Memories – composite

Memories

My birth certificate informs me that I was born on 12^th December 1945,in Manchester, just a few months after the end of the Second World War , and my parents often assured me of these facts , which must therefore be true , though I have little memory of either event. My Mum often told me that I was born in St Marys hospital “right in the centre of Manchester “ , so I am a Mancunian by birth , if not by upbringing.

My parents were living in a terraced house in Denton, and it was lit by gas light .Dad told me that it was his task to replace the mantle on the gas light when it wore out .This was a tricky operation, as the wire gauze was very delicate, and to damage it would be bad news, as all household items were in short supply during the War. But Harry, being an engineer, was very painstaking, and eventually their little room was suffused with the soft glow of gaslight, which, he always maintained, gave a much kinder and more delicate light than electricity and the gentle hissing noise of the gas jet filled the tiny room. Mum and Dad rented their house from a Great Aunt, one Aunt Mary , I think , of whom Dad once said she had lived in half the houses in Denton, owning many terraced houses, and frequently flitting from house to house.

My Father, Harry Eades was an Engineer, in a Reserved Occupation , and working flat out on the war effort. He could not join the armed forces because of his occupation, something which he felt keenly all his life. He was the third son, and his two elder brothers had been called up for military service earlier in the War .The eldest brother Joe was a grocer who hoped to build up his own business , and the middle brother Robert Newton was also in engineering , but in the office at the steel works where Lewis was the Manager .This was Exors (presumably an abbreviation of Executors ) of Mills in Stockport, a large steel factory which dominated the valley of the River Tame as it flowed down from the Pennines to join the Mersey. Joe was out in Burma, in the RAF Regiment, fighting the Japanese in a bitter land war in dense tropical jungle .His wife Clare, and daughter Beverley lived at number 165, just a few houses distance from his parents .He was far away from Haughton Green, but Bob was stationed in Leicester where he organised the logistics for his regiment, which had also been posted overseas. This must have been a great comfort to Grandma Eades, to have two of her sons in England and her husband at home.

Mum was “Bessie Shaw from Audenshaw”. She was from a larger family, with Auntie Alice already married, Nellie who never married and worked in the local mill, Fred who worked in a factory which made batteries and was bad for his health, Tom who was a welder and married to Paddie , the daughter of a prosperous industrialist, Mr Palin. A local electrical engineering company was Ferguson Palin and the “Palins had money “Mum was the baby of the Shaw family, born in 1921, like Dad, she on the 6^th of August and he on the 12^th of March.

On the 2^nd February 1947 , Mum gave birth to my brother Philip Lewis, who was born at the peak of the “Baby Boom “ a natural consequence of families being reunited after wartime separation .I was born before the formation of the NHS, and perhaps so was Phil .Mum suffered from high blood pressure before my birth , but was more healthy for Philip. We have both been members of the luckiest generation of Englishmen to have ever lived in this “Green and Pleasant Land “.We have never had to fight the Germans, nor anyone else, and enjoyed the fruits of the economic good times, full employment , free health care, and free Higher Education for those who followed that route. There was an underlying political consensus, very different to that of today, where full employment and good housing were seen as too important to be left to mere market forces. How things have changed.

Haughton Green

Was the village where my Father’s family came from . It was an industrial village in the Borough of Denton, and to the east of Manchester .However, the area was still rural, and it was impressed on me, as a matter of import, that “There’s seven farms on Haughton Green “ .Presumably they were tenant farms , perhaps to the local collieries. Grandma and Granddad lived in 159 Haughton Green Road, a council house semi , almost at the end of the bus route. The buses were electric trolley buses, and a source of fascination to Phil and me. Each bus had two poles on its roof, which connected to a live electric wire above it .The live wires were suspended from solid metal poles at the side of the road, so that a spiders web of electricity ran from the centre of Manchester to the furthest reaches of the conurbation .Haughton Green was definitely the end of the line. The bus would stop outside the Jolly Hatter, go down to St Mary’s Church swing right and return on the other side of the road, passing a row of cottages.

”Grandma could have bought those cottages for £300 after the War, tha knows “.

“Why didn’t she?”

“Granddad said they were too old .Wanted pulling down .Look they’ve got stone roofs, solid stone .That means they’re over a hundred years old. Want pulling down”

This was a mystery to me “Why? “

“Cos they should have slate rooves “

Granddad was a firm believer in pulling down old houses, and the council house he lived in was actually built on the site of a former Victorian villa, so he never moved more than a few yards himself, apparently.

The school used to take classes of little children into one of the meadows to play on fine days in summer, and Phil and I joined them .”These are Harry’s Boys. Come all t,way from Liverpool “We always used to visit Haughton Green at Whitsuntide .Whit was a big day in Manchester , the end of the long dreary winter, but a moving feast like Easter , which it followed .The Whit Walks were when the women walked in their finery and children in new clothes, following the banners of their church , factory , trade union or whatever organisation they felt an affinity to .With brass bands playing ,they made a fine sight. One group were different. The women wore red and white traditional costumes, and the men black suits with dark hats.

”Who are they Granddad?“

“Them’s “Yew craneians .Came ‘ere after t War“

Thus, the first foreigners I ever saw came from the Ukraine, but I do not remember any flags flying, and the first time I saw the blue and yellow ensign flying was after the disintegration of the USSR in 1991, and some of their ships started to fly it. There were a lot of new flags to learn at that time; the hammer and sickle came down, and flags of Russia, Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia went up. Nothing lasts forever, save beauty and great writing. Dostoevsky and Tolstoy will be remembered long after the Soviet Union has been forgotten.

Granddad grew Peonies in his garden. They made an especially fine show of deep red in his back garden, alongside the stone path which ran down to the lower back garden. He loved his peonies “They cum from China tha knows.” he told me.”Do they Granddad? “ How are sown the seeds of curiosity .To think on the other side of the world , is a strange land , with peonies and dragons ,where the men wear pigtails.( I read the Beano ) “ Can I go to China Grandad ? “ “Not now Raymond. Its Communist tha knows “this said with such finality, that further enquiry was obviously pointless.

The trolley bus stopped in front of the “Tommy Todd “a grass village green, behind which stood the solid Victorian School. From the village, behind the straggling shops and houses, lay fields of grass. The trolley used bus stopped in front of the “Tommy Todd “ a grass village green , behind which stood the solid Victorian School. From the village, behind the straggling shops and houses, lay fields of grass, with the winding gear of Denton Main colliery and mill chimneys in the distance.

Delta Road, Audenshaw

No 3 Delta Road was the home of Granma Shaw, where also lived Auntie Nellie. Even after so many years , the words Auntie Nellie bring tears to my eyes. If ever an aunt loved her little nephews that was surely Nellie. She always prepared a spread of food for our arrival. “It’s ,am. Its good, it’s from Co op “she would say, bustling around. She doted on Phil and me, and always prepared well ahead and fussed after us and her beloved little sister Bessie, and her heroic husband Harry , who had battled through snow and ice in the dreadful winter of ,47 with a bag of coal to keep the Shaw family from freezing. “Carried it, alf way across Manchester on tram, did your Dad, just to keep us warm “Brave Dad , how my little heart would swell with pride at that oft repeated story.”And your Mum pregnant with Philip, and t, Mill shut down an all. That were a dreadful winter, that were, and your Philip born in t, middle of it“

Nellie’s looms.

Nellie worked in the Delta Works, but she hadn’t worked there all her life , far from it. As a little girl, she had worked “Part time “in another mill, a proper cotton mill, full of noise, dirt and danger . She didn’t work full time like the others, just part time , from six in the morning till two in the afternoon .Wasn’t she lucky ? How tenderly they looked after children in those days! And, by the time she was twelve she was personally responsible for six Jacquard Looms! And never a word of criticism from the overseers. During the Slump, which seemed to have lasted forever in Audenshaw, she was the breadwinner of the family.

Grandma Shaw was quiet .She sat upright in a high backed chair, with her best clothes on to greet her youngest child and her Grandchildren who had come all the way from Liverpool to see her. We kissed, and played at her feet, but the room was small, and soon we grew bored .She would get out a box for us, Granddad Shaw’s medals for us to play with. I never met poor Granddad Shaw, for he died long before the Second War, and fought the Germans in the First .These shiny medals with their coloured ribbons were all that remained, our tangible link to a missing Grandparent. There was a black and white photo of him, taken before he left for France .the proud patriarch, moustachioed and surrounded by his children, (except little Bessie born after his return from France) about to risk all for King and Country.

How I wish I could intervene miraculously through time, and shout to him from a century later “Don’t sign up Daniel! .They don’t need you .You’re too old. Stay here with your family .your country needs you for the War Effort, not for cannon fodder “.If only we could intervene retrospectively .But where would it all end? We would always want another rewrite of History, and the past cannot be altered. But perhaps, one day we could learn from the past, and not repeat our mistakes?

Soon, we would get bored, and while Mum and Dad drank tea and smoked, we went outside “to play”. Children always played outside in those days. The terraced house had a backyard, which opened out to a back alleyway..The far side of the alleyway was defined by an iron fence, and behind that the Railway Line .It went to Sheffield, but stopped at Guide Bridge Station. The east west axis of my young life was lengthening. To the east lay other mysteries, Yorkshire and Huddersfield whence Daniel and Woody had emigrated by tram and walked the moors until they reached the tram to Ashton in Lancashire.

The embankment was a magnetic attraction for Phil and me .We squeezed our way through a gap in the railings and onto the grass embankment. Trains went by with great frequency; all of them seemed to be steam trains, belching steam and soot and a distinctive smell, and loud noise. We waved at the passengers sat at their seats .Most just stared blankly at two little boys in short trousers, sat above their heads on a grubby railway embankment. But some, just a few, waved back and smiled. How much does it mean, a smile and a cheery wave! And how cheaply given !Of all human gestures , surely a wave is one of the most significant ?To this day, I always wave back at children .I always wave at passing boats , passengers , fellow travellers on life’s voyage. What does it cost, and what joy might it bring? It certainly always cheers me up.

Ashton Moss

Her Father, Daniel, had returned from the trenches a broken man, but alive and not gassed, at least. His old trade, as an artistic decorator of linoleum had been rendered obsolete by new processes. Finding work was very hard, and the family struggled .Her voice reverting to childhood, Mum would say defensively “He did all sorts, my Dad ! “With his brother Woody , he set up a small horticultural business on Ashton Moss, where he grew flowers and hawked them round for sale in his wheelbarrow .However , celery seems to have been one of his mainstays, which he also sold. Probably there were allotments there for rent , or even small holdings. The M60 Ring road seems to have obliterated all those fertile plots , and buried them in asphalt .Such is “progress “and urban growth. The green ring of gardens which circled cities worldwide is forever lost, as food is transported ever greater distances .Madness.

