Homes: Sweet and Not so Sweet - 'Twenty Eight Park Crest'

 

Mother at 28 Park Crest 1970s

   

 Flitting  from one house to another on a bright, sunny day was very exciting and great fun for me.
Mr Collins came with his horse and cart early in the morning and moved our furniture. There was no great distance between the two houses, about a five minute walk, which was a good thing as it took  several journeys to and fro before the move was completed. I was delighted as I was allowed to ride on the cart.     At one point Mother's sideboard, [her pride and joy], was resting on the path in front of the window of the new house awaiting its turn to be moved indoors. It had a long shiny top, the result of countless, vigorous applications of Mansion House Furniture Polish, lovingly applied.

It was just perfect for a naughty little girl to slide backwards and forwards on, laying on her stomach: the activity I was happily engaged upon when a face appeared, peering at me through the bars of the gate. It belonged to a little boy from the top of the street, come down to see what was going on. He was a handsome boy with rosy cheeks, brown eyes and
curly brown hair. We exchanged names and other bits of   information and then he went back home. The next school morning he was waiting for me at the gate to walk me to school. He was my first friend on Park Crest and continued to call for me for a long time until we grew older and he was in danger of being laughed at by the other boys.

Mother and Grandma; Sarah Mitton Parker, early days at 28 Park Crest 

 Small as it was, we loved our brand new house and cheerfully squeezed in. We still found room for all our usual visitors. 'Personal Space' was an unknown concept to us and anyway, who would have wanted it?  We liked to be in the thick of things. Our visitors were accommodated one way or another. We 'younger end' slept three to a bed, men and boys shared the big bedroom and ladies the medium one. A fold-up bed was brought out and a li-lo. Whoever got the Li-lo had drawn the short straw as it had a slow leak and needed mouth to mouth resuscitation in the early hours of the morning.  It was patched up eventually but not before I had taken a few turns on it.                                                                                                                                                                                            

Barbara

Eileen

                      














                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

Cyril

Laurence

                                                                                                                                                                  

         .                                                  .
                                             

Eric and Frank Pullan; Best Mates

Eric, Barbara and Frank. 1939

                            

       
                                                                                                                              
               
              








Photos taken in the back yard at Park Crest with Frank's new, Brownie box camera.

We were a happy household although there were the usual family squabbles, arguments and falling out but they never lasted long. Everyone who came to our house was made welcome. We had many friends who came and went continuously and during the second world war they included young service men whom we met at the Town Hall dances. The Canadian Airforce boys who were stationed at Allerton Park particularly enjoyed spending time with us. Being so far away from home it was a treat for them to share in family life for a while. Barbara ended up marrying one of them.

Bob and Barbara on their wedding day.

Handsome Bob Guest from British Columbia. She met him at the Town Hall dance and brought him home and that was that.
Bob wasn't quite twenty one so they had to wait before permission for him to marry could be granted by his commanding officer. Bob also
had to have his parent's permission.
They married just as the war ended and Bob lived with us until he was repatriated. As a married man he was allowed a pass out so he came
home to us each evening and travelled back to Allerton Park on  an air-force truck each morning.  Bob and his pals spent most of their off duty time at our house. Lovely
young men, we had such fun.

Irene in her nurses uniform

 With my five brothers and two brothers-in-law in the army, fighting in various sectors of the war, we were all of us, but Mum and Dad  in particular, in constant fear for their safety. I think it helped my parents to have those young service men around: "Other Mother's sons", as Mum referred to them.  The boys certainly thought the world of Mum and Dad; although a house full of good looking girls and young women didn't come amiss either.  As well as Barbara and myself there were our two nieces, Barbara B. and Althea, [one a bit older and one a bit younger than myself,] my brother Arthur's fiance, Irene and her friend Moira.

They were nurses at Scotton Banks Sanatorium and they also spent their free time with us, and then there were our friends too. My Mother made it quite clear from the start, however, that there was to be no "hanky panky" and there never was, just lots of singing and dancing and laughter and of course; lots of delicious, light hearted flirting. Well! what else could you expect? We were young, full of life and it was war time.

We shared whatever food we had and in return the Canadians were very generous. They turned up with large tins of glorious, golden butter, tinned bacon and spam, tinned fruit, cookies and chocolate. We tasted our first Hershey Bars, all courtesy of their well supplied stores I expect. It was like manna from heaven to us in those sparse days of rationing.


