you he didn’t know his best boots spent all week in there as well and only came out Friday afternoons and was back in again Monday morning.”  Mum tried to ignore her but Maggie thought she was offering good advice.

We got a little bit closer when Billie Roberts big black Rolls Royce pulled into the street.  He was the undertaker but hired the cars out for weddings.  Everyone said sooner or later you got to ride in one of Billie Robert’s cars.  No one looked forward to riding in the first one which was longer than the rest, had windows down both sides and only room for one passenger.

The Roll’s stopped outside the house.  Out jumped the groomsman and knocked on the door.  The house door was opened.  Out stepped Mrs ??? with a regal smile and a nod to the onlookers.  Joining her in the car were other adults named by those in the know as Mrs.??? brother, married sister and husband and grand parents.  That car left with lots of waving from the gawkers and a Queen like wave from Mrs.????  The next car pulled into the street.  Same procedure by groomsman.  This time out comes 2 small little girls dressed in pink long dresses, yards of pink ribbons on their heads and carrying a small bunch of flowers with a silver paper doily round them which my Mum called a posy.  Two older, taller girls came out next with identical style dresses as the smaller girls wore only larger. They had a broad band of pink material like anAliceband holding their long dark hair off their faces and carried a posy of flowers. Two adult girls were next same style dresses but deeper shade of pink.  They both had short hair which was half covered with a pink feathered head dress my mother called it.  It wasn’t a hat as we knew hat’s to be, it sat very tightly across the crown and looked as if it wouldn’t be long before they had a thumping headache.  They carried a proper bouquet of flowers.  Lots of oooos and aaaahs from the crowd as they climbed into the waiting car.  As it moved away the car that had taken Mrs.??? and relatives came back.  We were all ready for the big finale.   Seemed ages for the bride to appear as we all moved to get a close look.  The door opened and a cry of, “Here she comes” from the crowd.  But she didn’t, the door closed again. Lot’s of, “What’s up” from the waiting throng.  A few comments of a bit late to change her mind now.  The door opened again, the groomsman came out.  Silence from the crowd.  Then the bride appeared minus flowers.  A lot of oooos and aaahs isn’t she lovely from everyone.  Couldn’t see her face as it was covered by the white veil.  She didn’t seem to want to leave the house.  A loud voice from the back yelled out “ Oi!  She can’t see the steps.  Give her a hand you useless lump.”  The groomsman, brick red in the face held out his hand.  She still didn’t move.  Voice from the back again “Lift the hem of the frock you big ninny.  Were going to be here all day.”  He moved the bottom of the dress so she could see the steps and rousing cheer from the crowd she got into the car with a smile on her face.  She waved enthusiastically to everyone and her Father got a big cheer as he held the brides bouquet in one hand and locked the house door with a large key in his other hand.  A big smile from him too and a relieved, “Thank God! I didn’t think we were going to get out of the house.  Better put your foot down mate or he’ll think she’s changed her mind and her mother will kill me.”  Lots of laughing, lots of cheering and kids running behind the car as it moved out of the street.

The crowd dispersed and we went back to Aunt Maggie’s house for a cup of tea.  Lots more discussion of who wore what and who was married to who and where were the newly weds going to live.  It didn’t take long before other weddings were discussed.

Grandma’s house inDevon Streetwas called a through terrace house.  She had a proper room and a proper kitchen at the back of the house.  Outside the kitchen door was a small concrete square with clothes lines strung across, the outside toilet and a coal cellar.  You could get into the coal cellar through a door on the inside of the kitchen.  Had to be kept locked at all times as anyone lifting the metal grate where the coal man tipped the coal into the cellar could slide it up and climb in.  All my life I never heard of anyone gaining access in that manner.  If anyone was intent of stealing anything they knew it would have to be in another area.  We were all in the same boat, nobody had anything worth pinching.  If ever I see green or maroon velvet now I think of my Gran’s scrubbed wooden table on Sunday afternoon with it’s velvet cloth.  I have no idea where they bought these prized possessions.  Probably given to her by her own mother.  Round the edges of the cloth was a lace type cord with either a tassel or a pom-pom every few inches, very ornate.  In the centre of the table was a glass bowl.  I think it was a fruit bowl but it was always empty. She also had the same type of velvet 12 inch wide cloth fixed to a brass rail under the mantel shelf over the black fireplace.   Gran didn’t believe in ‘new fangled’ things and wouldn’t have electric installed in the house.  She had a gas mantel for light in only the one room, a gas boiler in the kitchen for boiling the white clothes on Monday’s (washing day) in later years she also acquired a gas cooking stove.  The pantry was under the bedroom steps which led to 2 bedrooms.  Under the steps that led up to the attic in the front bedroom was a single bed.  Which ever one of us kids slept in it had to remember not to clout your head getting in or out of it.  I was scared if I had to sleep at Gran’s house.  You had to have a candle for any light and it cast shadows over everything.  A stern warning of not to touch the candle or holder or you’d tip it over and set fire to the house and we’d all die.  Can you imagine what child psychologists would do to any parent who uttered those words today?  You’d be in court before you drew your next breath.  Worked for us.  You wouldn’t dare touch a lighted candle.

The best thing about Grandma’s house was when there was a wedding in the street.  She lived halfway up the street .  Directly opposite was a street with only a few houses.  I never knew what it was called, everyone called it the short street and it led intoAscot Street.  We had a grand stand view of all the weddings amongst all those houses.  We sat at the front bedroom window and didn’t miss a thing.  Mr. & Mrs. Edwards lived directly opposite, they had 3 daughters and 2 sons.  The girls had lavish wedding dresses and was the talk of the neighbourhood for ages.  All the little girls wanted a dress like they had when they got married. 

We were so entwined with everyone’s lives in the 40s.  One family called Olbison lived 6 houses up from Gran.  They had sons, no daughters.  My eldest brother used to knock around with them and Mum was always questioning Alan what they got up to.  Same answer as kids today give “ Nuthin ”  If groups of kids were laughing she said they were getting up to no good.  Didn’t stop Alan from running around with a wild bunch as my Mum called them.  Years later after Alan was married he said all they ever got up to was playing in bombed out houses, playing near the quarry and getting thrown out of the Princess picture house for yelling too much.  They literally got chased out of theEasy Roadpicture house before they got inside.  At the pay box one of them asked for a ticket and a bug hammer.  The whole lot of them got chased upEasy Road.

As we grew older we didn’t see much of our cousins who didn’t live in and aroundEast EndPark.  They were working and only came to visit Gran a few times a year.  Uncle Dick, mum’s brother, and his wife Gladys had 3 daughters.  Absolute stunning looking girls.  All had flaming red curly hair.  American movies were all the rage and Mavis, the eldest fashioned herself on Rita Hayworth.  She was about 18 and the Olbison boys used every trick in the book to get her attention.  She called them juvenile delinquents, tossed her head and all that long red hair and walked away from them.  The boys hung round Grandma’s front door talking loud waiting for her to go outside.  What they got was Uncle Joe telling them to clear off.  Half an hour later they were back.  Mavis of course loving every minute.  Gran told Mum to go out through the back door and tell their father to call the boys home because the next time Joe went out he’d leather them.  Uncle Joe, also a red head, had a short fuse.  A few minutes later Mr. Olbison bellowed from his front door and the boys disappeared.  One by one the Olbison boys married except for Kenny.  He joined the army and wore a red beret.  As far as I knew he was in the army and that was that.  I had no idea about regiments, badges or coloured berets.  Home on leave Kenny pursued Mavis, they became engaged.  All my older cousins were getting married and at one of the weddings which was the only time the entire family met up as Kenny was almost a member he was invited too.  Goodness knows what happened but towards the end of the evening a fight broke out.  Mavis threw her engagement ring at him and stalked off.  I think she’d seen too many American movies.  Lots of family discussions of why it had happened.  Ken wasn’t involved with the fight but they thought some of the opposition male wedding guests had made a pass at Mavis.  Some of our family said she was a flirt, others said she was just a good looking girl.  Looking back now WAS she ever a good looking girl!  Never daunted, Kenny didn’t give up.  Twelve months later he became engaged to my cousin Norma.  A very attractive girl but quieter than Mavis.  Kenny was very handsome and loved the army life.  Norma expected him to give it up when they got married.  He was used to making decisions, telling other people what to do, exit engagement number two and he didn’t bother trying to marry into our family again.

One of the funniest wedding tales I heard was related by Auntie Maggie.  As I said Dad and his sister Maggie had lived all their lives inCharlton Place.  The particular wedding must have been in the early 1920s.   I’m not certain but I think the name was Booth.  Their daughter was getting married and Mr. & Mrs. Booth, like all parents wanted it to be a spectacular event.  As after the Second World War money was tight after the 1914-18 war.  All the neighbours helped out as best they could. 

Beryl, the bride-to-be wanted a white lace dress, bridesmaids, bouquets, a fancy wedding cake, wine and all the guests to wear their best clothes.  Wasn’t as if many of them had a choice.  They counted themselves lucky if they had a warm coat for the winter and shoes or boots for their feet.  Ingenuity, make do, beg, borrow or steal Mrs. Booth was going to do her upmost for her daughter. 

Maggie jumped the tale forward.

“It was a lovely wedding.  Beryl had the white lace, bridesmaids in pink, beautiful flowers, a big wedding cake on them little pillar things, even had wine and all them that was invited had nice clothes.”

I asked if no one had any money how did they manage to get all this lovely stuff.

“You’re not listening love.  I told you we had nowt and we had to make do with what we ‘ad so everybody helped and we made stuff ourselves.”

“I know you could make the clothes and the cake but it still takes money to buy material and flour, sugar eggs and stuff for the cake.  What about flowers, you can’t make them.”

“Didn’t have to, we borrowed them.”

“You mean borrow?  as in you stole them?”

“We didn’t steal anything!  I said borrow and Borrow them we did.  One of the neighbour’s daughters worked in a florists shop.  They had to make bouquets for a 4’o’clock wedding and as Beryl was getting married at 2 she said they could borrow them but make sure they were back in the shop before half past 3.”

“Did they borrow the wedding dress?”

“No Mrs. Booth made it out of lace curtains.  She took the curtains from the windows and made a frock.”

“What did they do at night time?  Everybody would be able to see into their house.”

“Used newspapers taped to the windows.  And before you ask the bridesmaid frocks were made the same way.”

“But you said they were pink. Did she have lots of curtains to be able to make everything?”

“She didn’t have lots of lace curtains but she had relatives and they all did the same as her, put paper on the windows.  She dyed them pink using the water she’d boiled beetroots in.”

“What about all the guests?  Where did they get clothes from?”

“Everybody lent them things.  If it didn’t fit it was pinned up or held in with a belt.  They were only going to wear them for a few hours it didn’t have to be perfect.  Mrs. Booth wore a lovely hat covered in flowers.”

“Who lent her that?”