Delta Mill

The two sides of Delta Road ran parallel to one another in rows of front doors, except just on the opposite corner where some bay windowed semis brightened the scene. The two lines converged at the end of the road , and there , the view was blocked by the towering grandeur of the Delta Works. This was where Auntie Nellie worked .The entrance to the Works was distinguished by wrought iron gates .Painted black ,with gilded , sharpened tops , they emphasised the majesty of the Works.

Austin Hopkinson

Was a man whose name was sure to be mentioned at Delta Road .Austin Hopkinson owned the mill at the end of Delta Road. It was some sort of mysterious engineering works , making some incomprehensible product. He was also the owner of the houses in Delta Road , which he had designed himself for his lucky workers .So , he had quite a lot of say in the lives of folk in Delta Road. Still, if his tenants had any problems they could always complain to their local Liberal MP .He was a certain Mr Austin Hopkinson, as it happened.

The Means Test

In the Slump the Shaw family fell on such hard times that they had to apply for Assistance from whatever branch of Government munificence as dealt with working class distress .This was during the days , of the Coalition Government , when the scurrilous and unprincipled Liberals joined with the despicable Tories to crush working class people and line the pockets of a banking elite .Thankfully , such a combination could never happen again , and I was not to worry my little head on that score . As Granddad said , “T, Liberals always side with the Tories “ , and spat in the fire. The family had to be inspected by some Jack in Office, who discovered that they actually owned a radio .He decreed the sale of the radio , and some other possessions .Only then , could the family receive Assistance .Happy days for Bankers, not so happy for returning War heroes and unemployed workers.

Workington.

Sometime in the late 1940,s, perhaps in 1947, Harry applied for a job with a company called Distington Iron and Steel, in Workington, Cumberland. The firm was trying to diversify out of producing raw pig iron and steel into manufacturing finished products. Dad was successful, and gained a good post with the company. Part of the attraction was the provision of a brand new council house. So, we moved from a terraced house in Denton close to our families, to remote Workington, up in a distant part of the Lake District. Mum’s brother Tom also got a job in the same factory as a welder, so Uncle Tom, Auntie Paddie and my cousin Sue were close neighbours.

It is difficult for me to remember much about the town of Workington, and probably most of my memories derive from return visits to the town after we had moved to Liverpool. Certainly, the sheer elemental power of steel making remains vivid. Trains used to pull round wagons of red hot slag from the blast furnaces to the sea, and pour the red hot liquid into the salt water below. The sea boiled and steam rose in great abundance. The resulting area of slag later came to my notice as a good botanical site in the BSBI Bulletin, but I have never had the pleasure of botanising there .Perhaps it has been grassed over with the boring amenity grasses so favoured by councils? The journey to the Lake District was long and tedious, by Ribble Bus, yet I also seem to remember using the train, which ran along the coast in places.

Dad took us boys fishing once or twice in Bassenthwaite Lake, one of the lesser known Lakes, but convenient to Workington. We did catch fish with rod and line, and they were silvery coloured, but I do not know what species .Possibly Roach? Phil confirms the catch of Pike.

Mum used to talk about the Cumbrian,s leisurely attitude to life. They never would run for a bus, saying “There’ll be another one soon “which she found an amusing contrast to the big city attitude of haste and rush. I have but few memories of that house. A strange rasping noise kept us awake on summer evenings, and Mum asked neighbours what was causing this noise and disturbing her infants’ sleepOnce Mum held me in her arms and showed me land in the distance on the other side of the Solway Firth.”That’s Kirkubrightshire “she said “It’s in Scotland “Possibly my love of Scotland started with that first view. Many years later I was sent up to Workington to bring a ship down to Gladstone Dock in Liverpool. The ship was not ready, so I had a chance to explore , and made my way out to 1 Garth Road , near Moss Bay .The house still stood proud, with a view out to sea , and another family in residence, but I could well realise how pleased Mum must have been to live there.

The kitchen had a stove, a circular drum of steel, with a stove pipe .This burnt domestic rubbish, but fared better when fed a diet of coal, so gathering “The sea coal “became a childhood pastime .We used to venture out on the shore, well wrapped up against the wind off the Irish Sea, and pick up small pieces of coal off the high water strand line. Apparently there was a seam from the colliery which outcropped on the sea bed and washed up after storms .Perhaps some of the pieces were from colliery waste which was also dumped in the sea at a different spot to the iron slag. Whatever its origin, no one seemed to mind, and many children and mothers were engaged in scavenging coal for their fires. NHS powdered milk tins made robust containers for child size pieces of “Sea coal “ , and we regularly came home bearing our black treasure. Since that time , a warm kitchen with a stove burning has seemed the core of a home in winter.

Garth Close , Workington

The town was a Labour stronghold, and provided nursery education .Thus, my first experience as a scholar was at Moss Bay Infants School, a Victorian school , which I attended , along with my cousin Susan, only as part time scholars. We played in the class room, performed an act of “ I ,m a Little Tea Pot , short and stout “ to the tune of a piano, were given a biscuit and drink, then had a relaxing sleep on a camp bed.

Delta Road, Audenshaw.

No 3 Delta Road was the home of Granma Shaw, where also lived Auntie Nellie. Even after so many years , the words Auntie Nellie bring tears to my eyes. If ever an aunt loved her little. , nephews, that was surely Nellie. She just doted on Phil and me, and always prepared a fine round and ham. spread of food for our arrival “Its good , its from Co op “she would say , bustling nephews fussing after us and her beloved little sister Bessie, and her heroic husband Harry , who had battled through snow and ice in the dreadful winter of 47 with a bag of coal to keep the Shaw family from freezing. “Carried it ,alf way across Manchester on tram , did your Dad, just to keep us warm “ Brave Dad , how my little heart would swell with pride at that oft repeated story.”And your Mum pregnant with Philip, and t, Mill shut down an all. That were a dreadful winter, that were , and your Philip born in t

, middle of it“

Grandma Shaw was quiet .She sat upright in a high backed chair, with her best clothes on to greet her youngest child and her Grandchildren who had come all the way from Liverpool to see her. We kissed , and played at her feet , but the room was small , and soon we grew bored .She would get out a box for us , Granddad Shaw’s medals for us to play with. I never met poor Granddad Shaw, for he died long before the Second War, and fought the Germans in the First .These shiny medals with their coloured ribbons were all that remained, our tangible link to a missing Grandparent. There was a black and white photo of him , taken before he left for France .the proud patriarch ,moustachioed and surrounded by his children ,(except little Bessie born after his return from France ) “ about to risk all for King and Country.

How I wish I could intervene miraculously through time , and shout to him from a century later “ Don’t sign up Daniel ! .They don’t need you .You’re too old. Stay here with your family .your country needs you for the War Effort , not for cannon fodder “.If only we could intervene retrospectively .But where would it all end ? We would always want another rewrite of History, and the past cannot be altered. But perhaps, one day we could learn from the past, and not repeat our mistakes?

Crown Point

Joes Shop

Ashton Market

Croxteth

After a few years in Workington, Dad applied for another job, this time in Liverpool, and once again his application was successful. His new post was as Tool Room Inspector at Napiers factory, which produced the famous Deltic engines. These diesel engines powered the new trains on the East Coast main line and were the workhorses for many years. This job also came with the attraction of a brand new council house, so some time in perhaps 1950 ,our family moved to Liverpool , to Croxteth , Liverpool 11.

Croxteth was a brand new housing estate and the first new houses to be built in the city of Liverpool after the Second World War, so I was told. The family moved down , perhaps in 1950, and were well ensconced for the Coronation , with it’s street party .I arrived as a child of four , and left , as an adolescent of 19 , so I am in all truth , a “Crocky Kid “ .You can take the kid out of Croxteth , but can you take Croxteth out of the kid ?

We lived in Crantock Close , at No 18, in a semi .New council houses were at a very high premium then , with many couples living with their parents and raising a young family. Legend held that the houses in Crantock Close were the first new houses to be built in Liverpool since the War. I doubt that, as surely the engineers would have first laid down Middle Way and Willow Way, joining up to Gillmoss Lane ?Perhaps these thorough fares really were left unbuilt at first , and Crantock Close , a convenient little cul de sac really was the first road to be developed ?The houses were varied in type .We lived in a semi , at the head of the cul-de-sac , facing the entrance, looking across a small circular patch of grass , christened “The Middle Bit “ The Corpie came and planted some shrubs and young trees to landscape the area, but we still could see out of the Close to the green fields of Liverpool and the mighty English Electric beyond.

Our next door neighbours, in the other semi were the Slatter family. Mr Slatter also worked at English Electric, and was a Londoner. He was totally bald, which was attributed to him being very ill as a sailor in the Royal Navy during the War. Apparently he developed appendicitis whilst at sea in the Atlantic, and developed peritonitis, and nearly died. He convalesced in Madeira, and spoke warmly of the Portuguese people. His son Tony was about my age, and their daughter Marjorie was younger, perhaps a year younger than Phil.

Mr and Mrs Green lived a few doors away, and he was another manager at the English Electric .They had a son John, who was older than me. Unfortunately, while she was pregnant Mrs Green caught scarlet fever, as it was then called. Her son John was born profoundly deaf. This meant that he never learnt to speak properly, but he did articulate, with various sounds and gestures which I learnt to understand after a time. He used to get frustrated and angry at his inability to communicate with us.

The Greens were the first family in Crantock Close to buy a television set. Kindly, they allowed children from the close to watch the TV in their front room, and we all sat watching the new miraculous device. Mrs Green gave us all pop and cakes , and the TV audience grew ,as more children joined the free pop and cake club. Sadly , it all grew until children from outside the Close were coming, and at that point, Mrs Green closed down our free TV sessions.

Like many other families, Mum and Dad bought our first television set for the impending Coronation. Mum was determined to keep it a surprise for her two boys. Great was her chagrin, when we boys returned from school bubbling with excitement and demanded to see our new TV .Tony Slatter had come home from school for his lunch and seen the set delivered, returning with the news to us.

What pioneers we were! Living in a sea of mud, surrounded by piles of bricks , with dreaded lime pits close by. These were holes dug out to slake the quick lime in water, a bubbling cauldron of grey slime; it spelt death and burning to any child that fell in. We were told of a child who had fallen in, and was pulled out by his boots. Just a skeleton remained above the boots! Needless to say, it held a magnetic attraction for us boys.

For some reason the Corpo had decided to name the roads after places in the West Country. So, as , I acquired friends in Places like Newlyn Avenue, Redruth Road and Mevagissey Close , my awareness of these as places also entered my young head.