   They also kept Dad supplied with cigarettes. Most people smoked then, including Barbara and I, much to Mum's disapproval. I had to do it on the quiet as Mum would not allow me to smoke in the house. I didn't smoke very much as I couldn't afford it. The Canadians brought cartons of cigarettes, each containing ten packs of twenty, for Dad, which he kept in the side-board cupboard. For a while every pack he took out had only nineteen cigarettes in it. Barbara and I thought he wouldn't notice one missing from each pack. "Those little B------s have been at my ciggies again", he'd exclaim. B-----r and b----y were the only swear words Dad ever used and he was the only person ever allowed to use them.

   I'd gone into the bathroom one day for an illicit smoke. I didn't want Mum to smell the smoke so I stood on the 'lav' with my head poking out of the narrow top window.   I was puffing away happily when Mum came out to throw some rubbish in the dustbin which was right under the bathroom window. I was well and truly caught in the act.                                                                                        

   Then, finally, one day the war was over. All the young servicemen, including Bob, were gradually repatriated. We said our fond fare-wells, sad to be parting but happy for them to be going home to their families. It was a time of mixed emotions for us. Just as our brothers were coming home,

Barbara and Eileen - taken before she left for Canada

Barbara was leaving us to join her husband. She travelled to Liverpool by rail, sailed across the Atlantic and up the St. Laurence Seaway then across Canada by rail. It took almost two weeks, and she later said that as the journey went on she thought she would never see Knaresborough and her family again.  Seeing her off on the train at Harrogate station was heart-wrenching. How brave she was, setting off alone at the age of nineteen for a new life in British Columbia, on the far side of Canada. To a young husband she hardly knew and in-laws she had never met; not knowing when or if she would see any of us again. Only wealthy people could afford to travel and up until then, the furthest my sister had been from home was just over the border into Scotland.

Jack Warner Moore

One by one my brothers and brothers-in-law came  home too. All except my darling brother, Jack. He had died in the fighting in Italy. His wife, Muriel and young son, David turned to us and we grieved together. Her own parents on hearing the news said, "Well, you've made your bed; you'll have to lie on it."   They were cold hearted people; I don't know how they managed to produce a daughter as sweet and lovely Muriel. The war was over but it left it's mark on us. It had changed us, broadened our horizons, made us stronger and more aware of what we were capable of. Married men were eager to be back with wives and families and a home life, most of them, anyway. Young men, thankful to be back in one piece couldn't wait to find a wife, build a new life and a decent future in "civvy street" again at long last.

As for the rest of the Parkyn boys and girl, one by one we fell in love and married, though we did not all fly the nest immediately. Housing was in desperately short supply after the war as there had been no building work carried out during that time. Most newly married couples had to live with relatives. Arthur and Irene and their daughter lived with Bill and Beatrice. Laurence married Irene's cousin Joan and they lived with us at Park Crest. I married Frank, my brothers' pal and moved to Park Close, a stone's through away and we shared a home with Frank's Mum. Cyril and Joan rented one room in a friend's house: Eric and June also lived at Park Crest; Laurence and Joan by this time having moved on. Knaresborough Council got busy building a new estate and eventually my brothers' and their wives qualified for houses but not until they had two children apiece  

Sadly, my Dad died in nineteen forty nine, not long after the war ended, but by then he had established his own painting and decorating business along with his four younger sons, all of whom, like him, were painters and decorators.  F.J, Parkyn and Sons also started life at No 28, working from home. It grew and flourished in Knaresborough for many years. Dad would have been proud.

Just before the war, Mum and Dad were given the opportunity to buy 28 Park Crest. The landlord wanted to sell and gave them first choice, We were a bit better off by then so with the help of a small mortgage my parents became proud home owners at long last. My Mother continued to live in the house she loved until the day she died, just three months short of her hundredth birthday. The only tablets she ever took were two Disprin before she went to bed each night, to ease the pain in her bad hip. Her ten children were all home births without the benefit of any kind of pain relief. Following which she didn't see a doctor again until she was in her mid eighties. She had not been feeling well and Dr. Rushton paid her a house visit. He thought her so remarkable he called in to see her every month after that, mainly for a chat.

    Ciss and Arthur lived with her during her last fifteen years or so and up until her last eighteen months Mum was pretty active. Every evening, rain or shine, she and Ciss strolled up the street, Mum leaning heavily on Ciss's arm, to the old Roxy Cinema which had been turned into a Bingo Hall. Everyone knew her, she enjoyed the company and the Bingo and won frequently. Her mind was as bright and sharp as ever and woe betide anyone who tried to help her fill in her bingo cards.