“Not listening again.  She made it.  She used Mr. Booth’s bowler hat and made flowers out of the tissue paper that comes round oranges.  The man from the fruit shop gave them to her.  At the wedding one of the grooms relatives said she could smell oranges.  Mrs. Booth, quick as a flash said it was orange blossom in the brides bouquet she could smell.”  Mr. Booth wasn’t too happy; it took a long time before his bowler lost the smell of oranges.

I laughed like mad. Maggie could tell a good story.  It was like seeing it all in my mind.

I asked about the tiered wedding cake “She couldn’t have borrowed that.  They’d have all wanted to see them cut the cake and have a taste.”

She made the tale spin out but what they actually did was make a small fruit cake, put plain icing on it and slid it under the bottom tier of the “cake”. The 3 tiered wonderful effort on the sideboard was made out of stiff paper painted white.  The decorations were glued on white lace doilies.  A slit had been made in the bottom tier for the knife to go in and cut the small cake underneath. It had then been taken into the scullery to be cut into small pieces and handed round.  The small buns, tarts and sandwiches had been made by the neighbours and Mrs. Chester had provided the wine.  It was rhubarb and had been in her cellar for a long time.  Maggie said it must have been a good drop because they were all drunk by 8 ‘o’clock.

“So they all had a good time then?  It sounded as if everything went off like they planned.”

Maggie started laughing until tears ran down her face.  It would have been perfect if it hadn’t rained when they were walking back from the church.  The dye from the bridesmaid frocks started to run and they looked like melting ice creams by the time they got back here. 

My own wedding!!!  On the actual day it run pretty much true to form as all the previous weddings in the street had done.  Everyone made an excuse to pop in and out asking if we needed anything.  Remembering these houses were very small, packed with furniture, anymore than 4 people in the room at the same time and there was nowhere to move.   When it did happened at times Uncle Walt said somebody had to breathe in so others could breathe out. 

Weeks before Mum made countless lists.  Dictated what everyone had to do.  No one had telephones so lots of bus rides organising all the relations.   Not only our family but the grooms as well.  I didn’t want all the razzmatazz.  My youngest brother had got married 8 months before and we’d been through all this.  I wanted a register office wedding with just the immediate families having a nice meal at a hotel.  Explosion time!  For one thing I was marrying a catholic.  He was an only child.  His mother nearly fainted and I got a lecture on Catholicism.  My own Mother yelled and carried on “What would people think if you don’t get married in church?”  And God forbid if I got married in anything but a long white gown.  So what does a good daughter do?  If she wants to still speak to her family and not have it thrown in her face for evermore she gives in for peace and quiet.  John’s Mother insisted we get married in a catholic church or we wouldn’t be married in the eyes of the church and we’d be damned for ever.  Come hell or high water him and his family would crawl over broken glass to go to mass every Sunday morning.  Annie, his mother, wanted the ceremony at St. Anthony’s at Beeston.  Mum wanted it at All Saints onPontefract Lane.  The two mothers wouldn’t meet to discuss it.  It was a series of “Tell John’s mother this, this and this “ from my mum.  Annie said virtually the same only “Explain to your mother this, this and this.”  I suggested to John we elope and let them argue amongst themselves.  He didn’t see the funny side.  Mum said we could have two ceremonies.  The first at All Saints so all our neighbours could come and watch and then all go over to Beeston so Annie’s neighbours could come and gawk.  Both Father and future Father-in -law said it was ridicules; it would be like a travelling circus.  Mum was in a black mood, she didn’t get her own way.  Mum made the wedding gown and 4 bridesmaid dresses.   I don’t have a sister, neither did John.  Annie asked one of his cousins if she wanted to be a bridesmaid, she jumped at the chance.  I’d never met her.  My eldest brother’s daughter was 4 years old Mum said she could be a bridesmaid.  I said I wanted my friend Brenda.  Brenda was married and just fallen pregnant with her second child Mum said it wouldn’t be right having a pregnant bridesmaid.  I said I’d known a lot of pregnant brides and got a clip round the ear.  More dramas making the dresses.  Mum said it would look silly having an 18 year old bridesmaid and a 4 year old trailing behind me so asked the daughter of her friend who was a tall 14 year old.  Not to be outdone Annie said the 4 year old daughter of her niece would match my 4 year old niece and everything would balance for the photographs. 

The day arrived.  The last Saturday in February.  Had to have that date, the following Saturday was in lent and if we waited until after Easter we would miss out on the income tax rebate. 

I woke up at 7 a.m. with my mother’s voice telling Dad everything was going to be a disaster.  That’s a good start to what was going to be a long day.  Forever the drama queen, knowing Mum it wouldn’t have been anything we couldn’t cope with.  As I opened the door at the bottom of the bedroom steps she was going out the door “You’ll have to get a move on and help your Dad sweep up this mess” and she left.  Not being a morning person I didn’t answer back.  Dad was leaning over the fireplace “Give us a hand love.  We’ve got to clean this up before she brings the frocks from your Grandma’s “Eyes wide open now I saw the hearth covered in soot.  If the chimney wasn’t swept on a regular basis sooner or later great clumps came crashing into the fire grate and sent clouds of soot over everything.  Told Dad to put the kettle on while I plugged in the vacuum cleaner.  Everything had to be vacuumed, dusted and wiped over with a cloth even the slightest speck of soot left behind and it would have been a disaster.  The blushing bride?  I felt more like Cinderella.  Maggie and Martha came in asking if we needed anything.  Not to be outdone the neighbours across the road came in as well.  I said I was going to sell tickets if anybody else came.  The women left in a huff saying they hoped the fog would lift before 3′o’clock.   Dad told me not to be cranky and I wished we had eloped.  Dad lit a fire in the grate and we both had a cup of tea and a smoke.  Mum came in asking what the hell we thought we were doing sitting down there was too much to do to be sitting around.  I said I was going to have a bath to get rid of the soot I was covered in.  Not something I was looking forward to as the tin bath was in the cellar.  Dad said we hadn’t had anything to eat.  Mum said she didn’t have time; he’d have to have a slice of bread with something on it.  She had a list of things for us to do after the tin bath was emptied.  I said she’d have to do it herself I was going to the hairdressers.   Thank God the fog had lifted but it was freezing cold.  Lovely and warm in the hairdressers though.  All hopes of peace and quiet went out of the window because the 4 ladies with curlers in their hair under the hair dryer domes wanted to know everything about the wedding.  The dryers were noisy things and they shouted above them.  I left the shop with enough hair lacquer holding my hair in place to withstand an atomic bomb.  As I walked up the street a neighbour’s door opened.  Esther, who was always dolled up as Mum called wearing lipstick and face powder said she had something for me.  “Come in out of the cold love.  Sit tha sen down.  Av made a spot of summat for tha t’ eat.  Tha’l be too busy at your ‘ouse.”  A nice little plate of sandwiches, a mug of tea and Dad sat at the table opposite me.  I nearly choked.  Mum would kill the pair of us if she found out we were in Esther’s house.  I thanked her and said nothing.  Esther was always laughing but Mum had her in the category of ‘a lass who had American boy friends during the war.’  I gulped everything down and said I’d better be going before Mum came looking for me.  Dad said he would be home in 5 minutes.  My brother, wife and small niece plus John’s cousin and her small niece were in the house when I arrived.  Hardly enough air  to breathe.  The coal fire was glowing.  Mum asked if I’d seen Dad.  I said he wasn’t in the hairdressers.  Got a black look from her.  Alan and his wife said they’d take the two little ones next door to Aunt Mag’s to get them dressed.  By 2 p.m. everyone was ready.  More instructions from Mum telling Dad not to forget to lock the door when we left.  More biting of her finger nails as she said she thought she’d better travel in the car with me and Dad so she’d be sure the door had been locked.  My Dad was a very placid man but he yelled “For Christ sake get into the car with the rest of them and get going.  God knows how long it will take to get to Beeston Leeds United are playing at home today.”  A look of horror on her face ” Why didn’t somebody tell me before now.  We should have set off earlier, were never going to get there.”  Mum, Alan & wife, Mum’s 2 brothers and Maggie piled into the car and left.  Peace and quiet at last.  One of Billie Roberts Rolls Royce’s pulled up outside and the 4 bridesmaids got in.  Very quiet, just me and Dad.  “EE you look a picture lass.  I’ve been dreading this day since the day you were born.”  I can cope with the yelling but not this.  “Do me a favour…lift this bloody veil up so I can have a smoke or I’ll set fire to myself.”  We both had a smoke before the other Rolls Royce pulled up outside.  We were both calm and I said I was only going to live at Halton, not the other side of the world.  He opened the door and it was snowing.  No crowds of neighbours hanging round the door to wave me off just 2 neighbours huddled in overcoats wished us Good Luck and hurried back indoors.  Half way across Leeds Dad said Mum would smell cigarette smoke on us and go mad.  I said she would be too busy bossing the priest around and between her and Annie it would be something to see.  Shivering with the cold we waited for the organist to play the wedding march.  I daren’t look at Dad but gripped his arm and he squeezed me tighter to him.  Dad was wounded in the First World War and had to use a walking stick so it was a slow walk down the aisle.  Everyone was in place and the church was packed.  Mum was very superstitious, she had one for every occasion; weddings had top priority.  Farther down the aisle I could see Annie.  I nearly laughed out loud.  I’d asked her countless times what she would be wearing and got a smug look and told it was going to be a surprise.  She always mimicked the Queen Mother’s style of dressing.  The hat sort of to one side with a big fluffy type feather in it.  A skirt and longish jacket, the long gloves, shoes and handbag all in the same shade of pale green.  I dare not look at my mother’s face.  GREEN at a wedding!!! The marriage would be lucky to survive to the end of the day. 

All went smoothly during the ceremony and then off to the vestry to sign the papers.  As it had performed in a catholic church we had to go through the civil service again before we signed.  Years before a registrar had to perform the civil ceremony in the vestry.  As more and more rules of the Catholic Church relaxed and ‘ mixed marriages ‘ more prevalent there wasn’t enough qualified registrars to go every church wedding.  The young priest had explained all this to us stating lots of priest had taken the course to become qualified registrars.  We were doing the I Do and I Will bit again with my mother’s voice in the back ground “Where’s the registrar?  The registrar should be doing this.  It’s not legal.  She’s not married.  The priest can’t do it; it’s got to be a registrar.  When our Eva married Eddie they had a registrar.  Bert! Do something I tell you she’s not married.”  No one took any notice and Mum had a face like thunder in all the photos.  We had the reception at the local working mans club.  The in-laws were well known there and Annie swanned around imitating the Queen Mother for the rest of the evening. 

The evening for the happy couple came to a close about 7 p.m.  We were driving to North Wales for our honeymoon but staying the night inManchester.  We got toManchestercity about 9 p.m.  Into a big hotel we go only to be told they were full up.  Back in the car and another hotel, same answer.  We must have tried every hotel in the city.  Someone told us there was a T.V and radio convention all weekend and everyone had booked rooms weeks before.  We did eventually find a hotel, miles out ofManchesteraround 11 p.m. This was a time long before the permissive society. We got very funny looks from the manager at that hour on a Saturday night.