Mum and Dad had got the houses as “key workers “In some way , English Electric had been allocated a certain number of houses , and this only increased our feelings of being , not just different from the other children , but more important , for our Dad was a key worker ! Not a mere butcher like Mr Brown , nor a tug boat mate like another neighbour. There were a small group of managers from the English Electric in the Close .Mr Smith was the Metallurgist for the whole works .He was their one and only metallurgist , such a heavy burden for one man to bear . Mr Green was an accountant .and Mr Smith was something else . Mr Underwood was Production Manager for the whole factory, and lived around the corner somewhere off Petherick road .Mrs Underwood and daughters were frequent visitors to our house. Thus, there was a lot of social mixing within the estate, workers and managerial staff living amongst one another, at first anyway.

Mobile shops

There were no shops on the Estate at first ,and people faced a long trudge to the nearest shop just off the estate ,opposite the “Dog and Gun “ ,so a variety of small business men filled the gap, driving round in old vans and selling stock from door to door. They sold most groceries and daily needs, with that cheery wit and banter which has always typified the city. Mum and Dad constantly mentioned how different were the people from those in Manchester, but these people rapidly became the norm for me .A child takes the world as it is, a fascinating new place to be explored .

Dairy

Dad told me how he used to help at his local dairy , and the farmer would squirt them with milk , then give them fresh creamy milk , straight from the cow , but our dairy was much more scientific, and the milk was sterilised and pasteurised there and then .The milkman would load his float , and the horse would set off, just around the corner to Crantock Close. The horse was sometimes led on a bridle by a boy, but usually it was just the milk man and his horse. The combination moved at a slow pace without stopping, and the milkman ran to each house, dropping off its ordered bottles , two pints at one house , four pints at another, and running back to his float with empties. Meantime, the horse just plodded on as its load slowly lightened, until it returned with its empty bottles to the dairy. Looking back, one marvels at how environmentally friendly it all was. No fossil fuels were used, there was no engine noise, just the distinctive clattering of glass bottles , and the milk travelled such a short distance from cow to breakfast bowl.

The Coal Man

The houses in Crantock Close enjoyed all modern amenities; electricity for lighting and domestic appliances, gas for cooking and clean water .They also had two open fires, one in the front room, and one in the back. The fires had a tiled fireplace, and it was a condition of council tenancy that the house had to be returned in its original condition .Mum never liked the tiles, and yearned to replace them with some more to her taste. Sadly, the Rules did not allow that, so the tiles were a constant source of annoyance during our tenancy, as they got dirty and some cracked.

Coal was the source of almost all our heating, and Mum bought a bag each week , usually of “Nutty slack “.The coal man delivered coal from a lorry , and carried it in on his back to our coal shed .This was outside the back door , and next to an outside toilet. During the winter Mum usually kept two fires burning, lighting the one in the back room first, and then the one in the front room after dinner. However, as spring progressed, she stopped the weekly delivery and allowed the stocks in the coal shed to dwindle.

This was in preparation for the highlight of the annual coal cycle, the midsummer delivery of a ton of best domestic to No 18 Crantock Close. The fuel crisis of the winter of 47/48 had left its mark in my parents’ psyche, and they were determined never to run out of coal again. So, one sunny summer’s day, when most people were buying lemonade and ice creams, the coal man would turn up at our door with his special offer of a ton of coal at bargain prices. This usually filled the coal shed up to the roof, sometimes with a couple of bags left over. Dad always insisted on a special brand of coal “Silkstone “which came all the way from the Silkstone colliery near Barnsley. It had large lumps of very black coal, with no shale waste, and gave out a lot of heat.

Mum had a special system of fire lighting, without using any wood kindling. She used to roll up pages of the Liverpool Echo from the previous night into tight spills, which she tied into a knot. These were laid at the base of the fire grate, with cinders and small bits of nutty slack. A single Swan Vesta match was enough to start the small fire, which was gradually built up to a real fire, throwing heat into to house, and smoke into the atmosphere. The environment had not been discovered in the 1950,s, and smokeless fuel did not seem to reach Croxteth in our time. Mum also had her own method of damping the fire down for the night. This was to wrap up damp potato peelings and other vegetables in newspaper , yet another use for the Liverpool Echo !These were then placed on top of the embers before going to bed, and kept the fire smouldering well into the night. In the morning the ashes were shovelled out into the dust bin. These were made of galvanised steel to cope with the heat of coal ash, and were standard for all houses at the time. Because so much rubbish was burnt, one bin was enough for most households.

Middle Way Shops

Eventually, the Corpie built a new block of shops for the growing population of Croxteth. Michael and Dennie got rid of their vans, and joined forces as M and D store, selling groceries and household goods. A newsagent opened up, Dad bought his Manchester Guardian there, Mum her cigarettes .Her brand was Kensitas , which lured people to smoke more by giving out coupons to be redeemed for luxury items, like tea trays .How proud I was to go to the shops to buy Mums cigarettes, and return with the change. Little did I think that every cigarette was ruining her health, because that was not known back then .

A new fish and chip shop was of course a roaring success, and was run by a Greek Cypriot family. One day the frying fat caught fire, and the fire brigade had to put it out. Such excitement! The owners stood disconsolate in a soot covered shop, black from floor to ceiling. However, their women folk galvanised them into action ,in a chorus of chattering Hellenic encouragement. The men soon cleaned it up , and business was resumed.

Catholic Shrine

At the corner next to the dairy was a shrine to the Virgin Mary. Painted in her blue coat , with a golden halo round her head, she was a figure of radiant beauty who captivated me from the start. Many children and adults crossed themselves when passing. We were not to do that .They were Catholic this word expressed in a respectfully yet disapproving tone. We were not. Yet what were we ? A mystery yet to be revealed. Were we “Proddies” ? Certainly not. We were Church of England, …apparently .

Dr Fitzpatrick.

Croxteth County Primary School

This was a brand new school , at the far end of Middle Way and my brother Philip and I must have been amongst its very first scholars. The building was the physical and architectural embodiment of the fortunate timing of being born during the baby boom .A brand new building , full of hope and light , built for the precious infants who would in turn build the brave new world of Peace and plenty. It had an Assembly Hall which was light and airy, and outside were the grass playing fields which led down to woodlands. Separating the woods from us was an enormous over towering fence of chain link , overtopped by three strands of barbed wire facing towards us dangerous inmates. The other side of the wire was the domain of “Lordie “a word spoken with a certain edge to it , combining awe , fear with a dash of dislike. Not to be confused with Our Lord, always spoken in terms of utmost respect. Lordie was Lord Derby , or was it Lord Sefton ? who owned everything beyond the fence and whose armed gamekeepers were on constant patrol with shotguns , just waiting to fire at the backsides of any small boys seen trespassing in his forbidden woods and rhododendron plantations. The gamekeepers might fire over the heads of little girls, but not at boys .They always aimed for the arse, and lead shot was very painful. Croxteth was full of boys who had been shot, and had to be taken to hospital to have the lead extracted. It was a fact well known.

Anglesey Lowestoft

Mid Wales

Gillmoss Sewage Farm

Percys Bit

Knowsley Industrial Estate

Lordie,s House

Mossley

Hightown Alt Estuary

Alt Meadows

Hoylake Langfields

Hilbre Island

Middle Hilbre

Little Eye

Red Rocks

Eastham Woods

Eastham Locks

Mount Stanlow

Loggerheads and Alun Valley

Shotton Steel Works

Burton Roost.

Liverpool Collegiate Shaw Street.

Bardsey Island

Saint Francis Xavier

Cley Marsh

Minsmere

St Johns Market

National Provincial Bank

Hackins Hey

Liverpool Pilot Office.

Mersey Docks and Harbour Board

Slovenia

Germany and Rhine

Italy

Middlesbrough

Hull Alexandra Dock

Antwerp

Rotterdam

Hamburg

London West India Dock

Las Palmas

Capetown

Port Elizabeth

East London

Laurenco Marques

Mombasa

Dar es Salaam

Tanga

Mtwara

Suez

Port Said

Newcastle

Collingwood Dock

A1 at Lloyds

Trawler Club

Pig and Whistle

Chester Station

Bangor

Sometime in the late 1940,s, perhaps 1946, Dad applied for a better job, managing the light engineering side of an established heavy engineering firm , Distington Iron and Steel Co. His application was successful, and his new job came with a brand new council house, so Mum moved her small family from a cramped Victorian terrace to a modern semi on the outskirts of Workington, in far away Cumberland. This was a long way north , and distant from their close knit family on the eastern fringes of Manchester. Her brother Tom also moved up to Workington, with Paddy and young Susan my cousin, a few months older than me

. It is difficult for me to remember much about the town of Workington, and probably most of my memories actually derive from return visits to the town after we had moved to Liverpool. Certainly, the sheer elemental power of steel making remains vivid. Trains used to pull round wagons of red hot slag from the blast furnaces to the sea , and pour the red hot liquid into the salt water below. The sea boiled and steam rose in great abundance. The resulting area of slag later came to my notice as a good botanical site in the BSBI Bulletin, but I have never had the pleasure of botanising there .Perhaps it has been grassed over with the boring amenity grasses so favoured by councils? The journey to the Lake district was long and tedious, by Ribble Bus, yet I also seem to remember using the train , which ran along the coast in places.

No 1 Garth Road , Moss Bay , Workington , Cumberland. Late 1940,s

I have but few memories of that house. A strange rasping noise kept us awake on summer evenings, and Mum asked neighbours what was causing this noise and disturbing her infants, sleep.”Oh they said , its only a bird .A Corn Crake “ How strange that one of my earliest memories should have been of a bird .Once Mum held me in her arms and showed me land in the distance on the other side of the Solway Firth .”That’s Kirkubrightshire “ she said “It’s in Scotland “Possibly my love of Scotland started with that first view. Many years later I was sent up to Workington to bring a ship down to Gladstone Dock in Liverpool. The ship was not ready, so I had a chance to explore , and made my way out to 1 Garth Road , near Moss Bay .The house still stood proud, with a view out to sea , and another family lived there, but I could well realise how pleased Mum must have been to live there.

The kitchen had a stove , a circular drum of steel, with a stove pipe .This burnt domestic rubbish, but fared better when fed a diet of coal, so gathering “The sea coal “ became a childhood pastime .We used to venture out on the shore , well wrapped wind off the Irish Sea , and pick up small pieces of coal off the high water strand line. Apparently there was a seam from the colliery which outcropped on the sea bed and washed up after storms .Perhaps some of the pieces were from colliery waste which was also dumped in the sea at a different spot to the iron slag. Whatever its origin, no one seemed to mind, and many children and mothers were engaged in scavenging coal for their fires. NHS powdered milk tins made robust containers for child size pieces of “Sea coal “ , and we regularly came home bearing our black treasure.Since that time , a warm kitchen with a stove burning has seemed the core of a home in winter.

