Jumble Sales and Other Ways.

 Along with feeding us, clothing
 us was a necessary requirement. Jumble sales were hugely popular. They were usually organised by
 the wealthier ladies of the town
 and good quality items were to be found amongst the clothing heaped on trestle tables in one or another
of our church halls

It was great, free for all fun: jostling to get to the stalls, burrowing into mounds of clothes and dragging out anything that looked promising. Was it in good condition? Did it fit?  We needed a great big bag for all our wonderful bargains. Mum had an eye for quality. Even if an item was creased 
and a bit grubby she could see beyond that.

One of the prettiest frocks I ever had was a jumble sale find. When mum pulled it out it was crumpled and grey but she paid tuppence for it, took it home, washed and ironed it and lo and behold! it turned into a beautiful silk organza dress in soft shades of pink stripes, with tiny flowers embroidered on it and it's own silk petticoat. It looked brand new. How I loved that dress. Every time I wore it I became a fairy princess. I wore it and wore it until I grew too big, [and much less fairy-like] and finally it was splitting at the seams.

Wednesday was market day in Knaresborough. Wooden stalls were set up in the Market Place and traders of all kinds came into town to sell their wares. There were stalls with bolts of fine quality cotton and linen and piles of remnants, ends of rolls, which were sold off very cheaply. Mum bought a few pieces every summer and cut out and sewed frocks by hand for Barbara and for me. One year she made us two each; a white with red polka dots and and a yellow one.

Knaresborough Market by Joseph Baker Fountain [Mercer Gallery]

  At school one day, we were having a lesson about the weather. I happened to be wearing my yellow frock and, right out of the blue, the teacher called me out and had me stand on a chair in front of the class. She said my frock was the colour of sunshine. I blushed with pleasure.
  Mum was very pleased when I told her and quite proud. As for me, standing in front of the class for my dress to be admired made a nice change from being made to stand in the corner for talking when I should have been paying attention.

  I was hard on shoes. I wore the soles out in no time, but then, apart from a pair of sandals in summer and wellingtons in winter I never had more than one pair of shoes at a time. These I wore until either my feet grew too big or the shoes were beyond repair. Shoes were made of leather and could be

re-soled and heeled.

Dad repaired our shoes. He had all the tools for the job. A cobbler's last, hammers, pincers, tacks and nails, blocks of brown and black sealing wax, a waxing iron and sharp Stanley knives. He bought the leather a small sheet at a time and traced around the soles and heels of the shoes before cutting them out of the leather with a Stanley knife.Sitting cross- legged on the kitchen floor dad fitted the shoe onto the last and peeled off the worn out sole, replacing it with the new one, tacking it firmly in place around the edges. He then trimmed off any excess leather for a neat finish. The waxing iron was heated, rubbed on the block of wax and applied to the edges of the sole to colour and seal it. Then he did the same with the heel.
  I sat on the floor beside him, watching closely and marvelling at his skill: not speaking, in case he swallowed one of the tacks which he held in his mouth. When he had finished he polished the shoes until they were bright and shiny, smoothing the scuff marks. It was almost as good as getting a new pair of shoes.

  A girl I knew at school was swanking one day, saying that she had four pairs of shoes. I was sinfully envious. When I told my mother she said, 'Why lassie, what if she has got four pairs of shoes, she can only wear one pair at a time, the same as you'. Mum could always put things right.

  As my older brothers left school in turn and started to work we became a bit better off so although we still relied on jumble sales, mum's sewing and hand-me-downs my sister Barbara and I were treated to two new outfits a year. A summer one at Whitsuntide and a winter one in autumn.
 

There was a huge department store in Harrogate, at the lower end of Commercial Street, called D. G. Brown and Company. They stocked everything imaginable, including children's wear. They also ran a savings club for customers who paid in sixpence or a shilling a week, whatever they could afford, until they had enough money saved to make a purchase.

  Every week their agent, a gentleman called Mr. Thompson, called round to collect the money. The sum was noted down in mum's cash book and D.G. Brown's cash book then Mr. Thompson would sit down and have a cup of tea, a piece of cake and a chat. Barbara was a very bright, intelligent, talkative girl; never at a loss for words. After chatting to her for a while one day, Mr. Thompson said, " Your daughter could converse with the Queen, Mrs. Parkyn."