Mrs Audrey Sanderson (nee Tyers) now lives a sunny life out in Queensland, Australia but she still remembers her roots, especially in the Charlton Streets near to East End Park in East Leeds. We are to be regaled this month by three of Audrey’s great tales (more in later months) told in the colloquial as only she can. Audrey’s first tale The Homecoming tells of how very quaint Audrey’s children found the back to back houses of East End Park after the wide open spaces of Australia.  The Teenager tells of Audrey’s introduction to a working life at the huge Burton’s tailoring factory and finally: Watching the Coronation on Black and White TV How many of us remember that?  I have another one of Audrey’s tales The Wedding but you will have to wait a bit for that one.

            In the meantime come on you Queenslanders I have seen you having a peep at the East Leeds Memories blog (and very welcome you are) out there in:

Brisbane, Deception Bay, Burpengary, Fairneyview Geelong, Gold Coast, Gatton, Upper Brookfield, Toowoomba, Weatcourt, Mackay, Glamorgan Vale, Nambour, Caloundra, Churchill, Caboolture, Torquay, Moggill, Nering, Morayfield, Port Vernon, Ipswich, Pullen Vale, Point Vernon, Nerang, Moggill  and Mount Whitestone.

I’m sure you must have a tale of the old days to share with us my e-mail address is     peter_wood@talktalk.net   Come on send us a tale and it might appear on here.

                                                The Homecoming

In 1977 I took my two children to visit Mum and Dad who still lived in the same house I had spent my childhood atEast EndPark.  They’d never seen terrace houses before and loved going down stone steps into the cellar and climbing two sets of stairs to the attic with a sloping roof.  At the time Linda was 9, Martin 11 and both inquisitive children.  When they had climbed from the cellar to the attic they asked where all the other rooms were.   Disbelief when I said there were no other rooms, a cellar, lounge, bedroom, attic, that’s it.  Insisting there was more rooms they started looking for doors to get into them.  Martin asked where all the other people were.  “There are no other people.  Only Grandma and Granddad live here.”  Puzzled looks on their faces “Listen! I can hear someone speaking.  There is someone in the next room.  Is there a secret door?  Come on Martin we’ll find it.”  Dad who was nearly 80 years old and partially blind asked what the kids were looking for.  I laughed and said they thought there was a secret door and they were looking for it.  “What secret door?  What you on about?  We could do with elastic walls with all of you here.  Tell them to sit down and be quiet.”  O dear, a long time since young children had visited. Linda had her ear pressed to the adjoining wall near the large ornate polished sideboard.  “Listen! Listen! I can hear a man” dragging me by the arm and told to press my ear onto the wall she was excited. Martin was at the other side of the house, “There’s someone over here as well.  Come and listen, there’s a lady shouting.”  Dad muttered “Who needs a wireless when you live in a mad house?”   Mum told Dad to stop whinging and tried to explain to the children there were no secret doors and the voices were from the people who lived next door and the house in the next street.  Confused them more than ever.  To solve the mystery of the secret people we had to put on overcoats, scarves, gloves and go out into the street.  The neighbours either side of Mum & Dad’s house was easier to explain than the one that was on the other side of the wall Linda had been listening at.  Both kids thought it was an adventure going into the next street anticipating what they were going to see.  Disappointment when it was practically the same house as Grandma’s.  The next question was ‘How did you find you way home when all the houses looked so much alike?’  They said it was too cold to stay outside and wanted to go back to Grandma’s.  Linda said they could both stand near a wall and listen to what the neighbours were talking about.  Martin thought it was a good idea too.  I squashed that idea but wondered how I was going to keep two lively kids entertained so they didn’t annoy Dad.  Old photographs were the answer. Lot’s of laughing and lots of explaining who aunts, uncles and cousins were and where they all fit into the family.  Dad’s sister Maggie had lived next door to us so easy to explain.  Back to the dividing wall again.  Maggie was a lot older than Dad and as she got older if she didn’t feel well would knock on the wall and Mum would go into her house.   The kids began to see the advantages of living in a back to back house.  Dad said it was a bloody nuisance at times as well.  The inevitable question was asked ‘WHY Granddad?’  He said a long time ago every one had coal fires.  The kids had a lesson from Mum on how to build a fire in an old black fireplace and how to cook a meal.  ‘Why did Granddad not like them?’  It wasn’t the fireplace he objected to it was the nightly ritual of the neighbours.  Aunty Maggie didn’t sleep well so around 9 p.m. she started getting ready for bed.  First trip up the uncarpeted bedroom stairs she took a thermos flask.  The next trip was with a cup with milk and sugar in it.   The third trip her magazines.  This took about half an hour.  On completion Dad always said “That’s our Mag settled for the night.”  At 10 p.m. Mr. & Mrs. Hodgeson, neighbours on the other side started raking the embers of the fire before going to bed.  They were both stone deaf and had a fear of fire and not being able to hear anyone calling out if their house caught on fire.  As our fireplace was at the back of theirs the noise was deafening as the steel poker banged and rattled in the fire grate ending with a triumphant swish across the grate to knock the ash off and a final clatter as the poker was dropped onto the hearth.  Dad said one of these days Mr. Hodgeson would brake through the back of the fireplace and could rake our fire out at the same time.  At 11 p.m. we heard the door to the cellar open from the house at the back.  Dad groaned.  Clump, clump, clump down the stone steps into the cellar.  Seconds later the floor vibrated and loud chopping of wood.  It seemed to go on forever.  More clumping back up the stone steps and a loud bang as the cellar door was closed.  Dad heaved a sigh “Thank the Lord for that.  Maggie’s got her picnic, Hodgesons have the cleanest fire grate in the street and the midnight joiner has chopped another oak tree up into chips so now we can all go to bed.”  The kids roared laughing.  Dragging more photos out of the box Dad spent the entire afternoon making them laugh at the clothes and the hair styles on small black and white glossy photos.  The kids loved them all.  They’d seen old photos of me as an 18 year old with a bee hive hairdo but not any school photos.  They laughed ’til they fell out of the chair.  Me at 6 yrs. old with masses of long curly hair, a yard of ribbon in multiple bows perched on the top of my head and those tiny round National Health glasses, I was hardly a candidate for the Pears Soap posters.  The wool cardigan I wore in the photo had aFair Islepattern.  Mum had learnt how to knit and she knit sweaters for everyone under the sun.  Mum was also the worst housekeeper on the planet.  Her excuse for doing nothing but knit was she’d promised Mrs. Somebody or other she would knit jumpers for Mrs. Somebodies entire family. Lot’s of photos at various ages of me and 2 brothers on our annual holiday to Cleethorpes.  On the first week in September from me being 6 years old until I was 16 the suitcases were packed a tram ride to Leeds Central train station and what seemed like all day the train ride to Cleethorpes.  The first few years we were in Mr. and Mrs. Mason’s boarding house and later years Mrs. Herbert’s boarding house. Mrs. Mason’s house was large with big bay windows and slap bang facing the sea.  Mum thought it was heaven.  We kids had been warned to be on our best behaviour or we’d get what for.  Usually meant dare step out of line and you’d get a clip round your ear, lots of glaring, lots of threats what would happen if we dared step out of line again.  We were in an age where we were frequently told to shut up and sit down and stop annoying the grown ups.

I thought Mrs. Mason was very nice.  She had bright yellow curly hair, always had make up on and wore pretty dresses with flowers on the material.  Mr. Mason was entirely different.  He served the meals from a large silver tray and he wore a small apron tied round his waist. Lincolnshirewas another world to us kids.  They had a different accent than ours so it didn’t bother us that Mr. Mason wore an apron and had a silly giggle in his voice.  All the Uncles and male cousins in our family were down to earth coal miners, builders, plumbers, engineers. My younger brother and I were fascinated seeing a man in an apron.  It was an apron Mum told us not a piny.  A piny wrapped all the way round you like my Gran’s did or bib and brace like Mum wore.  Mr. Mason’s was an apron.  Dad was not impressed and although he replied good morning back to him he did not spend much time in conversation with Mr. Mason.  Building sand castles and making sand pies on the beach only we called it The Sands all morning, back to the boarding house for dinner (lunch) a change of clothes and a walk along the promenade to the putting green and then walked back in time for High Tea.  Mum loved the sound of high tea when all it consisted of was a thin slice of boiled ham, 1 lettuce leaf, 2 slices of cucumber and half a tomato.  But the buttered bread was shop bought and thinly sliced.  The china was beautiful.  In this day and age it would only be used on special occasions if at all.  One small cake each was presented on a tiered cake stand and everything was so refined.  I loved it.

 Mr. and Mrs. Mason sold their big house and it was made into a hotel.  Too expensive for us so we started going to Mrs. Herbert.  Pretty much the same set up but the china wasn’t anywhere near as good as The Mason’s.  Still the same routine of building with sand, long walks in the afternoon and a stroll in the opposite direction early evening.  Dad liked a drink and went to the pub for an hour.   Mum complained all the time about anyone who enjoyed a drink or smoked.  I grew up terrified of walking past a pub.  I really don’t know what I expected to happen only that Mum had gone on and on about them not being decent places to go.  So what happens when you get to 15-17 and fed up with being told you can’t do this or that and you can’t go there.  No explanation given.  Well the times sure were a changing.  Bill Haley rocked around the clock and so did everyone else.  Suddenly anyone who could hum a tune made a record.  The swinging 60s started in the 50s. 