The town was a Labour stronghold, and provided nursery education .Thus, my first experience as a scholar was at Moss Bay Infants school, a Victorian school , which I attended , along with my cousin Susan, only as part time scholars. We played in the class room, performed an act of “ I ,m a Little Tea Pot , short and stout “ to the tune of a piano, were given a biscuit and drink, then had a relaxing sleep on a camp bed. Sadly, these were the only occasions when such civilised amenities were provided in my education, all further sleeping being particularly reserved for home , officially at least.

Dad laid out a lawn to our house .The front was grassed with “Cumberland sea washed turf “ or so I was told, dug out from the shore and transplanted , “The finest turf in,t country , is that “ , so it was probably the back lawn .Dad raked and levelled the land with the spirit levels and string, to the “nearest thou “ ( thousandth of an inch ) always a precision engineer, mixed seed with red lead ( no concerns about environmental poisons then )and set string with little pieces of paper to flutter in the breeze and frighten off “those dratted sparrows “. The grass soon sprouted in the wet Cumberland climate , and the important people from the Steelworks and Council came on a tour of inspection.

Seemingly one of the party stood on my Dad’s newly sewn lawn, and I , at a very tender age , expostulated “ Don’t tread there, it’s my Dads’ new lawn !” .This was to a certain Mr Someone who was a real VIP , bringing a mixture of embarrassment and humour to the day’s performance, and the gentleman in question apologised profusely to the little child in front of him. My first clash with Authority! It was not to be the last. The new lawn developed bumps and lumps, not at all to the satisfaction of Harry Eades , and a solution was needed. Granddad in far off Haughton Green was the proud possessor of a lawn roller , and in those austerity days , new tools were out of the question. So , the roller was despatched by a form of postage , “British Road Services” which gave door to door delivery across the country by a wonderfully huge vehicle called a “Pantechnicon “ The biggest van I had ever seen arrived at our front door , and the roller arrived , with the label tied on with hessian string (no plastic then ), and Dad’s lawn was soon rolled into shape.

However, our stay in Workington did not last very long. The firm was briefly nationalised , not to Dads liking “ Civil servants trying to tell us our jobs “ , then returned to private ownership .My parents were concerned for the future prospects for their boys, there being only the dreaded Pits , Harrington Main being the local colliery, and the steelworks, although up the coast the strange “atomic” was growing at Windscale . Dad applied for a job in Liverpool, with Napier’s, the engine making subsidiary of English Electric. This was as the Tool Room Superintendent, a very responsible position in a large , and well known ,firm. The post came with the amazing salary of £ 1000 per year, so, Dad told me many years later , which was “a lot of money in those days “ So ,some time in the early 1950s , perhaps 1951, we moved again , from Workington to Liverpool , and left Uncle Tom , Auntie Paddie and cousin Sue up there in Wastwater Avenue for a few more years.

Napiers and English Electric

Napiers was part of the large English Electric factory complex , on the East Lancashire Road, the A540 arterial road which ran from Queens Drive(the Ring Road ) in Liverpool to Salford and the edges of Manchester. There were three factories , one made heavy electrical equipment for Power Stations , vital to rebuilding Britain’s industrial base. The second factory made domestic appliances for home and export markets. The English Electric brand was well known for its washing machines , irons , and household electric goods.

Napiers , the furthest east of the group made the famous Deltic engines, which powered the locos on the East Coast main line. The factories were “shadow factories “ , identical copies of factories in Stafford .This was a response to the rise of Hitler and the rearmament of Germany in the 1930 ,s. The idea was to keep production going if the Luftwaffe bombed either factory.

Thousands upon thousands of people worked at English Electric .The trams used to disgorge scarf clad women and flat hatted men every morning, and take them back to Norris Green every evening. Harry wore a blue suit , smartly ironed, white shirt , collar and tie ,and a trilby hat. He walked to work , and came home for lunch. We used to wait for him coming home, and as his familiar figure entered the Close would shout “Dads Coming !!” and Bessie put his lunch on the table.

Last tram to Lime Street

The trams in Liverpool were painted green , the municipal colour of the city, any connection with Ireland being purely coincidental, of course. These were impressive vehicles, which ran on rails set in the middle of the road, and were powered by electricity from overhead gantries. The No 19 route ran up Everton Brow then out towards the East Lancs Road and Gillmoss, and continued to the Kirby Industrial Estate. One of the draw backs to the trams was that they often stopped in the wide central reservation of the broad arterial boulevards .Passengers then had to cross a busy road to reach the footpath. However, they carried more passengers than a bus.

Sometimes Dad took his boys to watch Everton play at Goodison Park .The crowds in the 1950,s were truly enormous, far bigger than today, and made a big impression on me. Equally amazing was the long rank of trams waiting outside the ground to rapidly whisk supporters away in several directions, down to Scottie Road, or for us east towards Gillmoss. Each tram would swallow up a hundred plus passengers, totally ignoring the restrictions on numbers, and rattle off home. Of course , being electric powered trams did not emit any smoke, and none of us connected the smoke from Clarence dock Power Station with electricity , that being part and parcel of the all pervasive murk which steadily drifted east on the prevailing wind.

The seats on the trams were of wooden slats, and reversible. At the end of the line, the conductor changed the seats, and the driver shifted from one cab to the other end. Small boys used to delight in making a clattering noise by pulling the seats back and forwards, until told off by the conductor. We were no exceptions. The 19 ran empty on Saturdays towards the industrial estate, and being light, rattled tremendously once at a good speed .One autumn day , Dad took us to gather blackberries on the vast bramble jungles which proliferated on the former blast protection earth walls of the former munition works. The violent motion of the tram caused us to start giggling, and eventually we were overwhelmed by the sheer fun of it. We collapsed off the tram in a fit of hysterics. Such fun for a few coppers. Fortunately, the tram back was much more sedate, having passengers into town, and we did not spill our precious berries, needed for Mum’s bramble pies. There was a family history with trams, one of our ancestors having invented a sort of suspension system for early trams, which avoided the need for a turntable at the end of the route. He lived in respectable prosperity on the proceeds of his inventiveness in Victorian Manchester, owning a tram related engineering business.

One autumn day, an unusual apparatus appeared at Gillmoss, when a gent in the inevitable long gabardine coat set up an enormous wooden tripod and mounted a cine camera. Such a thing was unprecedented for Gillmoss , and we boys went rushing up “What you doing Mister ? “ we quizzed him .Puffing on his pipe ,he explained that he was taking pictures as a record .”These are the last working farm horses in the City “ he said , pointing to the “shire “ horses which were ploughing a field on the Corpie Farm. “And this is one of the last tram routes”, pointing to an unremarkable 19 tram .”Soon they will both be finished and I want to take some shots of the horses and trams in the same view “He was patient, and got his shots. I have never seen these images, but perhaps they exist somewhere in an archive. If so, perhaps I am in the picture, along with other snotty nosed and short trousered boys?

patient , and got his shots. I have never seen these images, but perhaps they exist somewhere in an archive? Perhaps there is a picture of me and my playmates aged ten or so with horses, trams and the mighty English Electric, a moment captured in time?

Miss Wisby

No doubt there were other teachers who all played an important part in my education, yet for some reason the one whose name lingers in my memory was Miss Wisby. She must have been my first teacher at Primary School, and I wonder if she was Irish ? This is only because of a half remembered remark of hers that in Ireland the pig follows on the tail of the cow, meaning presumably that waste dairy products like whey could be used to fatten up pigs. Such a remark might indicate a rural Irish background, yet my parents never commented on that at all. She was very kind, and concerned about her pupils, and taught me to improve my handwriting .She was pleased with me, and no doubt other pupils, because I could read quite well on arrival at school.

Miss Wisby was most concerned about children who took the wrong path in life , and had a fund of stories about children who had strayed from the path of righteousness. One sad tale was of a young boy who took to a life of crime. It all started small , stealing sweets from a corner shop .But it led to worse things .One evening he climbed a drain pipe, in order to burgle a house. Underneath the house were cast iron railings with spikes on top. Unfortunately, our young miscreant slipped and fell .beneath him were the railings , which pierced his little body in several places. The blood poured out of him, and he grew weak and pale. By the time the Police arrived it was too late. The poor misguided creature had died! And the moral was, do not take that fatal first step, but stay on the right path.

Another dangerous practice which concerned her was the dreadful prevalence of stone throwing .a custom had arisen for groups of boys to conduct open warfare by throwing stones at one another .Surrounded , as we were by constant building works and unguarded materials , there was no shortage of ammunition. Miss Wisby stressed that once a stone had left a boy’s hand, no power on earth could call the stone back. A stone could knock out the eye of an innocent child, and could never be replaced. Her entreaties about stone throwing were so oft repeated that possibly they did cause a reduction in that particular sport. Certainly, her little charges were left in no doubt that it was a dangerous game to play. Probably also the completion of building work and eventual landscaping reduced our supply of ammo. However, the tendency of the boys to run around in groups and gangs did not diminish , and is a constant in my memories of Croxteth.

Croxteth Library

At the far end of the row of shops, Liverpool City Council, built a brand new library .The opening ceremony was impressive , with a large crowd watching the event .A local naturalist cut the ribbon , and I believe he was Norman Ellison, who wrote under the pen name of “ Nomad .His books were on the library shelves.It was only small, but all the books were new, and it contained a children’s section. The librarians were very friendly and helpful, and the Library, became very important to me. I soon read all the children’s books of interest and moved onto the adult books, soon becoming quite well read. For some reason, the writings of Arthur Ransome did not appeal to me, and I have never yet read any of his work. In the 1960,s a man librarian called Alan Baldridge was in charge. He was very interested in birds, as was I, and we got on fine. He had explored Europe by motor bike, travelling to the Camargue and to the north of Norway. He was a great inspiration, and later emigrated to the USA where he rose to head a large library.

Without any doubt, Croxteth Library was a big factor in my life, and I owe it a great debt. Sadly, I believe it has now closed as part of financial cuts to help pay for the renewed Central Library. In my view this is a mistaken policy, because public transport is so expensive that few young people in Croxteth will now have access to books and literature.

Fell off the Back of a Lorry

The City Fathers, in their wisdom, decided to mark the entrance to Croxteth after the Dog and Gun by a roundabout. This slowed down the traffic, especially the buses, and must have been a problem for goods vehicles , known universally as lorries at that time. One day there was a hullabaloo, women and children pouring towards the Dog and Gun in great agitation. I followed the throng, all talking excitedly about butter. For some reason, a lorry loaded with butter had decided to enter the estate , and must have taken the roundabout too fast. There it was, lying on its side , unable to move , its wheels pointing horizontally with no grip to the tarmac. The poor thing looked so sad, like a beached whale, and I instinctively felt sorry for it, though no thought of the driver entered my head .

