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.   

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?