by Yvonne Young
* * *
Many of the flats and houses in the West End had long since been deemed unfit for human habitation, but landlords were still able to rent out to folks who couldn’t afford a better place. A five-year-old lad called Larry had a younger brother of three, who was playing in the lane after Sunday dinner. He had the wishbone from the chicken and Larry wanted it too so he chased him. The little lad bumped into a backyard wall, the whole lot came tumbling down and killed him. Later, when the police arrived, they knocked down fifteen walls in the lane using a wooden clothes prop. The walls weren’t repaired, and the dwellings remained occupied with the backyards exposed to the lane. Demolition of the properties didn’t commence until some years later.
But playing outdoors in all weathers was all we did. I would check if anyone else was willing to brave the elements. I took my sledge which Dad had made, materials courtesy of the workplace, steel runners included. To find a street where the housewives hadn’t emptied ash was a task. This was done as there was no way delivery wagons could attempt those steep streets without it in such weather. One did venture forth and it happened to be a wines and spirits lorry. The vehicle skidded then fell over, bottles were everywhere, and so too were the neighbours. There were reports of a good festive season that year.
Buses had an awful time getting through and when they did, we couldn’t see the numbers on the front as they had been bleached out by the snow. But even worse was the dreaded New Year’s Eve as my folks watched The White Heather Club with Andy Stewart dressed in his kilt. He sang ‘Mairi’s Wedding’ or ‘A Scottish Soldier’ as he hopped from one muscle-bound leg to the other, a little raise of his shoulder in time with the music. Though probably only in his twenties, to me he seemed ancient. Scenery consisted of a false log lying on the floor, on which Andy perched a foot every now and then to give the impression that there was some action going on. The background was usually a painted mountain greenery effect to give the illusion that the show was set outdoors. The women pranced about in flouncy cotton dresses even though it was the middle of winter. They held onto the edges of their skirts and curtsied daintily at the close of each dance, then they were off again, white high heels, pearls and tatted [backcombed] hairstyles which before hair lacquer they used sugar and water to hold in place. Although I must admit that I did enjoy singing along with Donald ‘Where’s Yer Troosers?’ and Scottish singing star Moira Anderson appearing in her frock, I couldn’t wait for them to sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and for the Epilogue to kick in. That was boring too, but it meant my suffering would be over soon. Dad insisted we stood for the National Anthem, which was a sign that the little white dot in the centre of the box was about to appear. Then at last, it was off to bed.
* * *
My brother David was born too late to visit Gateshead as I’d known it – all the old buildings had been demolished by then – but Mam continued to seek refuge from Dad with her sister Ellen, who lived in Low Fell. She’d stay there for a week, two or six, depending on how she felt at the time. She took on a new job at Bowers Restaurant in town as a dish washer. I called in the odd time to see her and was fascinated by the waitresses. They carried four dinners in each hand, an edge of the plates between each digit, dropping them onto various tables on their way past. Fish and chips, pie and mash, egg and chips… These women had muscles! It was an embarrassment for Mam at Christmas as the women were bringing in jewellery, clothes and perfume to show off. She didn’t receive presents from Dad as he didn’t think it was necessary to give gifts, so she usually told them she got nighties, a dressing gown and some slippers. Stuff they wouldn’t ask to see. He lacked empathy, and didn’t really understand that someone would gain pleasure from receiving presents. Why waste money? Mam always bought for him, but this was just to keep up appearances so that she didn’t have to come up with another lie for her workmates.
There were free tickets dished out to restaurant staff from performers at the nearby Empire Theatre, who called in for fish and chips. I saw A Midsummer Night’s Dream there and put my sixpence in the slot to use the binoculars. We also saw pantomimes starring the male tenor David Whitfield and puppet shows there. Two policemen used to call in for coffee at the restaurant and one of them fancied Mam – she would chat to him in her break in Nun’s Lane. This was the first time that she admitted to herself that she wanted to leave Dad, but it never actually came to that.