East Leeds Teenager

The Easter of 1957 I leftEllerbyLaneSchool.  Was grown up, knew all the answers and ready to make my way into the big adult world.  Mum, who dictated every aspect of our lives told me I wasn’t smart enough to work in an office and she was going to take me toBurtonstailoring factory onHudson Roadand put my name down for a job.  Thank the Lord by then she’d let me stop wearing yards of hair ribbon and because I was going for a job interview I was allowed to wear nylon stockings and not white ankle socks.  Classed as sexy lingerie these days garter belts were to hold the nylon stockings up only we called them suspender belts.  This was before sheer tights had been invented and Mum still thought 15 denier stockings were decadent, a reminder of American soldiers during the was no doubt.  Mum was very scathing of women who’d had American boy friends.  Mum was also a gossip as were most of our neighbours.  I can’t remember much of the interview but was told to report on a given day and about 20 young girls sat an entrance exam.  More exams, I thought I’d finished with all that.  Simple arithmetic, simple English, general knowledge history and geography, I had it finished in less than 10 minutes.  The young lady in charge asked if I was having trouble answering the questions as I gazed around.  I said no I’d answered them all.  She looked at the paper, looked at me and asked why I hadn’t applied for a job in the office.  Never been allowed to think for myself I answered “‘Cos Mam said I had to get a job on a sewing machine making trousers.”  She asked why “Cos Mam said I wasn’t smart enough to learn shorthand and typing and I had to get a job here.” She asked if I knew any people who worked at the factory.  Did I ever?  Everyone inLeedsknew someone who worked atHudson Road.  Some of my Aunties and cousins worked there.  She patted my arm and said “I see” before moving to the next girl.   The next paper to be filled in was for a list of relatives past and present who worked or had worked atHudson Road.  Back came the lady. There were lots of female names on my list and two males.  She asked if John was a cutter or engineer.  All I knew was John mended sewing machines.  She asked which “Room” he worked in.  Blank look from me.  She told me there were 2 coat rooms, 1 trouser and vest room and a cutting room.  Didn’t mean a thing to me.  Females outnumbered males by about 1000 to 1 in the factory.  The other male on my list was Uncle Billy, he was a commissionaire. She wasn’t interested in him.  She asked how old John was.  I didn’t think it strange she asked.  It was like a school room situation, the teacher asked a question you answered.  John had just finished doing National Service in the R.A.F. and was 21.  She then asked me if he was the mechanic everyone called Big John.  I said I didn’t know we just called him John.   Lots of my cousins lived close by and we were all brought up like brothers and sisters.  At the end of the tests we were told what day to arrive for work and which “Room” we had to go to and the name of the person we had to report to.

 The day arrived.  What an eye opener!!!  The doors opened at 7:45 and the few early birds walked in.  Definitely a fish out of water I stood just inside the door.  The large commissionaire in a uniform full of gold braid and ribbons on his chest asked my name.  I was told to stand where I was, not to get in anyone’s way and Mrs. Oakley would be along presently.  Feeling very nervous but a little bit grown up as well for I’d worn my best going out red coat and nylon stockings.  Shortly I was joined by 5 other girls who were told to stand and wait for Mrs. Oakley.  One girl was very confident, my goodness she actually wore face powder and lipstick.  One girl was as nervous as I wore ankle socks and her hair in plaits with ribbons on the ends.  Mrs. Oakley arrived.  I’m only 5ft. tall and towered over her.  She was the lady in charge of the training school and was going to teach us how to sew a pair of trousers together.  Suddenly a deep rumbling noise started up. There were wide eyed looks from us 6 girls.  Nothing to be frightened of said Mrs. Oakley “It’s only the power being switched on.  Follow me to the training room.”  We didn’t even know we were going to a training room when we were told we had a job.  Within an hour I had a headache with the noise of the factory in full swing.  I had a headache for a solid week and we didn’t even get paid at the end of it.  We had to wait for another week for our first every pay packet.  I was very disappointed on pay day.  We didn’t get our money in a paper packet.  Round about 3 p.m. Friday afternoon we lined up near the time clocks.  A big cheer went up when young men pushing trolleys holding lots of trays with tiny metal boxes in them arrived.  Depending on what number was on the card you placed in the time clock every morning determined which queue you had to be in.  You gave your ‘clock number’ to the young man he gave you a tin box the size of a mustard box with your wages stuffed inside it.  My £3.10/- was inside with a thin strip of paper called a pay slip.  Mrs. Oakley told us how to check the pay slip and what all the deductions meant.  Mum was waiting at the door Friday night when I got home.  I gave her the money.  Glaring she asked where my pay packet was.  I said we didn’t get one she didn’t believe me.  Straight round to Auntie Mary’s she went, 10 minutes later came back and handed me 10/-    Obviously checked with Mary to see if I was telling the truth.  WOW! My first ever pocket money.  I was told I had to put it into the bank.  Dad said “Leave the lass alone.  Let her spend it how she wants.”  Mum said I’d only squander it and she’d put it into the bank for me.  I’d only had it in my hand 5 minutes and she was going to take it off me.  I said I was grown up now I was capable of taking it to the Yorkshire Penny Bank on my own.  Dad grinned, Mum said I’d been working 2 weeks and already had a lip on me.  Dad said it was her fault she’d made me go to work at the factory and I’d have to stand up for myself or get bullied. 

The girl who had worn the pigtails and white ankle socks on the first day of work was called Brenda.  The other girls giggled behind her back pointing at her socks.  It was only 2 weeks before I’d still been wearing socks just like them.  I guessed she had a mother like mine and had to do as she was told.  She looked close to tears I asked what was wrong.  She said she knew the others were making fun of her but if she didn’t do as she was told she’d get a good hiding.  I knew exactly how she felt.  I suggested on the bus trip she took every morning why didn’t she take off the ribbons and brush her hair out and take off the socks and go bare legged, braid her hair again and put on the socks on the return trip home.  At first she was scared her Mum would find out but a few days later she arrived with long hair and no socks.

We got on like a house on fire.  That was 54 years since and we are still friends.

After 3 months of training we all knew how to make a pair of trousers.  From undoing the tightly rolled bundle of cloth and all the small bits and pieces rolled up inside it to the final pressing of an immaculate pair of trousers with knife edge creases.  And then we were shoved into the main factory.  It was like starting all over again, only noisier.  The noise was deafening.  A room as long as a football pitch, 3000 sewing machines whirring none stop, steam presses, Hoffman presses banging and hissing steam, people yelling above the noise.  It was a nightmare.  There weren’t enough machines for all of us 6 girls to make trousers from beginning to end so Brenda and I were put into the section with conveyor belts.  There were 44 women on one conveyor belt.  The first lady opened the rolled up bundle and place the bits and pieces into a sectioned box then it was put onto the conveyor belt.  Each box was placed on a painted line on the canvas belt.  Each procedure of making trousers took 1 minute to complete.  The boxes had brass hooks at the back which rested on the wooden structure of the conveyor belt next to a sewing machine.  Standing next to the belt watching women doing their particular job it looked very easy.  In the training school we’d been taught to do an expert job, checking every detail as we went.  On ‘the Belt’ you didn’t have time to blink.  From starting time at 8 a.m. until finishing time at 6 p.m. we had to make 450 pairs of trousers each day to earn 1shilling and sixpence per hour on top of our basic wage of £3.10/- per week.  Fast! No wonder everything we did outside of working hours we did fast.  We couldn’t switch off thinking or talking fast and loud.  Jean and Margaret on the sewing machines in front of mine put the side pockets in trousers, I sewed the white linen bits together to make the pocket and Brenda sat behind me putting in the cash pockets.  Once you got the hang of it and could keep up to the boxes coming down the belt you worked like a robot.  Had to watch you didn’t sew your fingers together but didn’t have to think too much.  The monotony was relieved by the characters who worked there.  Brenda and I were still naive and a lot of the jokes went over our heads.  All the married women laughed, we kept quiet.  I had an older cousin I could talk to so asked Norma about things that had been said at work.  We learned a lot about life in 12 months.  Norma was cousin John’s sister.  She worked in one of the coat rooms making silk linings for jackets.  She told John which part of the factory I worked and 6 months after being there this large shadow came over my sewing machine.    Working at the pace we did you never lifted your head up from the machine.  I was aware everyone near me had stopped talking.  That was strange, there was always somebody talking about something.  I looked up John was grinning down at me.  “It’s taken me months to find you.  Our Norma told me where you were or I’d still been looking.  I’d get into trouble if I walked up and down every aisle looking at the girls.”  I carried on working of course and everyone round about me could hear what was said.  He only stayed 2 minutes and had to go back to where he was supposed to be.  I carried on working and so did everyone else.  Changing the boxes over, the girl on the other side of the belt tapped the wheel of her machine with her tailoring shears.  We did that to get someone’s attention.  It made a piercing noise if given a sharp tap.  She had a dreamy look and a breathless “Do you know him?”  Stupidly I asked “Who?”  Everyone close by was looking.  “You actually know him?  How did YOU get to meet him?” 

“You mean John?”

“No you bloody fool.  I mean the man in the moon.  Of course I meant Big John, who else?”

I laughed “So he’s Big John?”  All the time I’d worked there I’d heard them talking about Big John and how gorgeous he was.  All the time I’d been on the lookout for some handsome, film star looks, 6ft. 2in. black curly haired, deep brown eyes, lovely smile specimen who had all the girls week at the knees and it was only ‘ Our John ’   What a disappointment.  I’d known him all my life so never thought of him any different to other male cousins or my brothers.  I was the most popular girl in the trouser room when everyone got to know Big John was my cousin.  I don’t know what they expected me to do about it, introduce them to him?  He’d have run a mile.  He was tongue tied round girls.  He liked girls but he said they always stared at him.  Listening to all the lunatics near me going on how gorgeous looking he was I realised why he was scared of them.  They’d have frightened me if all they wanted was to gaze.  I was asked a million questions of where he lived, does he have a girlfriend? What’s he really like?  Not a cat in hells chance would I tell them where he lived or what a great sense of humour he had.  I tried inventing a girl friend thinking it would put them off. It made them worse.  They knew they’d be a better girl for him.  When he did become engaged to Eileen I thought the whole factory was going to go under with the tears.  Absolutely crazy!  I told my Dad I thought if these idiots found out who Eileen was they may try to hurt her.  Dad said I was stupid.  It only happens to film and pop stars not anybody like us.  Maybe John was the reason handsome, drop dead gorgeous looking guys never impressed me.  They are men just like any other men and if they have nothing but a handsome face what you going to talk about?  All his life he was my best friend.  Years after his death, just before his 66th birthday I still miss him.

Something else factory life taught me was how to smoke a cigarette.  Working at top speed all the time ‘the belt’ was switched off for 5 minute every hour.  If the call of nature called you barely had time to race down the room to the toilets and be back on your chair when it was switched back on again.  It was the only time away from your sewing machine so whether you wanted to use the loo or not you went to the toilet area.  It was a long narrow white tiled corridor with about 20-30 toilet doors facing you and 2 wash basins.  No one was allowed outside the building unless you had a pass from the forewoman in charge of you.  That included the times when the machine needle went straight through your finger.   Try to get out of the door without a pass and the commissionaire would have you shot at dawn.  Standing there with a broken needle hanging off your finger, blood dripping and he’d ask  “Where’s your pass.  You’re not getting out of here without one.”  And he wouldn’t unlock the door.  Thank God there was never a fire.  None of us would have got out if we didn’t have a pass.  The toilets were the only place allowed for smoking too.  Smoking cigarettes was soooo sophisticated.  Long red nails, a burning cigarette and a sultry look on your face worked very well for Lana Turner, Ava Gardner, and Jane Russell.  Not too well on someone with a round face, lots of curly hair and glasses.  I thought I looked pretty good and with it anyhow.  With it, was the phrase before fab, cool cat and man which all the hippies called everyone. I was never a hippie.  They looked scruffy.  I was the tight skirt, stiletto shoes, and beehive hairdo type.  My God didn’t I think I was the height of fashion. And of course smoking made me more elegant.  Also made you dizzy the first time you tried it.  Why couldn’t I have been 12 years old when I first tried it, got sick, had a headache, threw up and cured me for life never to try it again.  No, I had to wait until I was old enough.  “You’ve got to keep practicing Audrey.  You’ll soon get the hang of it.  O it makes you feel so good.”