  After months of saving the big day arrived. Full of excitement and anticipation we caught the bus to Harrogate: we were off on our shopping trip to D.G.Brown's. It was wonderland to us, so much to choose from and all brand spanking new, no previous owner!

  We started with vests, knickers, a petticoat and then, best of all, a new frock. We tried on as many as we could before making our choice. Every couple of years or so one of us had a new red blazer with shiny, gold coloured buttons. If Barbara had outgrown her previous one and it was still in decent condition it was passed down to me and she got a new one. If it still fitted her I got the new one and it was her turn the following year. Our outfits were completed with white ankle socks and black patent leather ankle strap shoes. There must have been some extra cash one year because mum bought us each a lovely straw hat to wear to Sunday school.

Liberty Bodice

In autumn we were kitted out with  a woollen jumper and skirt, thick petticoats and liberty bodices  with rubber buttons.

 Two pairs of woollen stockings, held up, [with varying degrees of success] by elastic garters. The blazer rule applied to  new coats.

One way or another we were more than adequately clothed. I know now that if anyone went short and made do, it was mum. When I became a young mum myself and learnt some dressmaking I made dresses for her, though not by hand. My sister-in-law, Muriel, gave me her hand operated Singer sewing machine when she bought a new electric one. I used it for a good long while until I got an electric machine which gave sterling service for almost fifty years.

Singer 201 Circa 1960

 Sewing and dress making have given me untold hours of pleasure and satisfaction. Now Marks and Spencer clothe me and I relish an afternoon browsing around their store, [courtesy of various relatives who are kind enough to wheel me around, though  I can walk short distances.] Nevertheless, even the most enjoyable shopping trip and productive result can never  quite compere with the thrill and excitement of our twice-yearly visits to D.G. Brown and Company or the joyous rough and tumble of the jumble sales of my childhood.
 
Illustrations. Barbara Chounding.

Gleaning in the Countryside.

Celandines

The countryside around Knaresborough was not only our adventure playground, it was a source of delightful and delicious treats. Spring brought with it the first wild flowers. Carpets of primroses, violets and snowdrops appeared in cool, leafy woods along with celandine and anemones. We picked posies for our mum on Mothers' Day. They took pride of place on the windowsill, in rinsed out Shipham's Paste jars. They meant as much to mum as any bought gift.


    Summer mornings meant dewy meadows covered in mushrooms just waiting to be picked. Oh! the joy of being out, roaming through the fields, the early morning sun warming a clear blue sky with the promise of mid-day heat. Birds singing their hearts out in praise of this bright, new day: and thoughts of fried mushrooms and fried bread for breakfast.
   Autumn was bountiful. Crab-apples grew wild. We picked pounds of them: mum made crab-apple jelly, golden and tangy. Blackberrying was a family outing. Our favourite place was Scotton Banks where thick bushes were laden with ripe, purple berries.

We followed a narrow path through tall, golden bracken, down to the river and picnicked there. In the afternoon we filled our baskets and containers with fruit and trooped the mile or so back home, tired and happy, knowing that soon there would be jars of luscious jam on the pantry shelves alongside the crab apple jelly. More immediately, we tucked into blackberry and apple pies and blackberry suet puddings until all the fruit was gone from the hedgerows.
  We went 'nutting' in Hazelnut Wood down Hay-a-Park Lane when the leaves turned golden and bronze and the hazelnuts had grown large and brown.
  As the weather grew colder and the late autumn winds stripped the trees bringing down twigs and small branches, we took our wheelbarrow and went 'sticking' in the woods and hedgerows, collecting fire wood.  We enjoyed it and every little helped.
  Bachelor's market garden, on the outskirts of town, supplied produce wholesale to local greengrocers. Any tomatoes, cucumbers and vegetables which were too miss-shaped were disposed of and taken to their tip. We paid frequent visits, along with other local kids, rooting around and proudly taking home perfectly good produce. The shape didn't matter one bit.

Nettle Beer

Some years my mother made a dandelion and burdock fizzy drink and nettle beer in an old copper,kept in the cellar especially for that purpose. How she found the time, I will never know.

