Homes: Sweet and Not so sweet - 'Ivy Deane, Hambleton Terrace'

Number fifteen, 'Ivy Deane', on Hambleton Terrace was a tall, two storey house with a cellar. I never felt quite at home there. Barbara and I shared an attic bedroom. The bathroom was on the first floor and the lavatory was in the cellar. We had to take candles to light our way in the dark. I'm afraid Barbara and I were cruel, as children can be sometimes. We held races with the woodlice on the walls, holding our candle flames under their bums to see whose could run the fastest. Fortunately for them, woodlice can run very fast indeed, with or without a naked flame on their nether regions.

Poor Mum, back to doing the laundry in a cold, damp cellar but at least there was a sink with hot and cold water and a gas heated copper in which to boil the clothes. It  was back-breaking work all the same, using a rubbing board and scrubbing brush in the sink, a large, bulbous peggy tub in which to rinse the clothes with the aid of a  wooden posser; after which the clean, wet laundry was fed through the fat wooden rollers of a monster mangle, turned with a big iron wheel and handle before being carried up five stone steps and hung to dry on the clothes line in the back yard. On rainy days the washing was strung across the cellar, dampening the air as well as the walls. It was in the cellar that Mum made a fizzy, dandelion and burdock drink and nettle beer in another copper, kept especially for the purpose.
Another reason why Mum did not really like the house was that it backed onto the side of the children's home on Stockwell Lane. Though separated by a back road she could see the children out in the yard and it tore at her heart strings to think of them on their own, no loving parents to turn to.

No sooner had we settled in when Barbara went off to aquaint herself with our neighbours; something she took it upon herself to do wherever went.
At number one, just below Kitchen's wood yard lived the Gills. Father, Mother and three small children. They were by far the most intriguing people we had ever met. Very well spoken, upper class and poor as church mice. Mr. Gill was an artist; tall and spare with a lot of curly hair and a bushy beard. Mrs. Gill was tall and willowy. She wore her long hair drawn back loosely on either side of her face and twisted into a bun on the nape of her neck. Dressed in long gathered skirts and floaty tops she was her husband's muse and there were drawings of her, clothed and unclothed around the house; which we found deliciously shocking.

The story was that Mrs. Gill came from a wealthy family who had disowned her when she married her pennyless artist against their wishes.
The Gills took a great liking to Barbara and she spent a lot of time with them, helping to entertain the children; a baby, a two year old and a boy of four called, what sounded to us like Baton. We thought it was the posh way of saying Button: so Button he was to us; no fancy  accent.
I have no idea what they existed on but they all seemed healthy. Their sparce amount of furniture was augmented with orange boxes for chairs, shelves and cupboards, which didn't seem to bother them one bit. Knowing the Gills was the closest I ever came to a romantic, Bohemian way of life and I remember them with pleasure and some affection for the small glimpse they gave me of a rather more exotic, albeit pecunious life.

Miss Mary Jane Thorpe was a retired headmistress and our direct neighbour at number 17. Though small in stature she had a commanding prescence. She told me  that as a young girl she had spent an hour every day with a board strapped to her back in order to improve her posture. It had certainly had the desired effect as, although she used a walking stick, she stood as straight as a ramrod, head held high. Miss Thorpe also came from an upper class family and had received a good education. Whether she was a spinster by choice or circumstance I don't know; there were many young women who never married after the First World War because so few young men returned. Almost a whole generation of elegible young men had been wiped out.
   However, she pursued a very satisfying career as a teacher throughout the late eighteen hundreds up into the nineteen twenties.
  We became great friends with Miss Thorpe. She was a member of the Esperanto Movement. Esperanto was an amalgamatiion of several languages which it was hoped would eventually become a common language spoken throughout the world.

Miss Thorpe loved teaching and soon had my brothers attending classes in her parlour with blackboard and chalk and Esperanto text books, two evenings a week after they came home from work. Sitting at her piano, she taught the boys songs in Esperanto; "Charlie is my darling" and "Shenandoah". They came home and sang them for us. I can still remember two lines of Charlie Is My Darling. "Carlo estas mia caroula, caroula. Carlo estas mia le bravo chevalier."
Miss Thorpe had never cooked or done housework of any kind and in retirement she employed a housekeeper, Hilda, a woman of few words who, in her wrap around apron came in each day and took care of everything.
Crates of bottled stout were delivered to the house regularly and Miss Thorpe indulged in a glass every evening. "For medicinal purposes, Mama", she would assure my Mother. She always addressed Mum and Dad as Mama and Papa.

Another of Miss Thorpe's pleasures in life was a good, meaty discussion. She held firm opinions on many subjects and as her upbringing had been poles apart from my parents these debates were lively to say the least but always polite and reasoning. They listened to what each one had to say and occasionally an opinion was modified or even changed on both sides. Miss Thorpe often finished a discussion with, "Do you  know Mama, I do believe you are right. You have a most excellent brain". How I enjoyed listening to them when I was  older. No shouting each other down, no disparaging or foul name calling of any kind when opinions differed. They were an education in good manners, understanding and toleration, so sadly lacking in some areas today.

Although Hambleton Terrace did not endear itself to us it played a valuable part in our lives by introducing us to the Gills and Miss Thorpe all of whom opened our minds to other customs and ways of life. Miss Thorpe remained a lifelong friend even after we moved, There is more to come about Miss Mary Jane but for the time being I will leave that for another blog.
 We only stayed a few years at Hambleton Terrace; it was too much hard work for my Mother. Looking after all of us and a house with three flights of stairs, attics and a cellar was wearing her out. Indeed, a lesser woman would have collapsed long before.

Left to right, Aunt Florrie, Uncle Sam, Grandma, Laurence, Mum, Aunt Annie.At the front, Mavis, Althea and me.

15 "Ivy Deane", Hambleton Terrace.

       

Uncle George, Dad and Uncle Sam.  

                                                


Even after a long, hard day Mum liked to have a walk on a nice evening. She and my brother Cyril were on their way home after one such walk when she said to him that, if she stayed in that house much longer she thought it would kill her. They happened to have reached the Stockwell on Park Row where a small estate of terrace houses had recently been built, leading off Park Row. Cyril suggested that they have a look round one of them. It was small, with a kitchen, bathroom and living room on the ground floor and three bedrooms upstairs. Mum wondered if we could all fit in but, with a good big front bedroom for the four lads, [Jack was also very happily married by this time to Muriel]; a decent sized double for her and Dad and a just big enough room for we two girls; it looked like a life-saver for Mum. Enquiries were made, the rent was affordable, so our last move as a family was arranged and we took up residence at number 28 Park Crest.

Want to come with us? See my next blog.