However, the spectacle of the vehicle was put into perspective by the butter , which lay in abundance and profusion , all over the road and pavements .Wherever one looked, packs of Anchor butter were strewn. And how the good ladies and infants and infants of Croxteth had responded to this sad situation in their midst. Swarming like ants, with makeshift bags, shopping bags and prams , they were loading up Anchor butter like people possessed .All this in full view of the Police Station .Gripped by the frenzy, I stuffed Anchor butter into some sort of container , and heeding the muttered warnings “Quick , lar, Bizzies , ll be ere soon .” ,scurried home to Crantock Close with my booty , proud of an opportunity seized. Mum was horrified. No one had a right to purloin butter like that. It was practically stealing , she was ashamed of me. Liverpool was a city of looters, only the Army had kept order in the Blitz , it was well known .” I protested “Everyone is doing it.” Which got the response “Typical !” However , I was able to clinch that with the practical observation “Its all melting anyway “ which was true .Mum relented , and put the guilty butter at the back of our recently acquired English Electric fridge. It tasted good on toast. Clearly, the morality of misplaced property differed between Liverpool and Audenshaw.

Looking back I can see here an early start to my ingrained tendency to search for things, at ground level, in trees above, in hedges, at sea, always looking, always searching.” Seek and ye shall find “This is of course, one of the defining characteristics of a naturalist, though I did not realise it at the time. And we naturalists, in our endless search for new creatures , do find discarded and lost objects , which really do fall off the back of lorries, bicycles, camels , ponies, and what should be more natural than to either reunite them with their owner , or else to reuse them somehow?

Mobile shops

There were no shops on the Estate at first ,and people faced a long trudge to the nearest shop just outside opposite the “Dog and Gun “ ,so a variety of small business men filled the gap, driving round in old vans and selling stock from door to door. They sold most groceries and daily needs, with that cheery wit and banter which has always typified the city. Michael was one , who traded from a van , and Dennie another. Another entrepreneur who penetrated our new estate was the rag and bone man, with his horse drawn cart and loud cry “Ragsnbones “ .This was the signal for children to raid their parents cupboards and rush out with clothes to swap for a Goldfish. The rag man was a character from Dickens , I later visualised Fagin as him , with a twisted face , and very dirty or swarthy skin .He used to send children back for better clothes , “with more wool in “ and advised them where to look to find better stuff .Then , he would hand over his precious balloons and sad Goldfish , and depart .The vanished clothes would not be missed until sometime later , and must have caused a lot of trouble at home.

The Dairy

There was a small dairy on the corner of Gillmoss Lane, established many years before the Estate was built. Walking past, I heard the cattle lowing, and smelt their body sweat and dung , all overpowered by that sensuous milky odour .Such an aromatic experience .I used to walk in sometimes , fascinated, as the beasts were milked by small electric machines, and watched the heavy glass bottles being steam washed and refilled with fresh milk .Dad told me how he used to help at his local dairy , and the farmer would squirt them with milk , then give them fresh creamy milk , straight from the cow , but our dairy was much more scientific .The milkman would load his float , and the horse would set off, just around the corner to Crantock Close. The horse was sometimes led on a bridle by a boy , but usually it was just the milk man and his horse. The combination moved at a slow pace without stopping, and the milkman ran to each house , dropping off its ordered bottles , two pints at one house , four pints at another, and running back to his float with the empties. Meantime , the horse just plodded on as its load slowly lightened , until it returned with its empty bottles to the dairy. Looking back , one marvels at how environmentally friendly it all was. No fossil fuels were used, there was no engine noise, I also wonder where the beasts were pastured? I do not remember any cows grazing in Croxteth, and the East Lancs was too busy for cattle to cross. Possibly they were just milch cows , and hay was brought to them, such a sad life .

The Wheels on the bus go round and round

One summer morning in my bedroom in 1950.s Croxteth , I woke up to a strange, deep rumbling noise, which I vaguely recognised, but had never heard before on our new estate. It was the distinctive sound of a diesel engine powering a bus along .The bus had arrived in Croxteth, courtesy of Liverpool City Council, or the “ Corpie “ as it was usually known. Later in the day I went out to explore this new miracle of progress. A green bus bearing the number 14C arrived at a newly made stop at the junction of Moss Way and Middle Way .Somehow , we found out that the letter C after the route number signified via Church Street , and D meant via Dale Street .

Naturally, all buses and trams finished and started at the Pier Head. Where else would transport start from ? How else would one join a ship to New York or a ferry to Birkenhead? From that day on, a new form of transportation opened to me. A scholar’s ticket, purchased for a few pennies would get me to to the city centre, with possibilities of changing to other parts of the city Previously, it was necessary to walk out of the Estate to use public transport .Our favoured route was the tram , the 19 tram to Gillmoss from the Pier Head which ran along the East Lancs. and stopped at Gillmoss Lane , opposite the English Electric.

From then on Buses became one of my main means of transport, taking me to school and taking me to the city centre. When I went for my first job interview at Clan Line Offices , the Liver Buildings , I travelled by bus , which stopped conveniently at the front door. And the buses were cheap, only 4d half price, as well as frequent, every ten minutes I think. Liverpool buses were painted green, with the city coat of arms on the side. Ribble buses were red , and ran to the north of Liverpool , up to Workington.”Over the water “ in Birkenhead the buses were a different colour, and wore the coat of arms of that famous ship building town. Up in Wallasey and New Brighton the colours changed to a snazzy blue and yellow , befitting a thriving holiday resort. There was a territorial element as well, each town defending its own buses from rival towns.”Foreign “buses were not supposed to operate in Liverpool , and only used certain stops.

Travel to other places revealed other bus liveries, and new coats of arms .Chester buses were a sort of maroon colour, and only operated within city limits. I remain a dedicated user of buses .wherever I go in the World, my first instinct is to find the bus stop, and explore the local network. To me , a bus is a sort of Socialism on wheels , and the Latin word omnibus means “for everyone “.One pays ones fare , sits down and joins a social enterprise. A properly trained and qualified driver is on the wheel, all the passengers need do is pay the fare, sit back and enjoy the journey. No need to insure the vehicle, buy the vehicle, pay for new tyres, watch for road signs, it’s all taken care of. As a stranger on a new bus route, if unsure of where to get off , where to find the shop or tourist feature , all one need do is ask a fellow traveller .Worldwide, bus travellers are a cheery lot .I have used buses to explore western Turkey, and crossed the atlas Mountains in Morocco both ways by bus. In Burgenland , the eastern province of Austria i got the buses to the beautiful baroque villages of Andau , Frauenkirchen and Tadten. Buses did not cross the iron Curtain into Hungary at that time , but no doubt they do nowadays.

Tenerife

Malta.

I based our home economic system on using Public Transport

for work .This meant we remained a one car family , and our motor car , a big economic asset, was available for my wife to use when needed , rather than sitting rusting away on some Pier Head or Dock. The agents were supposed to give the Pilot two hours to join a ship, and the Shoremaster gave the jobs out with at least two hours notice. I reasoned that Public Transport was adequate for work, and our first house in Bromborough was handy for the 39 and 41 buses at Woodside, as well as the train to Liverpool and Chester. I landed on the launch , walked up the Landing Stage , and got the bus home .Sometimes ,I was too late , after 2315,i think it was , and occasionally had to bum a lift or get a cab, but mostly it worked out fine.

We moved to Heswall, the Lower Village ,in 1976 and that was also well served by buses , which I used a lot for work and leisure. The 85 bus took me to Eastham Locks; by a slow meandering route .The Rapid ride to Liverpool gave excellent service, and was very cheap. It ran every hour, and took half an hour to Liverpool centre. I discovered then, the deep rooted hostility of other fellow bourgeoisie to Public Transport. There were business people in Lower Heswall who were oblivious to the economic advantages of using the bus. Tunnel tolls , parking costs , fuel costs meant nothing to them , and they were ,of course, hostile to environmental concerns. What mattered was the snob value of their shiny motor car and the prestige of being seen inside it. Such attitudes have always amazed me. At school, when I was taught economics, the basic assumption was that people made economic decisions on a rational basis. However, there are flaws in that argument, and many other factors come into play. But snobbery is an expensive game to play, and I occasionally derive pleasure from hearing of someone in financial trouble due to expensive tastes in cars.”Should have got the bus “is my usual response.

When we moved to the Humber, I discovered a different culture .The pilots only got one hour’s notice to the Office at the Pier , but most chose to live outside of town. The result was a culture of haste. The Pilots also allowed 1 hour to get from the Office to boarding a ship at Spurn Light Float, which was mission difficult at the best of times, and totally impossible on many occasions.

The MacFarlane’s.

T“Dad. Why is Mr Mcfarlane carrying a fishing rod ? “.Dad came to the front window and looked out at our next door – but one neighbour ,who was walking resolutely away from us, with a suit case in his left hand , and in his right a long bag of the sort used to carry fishing rods .With a steady pace, hat on head and wearing a gabardine coat he walked out of the Close and disappeared .Shortly afterwards Mrs McFarlane (Doris ) appeared at the door , tearful , and went into conclave with Mum in the front room. It was all very mysterious, but soon the truth was out. Mr Mcfarlane had left his family!

Such a thing was unheard of the 1950,s, and the close was soon buzzing with rumours. However, the sad truth was that three children were without a Father and bread winner. David was our play mate, and was about Phil’s age. Arlene was the studious elder sister, dark haired and quietly steely. Joyce was shy and very pleasant . Pamela was the spoilt younger sister, very pretty and usually the centre of attention. Mrs McFarlane worked at English Electric as a comptometer operator. This impressed Mum greatly, as these technicians were highly paid and skilled. Presumably, a comptometer was an early form of computer. Significantly perhaps, it seemed to have been used to sort out the payroll of the huge workforce at the factory, rather than to do research or practical engineering.

Mr David Macdonald MacFarlane was a remarkable man. Smartly dressed, with a brisk, upright walk, he exuded confidence and competence .He had an ambitious personality, was good company, and was an early motorist. On the day before the Preston Bypass opened he took our families on a test run in his car .This was the first section of Motorway in Britain , and looking back , was a significant event .I declined to go , but, everyone else came back very impressed. He had had a good War, “Joined the Army as a Private, and came out a Captain “as my parents used to say, in awe.

He was very much a Scot, from the West coast somewhere near Glasgow, and on Christmas Day insisted that his son David come out in kilt and sporran. Of course, we all teased him, and he was embarrassed, but it was only one day a year. The McFarlane’s celebrated Burn’s Night and Hogmanay, which Mum especially enjoyed.

He had good job somewhere, then started a business in Liverpool .It was a general shop, in Crown Street near the University. I walked there one day from the Collegiate, and he showed me around. There did not seem to be many customers. Perhaps the business failed? Phil remembers him eating curried beans from a tin , presumably unsold stock form the shop.