  Empty jam jars and bottles were sort after. They were worth a penny each on return. It was worth trawling around the neighbours, cadging empty jars to take back. Just one was enough to buy a sherbet fountain or a bag of Kali or liquorice bootlaces.

Penny gobstoppers were the best value. I could make one last all day by taking it out of my mouth every so often and tying it in the corner of my hanky for a while. The interesting thing was, that each time I removed it, it was a different colour.

  Looking at it from today's point of view I suppose that rooting around in a tip for food could be regarded as scavenging but we didn't see it like that at all. It was simply another fun thing to do. It was like digging up a bit of treasure which happened to put food on the table into the bargain.
  We certainly didn't think of ourselves as poor or deprived. I never heard my parents moaning about being hard up or badly done to, they just got on with the job; making sure that we had as healthy and happy a childhood as possible.

Primroses

  Illustrated by Barbara Chounding.

And Now For Shopping On Line.

  To most of you, shopping on line is easy-peasy, so when I tell you that, for various reasons, I thought it would be a good thing for me, I can hear you say, 'So what?'
  So it took me four months to complete my first solo, shop on line, supermarket shop.
That's what!
Here's the story.
  As instructed by one of my long suffering I.T. consultants, I go to Google and type in my 'Chosen Store'. A long list comes up and hidden away amongst it is 'Chosen' Supermarket. I tap on this and a long list comes up, 'Chosen' this, 'Chosen' that. Ah! 'Chosen' on line shopping,  Tap on that and everything disappears, the screen goes blank. No indication that I can see as to where to go, so back to Google. This time, after a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, I take the right turning and find myself in 'Chosen' store with it's lists of goods on screen just waiting for me to start shopping.
  My intention is to stock up on tinned and household items, all the heavy stuff, to save the good Samaritan who does my shopping from having to heave bag loads of groceries around.
  I tap on tins. Everything disappears. I am back at Chosen this and that.
  Oh! Dear God in Heaven, Amen. How did that happen! Now, how did I find my way to the shop? I tap one thing then another. Gotcha! Tinned goods are back, but what is wrong with the darn thing? The stupid list is whizzing up and down at the merest touch and every so often it jumps back to general goods, It's taking ages to select the items I want. I'm getting a headache, I need a cup of tea, I look at the clock. I can''t believe it, three hours have gone by chasing tins but at last I think I can move on. Better check my trolley.
  Trawling through, I come to fourteen tins of the same product. WHAT! How did they get in there? I can't possibly have tapped fourteen times on the same tin. I have to get rid of them: but how? I can't see anything that says 'Delete'. I'm either blind or thick: and obviously, I'm not blind.
 My head is throbbing now. My neck aches, my shoulders ache. I want to scream. With tremendous will power I refrain from hurling my tablet across the room. Instead, in order to get rid of fourteen tins of mackerel in savoury sauce; [a new line, ONE of which I think I will try], I empty the whole trolley and shut everything down. I'll try again tomorrow, I WILL NOT GIVE IN!!
  I take two co-codomol and go to bed.  
  A new dawn, a new day. I am ready to have another go. I start from scratch and make progress. The screen is still jumping about and the list of items races up and down like a mad thing but my trolley is  slowly filling up. Everything is on offer. I am buying in bulk and saving money. I have enough tinned soup to float a battleship  so I move on to salmon, tuna, meat and fruit. That's lunchtimes taken care of for the foreseeable future. You must be thinking, -all those tins!- Sadly I don't cook any more, so needs must.
Now for household; washing powder, bleach, cleaners etc: all added to my trolley.
Phew! Finished at last and it has only taken me three and a half hours.
  What do I do now? Check out, delivery date, card details. I am lost, so I phone the help line on the screen and speak to a very pleasant young man who gives me instructions. I try again without success so I phone back. The same young man answers and this time he talks me through the process and I find the relevant page. Now all I have to do is fill in the details and Bob's your uncle.
  Really? No! of course not! My card is rejected. I phone again and this time a young lady answers. I ask her why my card has not been accepted and she informs me that their store does not accept on-line payments with the debit card I am using. I need to register with a secure company such as Pay pal. As I do not have any credit cards, that is my only way forward.
  I am fed up with the whole business now and can't face tussling with Pay pal so I dump the trolley load of shopping just as it stands.
  I take two co-codomol and go and lie down, but do not think for one moment that I have given in. I am just taking a break!
  A couple of weeks go by. My great niece, Anne and her husband are visiting. Bob knows his way around computers and tablets etc; so I am happy to accept his offer to sort Pay pal out for me, which he does. Password, double safety checks, the works, so  it is all ready for me to use. When I look at my card it is only valid for a couple more weeks. Oh well! might as well wait for the new card  now. Card arrives and I head back to Pay pal thinking the end is in sight and soon my store cupboard will be overflowing with goodies.
  Really? Of course not! Now there is something wrong with the tablet. A battery malfunction is all I get on the screen, time after time.Everyone tries everything they can think of: nothing works. The screen finally goes completely blank; no face book, nothing. I am bereft.
 Time goes by. It is now July. My son is visiting and my daughter is over from Australia. They take me to Curry's and I treat myself to a new tablet. Barbara sets it up for me and I slowly begin to find my way around the basics. I tell Barbara about my on-line grocery shop fiasco and the trolley load of goods I dumped weeks ago. We bring up the super-market and straight away it goes to my Chosen Supermarket.
  Lo and behold! There is my trolley load of goods, still waiting for me after all this time. Hopefully, I arrange a delivery date, check out and go to pay and discover that my new debit card has been changed to one that is now acceptable. I do not need Pay pal. Brilliant! All sorted! Is this really happening at last? I will believe it when I see the delivery van outside my house.
 Well, Hallelujah! On the designated day, there it is. Ten minutes late, so the delivery charge is waived. I am so chuffed that three weeks later I do a full on-line shop and last week I took delivery of my first solo, on-line, super-market shop. Hang out the bunting, hire a band, I feel as if I have run a marathon and though I have come in last, at least I have reached the finishing line.
  I don't know if anyone is still with me, if so, I have to dash now. I'm off to have a look round Marks and Spencer's. Happy shopping!