A lot of years have gone by and I’m still trying to give them up.

 I also decided I wanted to try colouring my hair as well.  A big, big no- no in our house.  According to Mum any female who coloured her hair, painted her nails, wore lots of makeup was in the class of hanging around street corners swinging a handbag.  I had to work atBurtonsto find out what she really was implying.  Some of the girls who worked near us had lovely coloured hair and told us the colour was out of a bottle.  Both Brenda and I had mousey coloured hair.   We talked about it for weeks, looked at endless colour charts on the backs of bottles of hair colour in the chemist shops.  The main concern was: what our mothers would do to us are we every got around to changing the colour.  A very attractive girl called Kathleen Emmett worked near us.  She later married a rugby player called Trevor Whitehead.  I think he was an Australian.   She egged Brenda and me on to buy a colour and said to try a pale shade at first.  We both had long hair, mine curly, hers straight.  Monday morning arrives Brenda bounces in all smiles tossing her hair back.  I said I’d do mine the following weekend.  The brand name was called Colour Glow and we’d chosen Honey Gold.  It looked lovely on the packet.  To be quite honest you couldn’t tell any difference in the colour at all.  We asked Kathleen what had gone wrong.  “You have a lot of hair you should have used 2 bottles, maybe you didn’t leave it on long enough.”  We were scared so we’d only left the solution on 5 minute before rinsing it off.  Kathleen said she left hers on for half an hour.  The next time Brenda said she wasn’t going to play about anymore she was dying her hair red.  She coloured it auburn and WOW what a difference it made.  I asked what her parents had said.  She said her dad was too drunk to notice and her mum said she’d got beyond caring.  I still wasn’t that brave.  My Dad never got drunk; it was Mum we were all scared of.

Sunday morning everyone was out of the house.  Still apprehensive, I must have read the instructions on the bottle a dozen times.  It was a darker colour this time.  When the content of the bottle was on my hair it was dark brown: instant panic.  My hair might fall out, Mam will kill me, wash it off.  It had only been on my hair a minute.  Read the label again; when first applied colour may appear darker than colour chart.  I left it on for 15 minutes.  I couldn’t rinse it off fast enough.  I used an old clean duster to dry it in case any of the colours got onto a towel.  No home dryers then so had to wait until it dried.  Thank goodness the label on the bottle had been right.  I was not a dark brunette just slightly darker than my normal colour.  No one at home noticed any change.  The girls at work did and everyone liked it.  I felt good all day.  Returning home from work Monday night the electric light was on.  A summons of “Come here I want to look at you” from Mum.  Quaking in my shoes I stood near her.  Both hands on my shoulders twisting me this was and that “What have you got on your hair?”  Meek and mild “Nothing”    I hadn’t anything on my hair I’d washed it off.  More twisting from side to side “There’s something different.  If you’ve been wasting money on fancy stuff you’re going to get what-for” A what-for was usually a thump in the middle of the back or a smack round the ear.  Not wanting either I said I’d used a new shampoo.  A look of approval. “Mmm, it’s made your hair shiny.  I might use it, what’s it called?”  My God! What am I going to say?  Simple…. lie.  “It was one Brenda lent me and I’ve given it back to her.”  Something else Mum didn’t approve of was borrowing anything from anybody.  You had to laugh really because Auntie Maggie next door didn’t believe in wasting money so she was forever in our house ‘borrowing’ sugar, milk, eggs, potatoes, bread.  Dad’s wages must have been keeping Maggie in food as well as us.  Of course Mam found the empty Colour Glo bottle in the dust bin when she emptied the ashes from the coal fire.  I managed to keep out of the way of her hand as she ranted at me. My hair was going to fall out or turn green.  How dare I lie to her?  I was going to end up swinging my handbag on street corners and the final

“Don’t you bring trouble here or you’ll be out on your ear.”  By trouble she meant being pregnant.  No one ever used the correct names for body parts or any operations below the waist.  If an unmarried woman got pregnant she’d got herself in trouble, a shot gun wedding meant the day before the wedding the girl was a slut, the day after she was a happily married woman.  No blame what-so-ever attached to the male.  In fact he was praised for ‘doing the right thing and marrying the girl.’    Fat chance I had of having a boyfriend.  I worked amongst thousands of women.  I only had to smile at someone anywhere near home and every person fromCharlton PlacetoDevon Streetwhere Grandma lived who’d seen me would tell Mum.  Mum should have had a job with M I5 she was always interrogating me. 

The magic age of 18 arrived in 1960.  I could go into a pub……legally.  I’d been working for 3 years and joined in with other girls when they went on nights out for someone’s birthday, Christmas, New Year parties or any other nights out someone organized.  Didn’t tell Mum or Dad and stayed at Cousin Norma’s house overnight.  Mum and Dad thought Norma was sensible so it was alright for me to go.  I told them we were going to a picture house near where she lived.  She lived on the Gipton Estate and the nearest cinemas were The Shaftsbury or The Clock.  The White Horse onYork Roadwas a lively place in the 60s.  The Fforde Green was opposite the Clock cinema.  Had to be careful whatever pub I went to.  We had lots of Aunts and Uncles all overLeeds.  Mum had 8 brothers and sisters Dad had 5.  Norma used to have a look inside the pub checking for relatives before I went in.  She was 4 years older than me and more confident.  I wasn’t keen on The Fforde Greene.  The few times we’d been there had been a brawl outside at closing time. It scared the living daylights out of me.  I was scared of the men who wanted to buy drinks for us as well.  The only men I knew were family members and these men were nothing like them.

Watching the Coronation on Black and White TV

Television!  The magic of watching pictures in your own house.  What a wonderful invention.  Crowds used to gather outside electrical shop windows to watch the one television set that was switched on.  I didn’t know anyone who actually owned a set until a few weeks before Queen Elizabeth’s coronation.  Big excitement anyhow as we got a day off school but to be invited to watch it on television WOW.

One of Mum’s brothers lived 4 streets from us in Glensdale Grove, just round the corner from George Henson’s butcher shop on ‘ The Drive ‘   George owned the house, Mary and Tom paid rent to him.  Both Tom and Mary worked full time, Mary at the laundry onEllerby Laneand Tom at the coal yard at the bottom ofEasy RoadoppositeEllerbyLaneSchool.  Dorothy, their only child spent all her time at our house.  She arrived at 7:30 a.m. went toVictoriaschool and came back to our place at 4 p.m. and waited until her parents came home.  We all went to Grandma’s house at lunch time for dinner then back to school for the afternoon.  Along with myself, my two brothers and Dorothy there were two other cousins John and Norma who also had dinner at Grandma’s.  Mum’s sister Eva and her husband Eddie were ill people and frequently in hospital so John and Norma lived at Grandma’s at this time.  We all went to different schools.  My youngest brother Norman and myself at Ellerby Lane, Alan my elder brother at All Saints, Dorothy at Victoria, Norma at St. Bridget’s and John at St. Charles.  Uncle Eddie was catholic so the kids went to catholic schools.  Mum could never remember holy days, days of obligation, fast days or any saint’s days.  She only knew no meat on Fridays and mass on Sunday morning.  Money being tight and food scarce we had plenty of stews at lunch time.  One which Grandma called tatty hash was a favourite.  More potato than anything else.  Everything was on ration and had to stretch as far as possible.  Dad had got his allotments by then and we had onions and cabbage a lot.  Thank God Grandma could cook, Mum was hopeless. 

Two wages coming in at Uncle Tom and Auntie Mary’s meant they could buy stuff from the big shops in town and had a sofa and two armchairs that matched, a polished dining table and chairs,  nice curtains and proper carpet.  Not the clip rugs like the rest of us had.  They also had a proper bathroom upstairs as well.  No indoor toilet just a bath and wash basin.  Of course they got a television before anyone else we knew.  Mary came home from work about 5 p.m. Norman and I were allowed to watch their television from 5 until 6 p.m. then we had to go home.  We had to take our shoes off as soon as we got through the door and sit on the floor in front of the T.V.  Mary was very strict with Tom and Dorothy too.  Tom had to have a bath as soon as he came home.  Working in the coal yard he looked as though he had been down a coal mine.  Like most terrace houses the bedroom steps were opposite the door to the house.  Tom never came into the room; he took his boots off at the door, hung his coat on a peg and went straight to the bathroom.  We kids were always having our hands checked and told to wash them.  Dorothy was taught how to embroider and embroidered linen cloths were over everything, the arms and backs of chairs, table cloth over the polished table, cushions.  If it had a cloth on or over it Mary and Dorothy had embroidered it.  We never ever had anything to eat in their house.  My Dad said Dorothy only went home to sleep.  The neighbourhood kids thought she was my sister.  We looked very much alike and she was always at our place. 

A few days before the coronation Mary told us we could watch the event on their T.V.  We were over the moon and told all the kids at school.  The actual day dawned and my young brother, myself and Mum were dressed in our best clothes to go and watch the T.V.  As always strict instructions from Mum to behave ourselves, speak when you’re spoken to etc.etc.  When Norman and me watched Muffin the Mule on children’s T.V. we were not allowed to move.  If we were told to wash our hands we had to tip toe past the T.V. so we didn’t jar it and send it wobbly.  Tom was the only one allowed to adjust it if it did go wobbly.  He knew as much about it as we did.  He kept mentioning the horizontal hold and we sat there watching wavy lines.  We’d watch anything.  In the early days we watched a lot of ‘ Normal Service will be resumed as soon as possible ‘ and the potter’s wheel going round and round until the problem was fixed at the studio.  Mary was not allowed to dust the set, Tom did it with the corner of a clean men’s handkerchief.  It was a 12 inch black and white set and the centre of attention.

We had to be at Glensdale Grove early Mum said or we wouldn’t get a seat.  Mary had invited all the neighbours.  She must have started making sandwiches and little buns in paper cases at dawn, there were lots of them on the best china plates.  Norman and I took our customary place on the floor.  Mum told us to get off the floor, what did we think we were doing sitting down there in our best clothes.  Heading the warning to behave ourselves we looked toward Mary.  All smiles Mary said   ” What are you doing down there?  You’ll be in the way when everyone arrives.”  We sat in the easy chairs, a treat indeed.  Mum asked who else was coming to watch the coronation.  More smiles Mary ran off a list of names.  Mum’s eyebrows shot up “Where are they all going to sit?”