We soon accepted the situation .Mr McFarlane had gone, and might come back one day.”Another woman “ was the phrase the grown -ups used, and we children continued playing together , in our back garden or on the “Middle Bit “However , there was worse to come. One night there was a commotion as we slept. We awoke to find a crisis, as Mum, her face stained by crying and still visibly upset, told us that Doris had died in the night .It was her heart.”Died of a broken heart.” We were stunned.

Mum and a group of other mothers rallied round and looked after the four orphaned children, as best they could, but something would have to be done. At all costs the children were not going into care! Some distant relatives were found in Leicester, Jerry is a name that comes to mind . Conveniently, they were childless themselves. This couple came up, and stayed for a while , but things did not work out for some reason, and they too vanished from the scene .Probably they realised the task was beyond them , and he had work to do at home , and the children were locked into the education system.

However “The Pen is mightier than the Sword “, and one day Mum was excited because a reporter had shown up in the Close , from “The People “ no less, and spoke to the children and to neighbours .Soon an article appeared in the famous “People” , with a huge Sunday circulation .A family were left orphaned, but where was the Father ?There was a photo of him, probably from the War. The article worked, because soon Mr MacFarlane reappeared .He had been in London, working in an hotel, and suffering from amnesia, “very convenient” . Mr Mac got another good job, supervising in Birds Eye food factory , and met a woman from Parbold. Then one day, the family left. He was buying a house out in Parbold with his new wife .He was setting up a business , a mink farm , but that was not a success . And so, the MacFarlane’s’ vanished from our lives, except that Mum kept in touch by Christmas cards. David went to sea as an engineer, and Arlene qualified as a teacher. Joyce emigrated to New Zealand .She was very successful, and finished as Headmistress of a large school in New Zealand.

At Mum’s funeral, I was very pleased that Joyce showed up. She was on holiday in England , and had received a message from New Zealand about the Funeral. She told me that she was so grateful to Bessie. The night Doris died the Social Services had wanted to take the children into a care home, and goodness knows what would have happened to them .Possibly the family would have been scattered forever. She said that Bessie had saved the children from that fate, and I was deeply moved.

The Coal Man

Mum had a special system of fire lighting, without using any wood kindling. She used to roll up pages of the Liverpool Echo from the previous night into tight spills, which she tied into a knot. These were laid at the base of the fire grate, with cinders and small bits of nutty slack. A single Swan Vesta match was enough to start the small fire, which was gradually built up to a real fire, throwing heat into to house, and smoke into the atmosphere. The environment had not been discovered in the 1950,s , and smokeless fuel never reached Croxteth in our time. Mum also had her own method of damping the fire down for the night. This was to wrap up damp potato peelings and other vegetables in newspaper , yet another use for the Liverpool Echo !These were then placed on top of the embers before going to bed, and kept the fire smouldering well into the night. In the morning the ashes were shovelled out into the dust bin. These were made of galvanised steel to cope with the heat of coal ash, and were standard for all houses at the time. Because so much rubbish was burnt, one bin was enough for most households.

The Butler Did It .

http://liverpoolcitypolice.co.uk/communities/5/004/009/012/345/images/4549056440_pre.jpg

Harold Winstanley.

We received the News from Sissie Gibbons through the Fence. A massacre at The Hall ! Lady was DEAD! Murdered with a gun ! Bodies everywhere .Blood all over the Hall ! Shows you’re not safe, even in a great Hall. Lordy was missing. We were stunned. What could it mean? Those great shadowy figures whose names were a byword for stability and permanence, whose domain formed our eastern boundary, faces unknown behind their own iron curtain, were gone to meet their maker. It was another blow to the decaying Molyneux name.

. Mum was sure of the source of trouble “Someone from Liverpool. Even the Fence couldn’t keep them out. And armed with guns now! Just what Grandma always said it was like over here “ Dad came home for lunch from Napiers in his suit, nearly put on a black tie, then changed his mind, being unsure of his Lordy’s religion and not wishing to cause offence. Sissie gave Mum the inside News . “The Butler Did It “and Dad’s response “Straight out of Agatha Christie “

He went back to work . The factory was full of gossip, and he returned for tea with the latest rumours. ”It’s an Inside Job .They’ve got him, but not releasing the name yet.” It was on the National News.” A man has been arrested and is helping the Police with their inquiries “

It was on the front page news in The Liverpool Echo. “Lady Derby, the wife of one of the last great Lancashire Landowners shot and injured in her own home at Knowsley Hall .Two servants dead. Police were investigating. Coroner had been informed. A man had been arrested in Liverpool .Lady Derby was in hospital .Lord Derby had been absent visiting another landowner at the time but was at her bedside”

Subsequently the story emerged, the massacre was at Knowsley Hall, behind my school Fence, home of the Derby family , not the Molyneux family at Croxteth Hall .To me ,as a child all the nobility merged into “Lordy” and the perpetrator was a young footman, Harold Winstanley . He had got hold of a German semi automatic pistol, shot Lady Derby in the neck, who fortunately survived, and killed two colleagues. He had left the Hall , had a pint in the Copple house Pub , got the bus into Liverpool and surrendered to the Police .This was in October 1952 He was found insane and sent to a prison for the mentally ill, at Her Majesty’s pleasure, and the fuss died down.

I was only seven at the time , and the whole business made a big impact on me, especially Sissie and Percy being so upset .I have discussed it recently with Phil , “only thirteen months younger” as Mum used to say, yet he cannot remember it at all, and I had begun to think that it had only happened in my imagination. However, a search on the Internet , that massive archive in cyberspace, explained and clarified my childhood memories.

The incident showed that things were perhaps not so tranquil in the 1950,s as we now believe, that wartime fire arms were in circulation illegally, and mentally disturbed people could get hold of them. Strangely, the shooting seems almost forgotten today, and has not entered the popular psyche , now dominated by far more tragic and recent events. The two deaths were of working class people, and soon forgotten .Had Lady Derby not miraculously survived, then no doubt the tragedy would still be talked about today.

Saint Swithin’s Church

Our nearest Church was Saint Swithin’s, a Roman Catholic Church only a few hundred yards away, just outside Crantock Close at the corner of Gillmoss Lane. Vaguely, I remember an old sandstone building, square and heavy, and also there was a convent, and we used to see nuns ain the area. More impressive was the Shrine of Our Lady, set into the wall. She was a most beautiful Madonna, in a blue dress, who looked out serenely on all passers -by as they walked down Gillmoss Lane. Catholics, who were very numerous, used to cross themselves as they passed .We were not Catholics, and firmly instructed not to cross ourselves, although, personally I cannot see any harm in the practice, which is, after all, only a pious expression of respect. Nor can I really understand the puritan hostility to shrines and statues. What could be more worthy of human respect and veneration than a Mother holding a Baby, regardless of whether one believes in the religious significance of the art?

It was rumoured the Corpie had deliberately allocated houses to alternate between Catholics and Protestants. I used to scoff at this idea as a teenage know –all, pointing out that it was not true for our house, as our neighbours, the Slatters were not Catholics. To my surprise, forty five years later, when Mrs Slatter died, her service was a Catholic one, so perhaps the rumour was correct. Mum always maintained that the Council had denied it at the time, but the policy was nevertheless deliberate. The idea was to prevent sectarian enclaves developing. In a city divided on sectarian lines, the aim for religious integration on the new housing developments on the outskirts was understandable. Mainly, it seems to have worked. In Croxteth there were no religious districts.

There was a dynamic Priest in charge at St Swithin’s, and he galvanised his flock into building a new, modern church to receive his rapidly growing congregation. For, as people were moved out of overcrowded housing in the city centre to idyllic bliss in the green fields of Croxteth, the Catholic population boomed, with new babies swelling the ranks.

Fund raising for the new church proceeded apace, and the method used was Bingo, or “Housey-Housey “ ,as it was also known. Grandma strongly disapproved.”The Church of Rome will never thrive “she used to say.”It’s all built on gambling” However, the shaky gambling foundations of never seem to have held it back much. There was however another slight difficulty with gambling. It was illegal! Under the legislation of the time, gambling for money and prizes was strictly controlled.

Gambling on horse races for example was restricted to the race courses, where bookmakers did a brisk, and legal trade. There was also a clandestine, and illicit, system whereby men on street corners collected bets and cash, and placed bets for customers, for a consideration. They were known as “Bookies runners “and the Police moved them on, with little success.

It says a lot for the status of the Church in Liverpool, that the Chief Constable never took any action against the illegal bingo sessions .Mum was a solid supporter of the Bingo nights, and our family must have been big contributors to the new building. The new Church was to be a spacious, airy structure with light pouring in, and the architect used reinforced concrete as the building material. The framework was a row of concrete arches, which arose one by one, until a dozen stood erect, in a line parallel to Gillmoss Lane. There were no horizontal components to the structure at first, which must have been held up by concrete at the base of each post.

Sadly, just when the structure was most vulnerable, an unusually vigorous summer storm blew from the Irish Sea. The north gable arch was the first to fall, toppling onto its’ neighbour, and starting a chain reaction, which demolished the whole load bearing structure. The following morning the parishioners and Priest saw their fine new building reduced to a pile of grey concrete rubble, with bits of steel rods sticking out. The disaster was, of course, the talking point of Croxteth, and there was much dark muttering about the significance of the date. For the calamity fell upon Orange Lodge Day, the day of Protestant triumphalism, and much celebrated in the city.

However

Rough Justice

One day a very strange thing happened to me on the Corpie Sewage Farm. I was visiting to watch birds , on this my nearest , and far away the best , bird watching site and walking down Back Gilmoss Lane .After passing the Napiers Works , the lane bent sharply to the right , approaching traffic obscured by the high hedges which were then the norm. I rounded the corner, and there a few yards away was a young boy running towards me in a state of distress, crying and with dishevelled clothes, or more of a mess than usual at that time. He was crying, and much smaller and younger than me. If I was, say thirteen years old at the time, he was perhaps ten or eleven. In the 1950s, boys did wander around the edge of towns, usually in groups , but sometimes , as I did ,on their own. Parents were less concerned than today, particularly with boys“ Go out and play “ being a commonly heard injunction at the time .Naturally, I tried to calm him ,and asked what was the matter. His answer amazed me “A man jumped on me, held a knife to my throat and said he was going to shag me!”