  I dedicate the above to all the lovely people who have helped me complete my shop-athon, and to Julia, who has "delivered the goods" for me over the past years, week after week, come rain or shine. What would I do without you all?

Shopping The Hard Way.

   Another of my tasks, after my brothers had left school and were working, was to fetch a barrow load of wood each week from Kitching Timber Merchants on Stockwell Road. On Saturday mornings they sold small cut-offs and ends of timber for sixpence a load.

D Kitching and Sons Ltd in their old premises at Hambleton Grove – this office and machine shop building would have existed at the time of WW2tion

  Children from all around town turned up with an assortment of home made vehicles. Orange boxes and suchlike with handles and wheels precariously knocked together. Bogies with cardboard cartons tied on. It took two to navigate them, one to pull the bogie and one to try and keep the load from falling off. There were rickety old prams and pushchairs. [Incidentally; old pram wheels were much sort after as essential components in the construction of wheelbarrows and bogies]. Dad made a wheelbarrow for us. It was good and sturdy, no fear of the wheels falling off half way home.
  We formed a long queue and waited our turn. Kitching's employed an elderly man to dole out the wood from an enormous pile. It was a slow, laborious business and a certain amount of pushing and shoving and name calling went on; which helped to relieve the boredom somewhat.
  Fortunately for me I lived only about five minutes walk away from the timber yard. Most of the way was on the flat until I reached the stock well on Park Row and came to a steep bit up to our house. We could see the well from our back door. Mum kept a look out for me and came down to meet me.