Mary said everyone would fit in.  Mum mumbled something and the word shoehorn were mentioned.  We giggled and got a punch on the arm from Mum.  Dorothy was dressed in her taffeta party dress arranging cups and saucers in rows on the table.  The neighbour who lived opposite arrived followed quickly by another two ladies, then an elderly couple.  A big fuss was made over them.  Mum squashed Norman and me into the easy chair with her.  There was a never ending stream of people.  People sitting on chair arms. leaning over the backs of easy chairs and sofa, standing near the wall.  It got to the stage where people standing at the door couldn’t get in.  Then Mary said she’d make a pot of tea and told Dorothy to hand round the sandwiches.  Dorothy was nearly in tears she couldn’t get out of the corner of the room to reach the table.  Someone near the plates started handing them over the heads of those lucky or unlucky to have a seat.  We were getting squashed from all angles.  You could only move your hands.  Those standing were shoulder to shoulder and no one dare move their feet ‘cos they’d stand on someone’s foot.   Mary never did get to show off the fancy china cups and saucers as some one would have got scalded with the hot tea and as for passing the tiny milk jug, sugar bowl filled with sugar cubes and tiny sugar tongs they stayed on the table in all their pristine glory.  The plates of sandwiches and small cakes were empty in minutes.  Tiny triangles of bread with the crusts cut off were gone in two bites.  Mary had to push her way through to switch on the set.  No one said a word, all eyes on the T.V.  A man dressed in the ancient uniform read out the proclamation I think it was outside10 Downing Street.  For some reason the national anthem was played. Rugbyscrum time a No. 30 Glensdale Grove.  I have no idea how someone didn’t get seriously injured or suffocated as we all stood up.  You couldn’t breathe.  And of course we kids sang God Save the King.  We were so used to singing it at school.  I can’t remember a lot of what we saw at the time.  It went on for ages and we didn’t have a clue what it was really about.  We wanted to see the crown put on her head. As soon as that happened the national anthem was played again and we were on our feet once more this time remembering to sing God Save the Queen.  It was years later when I saw the coloured version at the cinema I understood it more.  When it was over we escaped into the street grateful to be able to move and breathe fresh air once more.  Mary never did invite all the neighbours to view anything else on her T.V.

 I wonder what happened to that film of the potter’s wheel.

Eric Sanderson this time entertains us with his war time memories.

Coming on to this mortal coil in the very same month that WW2 broke out – September 1939, in fact, war commenced just a couple of weeks prior to my arrival and being fair to myself, although I can be blamed for many things, I can’t be held accountable for the outbreak of hostilities between ourselves and Germany.

  Naturally, I don’t have full recall of those fateful years but some incidents and circumstances  are still quite vivid whilst the general background has been filled over the years by chatter amongst family & friends , mainly, my dear departed mother.

Many will have experience of very similar events and these few reminiscences (out of many) may just trigger, hopefully pleasant, memories of those long ago and soon to be forgotten days.

 My father was “called up” within a very few weeks of my coming onto the scene and spent the next five years or so away from home, mainly overseas. Consequently, the first time I remember him was when he came home on demobilisation leave in mid 1945 by which time I was nearly 6 years old. Who was this stranger coming into our lives after all these years with a settled and comfortable existence, telling me what to do and how to behave?. It was a difficult period of adjustment and speaking to others, years later, many had much the same experience.

 My mother always had sympathy for many of today’s single mums because she said that she was, along with many others , in effect, a single mother for over 5 years, struggling to survive on meagre means and raise a young child whilst at the same time, living in constant fear  for loved ones away from home and, of attack or even invasion at home.

In addition to my father, three other close family members were involved, two in the Royal Navy and another  a Lancaster rear gunner . So, plenty to worry over there.

 Several of our near neighbours also had father, sons & even daughters involved as sailors paratrooper, submariner and so on. Others includes firemen , train drivers (how I wished I could have been one) and everyone  involved in a variety of other occupations, including the local alcoholic who thought battery acid was a soft drink . Thinking back, I can’t recall a single man who was unemployed .That’s not too surprising during the war years but even long afterwards I can’t recollect anyone being unemployed or “on the dole” – somewhat different to today!.

 Although food was obviously much scarcer than today, I never remember having to go without. Rations didn’t go far but people were perhaps more resourceful, baking and eking out every possible scrap into something tasty, soups, stews, meat & potato pies and the like. My mother used to pick blackberries and make blackberry & apple pie with a delicious short pastry and it remains a favourite of mine to this day. The exception being school meals which, even to hungry young boys, were sometimes inedible. I’m sure I remember seeing the cockroaches knocking the top from a bottle of Gaviscon on a couple of occasions

My father , as did most soldiers, used to receive a (Black Cat) cigarette allocation and being a non smoker, would send them home  to be traded for butter, eggs, sugar and so on .Smokers at home were often happy to trade because cigarettes were difficult to come by, other than the much detested “Pasha” which consisted of dark, Turkish tobacco rather than the milder Virginia tobacco favoured by most.

I clearly remember seeing my first banana, some years after the war though and although sweets were rationed until well after the war, my Grandfather had a neighbour who worked at a local sweet factory and was able to obtain a few extra dainties for us from time to time. Goodness knows what he had to sacrifice for those treats.

Remember the ration books ?. You’d take these along to the shop where they would clip out a tiny coupon, god knows what they did with those minute scraps of paper and although many items were rationed, there was a range of goods known as “Utility” which could be purchased without ration coupons but they were generally of poor quality and shoddy nature. A friend recently recalled that her father, until he died,  still had a piece of “Utility” furniture surviving from the early post war years and which carried a large brand or stamp mark to distinguish it from the real article – perhaps not so shoddy after all?.

 Also, some food products such as sausages & offal were (I think) off ration and fairly plentiful. That may explain why sausages became a lifelong staple for many.

 It’s true to say that communities were more considerate & helpful towards each other than today, for example, neighbours would come into the house, prepare & light a fire so that the home was warm for those returning home from work. Sometimes, even preparing food and taking on laundry to help the hard pressed “single” mums who needed to work long hours in order to make ends meet.

My father used to send home seven shillings (35p in todays money) per week which, even in those days, was totally inadequate, albeit given that house rent in our streets was reduced for families with members in the services. Whether this was a regulatory matter or the benevolence of the local landlord, I’m not sure but in any event, many housewives had to work, often doing factory jobs previously done by men  such as turning, drilling, crane, truck driving and other heavy manual labour.

My own mother took a job at Burtons whilst I was despatched  to a day nursery for a very early start & late collection and so we were very much beneficiaries of the kind, neighbourly acts mentioned earlier.

During the war years, Burtons, who employed many “war wives” had a reputation as a  good employer, as well as providing good welfare facilities they even allowing paid, short term absence when their men returned home on leave.

Those living in the area will remember the crowds of workers ,flooding out of the likes of Burton’s, Sumrie, Hepton’s  and others at finishing time – just like going to a football match so dense was the crowd for a brief period. The buses & trams were all full, and crowded, such that two or three would often pass before you could scramble on, usually to standing room only.

Father’s employer was also generous, often sending gifts of money and food parcels with precious commodities like tea, sugar & eggs – coffee being unknown to us in those days.

Andersen shelters were provided in the gardens of every 5^th or 6^th  house, in our case next door and I clearly remember climbing into my siren suit, a warm, cosy maroon one piece suit  with enclosed leggings and  a large hood, prior to going down into the air raid shelter along with the much dreaded gas mask. Some of these shelters were prone to flooding but ours always seemed to be warm ,dry and , as I recall, very neighbourly.

 Although we were never bombed directly, some incendiaries were dropped nearby and the men, with only one exception, went out from the shelter armed only with dustbin lids in order to douse the flames.

Oddly enough, the “exception” in later years used to boast about being “over there” when in fact the extent of his military experience was a short spell in the Home Guard, based at Knostrop where POW’s were held and an Ack Ack gun emplacement was active .The POW’s, which I believe were mainly Italian, seemed to have comparative freedom to the area, particularly East End Park where they could often be seen wandering around in groups and speaking in what to us was a very strange language. However, they never seemed to cause any problems and some of them integrated into the local community after the war. 

Neither my father nor other family members ever spoke of the dark side of their war years but would, from time to time ,regale us with the often hilarious capers and scrapes they managed to get themselves into , a not uncommon pastime for many families.

 My father’s final homecoming was a strange affair. Mother told me that she’d collected me from school and on the way home, I said to her ,”Dad’s coming home today”. “No” she said, “he’s not coming home for a while yet”. When we reached home, who was sitting there, waiting for us to come home but my father, having been demobbed a few days early – something that my mother remained fascinated by and frequently recalled for the remainder of her life.

Massive street parties abounded all around & I remember at least two in our street , I think VE and VJ days which in my memory were gloriously sunny days, where tables were laid in the street, groaning with tempting delicacies and everyone having a good time after 5 or so years of being unable to do so.

 My family was lucky, all returned home unscathed, unlike some and a striking thing, looking back, is that most seemed to go about their lives with stoicism , optimism and good humour. I suppose the prevailing opinion was that the certainty of misery was preferable to the misery of uncertainty.

I don’t remember it being a depressing time , given the hardship and worry attached to most people’s lives, often the only relief being provided by the occasional visit to the cinema, in our case usually the “Star” or the “Princess” – where the celebrated Big Ernie presided.

 However, as I slide down the bannister of life , one of the remaining splinters in my a**e, is the concern that the life & spirit which was experienced & endured  during the war & early post war years will, very shortly, be outside the experience of anyone alive and even worse, be forgotten.

Of all the thing in life to despise, such as pestilence, famine, Bruce Forsyth etc, my recollections of those years isn’t one of them

 So, whilst I cannot claim that Hitler trembled in his shoes at the thought of my existence, neither did he roll his Panzer divisions up to our front door and so my claim to have played a small part may not therefore be too far fetched after all.

Here are more of Dave’s great memories. Dave reminds us in his own inimitably humorous way of the great times, places and folk we enjoyed long ago in old East Leeds.

DANGEROUS PRACTICES

The railway was always a magnet to us kids and afforded ample opportunity to kill yourself or at least be damaged enough to miss a year or so at school. Walking across the bridge parapet near the Princess cinema was the most risky because a fall would have meant certain death. Even thinking about it now makes me feel very queasy but at least we recognised that it was extremely dangerous, daft as we were. One of the other things we regularly did but never really considered as being potentially hazardous was walking on top of the stone wall right down East Park Road at the side of the railway. The railway side of the wall had a reasonably level bit at the foot of the wall but this degraded quickly into a very steep bank of loose shale and then a vertical stone wall right down to the track. If we’d fallen off onto it and missed our footing on the level area, a screaming, scrabbling slide to oblivion was well on the cards.