“What! Where did he go?” .He pointed down the lane towards the Farm house and Barns.” ” Where do you live” “in South dene” This was the nearest part of the ever-growing New Town of Kirkby , just outside city limits, and in walking range from the farm. I said I would walk him home, and tell the Police as soon as we saw a Bobby. We continued down Back Gillmoss Lane , and I called at the farm .No one was in , so it was probably a Saturday. We walked on with growing crops on both sides of us, until we came to the road which crossed it,…Right opposite us , on the other side of the road was a bus stop. The boy immediately became agitated, and said “There he is !” ,pointing to a man at the head of a bus queue. He must have been waiting for a time, as the queue was quite long. We crossed the road, with him holding my hand , and approached the nearest responsible looking grown up male. I explained to him what had happened, and this man went to the assailant and grabbed him by the Coat collars .He was obviously frightened. “Is this true? “he asked .He denied it , but the boy screamed “He did !, he did !”And the women gathered round him in a state of growing anger, and started screaming at him. The assailant was increasingly frightened, and the Responsible Grow n Up , turned to me and said , “Don’t worry son , we’ll sort it out “ .I imagined he would call the Police somehow, said goodbye to the young victim who ran off , and crossed the Road once again. Back on the other side I turned round and saw a scene of raw brutality. A group of men and women were punching and kicking the assailant, screaming abuse, and he fell to the ground. The men started to kick him, and I could see blood on the pavement.

Sickened by what I had seen, and shocked by the events of what should have been a quiet bird watching session, I made my way home. I never told my parents about this episode .Such was the taboo against discussing anything to do with sex, it was too embarrassing to even talk of such things. Possibly, I was also fearful of being barred from going out on my own to the Corpie .Oddly enough I have never discussed the incident with anyone else, but the memories have remained for over fifty years now.

One thing it taught me was how quickly a peaceful group of people, strangers to one another, can turn into a mob, united in their lust for blood and revenge. Thinking more of it, I wonder if it was also an illustration of the Celtic temper at work. The deep need to defend children and punish miscreants without State intervention seems very Celtic .For Liverpool, and Kirkby was being populated by Liverpool’s urban, mainly Irish proletariat, is basically a Celtic city an inconvenient fact ignored by London.

A few years ago, but long after this event, the TV screen showed something similar, which brought the memory back. A group of Islamic terrorists made a determined, but botched, attack on Glasgow Airport. They were all medics, caring people, living in our community, who chose to attack the departure hall of a civilian airport full of families going off on their holidays. Fortunately their attack failed, as the car, which was loaded with a bomb ,drove into concrete anti car bollards outside the main terminal entrance. Once again , simple robust defences proved their worth. What amazed me was the reaction of the Glaswegian public. A group of them mounted a bare hands attack on the terrorist group , three men I think .They dragged them from the car , not knowing if they were armed, or not and started to punch and kick them into submission. Once again, an attack on family and children had to be beaten off at once by whatever means. Would the public reaction have been the same in England? Possibly, but I doubt it.

Places I Remember

Places I Remember

Workington.

I t is difficult for me to remember much about the town of Workington, and probably most of my memories actually derive from return visits to the town after we had moved to Liverpool. Certainly, the sheer elemental power of steel making remains vivid. Trains used to pull round wagons of red hot slag from the blast furnaces to the sea , and pour the red hot liquid into the salt water below. The sea boiled and steam rose in great abundance. The resulting area of slag later came to my notice as a good botanical site in the BSBI Bulletin, but I have never had the pleasure of botanising there .Perhaps it has been grassed over with the boring amenity grasses so favoured by councils? The journey to the Lake District was long and tedious, by Ribble Bus, yet I also seem to remember using the train, which ran along the coast in places.

Dad took us boys fishing once or twice in Bassenthwaite Lake, one of the lesser known Lakes, but convenient to Workington. We did catch fish with rod and line, and they were silvery

coloured, but I do not know what species .Possibly Roach ? Phil confirms the catch of Pike. It is difficult for me to remember much about the town of Workington, and I believe that most of my memories actually derive from return visits to the town after we had moved to Liverpool. Certainly, the sheer elemental power of steel making remains as a vivid memory. Trains used to pull round wagons of red hot slag from the blast furnaces to the sea , and pour the red hot liquid into the salt water below. The sea boiled and steam rose in great abundance. The resulting area of slag later came to my notice as a good botanical site in the BSBI Bulletin, but I have never had the pleasure of botanising there .Perhaps it has been grassed over with the boring amenity grasses so favoured by councils? The journey to the Lake district was long and tedious, by Ribble Bus, yet I also seem to remember using the train , which ran along the coast in places.

Dad used to say that most of the world’s trains ran on Workington made rails , and that the local steel was particularly suitable for railways , being I think, “ acid “ .A talking point with my parents was the local , ancient game of primitive football between the “ Uppies “ and the “ Downies “.This was apparently an anarchic , brutal match with few rules , which regularly resulted in injuries. Certainly, the touristic and poetic image of the Lakes has obscured its coastal towns, with a long history of heavy industry. Mum used to talk about the Cumbrian,s leisurely attitude to life. They never would run for a bus, saying “There’ll be another one soon “which she found an amusing contrast to the big city attitude of haste and rush. I have but few memories of that house. A strange rasping noise kept us awake on summer evenings, and Mum asked neighbours what was causing this noise and disturbing her infants, sleep.”Oh they said , its only a bird .A Corn Crake “ How strange that one of my earliest memories should have been of a bird .Once Mum held me in her arms and showed me land in the distance on the other side of the Solway Firth .”That’s Kirkubrightshire “ she said “It’s in Scotland “Possibly my love of Scotland started with that first view. Many years later I was sent up to Workington to bring a ship down to Gladstone Dock in Liverpool. The ship was not ready, so I had a chance to explore , and made my way out to 1 Garth Road , near Moss Bay .The house still stood proud, with a view out to sea , and another family lived there, but I could well realise how pleased Mum must have been to live there.

The kitchen had a stove , a circular drum of steel, with a stove pipe .This burnt domestic rubbish, but fared better when fed a diet of coal, so gathering “The sea coal “ became a childhood pastime .We used to venture out on the shore , well wrapped wind off the Irish Sea , and pick up small pieces of coal off the high water strand line. Apparently there was a seam from the colliery which outcropped on the sea bed and washed up after storms .Perhaps some of the pieces were from colliery waste which was also dumped in the sea at a different spot to the iron slag. Whatever its origin, no one seemed to mind, and many children and mothers were engaged in scavenging coal for their fires. NHS powdered milk tins made robust containers for child size pieces of “Sea coal “ , and we regularly came home bearing our black treasure. Since that time , a warm kitchen with a stove burning has seemed the core of a home in winter.

Haughton Green

Was the village where my Father,s family came from. It was an industrial village in the Borough of Denton , and to the east of Manchester .However , the area was still mainly rural , and it was impressed on me , as a matter of import , that “There’s seven farms on Haughton Green “ .Presumably they were tenant farms , perhaps to the local collieries. Grandma and Granddad lived in 159 Haughton Green Road, a council house semi , almost at the end of the bus route. The buses were electric trolley buses , and a source of fascination to Phil and me. Each bus had two poles on its roof , which connected to a live electric wire above it .The live wires were suspended from solid metal poles at the side of the road, so that a spiders web of electricity ran from the centre of Manchester to the furthest reaches of the conurbation .Haughton Green was definitely the end of the line. The bus would stop outside the Jolly Hatter, go down to St Mary’s Church swing right and return on the other side of the road, passing a row of cottages .”Grandma could have bought those cottages for £300 after the War , tha knows “ “.Why didn’t she ?” “Granddad said they were too old .Wanted pulling down .Look they’ve got stone roofs, solid stone .That means they’re over a hundred years old. Want pulling down ” This was a mystery to me “Why ? “ “Cos they should have slate rooves “Granddad was a firm believer in pulling down old houses , and the council house he lived in was actually built on the site of a former Victorian Villa, so he never moved more than a few yards himself apparently. The trolley

used bus stopped in front of the “Tommy Todd “ a grass village green , behind which stood the solid Victorian School. From the village, behind the straggling shops and houses, lay fields of grass. to take classes of little c

The village school used hildren into one of the meadows to play on fine days in summer , and Phil and I used to join them .”These are Harry’s Boys. Cum all t,way from Liverpool “We always used to visit Haughton Green at Whitsuntide .Whit was a big day in Manchester , the end of the long dreary winter, but a moving feast like Easter , which it followed . Granddad grew Peonies in his garden. They made an especially fine show of deep red in his back garden, alongside the stone path which ran down to the lower back garden. He loved his peonies “They cum from china tha knows .” he told me .”Do they Granddad ? “ How are sown the seeds of curiosity .To think on the other side of the world , is a strange land , with peonies and dragons ,where the men wear pigtails.( I read the Beano ) “ Can I go to China Grandad ? “ “Not now Raymond. Its Communist tha knows “this said with such finality, that further enquiry was obviously useless.

Delta Road, Audenshaw.

Grandma Shaw was quiet .She sat upright in a high backed chair, with her best clothes on to greet her youngest child and her Grandchildren who had come all the way from Liverpool to see her. We kissed , and played at her feet , but the room was small , and soon we grew bored .She would get out a box for us , Granddad Shaw’s medals for us to play with. I never met poor Granddad Shaw, for he died long before the Second War, and fought the Germans in the First .These shiny medals with their coloured ribbons were all that remained, our tangible link to a missing Grandparent. There was a black and white photo of him , taken before he left for France .the proud patriarch ,moustachioed and surrounded by his children ,(except little Bessie born after his return from France ) “ about to risk all for King and Country.

How I wish I could intervene miraculously through time , and shout to him from a century later “ Don’t sign up Daniel ! .They don’t need you .You’re too old. Stay here with your family .your country needs you for the War Effort , not for cannon fodder “.If only we could intervene retrospectively .But where would it all end ? We would always want another rewrite of History, and the past cannot be altered. But perhaps, one day we could learn from the past, and not repeat our mistakes?

Soon, we would get bored, and while Mum and Dad drank tea and smoked, we went outside “to play”. Children always played outside in those days. The terraced house had a backyard, which opened out to a back alleyway..The far side of the alleyway was defined by an iron fence, and behind that the Railway Line .It went to Sheffield , but stopped at Guide Bridge Station. The east west axis of my young life was lengthening , to the east lay other mysteries. Yorkshire and Huddersfield whence Daniel and Woody had emigrated by tram and walked the moors until they reached Ashton in Lancashire.

This was a magnetic attraction for Phil and me .We squoze our way through a gap in the railings and out onto the grass embankment. Trains went by with great frequency, all of them were steam trains , belching steam and soot and a distinctive smell ,and loud noise. We always waved at the passengers sat at their seats .Most just stared blankly at two little boys in short trousers , sat above their heads on a grubby railway embankment. But some, just a few, waved back and smiled. How much does it mean , a smile and a cheery wave !and how cheaply given !Of all human gestures , surely a wave is one of the most significant .?To this day, I always wave back at children .I always wave at passing boats , passengers , fellow travellers on life’s voyage. What does it cost, and what joy might it bring? It certainly always cheers me up.

