Although I
“emigrated” from the Potteries to Nottingham in 1966 when I was twenty
years old I still have a warmth, an empathy and a strong sense of belonging
to the city that I knew
so well from the late 1940’s
to the mid 1960’s.Living my daily life in Nottingham
the changes here have seemed insignificant and gradual but being away
from the Potteries for many years
seem awesome and drastic by comparison..
When I first
came back with my wife I made a beeline for Old Hall Terrace in Hanley, the
first home that I remember from
1948 to 1953 but it was gone Wiped from the face of the earth. All that
remained was ten yards of cobbles at the top of the terrace and
then…..nothing!
I
should not have been surprised really as the houses were in terrible condition. The only running water came via a
cold tap in the yard and the toilet
to was further up the yard. Two up and two down, no electricity, the only
light came from a gas mantle in the front room, candles provided the light
in the kitchen and we went to bed with small oil lamps. I still remember
going to bed on a winters
night, the shadows from the lamps dancing
on the walls and ceilings like
ghostly apparitions that enticed your imagination to conjure up all manner of frightening scenarios. By the time that you entered
the cold, dark bedroom made worse by
the linoleum floor that was as cold as, and felt like walking on a frozen lake, you
were glad to retreat
to the comparative safety of your bed where you could hide
from the shadows, both real and imaginary
under the blankets.
My
Grandparents who lived at 4 Old Hall Terrace. Hanley
photo: 1920
Grandfather: John Carr. Grandmother Lilian and my mother was Eva
Although I have
many memories from this period there are some memories that seem to jump out
at you with irritating regularity and one which I recall was the Christmas
of 1949 when I was 4 years old. I was in Hanley accompanying my Mother doing
some last minute shopping and
remember walking through Lewis’s Arcade. The late afternoon was cold and
dark but passing by
Huntbach’s the light
emanating from the windows shone like a beacon, warm and welcoming
.In the distance the remnants of a carol could be heard from the Salvation
Army in the Market Square. As we
approached they were huddled in a circle stamping their feet to get the
circulation moving. Upon resuming with Hark the Herald Angels Sing I
clutched my Mother’s hand tightly as we watched them call down Christmas
from the cold dark sky. I didn’t know what this scene meant to me then but
I think I do…..now.
Our
house and several others on Old Hall Terrace was owned by
Mrs. Fogg who also owned the corner shop (later taken over by Mr.
Grundy) which as I recall had an array
of glass jars on the shelves brimming
with all kinds of sweets. The rent on the house was seven shillings and
sixpence per week (thirty seven and a half pence)
My memory often
drifts back to this period of my life and the strange thing is that it seems
like yesterday and it seems like a thousand years ago
at one and the same time. I can remember that the Co-op still
delivered milk and bread by horse and cart and the same mode of transport
was used by a local ice cream man. Joe Delicata who advertised his presence
by blowing a bugle. Another character who I remember well was Mrs. Chadwick
the stick woman who as her nickname implied eked out a living
selling bundles of sticks which she chopped with a giant cleaver.
White hair in a bun ,long grey dress that hung all the way to the floor and
a white apron were the only
clothes that I ever saw her in. She lived off Elizabeth Street down the
Opening (opposite the grocery shop owned by Mr. Cross where I would go to
fetch a gas mantle for a
shilling (5p). Her house was over-run with chickens. Every evening
she would make several trips to the off-license at the top of
Hillcrest Street, returning
with a large jug brimming with
ale and although on her final journey
of the night she would be staggering
home she never seemed to spill a drop.
When it was
time for a haircut I was
unceremoniously whisked to Mr. Cappers barber shop on Bucknall New Road. I
never realized then what a small shop it
was .It could not have been any bigger than 10ft by 8ft.I recall that he only seemed to discuss football with
the more mature of his clients.
Some of the
other shops that I recall on that particular road were the Chinese
laundry, a small shop that seemed to specialize in used army boots at
seven shillings and sixpence (37 ½p). Mr. Salkow's hardware shop
and Mrs. West's cloths shop where on special occasions we were
kitted out with new clothes which were paid for weekly. Every week my
father sent me to fetch 2 ounces of St Bruno rough cut Empire blend
tobacco .I dreaded going because I had to go past the “rocks” and we
all dreaded meeting the “rocks gang”. I never did discover whether
they were real or imaginary.
School
Days:
The school that
I attended was Birches Head Roman
Catholic. The headmaster, Mr. J.F.Hogan was a very imposing figure who ran
the school with a rod of iron. There were many occasions when I stood
nervously outside his study waiting to be caned. In fact that was the
only reason that small boys went
to his study. I remember one occasion when I was thrashed
in front of the whole school, My hands swelled so much that I was
unable to grip a pen and I had black, blue and yellow bruises on my legs and
backside. This punishment was meted out for scrumping apples. I was at this
time 11 years old.
My journey to
school was not undertaken by
car but it was a lot more fun
and adventurous. Imagination would run riot via the environment around me.
The whole area had a labyrinth of
back alleys and passageways which could stimulate the most dormant
imagination in a small child. I could be Flash Gordon on the planet Mongol
one minute and riding the
plains as Roy Rogers the next. There was no horizon. Anything was possible.
Moving
House:
In the early part of 1953 my
mother greeted us with the news that we
had been allocated a new council house in Bentilee although her main concern
was the huge increase in rent
that would have to be paid nineteen shillings and sixpence (97½p). A
huge increase from the rent that was paid to Mrs. Fogg.
Moving day was
greeted with great excitement even allowing for the fact that we did not
have the luxury of a removal van. What few possessions we had
were transported courtesy of Mr. Wilton our
local coal merchant via his
horse and cart.
Bentilee was an
entirely different world to Old
Hall Terrace. We had electricity
and hot and cold running water a
real bath and not one but TWO inside
toilets. What luxury! At that time there were fields to play in
and trees to climb. We even had a gang hut which we
lit with candles and then frightened ourselves to death telling ghost
stories. We had expeditions to and around Mossfield Colliery and in the
summer months we helped out at Stanways Farm. Our horizons stretched much
further than television, computers and
the latest video game.
Working
Life:
Upon
leaving school and not wishing to plump for the regulation choice of pit or
pots I started work for Brittains Paper Mill near
to Ivy house. My pay was four
pounds two shillings and
sixpence (£4.37p) for a forty hour week. Where I stayed for a year. I then
obtained a job with a small firm of plasterers. Eric Tute &Son at
Etruria. This was a retrograde step really as my hour of work increased
to 52 and my pay was ten shillings (50p) a week less. The main source
of work was doing property repairs for the National Coal Board which usually involved replacing
cracked bedroom ceilings. A small hole was removed from the ceiling
and I would have to climb into the recess
and kick down the ceiling with my feet. The room would soon fill up
with black choking dust and I
would go home in the evening blacker than any coal miner. Needless to say I
did not stay to long in this job.
In
1962 I started work for J&G. Meakin
at the Eagle Pottery as a platemaker on piecework and although the
work was hard with Saturday
morning overtime I was taking home £10 per week. I made lots of friends and the workplace always seemed to have a warm friendly
atmosphere, holding none of the
stresses and pressures of our
workplaces of today.
After
work the ride home on a Stoniers bus was
usually more than a little hair raising because by the time the bus reached
Ivy House it was usually full
but undeterred the conductor would mostly accommodate the waiting crowd,
passengers would be standing in the aisle upstairs on the stairs and it was
not uncommon to have a dozen of us hanging on the open platform
