The Street

                              THE STREET- recollections of an almost forgotten childhood

The street that I grew up on, at least until the age of 9, was an assembly of mostly prefabricated council houses with a pebbledash exterior along with a couple of blocks of flats- mostly for old age pensioners. It stood in stark contrast to the drab red bricked lines of row houses of the original village, the latter having been built in the earlier part of the century for the miners when indoor plumbing was a luxury afforded only to the rich. Most of these houses had no gardens, their front door opening directly onto the street. The back of the house was surrounded by a brick wall, some 6 feet high that enclosed a small back yard. Broken only by the backyard gate and a small 2x2 opening, accessing the coal shed, it mirrored a similar looking house across a cobbled back lane, just wide enough to accomodate a small coal lorry or milk trolley. Adjacent to the coal shed was the biffy/nettie/outhouse containing a flush toilet. Lacking a window, the only light streamed in around the cracks in the door, usually windowless, like a tiny barn door. In place of a toilet roll holder, many contained a single nail on the wall which, more often than not held roughly 4x 4 squares made iup from last weeks newspapers. 

Like most houses in the village,the miners homes and our prefabs were rentals, owned by the local town council. Home ownership was beyond the reach of most people, the exceptions being shop keepers, physicians, lawyers and others deemed "filthy rich" 

 As was the norm in those days, my Mother was a housewife. Other than the ladies that worked at the post office and the local Co-op, the only place that employed women, other than the school-(a few teachers and the school dinner ladies) was the local pub. For that job one required a certain look, style, attitude, sense of desperation- it's not as if people were flash with their money and tips. And a Suicide blonde, well past 44, in terms of age and boob size was not all that tipable.

With it's frosted windows, decorated with the etched logos of local bewers, the Plough Inn was a place of mystery to me- none of my Family went there. Ginger beer was the closest us kids came to "adult beverages" with my Mother consuming the very rare G &T. and my Dad an ocassional Johhnie Red and a Drambui at New Year.'

I do recall the beer lorry showing up once a week and the delivery man would offload the heavy beer tuns off the back and down a wooden ramp to the cellar, controlling the descent of the large barrels with a heavy rope double wrapped around each end, which he would slowly play out as the barrel disappeared from view. Similarly, the obviously much ligher empties were hauled up to the surface and loaded on the lorry and secured for their trip back to Newcastle for a refill of Broon Ale.

Yes folks there was no shortage of entertainment when I was a kid. The highlights of the week being someone getting a delivery of coal or horse manure which sat on the street till the owner removed it, usually a bucketfull at a time over several days,as wheelbarrows were scarce. Besides horsepoop and coal, most other daily neccessities were also delivered. Milk and bread delivery was an almost daily occurence with the local butcher showing up twice a week and the fishmonger on Friday's only. I imagine the Friday fish tradition was a throwback to Catholicism but in our village you could count the RC's on two hands. Even as a 4 year old I could tell you the religious affiliation of every family on the street. There were only 2 churches in town- the Primitive Methodist, where we went, and the Presbeterian across the street. Catholics typically attended churches in Low Fell, a town some miles up the hill. Besides knowing every Ctholic by sight, I knew most of my neighbours as many had kids my age. 

My closest friends back then were Bobby Robson and Bobby Burns, the latter was a skinny kid from down the street, with poor nutrition and  an almost permanent green snot streak which ran from his left nostril until, at someone's urging he used his sleeve to remove it. I recall him attending one of my earlier birthday parties and him inhaling jam sandwiches and cup cakes like he'd never seen food all day. I dont recall what his Dad did for a living but it was clear they were struggling.

Next door were the Bakers-with kids severeal years older and next door to them, The Bradfords- final count 18, when we moved. Mrs Bradford popped out babies on a more or less 10 month cycle. I think her last was number 13, but by then her older kids were popping their own.

To our south, was an extremely :houseproud lady who's name I cant recall.- today we'd probably label her extreme OCD who as she spent her days cleaning, and cleaning and cleaning. She'd stand outside around 5 pm schrieking " Jeffrey, Jeffrey" her blood curdling battle cry that dinner was ready and that Jeffrey should come home.