Stone trough circa 1995

Together we pushed our barrow load of wood up the hill and I unloaded it into a corner of our back yard. I did not enjoy these shopping trips at all. Especially on an icy cold day when the pavements were slippery.
  However, I was one of the lucky ones. I had a coat, a knitted woolly pixie hat, scarf and gloves. Many of the poorer boys just wore hand-me-down, thin suit jackets, some too big some too small with short trousers. Little girls had big woollen shawls wrapped around them, fastened with safety pins. Their hands and knees were blue with cold. The boys constantly wiped their runny noses on their sleeves, leaving shiny silver snail tracks. Their family incomes didn't run to such luxuries as handkerchiefs. They stamped their feet and tucked their hands under their armpits to try and keep warm.
  These were the hungry thirties, the years of the great depression. As a painter and decorator my dad was out of work every winter. There was no outside work due to the harsh weather. It snowed heavily for weeks at a time. Dad walked four miles to Harrogate and four miles back each week after waiting in a long queue to collect his ten shillings a week dole money.
  In spite of this we appeared to be better off than some of our neighbours as my mother was a marvellous manager and home-maker. When dad was in work she stocked up as much as she could afford on non-perishable goods. Flour, sugar, dried peas and beans, rice and dried fruit so that she had something on hand for the coming winter. We had a big garden and mum grew seasonal vegetables and soft fruit. She made delicious, hearty stews using the cheapest cuts of meat and lots of veggies. Rabbits were plentiful. A man came round the houses regularly with freshly caught rabbits. He couldn't sound his R's and he would call out; " Yorkshire twapped wabbits for sale, sixpence apiece". Mum always bought a couple for dinner that night.
  They had already been gutted and cleaned leaving the liver and kidneys but still had their fur on. I stood at the kitchen table and watched mum skin and cut them up ready for the pot. She casseroled them in the oven with sage and onions and root vegetables, thickening the gravy with a paste of flour and water. A little gravy browning gave an appetising colour. The smell of them cooking was divine and the taste even better.
  We had liver with onion gravy, mashed potatoes and vegetables, savoury stuffed heart, neck of mutton and stewing beef. There were big fat suet dumplings in the herby stews, thick suet crust on meat and potato pies and piles of light and fluffy Yorkshire puddings; far more delicious than what passes for Yorkshire puddings these days.
  Local fruit was plentiful so we had pies and stewed fruit with custard: figs and prunes replaced fresh fruit in winter. Treacle or jam suet puddings with custard and rice puds with spicy nutmeg grated on top and baked in the oven helped to fill us up. There was often a fight for a share of the nutmeggy skin which we all loved.
  Mum baked all our bread using a stone of flour at a time. This made about ten loaves. The smell and taste of newly baked bread was sublime. We could hardly wait for it to cool before cutting into it.
  Sometimes neighbours came to the door to ask mum if she could spare a few spoonful of tea, half a cup of sugar maybe or a bit of rice or a cup of flour. She never turned anyone away empty handed unless she herself had run out.
 The meals mum cooked had to go round nine of us and sometimes we could have eaten more but we never went hungry no matter what else we had to do without.

Our Family Grocer.

  We were spoilt for choice regarding grocery shops in the the town. Mum shopped at Kenn & Townsley's, a small family business on Gracious Street. Mr. & Mrs. Kenn had a daughter; Vera, Mr. & Mrs. Townsley had a son; Ted, both about the same age. In due course they fell in love, married and joined the business.
  The shop was quite small with an l-shaped counter and display cabinets. Sides of bacon, wrapped in cheese-cloth, to keep the flies off, hung from hooks in the ceiling. Bacon was sliced as and when required in a choice of thickness. Large tin canisters of dry goods; tea, coffee, currants, raisins and such-like, lined floor to ceiling shelves.


 Very few dry goods were prepackaged.  They arrived in large plywood chests and were then transferred to the canisters.
  The contents were weighed out to the customer's requirement and poured onto large sheets of thick, shiny paper.  Folding them into neat, secure parcels was a work of art. Vera was an expert.
  All through the big depression years of the nineteen thirties, Kenn & Townsley's allowed their customers a certain amount of goods on tick, as long as something was paid  off each week. Money was tight all round and it was better to have something coming in regularly rather than nothing at all. Wealthier customers, who could pay their bills in full, helped the business to keep going.

   Each customer was provided with a small cash book in which to write their weekly order. Every Friday, as soon as I was old enough, I took mum's order to the shop and a young lad called Charlie delivered it to us on his carrier bike the following day.

1939 CSW Tradesmans Delivery Bike

There was always a cone shaped bag of boiled sweets, courtesy of Kenn & Townsley's with it. A lovely treat, eagerly awaited.