   Wrestling on TV was a great favourite and horse racing. Mum studied form in the newspaper and knew all the trainers, jockeys and horses. She, Ciss and Arthur picked their horses for each race and Arthur went into town and placed their bets. Between them they did well at the races too and were never out of pocket.

   Mum never lost her toleration, understanding and compassion for others nor her naughty sense of humour. Everyone turned to her for advise in difficult times or with family problems. Sons, daughters, sons-in-law and daughters-in-law, grandchildren, even neighbours, all sort her wise understanding.  She never took sides, never told us what we should or should not do, just made suggestions. She encouraged us to look at things from all sides and think very carefully before saying or doing anything we may regret. Her family were her life and her aim was to keep us together and as happy as possible and she made a pretty good job of it, on the whole. My incomparable Mother, a woman in a million and no mistake.

Park Crest - 1970's

  
My thanks to Barbara for editing and illustrations.
Next blogs will be 'Tales from Park Crest'.

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.

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 ...

Homes: Sweet and Not so Sweet - The House In the Moat.

Cottages in the Castle Moat - A. Walker

 The house in the moat may have looked and sounded picturesque, it was quite the opposite to live in. It had no electricity, no bathroom, no hot water and lacked an inside toilet. Cockroaches and woodlice crawled on the downstairs floors and ceilings despite all attempts to banish them. They flourished  in the cellar-like ground floor which was below the level of the moat. This was where my Mother had to do the laundry as it housed a large copper boiler, the only source of hot water in the house.   The boiler stood in a corner, encased in a  dome shaped brick wall and underneath it was a large space for a fire which heated the water. There was a tap over the boiler supplying cold water but no outlet pipe, just another tap at the bottom of the edifice. The boiler had to be emptied via this tap, a bucket load at a time, carried outside and tipped down the drain.

From Cross Keys Yard into the Moat

 

     The house backed onto the yard at back of  the

Cross Keys pub and this is where the lavatories were located for all the properties that backed onto the yard, including the ones at the very top of Brewerton Street. Each house had it's own 'lav' with it's own key, thankfully.         

This is a much later photograph taken long after the houses had been demolished but the footpath and steps are still there.

Moat House, Knaresborough

 There was another  house in the moat next to Mum and Dad's. Quite imposing, it stood on higher ground, separated from the more lowly houses by a narrow flight of steps which led up to Brewerton Street

A house stands there still, in solitary splendour. It is known as 'The Moat House' now but the house that Mum and Dad lived in was the original 'Moat House' One day some officials called on my Mum and Dad and informed them that they would have to change their address as the big house next door was to have the title 'The Moat House' from then on. Mum was having none of that. 'This house has always been known as the 'The Moat House' and will continue to be so called as long as we are living here". No more was heard about it.

You may wonder why my parents chose to live in those conditions. The fact is that houses were just as scarce after the first war as they were after the second. Mum and Dad had to take what they could get at the time.

It was not until Knaresborough Council built a new estate off Stockwell Road that they had the opportunity to move, as ex-service men and their families were given first choice of a house.

Houses in the Moat by Albert Walker [Mercer Art Gallery]

Life in the house in the moat was not all doom and gloom, far from it. The upstairs rooms were pleasant and nicely furnished, Mum was very houseproud. The Castle grounds  provided a delightful front garden, and the moat was an exciting playground for the boys. Summertime brought a stream of visitors: Grandma and Aunt Annie, who stayed for two or three weeks, Uncle Walter, Aunt Ethel and their girls, Uncle Sam and Aunt Florrie, Uncle Earnest and Aunt Annie Wood, Aunt Mary, Uncle Jonas and their children, and Dad's brother Fred, his wife and two children, all squeezed in at various times. Added to them were the day trippers; friends who arrived on charabancs, calling in to say hello. How did my Mother cope with it all? I'll never know, however, she was not left to do all the work; everyone pitched in and helped, so leaving time to get out and about and enjoy all the delights that Knaresborough had to offer.