Brian Cox once found a box of fog detonators on the railway. I think it had been lost in a locked-up shed near one of the signal boxes. These were round metal discs about the size of a treacle tin lid containing explosive powder and had lead straps with which to bind them to the railway track. The signallers used to fasten them onto the rails at pre-determined positions and when the trains ran over them they exploded thus informing the signaller that a train was approaching and how far away it was in the fog. So, we knew it needed a heavy impact to set them off and that the ensuing explosion would be powerful.  A high wall and a supply of heavy stones or bricks were called for and we found both – down by the railway of all places. One of the detonators was placed carefully in the middle of the path below the wall and we then took turns to drop the rocks onto it from the top of the wall. It took quite a few efforts to hit it correctly but eventually one very heavy stone did the trick. The almighty bang stunned us into a momentary paralysis but then we were off and running up the hill into the park hearing our panting breaths through ringing ears.

What, we wondered, would we do with the rest of them. Over a period, we repeated the exercise at various locations until we only had two left. One dark winter’s night, it was decided that we would use both of them together as a grand finale. We strapped them, one on top of the other under the cast iron leg of one of the benches on East End Park. We didn’t want to damage the bench – we just wanted to hear the bang. Ron Cockill and myself were the tallest so we stood either side of the end of the bench, hoisted it up to shoulder height and then one, two, three`d it up in the air to give us a running start. The explosion and accompanying flash were terrifying – we had a freeze-frame view of Park Avenue in stark black and white and never stopped running until we got to the Shaftesbury cinema.  A furtive reconnaissance later that night revealed a bench which was well past its best at one end, I’m afraid. We weren’t happy about that because that had not been the intention.

Bonfire night gave us the chance to buy fireworks and our annual chance to experiment with the explosive ones. Big Demons and the cheaper Little Demons were the favourites. We generally favoured quantity above quality but were restricted by lack of money and also rationing by the local shops which were only able to obtain limited supplies themselves. We discovered, for example, that bangers would still work underwater if weighted down and lit so that the fuse was fizzing before being thrown into the water. This produced a very satisfactory deep thud and was accompanied by gouts of muddy water so we got two effects for the price of one.

The most dangerous thing we ever did and, looking back, could have been lethal if we hadn’t been very careful, was the bike-pump projectile. We needed a tube for this and the most immediately available ones were our bike tyre pumps. We would dismantle a pump and bury the empty tube vertically into the ground so that only an inch or so was showing above ground level. The explosive charge was a Little Demon and the missile was a screw top from a Tizer bottle which was made of some hard material and conveniently had a rubber ring around it to affect a good seal. One of us would hold the banger into the neck of the tube and somebody else would light the fuse. When it fizzed, the banger would be dropped into the tube and the Tizer bottle top would be instantly jammed down into the top of the tube after it. When the banger exploded, the bottle top would be fired about a hundred feet into the air. We were lucky that the bangers never went off prematurely and that everybody was very careful not to get into the firing line. The bike pumps were mainly plastic and only lasted for one shot or at the most two.  I think it was a good thing that we didn’t have an inexhaustible supply of bike pumps and bangers otherwise, sooner or later; someone would have been badly hurt.

Chumping for wood for the bonfire could be nearly as dangerous as the fireworks.  It was amazing how much wood could be accumulated and we used to store it in the lavatory yards mainly. We made dens out of it so we could guard it against predators from other streets although I think that that threat was largely imaginary – everybody was guarding and nobody was thieving. We used to burrow into the piles of wood with lighted candles in jam-jars for illumination and stay there for hours. Occasionally, the pile would collapse in on top of us but nobody was ever injured beyond a bruise or a graze or two. One year, the Chappelow brothers, David and Richard and myself were down by the River Aire looking for wood and David had brought their Mam`s clothesline. The river was well swollen with floodwater and we were trying to lassoo pieces of floating wood from the river without conspicuous success. This big tree branch was coming downstream and one part of it was sticking up clear of the water. David threw his lassoo and incredibly it landed perfectly on the branch just like in the cowboy films.  He leaned back to pull it in and it was only then we realised that it was actually part of a whole tree. It dragged him down the bank, skidding, stumbling and making giant, leaping strides just to keep up with it. We were running after him as fast as we could go trying to grab onto him or the rope to help. This was quite serious because there was no way we could go home without the rope.  Eventually we managed to put enough collective weight into it to bring the tree nearer to the edge and it grounded. We couldn’t do anything else with it but managed to get the rope back off before it broke free again. We went home black bright, stinking of the River Aire, with no wood, very sore hands and a filthy clothesline. The last we saw of the tree was it sailing majestically back into midstream putting two fingery branches up at us. (I made the last bit up actually.)

Walls` Ice Cream depot was at the top end of Easy Road and we used to cadge pieces of dry ice (compressed carbon dioxide) from the storemen there sometimes. It was great to see it bubbling away and throwing off clouds of white gas if you threw it into water where it fizzed around like a firework. One of our favourite dares was to get a small piece and see how long you could stand the burn of it sitting on the palm or back of your hand. Bearing in mind that this was equivalent to giving yourself virtually instant, highly localised and intense frostbite, it was quite dangerous. I can clearly remember the little patches of yellowy dead skin which sometimes resulted. The worst bit was that occasionally, after you had `given in`, the ice would be stuck to the skin and you had to pull it off in panic – usually taking the top skin with it. Humble pleasures but our very own!!

We used to swim in the river at Collingham during the school holidays. We`d ride there on our bikes and lift them over a hedge at one point and run bent double down the side of a farmer’s hedge until we got to the river. Our Mothers would have never knowingly  let us swim there so we had to sneak our trunks out of the house – towels were more of a problem and many a time we had to get dry on our shirts or just wait until the sun had dried us off. At our favourite spot, the river was deep and powerful at one side and shallow at the other. Looking back now, it was potentially pretty dangerous but we were all good swimmers and I don’t ever recall anybody getting into difficulties.

CYCLING

We went everywhere on our bikes and must have been very fit really. The bikes weren’t the lightweight multi-geared models of today but they were our transport to the outside world. Wetherby, Collingham and York were frequent destinations.  We considered trips to Red Walls and other local spots such as Temple Newsam as being little more than a sprint.  Occasionally, we couldn`t resist the temptation to ride down Otley Chevin at top speed even though we knew we would suffer badly pedalling back up.

Riding around the `basins` up Halton was a regular activity. The basins were pits and spoil heaps from the coal workings which used to be there and had very steep sides. The trick was to ride down at high speed at an angle and pedal like mad to get a wall-of-death effect. Trickier still was riding straight down to the bottom of one and hoping you had enough speed and power to get you up the other side without falling backwards down the slope. These rides were not for the faint-hearted and most of us (me for sure) wouldn’t tackle the very deepest ones. I like to think it was because I was too sensible but, in my heart, I know it was really because I chickened out.

Roundhay Park was good because we used to race each other around the perimeter of the sports field where the ground was banked up like a racing track. Whichever way we went to get there, it was a long haul up from our end of town but going home when we were tired was easy because it was mostly downhill.

There was once a fad for riding on “fixie“. This meant that the gear on the back wheel – usually an eighteen tooth ratio- was fixed in position so there was no free wheel and there were no lower gears to help on the hills. This meant it was very hard work because your legs were under pressure all the time – even going downhill when you were trying to hold the speed down. It was a “macho, look at me, I must be good if I can set my bike up like this“ thing. In practice, you would have had to have legs like a pit pony to go any real distance – particularly if it involved hill climbs.

MEDICAL MATTERS

Mr. Hall was our local chemist on the corner of May Terrace. His emporium was beautiful – all polished wood shelves, counters and cabinets and, best of all, a huge clock which had an impressive, stately tick. There were rows of glass medicine jars with the various chemical names etched into them which were full of mysterious coloured liquids. I used to imagine Mr. Hall working through the night, muttering spells under his breath while mixing and distilling these ingredients into wonder cures. It dawned upon me over the years that he never actually opened any of them and that they were there for show. Although small in stature, Mr. Hall had an undeniable presence and his recommendations were sought as second opinions on the doctor’s diagnosis. When we needed written references for our first jobs, Mr. Hall, being the only local fully qualified professional with letters behind his name, would kindly write to our prospective employers telling them what pillars of society we had been and that we would undoubtedly go far in our chosen professions.

We also had Alexander’s Drug Store opposite the end of our street. You couldn’t exchange prescriptions there but it was well used for traditional potions –some of them old herbal remedies.

We used to buy Spanish and liquorice sticks there and occasionally someone would get a cinnamon stick which we would light and try to smoke like a cigar. The taste was awful and we would vow to never try it again but we always did.

There always existed a firm belief in proprietary medicines and most families always had a few traditional remedies about the house. During the 1940`s and 50`s, it was generally accepted that to be truly efficient such medicines must, of necessity, taste vile. Here are a few which stick as firmly in my memory as they used to stick in my throat:

Fennings` Fever Mixture.

This was commonly called Fennings Fever Cure. A must to help you ward off the symptoms of flu and colds. It was a clear, extremely acidic liquid which scoured the mouth and took all the shine off your teeth. Your cheeks would suck in and your lips would purse as tight as a miser’s money bag. My theory is that it was simply a well diluted acid which was supposed to kill off all the germs in your mouth and throat.

Scott’s Emulsion

This was supposed to be a general all-round tonic containing everything you would need to maintain a healthy system. It was a thick, bilious off-white, oily concoction and I don’t think it was ever proved to be efficacious because nobody could ever actually finish a full bottle. I could never accept that taking a medicine which made you feel sick every time you took it could be a good thing.

Pulmo Bailey

This was a potion for bad chests and was truly horrendous to taste. It had to be administered by a large spoon in one big dose because nothing on earth would have persuaded a small boy to open his mouth again for a second spoonful.

Seidlitz Powders

I always thought they were called `settlage powders“. They were sprinkled into cold water and fizzed very satisfactorily. You were supposed to drink them while they were still effervescing to settle the system down after a hard night or whatever had caused a stomach upset. In my case, they invariably made me sick.

Indian Brandee

This was an entirely acceptable medicine for stomach upsets. I think the main ingredient was ginger which had a warming effect but I also think there was a tiny amount of something sedative in there as well. It always made me feel pleasantly drowsy anyway.

California Syrup of Figs

Mothers in those days set great store by bowel regularity and intensively canvassed their children accordingly. Syrup of Figs was the mandatory medicine for any suspected constipation which was thought to be a root cause of many illnesses – “Got a headache / back ache / bad breath / stiff neck / sore knees??? It’s because you’re constipated“. It was often administered just before going to bed. Considering that we didn’t have inside toilets, this was not without risk but our Mams knew that the magic catalyst would be the first hot cup of tea next morning. It would be only a short time before the first griping pains would catapult you, bent double, teeth clenched, up the street to the lavatory praying fervently that no-one else would be using it when you got there. Many cataclysmic, seriously unhappy, explosively scalding minutes would ensue before you emerged, whey-faced and traumatised walking like John Wayne after a long day in the saddle. Mam would ask if you’d “gone properly “  which was something of an academic question when it was obvious that even the passengers on the No. 64 bus must have heard you and your bum was glowing dull red through your pants.