1960's Tradesmans Carrier Bike

  I carried on shopping there after I was married and had a young family. Frank and I had five children at that time. The youngest, Ross, was three months old when Frank, encouraged by my brothers, decided to start up in business on his own as a carpenter and joiner. He had been working for other firms and going to evening classes to learn his trade since his demob from the army after the war.
 On the strength of a fifty pound loan from my brothers, to tide us over he decided to give it a go. Kenn & Townsley's called on Frank for all their joinery work from then on.
  One day, Vera came round to see me and said that if ever there was a time when a customer had not paid a bill promptly and we were short of money, I was to send in my order as usual and settle up later. Fortunately, it was never necessary; my small amount of weekly housekeeping money was always there and I managed, but I never forgot her kind offer.
  Whenever Frank did any work for them and sent in the bill, Vera came to the house the very next day and paid it. A receipt from me was required and Vera brought one with her  complete with a tuppenny stamp stuck on it, as was usual in those days. 

The price of the stamp was deducted from the bill. Vera was a keen business woman and although more than willing to allow us lee-way, she was exact to the penny.

 It was always early morning when Vera called round, A hectic time in the Pullan household ; Julia, Cynthia and John sat at the table eating cereal, Barbara in her high chair, ditto, and Ross in his pram. Sink full of dishes, me at the cooker frying up 'eggy-bread', [gone up-market now and known as french toast I believe]. Bread dipped in beaten egg and fried  made two eggs go a long way!
  Being slightly fraught and not looking my best, I was embarrassed and rather ill at ease which must have been apparent, as one day Vera said, " I love coming round here in the morning, Eileen and seeing your children tucking into their breakfast." I didn't worry any more after that. Sadly, she and Ted never had children for some reason.
  As a pre-school toddler, whenever we went to Kenn & Townsley's, Julia made a beeline for the other side of the counter and would stand next to Ted and Vera watching their every move: so it came as no surprise when she got a Saturday job there before she left school; making up customers' orders ready for delivery.
  Money was tight all through the fifties when the children were small. Any spare cash had to be ploughed back into the business. The house-keeping money had to stretch a long way. There was very little in the kitty at the end of the week for me to rustle up a dinner for all of us. This is my recipe for my " Day Before Pay-day Dinner."
  Six pennyworth of meat bones, [hopefully including a piece of marrow bone] and a chunk of suet from the butcher. Scout around the pantry for  any stray vegetables, a couple of wobbly carrots and sticks of celery maybe, a chunk of turnip. Ah! there's a potato and an onion and ooh! half a tin of baked beans in tomato sauce; not gone mouldy!  How did they escape? they will give a bit of flavour. A few sprouts, I can shred them, and some soft tomatoes. Quite a haul!  Method:
  Put the bones in a large pan and cover with water. Bring to the boil and simmer for at least an hour, longer if possible. Pour the stock through a strainer and return to the pan. Discard the bones. Peel, wash and chop the vegetables and throw everything into the stock; add seasoning to  taste. Simmer for twenty minutes. Thicken with a paste of flour and water and add a little gravy browning for colour.
  While the veggies are cooking make the dumplings.  Grate the suet. Eight ounces of self-raising flour, three ounces of suet, good pinch of salt. Bind together with enough water to form a dough; not too wet, not too dry, which will drop from a tablespoon into the broth to form dumplings. Cover with a tight fitting lid and simmer for about twenty five minutes without removing the lid. The stew may stick to the bottom of the pan a bit but no one cares about that. All anyone cares about is, will there be enough for second helpings. The dumplings should be light and fluffy and float on the top.

  Puddings were anything I could find. Stewed fruit and custard, maybe, or semolina pudding with a dollop of jam, rice pudding, ditto.  Everyone had an equal portion, there were no second helpings. We were thin but we were healthy.
  I was quite amused to read in the paper a while ago that stock from meat bones simmered in water for a few hours with some vegetables, is the latest health drink. I think my recipe is even better and it fed seven people.

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.

When Shopping Was Fun.

Looking after a family in the 1930's and 40's was a never ending cycle of hard graft for housewives. There was one job, however, that was much more enjoyable then than it is now: shopping!