TV was a rare commodity and we did not have one until I was about 8. Before that I would visit a family a few doors down so watch Blue Peter and other kids shows between 5 and 6, 6 being my cue to come home for dinner as that is when Dad arrived on his NSU Quickly-a 50 cc moped he rode in all weathers to get to work. Depending on it's maintenence needs the bike went in the coal shed or it was rolled into the kitchen, in front of the fire, where Dad woked on spark plug changes, chain lubrication and even the odd intertube repair.

Meals took on a cyclical nature- stew once a week, corn beef and potato casserole, fish on Friday, the odd batch of cornish pasties which might last a few days, and a salad on Saturday- lettuce, boiled eggs, celery sticks,,green onions.

Sunday was day of rest for Dads, while Moms prepared a small rump roast with Yorkshire pudding, gravy and cabbage blanched to translucence  for Sunday dinner. Breakfast was Quaker Oats or Dry cereals like puffed wheat, Rice Crispies or cornflakes. Eggs were rarely served and toast and jam was filler if the cereal failed to suffice. Bacon and/or pork sausage was an occasional treat

School was a walk away, I'm guessing half a mile. There were no cars, buses or other types of rides, We walked, although some used bikes and scooters. 

I recall that my first bike was actually a tricycle that my Uncle Harry had salvaged ( he was a Dustman) from someone's back yard. They painted and repaired it and it turned into my main Christmas present.

 I recall the distdain when everyone else looked down their noses at my bike because they all got brand new two wheelers. 

As I recall, I started school when I was 4. Back then there was no kintergarten, early child hood education etc. You started at 4 or 5 based on your age at the start of the school year.

Early childhood memories are limited. I was assigned the triangle in the school orchestra, a musical career that was rather shortlived as my timing sucked and my attention span was occupied by other things, including a crush on the teacher and several of the girls in my class.

Schools in most of England provided a school meal for the majority of the students- cooked on site by a small staff of women, it supplied the nutritional level needed while doing little to appease the taste buds. 

And, in winter the milk bottles were often frozen so they were placed on top of the steam radiators.

 If you are too young to have experienced the "joy" of drinking lukewarm full cream milk knowing that your next class is PT, you really haven't lived. 

My Father left school at the age of 13, relatively normal practice for children in the 30's. He worked in various factory settings in, what we would now describe as an apprenticeship. He learned pipe fitting, boiling maker and other skills. He even spent a couple of years in the Merchant Navy, travelling to various places around the globe- something that would actually impact my life many years later. He eventually signed on with the National Coal Board, working at the village pitt in a variety of roles during the day and disappearing at night to Gateshead for evening classes in order to upgrade his skills

A significant promotion when I was about 8 saw him tranferred to Essen, Germany, where he learned skills that eventully helped him become a testing supervisor for the pland in Swadlincote. for several years. Tht move occured in 1962 as I recall, when we moved from the North East to a newly built village called Midway, where my parents bought their first house- a side by side- 79 Winchester Drive.

We ecentually settled on a move to a detached house in the village of Blackfordby ( Bloffby as the locals called it, where we remained until 1969. The move to nuclear power and the political situation lead to a reduction in mining and other heavy industries in the UK. Shipyards were closing, unable to compete with the competition overseas. My parents watched in horror as slightly older friends and coworkers were "Given the Golden Handshake" too young to be retired but too old to be considered of value.

IN 1968, my Dad headed to London for an interview with INCO, I recall tagging along as we managed to squeeze in a trip to the Earl's Court Boat Show on the same day.

Fall 1969, with a new job secured, we packed up our most prescious possessions into a small shipping container and boarded our first flight ever, Heathrow to Winnipeg.  

Winnipeg was not, however, our final destination, although it would, ultimately be our home for a few years. Our actual home was Thompson, Manitoba, some 400km further north. I recall our flight there abord a YS 11 turboprop that rattled and groaned its way north for an hour or so before landing at Thompson Airport, more of a shack than an actual terminal. Mom's Sister and her Husband as well as her daughter were ther to meet us. 

Luggage collected we set off on the 5 km journey to town, Mam and Dad and Sis, in my Uncle's Plymouth while I hopped in beside Norma in her Truck. I remember the headlights catching on the endless miles of Thompson Toothpicks, skinny firs, that cast freaky shadows along the winding road towards town. The bridge in those days was a throwback to the temorary bridges of WW11, narrow with traffic taking alternate turns for their chance to cross over the roiling Thompson river.

Arriving at my Aunt's place, a large ranch style home, I recall very little other than the desire to sleep.

October 9th 1969. We'd made it. Whatever it was!