During the school holidays if I wasn’t with a neighbour until my parents finished work, then I would spend the whole six weeks at my grandparents’ home in Gateshead. My first memory of that house was when I was about fifteen months old and it was the day of HM Queen Elizabeth II’s Coronation, 2 June 1953. The dining-room table had been cleared except for the plum velour cloth. My aunt and uncles bought The Coronation Cut-Out Story Book and painstakingly cut out every horse, guardsman, Beefeater and the golden coach with Her Majesty inside. The palace scene was in the background and they waited patiently for the proceedings to be transmitted via radio (‘the wireless’) – usually Rediffusion, who distributed TV and radio signals. We paid weekly for this service and the dial was fitted on the windowsill behind the curtain, only around three channels from what I remember. I was dying to get my hands on the little horses, but the adults kept me well back while they paraded their cardboard cut-outs across the table as the ceremony was relayed across the airwaves.
* * *
Gateshead city centre was the poor relation to Newcastle. We had libraries, art galleries and some cafés, but they did have Saltwell Park. Mam walked me along Scotswood Road, across Redheugh Bridge and down Askew Road to Fleming Street, where my grandparents lived. On the way over the bridge we looked down towards the Tyne, a very dirty river in the fifties and sixties – rats ran everywhere along the Quayside. Mam told me there were tales of the River Girls, who were very wicked:
‘And, if you don’t behave at your granny’s, they will come and get you to take you down there!’
Of course, I didn’t believe a word of it. When I was about four years old at Granny’s, I picked up an empty milk bottle and began tottering down the stone steps into the yard, tumbled and fell onto the broken glass, which pierced my arm. Then they all took notice. Les held me, while Willy fetched a pair of tweezers from the first aid box. When he attempted to pick the glass out, my screams were enough to convince them to seek the skill of a doctor.
Another time Mam dropped me off – she was popping up to the stores and the only person at home was Willy. He was trimming the white hairs from his quiff in front of a mirror set up in front of a box of cereal. Satisfied he had removed any evidence of ageing, he got himself cosy in the armchair and fell fast asleep. When Mam came back, I was minus a fringe! It seemed like a good idea to copy what I had just witnessed. Unfortunately, I have a really high forehead and looked like Max Wall.
* * *
The year 1962 was the centenary of the Blaydon Races and there were plans for mass celebrations along Scotswood Road, where the first race was held in 1862. Every Newcastle lad and lass knows the words to the song, ‘The Blaydon Races’:
Aa went to Blaydon Races
’twas on the ninth of June
Eighteen hundred and sixty-two
on a summer’s afternoon.
Aa took the bus from Balmbra’s
And she was heavy laden
Away we went alang Collingwood Street
That’s on the road to Blaydon.
[Chorus]
Ah me lads, you should a seen us gannin’
We passed the folks alang the road
Just as they were stannin’
There was lots of lads and lasses there
Aal with smilin’ faces
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road
To see the Blaydon Races.
We flew past Armstrong’s factory
And up to the Robin Adair
Just gannin’ doon to the railway bridge
The bus wheel flew off there
The lasses l
ost their crinolines off
And the veils that hide their faces
Aa got two black eyes and a broken nose
The day we went to Blaydon.
(And more verses describing local characters Coffy Johnny, Geordie Ridley, Jackie Brown, Doctor Gibbs, and landmarks – Chain Bridge and The Mechanics Hall.)
Only I missed the whole thing, didn’t I? I was at my grandparents’, the Romes, in Gateshead. Friends told me of the street parties: all the chairs from folks’ homes were taken outdoors and tables set up with food. Each side of the Scotswood Road, from the town to the bridge over to Blaydon, was thronged with the whole community. There were bands, processions on flatbed lorries from all of the industries along the Tyne, costumes, customised vehicles and music. It all began at Balmbra’s Music Hall, which had been in business for over a century. The Elswick Harriers ran, brass bands played. I saw photographs of the fabulous wagons decorated to advertise their businesses; there was a huge bottle of Guinness, W & H.O. Wills float had a huge filter-tipped cigarette aboard, there were people dressed in period clothing, top hats, crinolines, Scottish dancers, a vintage car rally, penny-farthing bikes and the City Council Pipe Band and much more. I missed the whole lot as neither of my parents thought that I might like to be there to be part of a once-in-a-century event.