   One notable story from the moat house days passed into the family annals and has been recounted many times since. It was a hot summer day, much too hot to light a fire in the living room so Dad decided that this was a good opportunity to sweep the chimney. His method was simple. A small bush was dug out of the ground and a long rope attached just above the roots. Dad climbed up onto the roof and  lowered the other end of the rope, followed by the bush, down the chimney. Using a long pole he pushed the bush further down as far as he could, to help it on it's way, before going indoors to pull it all the way down bringing the rest of the soot with it. Unfortunately, he had not informed my Mother of his intentions and when he entered the living room it was to find Mum seated on a stool, in front of the fire place, the baby in the tin bath, with Ciss standing by, towel at the ready, all of them covered in soot.  All Mum said was, "Nay, Joe, couldn't you have told me what you intended to do?"

Mum and Ciss were all dressed up, ready to go out as soon as the baby was bathed and dressed. They had to strip off and start all over again.

Dad had done a very good job on the chimney: the trouble was, the soot was now all over the sitting room. Dad got the job of cleaning it up.

The house in the moat was home to the family for a good few years and by the time the move was made to Stockwell Avenue it had increased in number with the arrival of three more sons; Arthur, Laurence and Eric.

King's Gate, Knaresborough Castle and steps to the Moat

The view from the front of 'The Moat House'

My thanks to Barbara for editing and photographic illustrations and to Ken Watson for supplying copies of the art work.

If you compare the present day house in the photo to the one in the painting by Albert Walker they are quite different. I wonder if the original house was demolished and another one built in it's place at some time. Perhaps some one can shed more light on that?

To be continued:  If you are still interested you may like to follow the family to Stockwell Avenue on my next blog.

A Gentlemans' Agreement.

A Gentleman's Agreement.

Mum and dad came to live in Knaresborough in 1916, during the first world war. Dad had worked in Harrogate before he met mum and had friends in the area. One of them was a gentleman called Harold Spence who owned a barber shop on Castlegate in Knaresborough. He and his wife, Clara and young son Harry lived over the premises.

On the corner of Castlegate, opposite the Cross Keys Hotel.

   As married men in their thirties dad and Harold had not yet been called up but as the war rumbled on and young men were being wiped out in their thousands, older men were being called upon to serve. Eventually, dad and Harold were notified and had to go for a medical checkup. Harold passed his and was draughted into the army; dad was deemed unfit and remained a civilian.
  Harold did not want to close his barber shop which would also mean  the loss of his  home so he asked dad if he would take everything over for the duration of the war and treat the business as his own. Dad was to pay Harold the sum of twenty pounds.  When the war ended, all being well, Harold would buy the business back for the same sum of money. Harold employed a young apprentice, Albert Lund who, at around sixteen years old was quite an accomplished barber; he would stay on and attend to the customers. Dad, mum and the family, which now included a baby son, Cyril, would live over the shop. It was to be a gentleman's agreement, sealed with a handshake. All that was needed now was for my mother to agree to the arrangement. Mrs Spence, [who felt she could not run the business on her own] and Harry were to live with relatives in Leeds.
  Mum was reluctant to uproot the family. She was happy where she was. She had a nice home and was close to her other relatives. Dad was persuasive, saying that, as he himself could not go and fight he should do what he could to help his friend. Mum agreed to go and see the town and the barber shop before she made up her mind.

Knaresborough Station

   She liked the look of Knaresborough in spite of the scene which greeted her as she stepped off the train on her first visit. A large group of barefoot, ragged children were gathered on the platform, all vying with each other to carry visitors' luggage up the steep hill into the town, in the hope of earning a copper or two. Mum was dismayed and upset to see such poverty and even more so as she climbed the steep hill into the town and passed a row of hovels built against a cliff side. Several of the poorly clothed, ill nourished inhabitants stood in the doorways, staring at the passing visitors with ill concealed animosity.
   It was not a good beginning: however, the town itself was very appealing with it's ancient Norman Castle and grounds and world famous view of the river Nidd. There were many family businesses trading around the Market Place, High Street and surrounding areas and an open market held every Wednesday where other traders came and set up their wares.  The two storey living quarters over the shop were light and airy and overlooked the Castle Yard at the back, where there was a flat roof to sit out on in the summer.
  So, mother said, "Yes", the deal was struck and the little family settled in quite happily above the barber shop: a complete change of circumstances, all brought about through the simplicity of a "Gentlemans' Agreement" and I suppose one could say, a war.
  Sarah, [Cissie, as she was more generally known, due to her little brother's early attempts to say her name] and Beatrice enrolled at the Castle Girls School, just around the corner, dad did some painting and decorating and helped in the barber shop and mum soon made friends.  For a short while all  went well until, with the war showing no signs of ending, and less than a year after the move, dad was notified once again to go to Leeds for another medical check and this time he was passed and sent into the army, leaving my mother with four young children to care for and a barber shop to run.

