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.   

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.