Homes: Sweet and Not so Sweet - '22 Stockwell Avenue'

  It was great news when Mum and Dad were told that they had been allocated one of the new houses on Stockwell Avenue and a happy day when they set foot in their new home for the first time. My Mother thought she was in heaven. At last she had a house with a bathroom, hot and cold running water and, if not quite an inside lavatory, it was close enough, being located just outside the back door under a covered entry-way. Was there a lavatory in the bathroom? If so, I don't remember it. In those days the 'lav' was usually separate, even in modern houses.

A view of 22 Stockwell Avenue in 2012

 The kitchen, 'though small was more than adequate and blessedly free from scuttling cockroaches and other creepy-crawlies. The odd spider was easily dealt with.The sitting room was perfect for a family, one large room stretching from the front to the back of the house and outside there were gardens. A small one in front and a large one at the back which Mum soon had planted up with vegetables and soft fruit bushes.

  Barbara and I were born in the house on the Avenue. Ciss and Beatrice had grown into lovely young women and it was not long before young men came courting. In the three years between Barbara's birth and mine, Ciss married Arthur Brent and Beatrice married Bill Watson. Needless to say, Mum was not too happy to be expecting again, [with me], as she was by now a grandmother. Dad was a bit aggrieved and wanted to know, "Am I supposed to put my wedding tackle away then, now that we have married daughters". Mum and Dad were only in their mid forties so it was a bit much to ask, but with no contraceptives available, in those days marital relations were a risky business. As it happened I turned out to be the youngest in the family, though just by good luck, I'm sure.

                                    Althea, 'Big' Barbara, 'Little Barbara, Eileen, [me].
                                                   Sisters, cousins, nieces, aunts.                                                        
      'Little' Barbara and Althea were also born at Sttockwell Road. Ciss and Beatrice each came home, in turn, to be cared for by Mum when their first babies were due.

 The Stockwell Estate was a lively neighbourhood with a wide variety of house-holds. There were large families like ours; the Ledgeway's, Whittaker's, Atkinson's and Grafton's. Over the road from us at No. 33 were the Jackson's with five children and next door but one to them lived Mr. and Mrs. Beck and their only child, Audrey.

Stockwell Avenue electoral roll - 1933

  It was rumoured that Mr. Beck had a false leg which for some reason, was a source of fascination to us. We watched him carefully but it was very hard to tell whether or not this was true. He also had a good job and was never out of work. The Becks kept a little to themselves and were considered 'posh'.

  Audrey was indirectly responsible for putting Barbara off dolls for life. One Christmas morning my sister awoke to find a beautiful doll at the foot of the bed. Thrilled and excited, as soon as she could she went dashing across the road to show her friend, Audrey. Unfortunately, the ground was slippery with snow and ice; Barbara fell, the doll's lovely porcelain face smashed to pieces and that was the finish of dolls as far as my sister was concerned. She was disgusted, she blamed the doll and would never have another. She wasn't really a girl for dolls anyway. Being the first girl after five boys Barbara was more of a tomboy.

Renoir - Girl with a Hoop and Stick

Halfway along, the Avenue opened out into a circle and this was where our house was situated. The circle formed a natural playground and with virtually no motorised traffic about, the younger children gathered there with skipping ropes, whip and tops, 'boolers' [round hoops] and sticks with which to 'bool' them. We played hop-scotch and marbles and tig. In winter we had snowball fights and built snowmen. I was just a small child and could not join in all the games but I was always out there with the rest of them having fun.
 

Stockwell Avenue - a modern view 2012

  Of my brothers, Jack, the eldest was in his teens and working. The younger boys looked up to him but that did not stop them from getting into mischief. When the houses on the Avenue had been built, the builders omitted to put dividing walls in the roof space between the houses so it was possible to clamber across into neighbouring properties; something my brothers found out on their first foray through the manhole cover in the ceiling at the top of the stairs.

  Our next door neighbour, Mrs. Ingham, lived alone except for her little dog, a terrier by the name of Benjie. My brothers would climb into the false roof, crawl across to Mrs. Ingham's and lift the man hole cover a fraction; their whispered growls and scratching sent poor Benjie wild. He raced about in a frenzy, yapping and barking. Mrs. Ingham said to Mum that she couldn't think what kept upsetting Benjie so. She had looked around and could see nothing and concluded that it must be cats prowling about. Inevitably, the boys were caught in the act one day and Dad fastened the manhole cover so that the boys could not open it.