 No driving out of town to a super-market, pushing a loaded trolley around, heaving groceries in and out of the car boot; maybe with bored and fractious children in tow. Shopping was a more friendly and social business for all concerned and for a child, as I was then, a lot more fun.

 Various kinds of produce was brought to the door regularly by horse and cart. Mr Todd delivered milk daily from Hay-a-Park farm. He had a small churn with jugs hanging from the rim and this was replenished from large churns which stood in the back of the horse-drawn cart. Very similar to this one below.

 Mum waited at the back door with a large, blue flowered jug and Mr Todd measured out the required amount of milk, half a gill, a gill or a pint or two. The milk was rich with a thick layer of cream on top. There was often a fight over who's turn it was to have the cream until mum settled it by stirring it in.

 The blue jug was special, here is a copy of one on Pinterest, a Marlin Ringtons circa 1930; it was a free gift from Ringtons, bought with coupons saved from each purchase of their tea. Rington's also delivered to the door. They had a fleet of vans, very posh. We treasured our free gifts over the years and enjoyed their tea into the bargain.

 We had an allotment at the back of Park Row, a couple of minutes from where we lived. Dad and the boys did the heavy digging but mum was the gardener.She grew seasonal vegetables and soft fruits throughout the year: what mum didn't grow she bought from Mr Collins who had a small market garden. He and one or other of his young sons, Leonard and Freddie, [ handsome boys, I have to say ], came around each week with their horse and cart piled high with fresh produce. While mum chose what she needed, I was allowed to stroke the horse's nose and feed him a juicy carrot.

  Mum and Mrs Collins were friends. They were on Christian name terms but we children always had to address adults respectfully as Mr and Mrs. 

 When Mrs Collins was expecting one of her babies she asked my mother if she would go round when she went into labour. The nurse would be attending in the final stages but Mrs Collins, who was of a nervous disposition, wanted mum to keep her company. My Mother was happy to oblige as she had always wanted to be a midwife also, as a mother of ten children herself, she had had a lot of experience.

 When the day arrived mum went round to the Collins' house to find Mrs Collins pacing the bedroom floor, getting in a bit of a state, five siblings huddled together looking apprehensive and Mr Collins filling a large copper with water to boil, ready for the big event.

 " Nay, Charlie," mum said. You don't need all that water.Your wife is having a baby; you are not scalding one of your pigs"

 [Perhaps I should explain that scalding was a process used to soften the bristles  after a pig had been dispatched, making it easier to remove said bristles.]

 Mum was a calming influence. She found things for the family to do, made her friend, May, a cup of tea and helped her through he early stages of birth. When the nurse arrived she was on hand, ready and willing to give assistance if necessary. 

 The baby duly arrived, was bathed and swaddled in his clothes and blankets and marvelled over by his dad, brothers and sisters. 

 Before she went home mum made sure that May had everything she needed and that there was a meal on the table for the family.

 The footnote to this story is that my mother finally got her wish to be a midwife when I gave birth to my fourth child. It was to be a home birth. I had been having niggling pains all day so when mum, who lived close by, popped in about 9-30pm, just to say goodnight, it was to find me in labour and Frank about to go for the nurse who lived on Whincup Avenue, ten minutes walk away.

 The nurse had just got home and was having a cup of tea and a sandwich. Thinking there was plenty of time she said that she would be round in about an hour.

 It soon became apparent that my baby was not going to hang around. I was trying to hold on until  the nurse arrived but mum said "Never mind holding on, this baby has made it's mind up We'd better get on with the job."

 I had been provided with everything necessary for a home birth: mum was scrubbed up and had everything organised in no time. I did as I had been told and got on with it. My baby arrived ten minutes before the nurse turned up. The cord was around her neck but mum knew how to deal with that too and all was well. It was a most satisfying and happy end to the day for all concerned but especially for my mother, who not only got to deliver a baby at last,she also had the joy of a new grand-daughter: named Barbara, after her, of-course.

       My mother in her early thirties, with my two eldest brothers; Jack, seated next to her and Cyril.

I seem to have taken a bit of a detour, but then, that too was always part of shopping. Bumping into friends and neighbours along the way and pausing for a chat. 

 Best hurry along now though. Lots more shopping to do. You can come along if you like, if you have nothing better to do.