Shops and Shopkeepers.

  Knaresborough was a busy shopping centre for both locals and people living in the surrounding  villages and farms. Everything that one could possibly want was available from family owned shops in and around the town centre.
  Grocers, greengrocers, butchers, bakeries, fishmongers, furniture, soft furnishings, haberdashery, ladies and children's wear, gent's outfitters, shoe shops, ironmongers secondhand shops, cobblers, news agents, sweet shops, dairies. You name, we had it.
  Everyone was acquainted  and woe betide us if we got into any mischief in town. Not only did we get a good telling off there and then; if our parents were informed we got another telling off at home.
  There was one particular greengrocers on High Street owned by Arthur Foster, his daughter, Lily and her husband, Ted Grainger. Mr Foster was a wily character. He also sold a small amount of wet fish which was laid out on a marble slab in the open window. Every so often he would hose it down generously with water, ostensibly to keep the flies off but it also served the purpose of adding weight to the fish.
  Mr Foster had a habit of giving short change and on the occasions when mum sent me shopping there I had strict instructions to check the change. The embarrassment of having to point out to a grown up that I was sixpence short, which I had to do more often than not, was excruciating. Mr Foster would look surprised and say, "Oh dear! Sorry about that love," and cough up the sixpence. He never disputed it.
  He ran a betting shop on the side from his warehouse at the top of Park Row. After one particular race meeting there was a mysterious fire and all the betting slips went up in smoke. It was a very small fire and little else was damaged.
  Was it an accident?  The general consensus was, not, and that Mr Foster stood to loose quite a lot of money on a big pay out: having backed the wrong horse so to speak. Everyone had their original bets returned so no more was said.
  During the war, when oranges were like gold dust, I was with mum in Mr Foster's one day waiting to be served. Ahead of us there was a lady who lived in a big house up Ripley Road. Mr Foster reached under the counter and popped something in a bag and slyly handed it to her. He wasn't quite sly enough, mum had seen what he put n the bag. When she had got her vegetables Mr Foster said,"Will that be all Mrs Parkyn?"
  "Not quite, Arthur", said mum. " I'll have two three of what you have hidden under the counter please."
  "Under the counter, Mrs. Parkyn, under the counter?"
  "Yes, Arthur, under the counter. As far as I know only families with children are allowed oranges and the lady who was in front of me  does not qualify. I have two girls at home so I will have some of those oranges please.
  All the other mums in the queue, who had children, then requested their share of oranges so Mr Foster had to comply instead of saving them for his posh customers.
  I sometimes wondered why  my mother kept going to Mr. Foster. I came to the conclusion that she enjoyed pitting her wits against him, never letting him get the better of her.
  Miss Hayley had a sweet shop on the corner of the entrance to the Castle Yard on Cheapside. It was a handy shop for children coming out of Castle Yard School who  were fortunate enough to have a penny or ha'penny to spend
  Miss Hayley ran a game of chance. A kind of Lotto board with holes punched through it and this was covered with tissue paper. For a ha'penny, you pushed a metal pin through the paper over one of the holes, then Miss Hayley turned the board over to see if you had won anything.  I only had two goes and each time my luck was out so  I never went in her shop again. I thought it was a swizz but it did have one salutary effect, it put me off gambling for life.
  At the other entrance to he Castle Yard stood a little cottage, next to the Castle pub. Mrs Burton lived there. She sold sweets from her front room.  Althea and I often used to call there after school. Mrs Burton knew all our family from the time when mum and dad first came to Knaresborough during the first world war and took over the barbers shop a little further along the street. The big attraction at Mrs Burtons, [who still wore long, black, Victorian style dresses], was a musical automaton of a man hanging from a gibbet. Below him played a group of musicians. The scene took place under a large glass dome. Mrs Burton would wind it up for us: the fiddlers played and the little man on the gibbet jerked up and down in time to the music. It was macabre and grizzly. It never lost it's gruesome fascination for us, no matter how many times we watched it.
  Fish and chips were a very welcome take-away meal, about the only take-away then, and they were cheap. A fish was tuppence and a big bag of chips was a penny. The fish was delicious, big fat Icelandic cod in crisp batter. We had them for dinner once a week. It made things a bit easier for mum.
  Our other take-away came from a corner shop at the bottom of Whincup Avenue, owned by Mr Charles Robinson, his wife and his sister. As well as the usual goods they sold homemade cakes and hot, minced beef pies with a jug of gravy to go with them, [take your own jug]. We had these once a week too; all mum had to do was some mashed potatoes and veggies. It was my job to go for the pies. I handed my jug to Mr Robinson who had to go through to the back, to the kitchen, for the hot pies and gravy.   Standing on the counter was a large glass jar full of toffees. If no one else was in the shop I dared myself to take off the glass lid, help myself to a toffee, [only one] and put the glass stopper back on without making a sound: all before Mr Robinson came back with my order. The suspense and fear were thrilling.
  I don't know if Mr Robinson ever knew. He never said anything and he didn't move the jar of toffees out of reach. There they remained, week after week, an irresistible temptation. I would like to have forgotten this childhood memory but no, it has stayed on my conscience forever. My punishment for stealing.
  I suppose while I am on this subject I should own up to robbing an orchard once with my cousins at Brighouse and shame upon shame, I was the only one who was daft enough to get caught. The others got away with a nice haul; I got a severe telling off and slunk away, fruit-less.
  Afterwards we sat high on a hillside, overlooking that same orchard,laughing and giggling and gorging on stolen fruit. Not the least bit repentant.