Joe, Barbara, Sarah, Beatrice, Jack and Cyril

                         This was taken just before dad was sent to Mesopotamia.      

     Dad spent the rest of the war in Mesopotamia [present day Iraq] fighting "Johnny Turk" as the troops called them, while mum kept things together at home; hoping and praying for dad's safe return. Though small in stature, not much more than five feet tall, my mother possessed great strength of character. Intelligent, resourceful and hardworking, she took hold of the reins and with Albert continuing to deal with the customers, she kept the shop going.
  The living quarters had a separate entrance so mum only went into the shop after closing time to check the day's takings, clean the premises, put out fresh towels and collect used ones for laundering.
  In addition to his barber's trade Harold repaired umbrellas. One day, not long after dad had been called up, a smart gentleman came to the shop with two umbrellas in need of repair. Albert referred him to my mother who regretfully said that they were unable to take the work on. The gentleman said it was a shame, the other chap had mended them for him and he had payed him five shillings per umbrella.
 "Well then," said mum, "If you would like to leave them with me and come back  in two weeks time, I will see what I can do".                                                                                  

  Mum knew that a man who did repair umbrellas came to Knaresborough, usually on Wednesday Market days. He walked the streets, calling out, "Any umbrellas to mend?" drumming up business. She watched out for him and on his next visit went out to talk to him. He had a workshop in Leeds, a large industrial city about twenty miles from Knaresborough. Mum asked him if he would be willing to teach her how to mend umbrellas and in return she would pay him five shillings to mend one umbrella and buy the materials she would need to mend the other one herself.              
 The man agreed, but she would have get to his workshop in Leeds. A day was settled on, mum arranged for a friend to look after the children, got a lift on a horse and cart to Leeds and back and there learnt a new skill. The 'Umbrellas Repaired' sign went back in the window and mum had another, very welcome, source of income.

   Both dad and Harold survived the war and true to their agreement dad handed  the business back to his friend for the sum of twenty pounds. Mrs Spence and Harry returned to Knaresborough and took up residence over the shop once more.
 Mum and dad went to live in a house in the Moat, by the Castle. The house was one of two, both of which were demolished many years ago.                
   Knaresborough went back to being a popular attraction, particularly on Sundays when charabancs brought dozens of visitors all eager to enjoy the scenic beauty of this historic little town: visitors who also needed refreshment. Mum and Clara saw an opportunity and one summer they opened a little cafe in the room above the barber shop, serving tea, homemade cakes and scones to visitors. Being in the centre of the town they did very well but Clara wanted to put most of the profits into refurbishing the tea room, which would have left very little for my mother's time and hard work. Mum could not agree to that so the venture only lasted for one summer. They remained lifelong friends, however. After Harold retired and he, Clara and Harry went to live in Leeds they came to visit us from time to time for as long as they could and after tea, with the dishes cleared away, they would sit around the table playing cards, always a favourite pass-time.

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The Moat, Knaresborough by Joseph Baker Fountain [Mercer Gallery, Harrogate]

Showing the cottages with red roofs. the family lived in the one next to the big, red roofed house, which is still there. They were separated by a narrow pathway leading from the moat to Brewerton Street.

Footnote: My thanks to my niece, Janice Gowing, for additional material re: the umbrella repairs, as told to her by her mother, my sister Beatrice and to my daughter, Barbara for the photographic illustrations
 

How Joe Met Barbara.