* * *
Most houses on both sides of the river, Newcastle and Gateshead, were decorated in the same battleship grey, green or brown paint, courtesy of the shipyards. This made rooms and stairways very dark, spooky places; my imagination always went into overdrive as I climbed the stairs. Fleming Street was only half electric lighting and half gas, which meant mantle fittings. Sometimes I would be on my way up there and the mantle would pop, sending hissing flames shooting out. I couldn’t wait to get into the sitting room, where the electric light bulb glowed continuously. My grandparents had a dog called Max, who would throw his head back and howl in response to any loud noise, such as lightning or a car backfiring. He hid under the table during Guy Fawkes night. They also kept a cat, who Max was afraid of as well.
Grandad Rome was a fireman and a boxer. He won cups for fighting and would regularly travel down to Carlisle to take part in matches. Although a tall strong bloke, he made a hasty retreat one evening on his return from the Donnie, a local pub. He witnessed two men stealing spirits from a local shop, one was passing the bottles to the other through a broken pane of glass. Grandad noticed a policeman on the corner so he approached him.
‘Hey, there are two blokes stealing booze up there.’
‘Get lost, mate, before I nick you for it!’ he was told. The policeman was their lookout and doubtless received a bottle or two for his trouble.
Granny didn’t work – she said that it was enough to do the washing with a poss-tub and mangle for a daughter and three sons still living at home in their twenties. Ellen was the youngest and she worked at Osram Lamps, a factory on the Team Valley Trading Estate, which made miniature and high-wattage incandescent and decorative candle types of lamp. Previously, she had worked for Rowntree’s and used to have allowances of Smarties and such-like – I was gutted when she changed jobs. She used to take me to Saltwell Park, where there was a boating lake and a lovely museum which looked like a fairy-tale castle, with ribbons flowing from the steeples. We never went inside – Ellen and her sister Lillian were too busy posing past the lads. Eventually Ellen gained a long-term boyfriend called Pete, who was very good-looking, with a Teddy Boy quiff. He wore a suit and took her dancing. He walked her home and stood at the front door, calling her ‘Chick’ – I used to sit on the landing, listening. When she was going out, Ellen wore starched slips which really stood out and she had to hold the front of the hem when she sat down as the whole ensemble hooped up like a TV aerial.
Pete and Ellen soon became closer and were seeing each other every night. When Ellen became pregnant, my mam and an aunt arranged a meeting with Pete’s parents to lay down the law: either he married her or he wouldn’t see her again. But this wasn’t an issue as the pair were planning that very thing anyway. They moved into the front room in Fleming Street until they got their own place and Jacqueline was born soon after, followed by their son Michael (they were still together until Ellen died in her seventies, but Jacqueline tragically died of a brain haemorrhage in her twenties).
Willy was Granny’s eldest son. He liked betting on the dogs and horses and doing the Football Pools. Also, dancing in the house – he never went to ballrooms, but would stride from one side of the room to the other, head held way back, trailing the side of his shoe before turning. Willy would shout at the radiogram when the score draws came on, Littlewoods Pools sheet in hand. After each result,
‘Ah, nah, man!’
‘Dunfermline 0… Charlton Athletic…’
‘Nil, man, c’mon, man, Niiiiiiiiiil!’
‘Charlton Athletic 2.’
‘Ah, bloody hell!’
Around this time Ellen had discovered Cliff Richard. If he was on TV, she would crouch down about a quarter of an inch in front of the screen, screaming something about movin’ and groovin’.
‘Cliiiiiiiif, Cliiiiiiif, isn’t he gorgeous?’
To which the others would shout:
‘We don’t know as none of us can see what he looks like!’