  A night time escapade involved Arthur, always the most daring, shinning down the drainpipe which ran close to an upstairs window and making his way to the nearest orchard where he filled a large bag with apples. Back home the other boys lowered a basket on a rope and hauled the apples up while Arthur shinned back up the drainpipe. I suppose nowadays these might be considered crimes and my brothers young offenders but back then people had a different attitude to small misdemeanors.

Arthur on the right and friends, Ian Shillington and his sister - grown healthy on scrumping!

Anyone who owned an orchard expected the occasional raid by the local kids. It was known as 'Scrumping' and was indulged in as soon as the apples were ripe. Owners kept a look out and anyone who was caught got a good telling off and threatened with a clout across the ear if they tried it again. More often than not parents were informed and the offenders got another good going over. Adults closed ranks to keep us in order. There was never any point in complaining to Mum if a grownup had told us off. She would always say, "Well you must have deserved it. I expect you were doing something you shouldn't".

  There were the odd exceptions to this, however, such as the time Arthur came home from school in the middle of the day and said that the headmaster had caned him on his back. Mum looked and there were several long, red wheals plain to see. She accompanied my brother back to the school and confronted the headmaster who denied having caned Arthur and accused him of lying. Mum pulled Arthur's shirt up and said," Well, what can't speak can't lie. What made those marks if it wasn't your cane?  I don't care what he does wrong in future, don't ever strike my son again".

   Arthur was a tall, bold, handsome boy and daring. He was always up to some boyish escapade or other and getting told off. He was no favourite of Mr. Carter but he was never caned again by Mr. Carter or anyone else.

  Through work, Dad had a lot of customers and they would often give him items they had no further use for. He came home one day with a complete Robin Hood outfit which was just Arthur's size. Arthur loved it. Every afternoon, home from school, he donned his Lincoln Green suit and cap with it's jaunty feather, took up his home-made bow and arrow and off he went with his band of merry men, roaming the country-side, righting wrongs. Such was Arthur's popularity, none of the other boys laughed at him, he was a leader, they would have followed him anywhere.

 Brought up in the hungry thirties, the years of the great depression, those hoards of young boys who were forever into mischief, grew up and were sent off to fight in the second world war. Those who came back couldn't wait to get stuck into work. They married, had children, many set up in business for themselves and through the nineteen fifties and sixties, through sheer hard graft, they helped to build this country up once more. I don't think you will see their likes again.

The house on Stockwell Avenue was the scene of one of my rare bouts of sickness. I was very ill and needed the doctor. As Dad was working away, Mum had to walk up into town and fetch Dr Dobson who resided and practised at 12 York Place.  
 Quoting from the Karesborough Post, 8th March 2006, Nancie's Knaresborough. "He was of diminutive stature, but a great though modest man. Always calm and unruffled he was the son-in-law of the former practitioner at 12, York Place, Dr McKay,"   


 Jack held me, wrapped in blankets on his knees, with his arms around me. I remember laying there, gazing up at his lovely face, feeling safe.

Jack Warner Moore as a young man

Dr Dobson said I had pneumonia, and did my Mother know what needed to be done to nurse me properly? The only treatment then was a heated bread poultice, applied to my chest every few hours, day and night A bed was brought down to the living room and the fire was kept burning all the time. Mum stayed by my side applying poultices as required. As soon as one cooled a fresh one took it's place. I was ill for quite a while and Mum nursed me day and night and pulled me through. Getting better, my wobbly legs encased from the top of my foot to above my knees in soft as butter, brown leather gaiters to keep me warm, I stood in the front window watching the children playing outside, wanting to join them but, "Not just yet", Mum said.

Schoolgirls nurse training - making bread poultices 1942

  And so the years on Stockwell Avenue went by. Our Grandma Sarah Parker, aunts, uncles and cousins came for holidays. We packed like sardines into our new house with all mod cons; a happy, noisy, fun loving brood. Whenever we fell out it was never for very long. We thought the world of each other.  

   22, Stockwell Road. Back row, L to R, Ciss, Aunt Annie, Mum, Grandma.
                                       Front row, 'Little' Barbara, me, Barbara.                                              
      Grandma and Barbara must be standing on raised ground as they were both smaller than Mum.    

                                                        Aunt Annie and me.                                                                            It must have been my year for the hand-me-down blazer. See my blog, Jumble Sales and Other Ways.    
 
I never really knew why we moved from Stockwell Avenue to Hambleton Terrace. There must have been a good reason as Mum loved the house on Stockwell.
  She was very pleased to be given a ten shilling rebate for leaving the house in spotless condition. This was customary with departing tenants but not everyone qualified.

  And so to Hambleton Terrace ...