Friar’s Balsam

This was an inhalant which was mixed with boiling water in a suitable bowl. You had to sit hunched over the bowl with a towel over the head to lock in all the beneficial vapours. There is no doubt that it helped to clear the tubes a bit but it always left me with lightly poached eyeballs and feeling generally spaced-out.

Bad chests called for liberal applications of Vick` Vapor Rub or, prior to that, goose grease massaged into the chest and back. I can clearly remember being well baisted and then sewn into a protective, brown-paper vest by my Grandma. I think it must have been possible to buy goose grease separately as a medication because the words “ We’re having goose for dinner “ and my Mam`s lips were total strangers.   

Sloan’s Liniment

No doubt formulated as a heating agent to deal with muscular aches and pains, this was essentially fire in liquid form and would be applied as required whatever the ailment. A belly ache might suggest a soothing antacid mixture and this would be forthcoming but, if it was a bad pain, Sloan’s would be painted onto the stomach just to help things along as it were. Very soon, the skin would be virtually incandescent and that pain would supersede the original belly ache.

LOCAL PLACES OF INTEREST

ST. SAVIOUR`S CHURCH YARD AND GRAVEYARD

On a night-time, if we were down East Street, we would look up at St. Saviour’s Church looming dark and brooding high above us. The graveyard extended below the church right down to East Street and we would dare each other to walk all the way up the path and through the churchyard. To make it worse, we used to `dip` for who went first, second or whatever and then set off in the agreed order at one minute intervals. It was pitch dark unless the moon was shining and the nerves were jangling as you waited your turn. On balance, I always thought it was best to have to set off first because sometimes one of the others would hide behind a gravestone and leap out with blood-curdling cries just as you were passing. The church itself and the dim street lights around the Cavalier pub were a very welcome sight as they drew nearer.

THE QUARRY

This area shows up on old maps as having been brickworks.  It was a maze of ramshackle piggeries, hen runs and stables. I still wonder who actually owned it – presumably the Leeds City Corporation and what the `elf and safety` executive would make of it in this day and age. It must have been awash with billions of bacteria and germs of all kinds and I think we developed very useful resistance to disease through our younger days as a result.  It was a Mecca for us kids and we knew every twist and turn in the alleys. We used to creep up silently to peer through the boards into the piggeries and there would be hundreds of rats scavenging around the pens. One knocks on the boards and they would all disappear in a breath. My mam would say “You’ve been ont` quarry again, aven`t yer ??“ I used to think she must have had spies all over the place but, of course, she could smell it on my clothes.

The Shires family kept pigs and kennelled two or three greyhounds on the Quarry. Rick Chappelow was related to the Shires and he and I would occasionally help look after the animals. There was a makeshift wood-fired boiler there which used to decant into an old bath. We would pour buckets of old potatoes and other vegetable peelings along with pig-meal into it and wait while the hot water had softened them up – helping the process along by kneading the mixture with our bare hands which would be interestingly pale and soft afterwards not to say cleaner than they had ever been before. When it was ready, we would cart it into the pigsty in buckets with hordes of young pigs knocking us about all over the place. This was undoubtedly dangerous but we never thought so. To us it was just good fun.

Sometimes, we would walk the greyhounds down to Snake Lane and exercise them. One of us would stay at one end of the football field and the other would take the dogs to the other. All we did was then whistle them and they would race from one end to the other for as long as we wanted them to. It could be quite alarming at first because they often couldn’t stop in time and would bowl us over in the process. One time, I was taking two of them down Clarke Lane for a walk on my own when they saw a cat and took off after it with me still attached by two leather leads wound around my wrists. Let me tell you that two fit greyhounds can pull an eleven year old lad face down on the cobbles for a considerable distance without any problems whatsoever.

THE RIVER AIRE

This was another hazardous location which drew us like a magnet. At that time, it was a dark, deep, foul, heavily polluted river which wouldn’t support any aquatic life except leeches which used to live under the stones. I think that even the local rat population would have had a hard time surviving frequent immersion in those waters. It didn’t stop us playing there though. One of the most dangerous practices was getting down to  the water’s edge and then climbing up the vertical stone walls of the various factories which backed onto the river to feel in the cavities looking for pigeon’s nests and eggs. You might say now that we must have led charmed lives but I think it was because we became streetwise and aware of just how far we dare go at a very early age. My Dad used to say that if you lived until you were seven in East Leeds you’d live `till you were a hundred.

KNOSTROP AND SKELTON GRANGE

Knossie was always a good venue for us kids. There were some excellent frog ponds during springtime and plenty of woods to play in. It was only a short distance over to Black Road so we could always do a circular route which was more interesting somehow. Down Skelton Grange way there was what we called the sludge lagoons. These were large lakes of water which came from the power station and were covered in a very thick crust of beige coloured sludge. This was deceptively dangerous because it looked pretty solid – thick enough to walk on even? When these thoughts entered our minds we were always well served by our finely tuned sense of what really was dangerous and never risked it. We contented ourselves by heaving heavy stones out as far as we could onto it and watching as they bounced and slithered to a stop and then sank steadily into the oozing depths.

I once remarked to my Uncle Walt that there were loads of wild tomato plants in the fields down that way and at the very end of the summer we would eat them when they were ripe enough. He laughed and told me we probably wouldn’t have eaten them if we’d known how they got there. By that he meant that the sewage works settlement ponds were cleaned out periodically and the residual gunge was spread out over the fields to dry out and act as a fertiliser. The tomatoes grew from the seeds which had, as it were, passed through the systems – human and sewage – intact. 

T `OLLERS

The areas where the old houses had been demolished we called “t`ollers`. Presumably, this was our local corruption of `the hollows“. We could do what we liked there – there was nothing to break and no one to complain anyway. Stone fights were good and involved building substantial barricades out of the old bricks and masonry to shelter behind. There was occasional collateral damage in the shape of cuts and bruises but I don’t remember anything serious happening. It was just another unconscious way of learning to assess risks without actually doing you a serious mischief in the process.

BLACK ROAD

Pontefract Lane to give it its Sunday name. What does a small boy put on his wish list for a playground??  A smooth road with very little traffic where you could ride your bike hell for leather, fields to play in, fields to pinch rhubarb and turnips from, fences to balance on,  railway lines,  a good, broad stream with clean water and thousands of minnows and sticklebacks, ponds with frogs and newts, woods with big trees, an old Army camp. It was ours, it was free and so, in those marvellous, unfettered days, were we.

TOWN

We often went down to town. I always snort with derision when people in the South talk about going `up to London`. Most often we would walk it taking various routes as the fancy took us. If we went down Marsh Lane way, we could enjoy the herbalist’s shop window where there was glass jars containing enormous preserved tape worms and other hellish parasites purporting to have lived inside some poor unfortunate person or other. It always made me uneasy when my mam used to tell me not to use too much sugar because it would give me worms. I used to visualise similar worms snaking down my throat hunting for the sugar while I was asleep.

After the herbalists, we could take in the horse meat shop just under the mainline railway bridge near the central bus station. The proprietor had obviously never qualified for his City and Guilds Certificate in window dressing and his offerings were always pretty gory. It looked like he had personally slaughtered and dismembered the horses on the spot as it were.  None of us ever knew anybody who had actually ever eaten horse meat – not knowingly anyway – so it always puzzled us as to who his customers were.  I recall one time when he had whale meat on offer but it looked like re-badged horsemeat to me.

The slaughter house – renamed the abattoir in more enlightened times – was just a few strides up from the bridge and was another regular port of call. We used to peer through the louvers in the shutters in the hope of seeing what went on. One day, our hopes were realised and we actually saw a bullock being shot in the head with the humane killer. It went down like a sack of spuds with a sickening thud and, in that instant, changed my views on cowboy films and guns forever. We were all very thoughtful for quite a time thereafter and the slaughter house was firmly struck off our list of local attractions.

Kirkgate market was next – particularly the bottom end where they sold pet animals of all types.

The hot pea and pie stall was at the end of that row and the savoury smells were torture because we never had any money to buy some. We always seemed to be hungry and, given the amounts of energy we expended every day, I don’t suppose that that is particularly surprising. It was very handy to be able to have a wander through the covered market when it was cold and raining. Free as well.

The City Varieties posters always interested the lads when we reached a certain age. It was widely believed that all sorts of naughty shows went on there and we never passed the entrance doors without carefully examining the publicity material in the hope (never satisfied) of a sneak preview. I always thought it must be a very small place inside because the miniscule entrance was sandwiched between tall buildings.  The first time I actually went to a show there I was amazed when it opened up inside like the Tardis.

Lewis’s` was always good for a ride up and down the magic escalators and an envious look at the American Ice Cream parlour where they dispensed unbelievably exotic Knickerbocker Glory sundaes and other ice cream delights all unattainable to us penurious young`uns. I always promised myself that, when I was working and earning, I would go there and order the most expensive confection available. I never did though – there always seemed to be something I needed more.

I was always fascinated with the demonstrations the salesmen did selling miracle kitchen appliances and other new labour saving devices. These were very popular with customers who would stand and gravely listen to all the professional patter but, young as I was, I felt that it was hard work for the salesmen because they got little feedback from their audience even when their products were performing their best party tricks.  I don’t recall ever seeing anybody from Easy Road buying anything from them anyway.

OUR LOCAL BOOKIE

Our local bookie was Gerry Schofield. His betting shop was above the garage next to the ginnel on Easy Road. There was an outside wooden staircase up to it.  In those days, bookies were grandly called `Commission Agents“ and over-the- counter bookmaking was actually illegal.  That didn`t seem to trouble the local constabulary overly as I recall.

My Dad worked there as a part time clerk. He was a bus driver for the Leeds City Corporation Transport (Tramways he always called it) and was on permanent nights from being demobbed in 1945 until he retired aged 65 in 1966. He used to clerk three afternoons a week after a morning in bed and then go back to bed for a couple of hours in the evening before starting his next night shift at around 10 / 1030 pm.

My maternal grandmother used to like a bet now and then and had her own convoluted system of betting combinations which took ages for the betting clerk to write down.  Dad used to plead with her not to come to his window because she then felt free to change her mind halfway through the process just to complicate things further.  One very busy day – probably one of the Classics racing days – the floor of the betting shop collapsed and deposited several punters including my grandma into the back of a Bedford tipper truck in the garage below. She suffered a broken arm and leg injuries as well. She was then in her late seventies and she was still suffering from leg ulcers as a result when she subsequently died aged 84.  To my certain knowledge, there was no compensation of any kind which in those days would have been par for the course, I suppose.

The bookie had another office on Town Street in Bramley and my Dad agreed to work there for a couple of weeks while somebody was off sick or something. Unfortunately, the police chose that period to raid the office and Dad finished up being fined. I think it was after that that he decided that clerking at the bookies wasn’t for him any longer.  He used to make up his wage by doing “snivels“ which was what the bus drivers used to call football specials on Saturdays. The night bus drivers were given preference for these jobs because most of the daytime drivers would have been working split shifts anyway.