‘We can’t even hear him!’
Or even:
‘Get out of the way, man!’
One day, there were kittens, five of them, and Ellen was only allowed to keep one. For about two hours she picked the tabby up and eventually said, ‘This one!’, breaking her heart for the others. And then, ‘No, this one,’ picking up the ginger one. Before, ‘Ah, but can’t we keep them all, please?’
‘No, only one,’ she was told in no uncertain terms.
Time after time, she eventually picked little ginger, knowing all too well that the others would be drowned in a bucket. This was the cruel practice back then – every cat-owning family did this, vets weren’t heard of. The poor cats didn’t stand a chance, but the kids would often snaffle some stray to put a dress on it and pin it down in their dolls’ pram.
Willy worked for Sowerby’s Glassworks in Gateshead. He was a glass blower and very skilled at his job. All of our relatives owned something he had created – vases, bowls, dressing table sets, candlesticks, etc. The colours were beautiful: amber, swirly mauve and cream, pink and clear glass. Whether all of these items were officially supposed to be there, we didn’t ask. But eventually Willy’s gambling habits got the better of him and he left work and went on the dole, betting and gambling more than ever.
Les was the middle brother and had been a soldier in the army, serving in Egypt and Singapore; he used to bring me lovely silk Suzie Wong-style pyjamas. On his return, he secured a position at Huwoods Mining Machinery, also on Team Valley.
John, the youngest, worked at the paper mill, but I do remember that he also put the odd bet on the horses. There were arguments with Willy when the newspaper was delivered:
‘I’m bringing money into this house while you sit on your fat arse all day, it’s mine first!’
Willy was six-foot tall, while John was only around five-foot four so they would be just like the cartoon characters in a comic, the big ’un holding the forehead of the little ’un while he was trying to take a swing at his taller opponent. Nobody took any notice of this. Eventually there would be a winner and grumpiness, but it was soon forgotten.
John was about to be married to a beautiful woman called Nora. I went to Shepherd’s, a department store which sold all sorts in the centre of Gateshead, with Ellen and Granny. The shop had its own currency, a kind of tokens system. I recall Granny trying on a few suits, which she called ‘costumes’, and one of them had diamanté buttons. I tried all ways to convince her to buy it, just for the buttons. The family kept a buttons box containing all of the buttons from various items of clothing, which had become tatty and subsequently thrown out. In time, the costume would suffer the same fate and I would be the
proud owner of the offcuts. I was gutted when she chose a different outfit.
‘No, it’s too dear.’
I was to be a bridesmaid, along with another little girl, who I presume was a relative of Nora’s. We were only about five years old, but I thought we looked better than the bride. Our dresses were cream satin with matching furry boleros and silver sandals. The reception was held at the top of the street above the Co-op. There weren’t many people there and I was sitting next to a very jolly man, who kept me constantly entertained by drawing on the tablecloth. One of the aunts didn’t seem to like him, though.
‘Don’t talk to him, he’s horrible,’ she said.
But I was having none of this – I thought he was a great laugh.
‘Look under the table,’ she said. ‘Look at the mess he’s made.’
This man had been eating sandwiches from the buffet and chucking the crusts under the table.
In spite of all of these goings-on, the happy couple left for their honeymoon. But all was not as it seemed: John was working all hours and she gave money to her parents for their visits to the local alehouse. The marriage didn’t last long and he was devastated and wound up back home. When I stayed there I slept between two armchairs, so after John had been drowning his sorrows in the pub, he used to sit at the table, pontificating. The next day, after one particular evening out, I mentioned to him that he had spoken about marriage.
‘I didn’t tell you anything, did I?’ He looked shocked.
‘No, just that marriage didn’t work. You were singing.’
‘Thank God for that!’
‘John,’ I asked, ‘that song, “Love and marriage goes together like a horse and carriage?”, is it a tender trap?’
‘It certainly is,’ he replied.
‘Well, why does it say you can’t have one without the other?’