       Mum and dad did not meet until they had reached their thirties. They had each been married before and both had known great sorrow and grief.
     Dad's young wife had died giving birth to their son, Leonard. It was not possible for dad to care for his son and work, so Leonard stayed with his maternal grand parents while dad travelled the country as a journey-man painter and decorator.
    Mum was a widow with three young children, Sarah, Beatrice and Jack. Her husband, Walter Moore had emigrated to Winnipeg, Canada, joining other members of his family who were already there. He had been there a year and had saved enough money to pay for mum and the children to join him when he suffered  a fatal accident at his place of work.
    Mum was on the verge of leaving for Canada. She had already packed up and sent off all the smaller household items, such as ornaments, cutlery, crockery and bed-linen. She and the children were staying with her mother, her sister Annie and brother Sam until she and the children were due to sail.
   My mother was devastated, heart-broken. She and Walt had already lost their three year old son, [also Leonard], to diphtheria; now his father was gone too. In just an instant her life had changed completely. Fate had robbed her of loved ones and she now had to provide for herself and remaining children.
   Thinking that a young widow could not possibly care for her children and go out to work as well, several people asked if they could have one of the children. Walt's family in Canada wanted her to send Jack out to them. A farming family that mum knew also wanted Jack but would take one of the girls instead, they said.
   Deeply distressed, she told her mother, " I don't want to give my children away". "Then don't, lass", grandma said, "We'll manage together somehow".
    Unable to afford a home of her own she and the children stayed on at her mother's. Grandma looked after the children while mum went out to work. She took a cleaning job for a lady called Mrs. Cusworth who ran a boarding house for "Theatricals", as Mrs. C. called them. These were troupes of travelling players who put on their plays and operatics in the local theatre for a week or two before moving on. Mum found this fascinating as she loved the theatre. There were other guests who came and went and for a time dad was one of them. He was travelling around the country, painting railway stations and lodged with Mrs. Cusworth while working in Brighouse, mum's home town.

Francis Joseph Parkyn

   One day, the lodgers were seated round the table having a meal when someone dropped a spoon under the table. Mother crawled underneath to retrieve it, saw dad's big toe poking out of a hole in his sock and could not resist giving it a tickle. If dad's interest in this rather lovely young widow had not already been taken, it certainly was now.

Barbara Parkyn with Jack Moore and Cyril Parkyn

   
Jack was around three years old and mum often took him with her to Mrs. Cusworth's who was quite happy to have him around. Not long after the toe incident Mrs. C called mum saying, "Come and look at this, Barbara". She took her upstairs and there was dad, his arm around Jack  who was snuggled up beside him, both of them fast asleep. That clinched it for mum and the rest, as they say, is history. The rest being marriage, four more sons, Cyril, Arthur, Laurence and Eric and two daughters, Barbara and Eileen; that's me in case you don't know; the youngest, the baby of the family.  

Dad's son, Leonard, stayed with his grand-parents. It must have been a great sadness for dad, giving up his eldest son. In the end he did it for the grand-parents. They loved Leonard so much and had cared for him since birth, they could not bear to be parted from him. Leonard was happy with them so dad thought it was for the best. He visited them whenever he could and I think two of my brothers met Leonard when they were older but I am sad to say that I never did.   
                     

   Dad originally came from Sheffield and was one of eleven children. His father, William Henry Parkin was a master tailor and the family was comfortably off. Dad's eldest brother, Herbert and sister Florence both played and taught piano and brother Fred had his own bakery. 

William Henry Parkin  - Master Tailor

Jennie Parkin - Joe's sister

Emma Parkin - Joe's mother

Although dad talked about his family the only ones he visited were two of his sisters who lived in Cleethorpes, a seaside town lower down on the east coast. For some reason we younger children never met any of dad's family and did not question this as we were growing up. Travel was much more difficult then and money was tight. I expect we couldn't afford the fares. The furthest we ever travelled was on a day trip to Scarborough on the Working Men's Club outing, which was free, and to my maternal grandma's at Brighouse, sixty miles away and that was once a year, during the summer holidays, when we spent several glorious weeks with Grandma, Aunt Annie and our Brighouse cousins. 

At Brighouse with the family

   Dad was very gentlemanly. He always wore decent suits with waistcoat, a shirt and a tie. When he went out he put on a brown trilby hat and soft brown leather boots. He was exceedingly proud of all his family and carried snapshots of everyone wherever he went. They would be taken out and shown to complete strangers at every opportunity. [Not unlike Facebook, actually!]

   I think dad missed his travelling days. Every so often his feet started to get itchy and he would look for an excuse to take the huff at something or other, declare that, "Nobody around here cares about me!" and take himself off to visit his sisters in Cleethorpes for few weeks: after helping himself to a bit of cash that mum kept in the corner of a drawer. It was enough to cover his fare and a little to spare. Mum, however, had another little stash that dad didn't know about as she knew that she would be without housekeeping for the first week or two of dad's absence.
 Dad always found work and sent money home. He never stayed away for too long and would turn up again, without notice, strolling in through the door to be greeted with,"Now then Joe, dinner's almost ready", as if he had only been gone for a few hours. I know mum felt aggrieved at times but I don't think she minded too much, all her family was around her and she was content.
  We all followed mum's lead, glad to see dad, who in turn was happy to be back in the bosom of his family once more. We treated dad's moods with a kind of indulgent amusement. We knew that he loved us all.