Delta Mill

The two sides of Delta Road ran parallel to one another in rows of front doors, except just on the opposite corner where some bay windowed semis brightened the scene. The two lines converged at the end of the road , and there , the view was blocked by the towering grandeur of the Delta Works. This was where Auntie Nellie worked .The entrance to the Works was blocked by wrought iron gates .Painted black ,with gilded , sharpened tops , they emphasised the majesty of the Works.

Nellies looms.

Nellie worked in the Delta Works , but she hadn’t worked there all her life , far from it. As a little girl , she had worked “Part time “ in another mill , a proper cotton mill, full of noise , dirt and danger . She didn’t work full time like the others, just part time , from six in the morning till two in the afternoon .Wasn’t she lucky ? How tenderly they looked after children in those days ! And, by the time she was twelve she was personally responsible for six Jacquard Looms ! And never a word of criticism from the overseers. During the Slump , which seemed to have lasted forever in Audenshaw, she was the breadwinner of the family.

Ashton Moss

Her Father, Daniel, had returned from the trenches a broken man, but alive and not gassed, at least . His old trade , as an artistic decorator of linoleum had been rendered obsolete by new processes. Finding work was very hard, and the family struggled .Her voice reverting to childhood, Mum would say defensively “He did all sorts, my Dad ! “With his brother Woody , he set up a small horticultural business on Ashton Moss, where he grew flowers and hawked them round for sale in his wheelbarrow .However , celery seems to have been one of his mainstays, which he also sold. Probably there were allotments there for rent , or even small holdings. The M60 Ring road seems to have obliterated all those fertile plots , and buried them in asphalt .Such is “progress “, and urban growth, the green ring of gardens which circled cities worldwide is forever lost , as food is transported ever greater distances .Madness.

Austin Hopkinson

Was a man whose name was sure to be mentioned at Delta Road .Austin Hopkinson owned the mill at the end of Delta Road. It was some sort of mysterious engineering works , making some incomprehensible product. He was also the owner of the houses in Delta Road , which he had designed himself for his lucky workers .So , he had quite a lot of say in the lives of folk in Delta Road. Still , if his tenants had any problems they could always complain to their local Liberal MP .He was a certain Mr Austin Hopkinson ,as it happened !

The Means Test.

In the Slump the Shaw family fell on such hard times that they had to apply for Assistance from whatever branch of Government munificence as dealt with working class distress .This was during the days , of the Coalition Government , when the scurrilous and unprincipled Liberals joined with the despicable Tories to crush working class people and line the pockets of a banking elite .Thankfully , such a combination could never happen again , and I was not to worry my little head on that score . As Granndad said , “T, Liberals always side with the Tories “ , and spat in fire. The family had to be inspected by some Jack in Office, who discovered that they actually owned a radio .He decreed the sale of the radio , and some other possessions .Only then , could the family receive Assistance .Happy days for Bankers, not so happy for returning War heroes and unemployed workers.

Crown Point

Joes Shop

Ashton Market

Croxteth

Was a brand new housing estate and the first new houses to be built in the city Of Liverpool after the Second World War, so I was told . The family moved down , perhaps in 1950, and were well ensconced for the Coronation , with its street party .I arrived as a child of four , and left , as an adolescent of 19 , so I am in all truth , a “Crocky Kid “ .You can take the kid out of Croxteth , but can you take Croxteth out of the kid ?

We lived in Crantock Close , at N0 18, in a semi .New council houses were at a very high premium then , with many couples living with their parents and raising a young family. Legend held that the houses in Crantock Close were the first new houses to be built in Liverpool since the War. I doubt that, as surely the engineers would have first laid down Middle Way and Willow Way, joining up to Gillmoss Lane ?Perhaps these thorough fares really were left unbuilt at first , and Crantock Close , a convenient little cul de sac really was the first road to be developed ?The houses were varied in type .We lived in a semi , at the head of the cul-de-sac , facing the entrance, looking across a small circular patch of grass , christened “The Middle Bit “ The Corpie came and planted some shrubs and young trees to landscape the area, but we still could see out of the Close to the green fields of Liverpool and the mighty English Electric beyond. What pioneers we were ! Living in a sea of mud , surrounded by piles of bricks , with dreaded lime pits close by. These were holes dug out to slake the quick lime in water ,a bubbling cauldron of grey slime, it spelt death and burning to any child that fell in. We were told of a child who had fallen in , and was pulled out by his boots. Just a skeleton remained above the boots! Needless to say , it held a magnetic attraction for us boys.

For some reason the Corpie had decided to name the roads after places in the West Country. So, as , I acquired friends in Places like Newlyn Avenue, Redruth Road and Mevagissey Close , my awareness of these as places also entered my young head.

Mum and Dad had got the houses as “key workers “In some way , English Electric had been allocated a certain number of houses , and this only increased our feelings of being , not just different from the other children , but more important , for our Dad was a key worker ! Not a mere butcher like Mr Brown .There were a small group of managers from the English Electric in our Close .Mr Smith was the Metallurgist for the whole works .He was their one and only metallurgist , such a heavy burden for one man to bear . Mr Green was an accountant .and MrSmith was something else . Mr Underwood was Production Manager for the whole factory , and lived around the corner somewhere off Petherick road .Mrs Underwood and daughters were frequent visitors to our house. Thus , there was a lot of social mixing within the estate , workers and managerial staff living amongst one another, at first anyway.

Mobile shops

Dairy

There was a small dairy on the corner of Gillmoss Lane, established many years before the Estate was built. Walking past, I heard the cattle lowing, and smelt their body sweat and dung , all overpowered by that sensuous milky odour .Such an aromatic experience .I used to walk in sometimes , fascinated, as the beasts were milked by small electric machines, and watched the heavy bottles being steam washed and refilled with fresh milk .Dad told me how he used to help at his local dairy , and the farmer would squirt them with milk , then give them fresh creamy milk , straight from the cow , but our dairy was much more scientific, and the milk was sterilised and pasteurised there and then .The milkman would load his float , and the horse would set off, just around the corner to Crantock Close. The horse was sometimes led on a bridle by a boy, but usually it was just the milk man and his horse. The combination moved at a slow pace without stopping, and the milkman ran to each house, dropping off its ordered bottles , two pints at one house , four pints at another, and running back to his float with empties. Meantime, the horse just plodded on as its load slowly lightened, until it returned with its empty bottles to the dairy. Looking back, one marvels at how environmentally friendly it all was. No fossil fuels were used, there was no engine noise, just the distinctive clattering of glass bottles , and the milk travelled such a short distance from cow to breakfast bowl.

Catholic Shrine

Dr Fitzpatrick.

Croxteth County Primary School

This was a brand new school , at the far end of Middle Way and my brother Philip and I must have been amongst its very first scholars. The building was the physical and architectural embodiment of the fortunate timing of being born during the baby boom .A brand new building , full of hope and light , built for the precious infants who would in turn build the brave new world of Peace and plenty. It had an Assembly Hall which was light and airy, and outside were the grass playing fields which led down to woodlands. Separating the woods from us was an enormous over towering fence of chain link , overtopped by three strands of barbed wire facing towards us dangerous inmates. The other side of the wire was the domain of “Lordie “a word spoken with a certain edge to it , combining awe , fear with a dash of dislike. Not to be confused with Our Lord, always spoken in terms of utmost respect. Lordie was Lord Sefton who owned everything beyond the fence and whose armed gamekeepers were on constant patrol with shotguns , just waiting to fire at the backsides of any small boys seen trespassing in his forbidden woods and rhodie plantations. The gamekeepers might fire over the heads of little girls, but not at boys .They always aimed for the arse, and lead shot was very painful. Croxteth was full of boys who had been shot, and had to be taken to hospital to have the lead extracted. it was a fact well known.

Lowestoft

Mid Wales

Gillmoss Sewage Farm

Percys Bit

Knowsley Industrial Estate

Lordie,s House

Mossley

Hightown Alt Estuary

Alt Meadows

Hoylake Langfields

Hilbre Island

Middle Hilbre

Little Eye

Red Rocks Lowestoft

Mid Wales

Gillmoss Sewage Farm

Percys Bit

Knowsley Industrial Estate

Lordie,s House

Mossley

Hightown Alt Estuary

Alt Meadows

Hoylake Langfields

Hilbre Island

Middle Hilbre

Little Eye

Red Rocks

Eastham Woods

Eastham Locks

Mount Stanlow

Loggerheads and Alun Valley

Shotton Steel Works

Burton Roost.

Liverpool Collegiate Shaw Street.

Bardsey Island

Saint Francis Xavier

Eastham Woods

Eastham Locks

Mount Stanlow

Loggerheads and Alun Valley

Shotton Steel Works

Burton Roost.

Liverpool Collegiate Shaw Street.

Bardsey Island

Saint Francis Xavier

Anglesey

Cley Marsh

Minsmere

St Johns Market

National Provincial Bank

Hackins Hey

Liverpool Pilot Office.

Mersey Docks and Harbour Board

Slovenia

Germany and Rhine

Italy

Middlesbrough

Hull Alexandra Dock

Antwerp

Rotterdam

Hamburg

London West India Dock

Las Palmas

Capetown

Port Elizabeth

East London

Laurenco Marques

Mombasa

Dar es Salaam

Tanga

Mtwara

Suez

Port Said

Newcastle

Collingwood Dock

A1 at Lloyds

Trawler Club

Pig and Whistle

Chester Station

Bangor

Percy,s Pond

Our back garden led down to a small wood , mostly sycamores, and was separated originally by a low fence of chain link steel held up by ferro-concrete posts. This was no real barrier to inquisitive children, and we briefly explored our neighbouring terrain. There was a small pond, which at one end was steep with a dressed sandstone wall .The other sides had more shallow banks, suitable for fishing, and wild ducks nested there. Phil was keen to start angling here. However, before he could start, the Great Fence appeared. For this was all Lordy’s land. Workmen arrived on Lordy’s side, and put up a very tall fence , with towering post of concrete , and topped by three strands of horizontal barbed wire , pointing towards Crantock Close. The same fence stretched around most of our neighbours back gardens, and securely separated the burgeoning new council estate from Lord Derby’s land.

Behind the fence lived Sissy Gibbons, a pleasant lady who soon befriended Mum through the chain link fences. Her husband was a shadowy figure, who fed the hens and kept himself to himself. They lived in a cottage which belonged to Lordy , and their son Percy worked on Lordy’s land, as did his father. Percy was a “bit simple “ , but big and strong. He was very proud of his cut hands, and every day would show us his latest wound, sustained in the line of duty, cutting shrubs in the service of Lordy. He spoke with difficulty, and was shy with grownups, but he felt secure talking to us children, separated by two steel fences. We were always impressed by his wounds, for his cuts were deep, and must have been bloody. Strangely, they did not get infected, and quickly healed, forming yet another callous to his enormous hands. He wore leather boots, with gaiters above, the standard rig of land workers of the period. It was whispered that his parents were cousins, who had married against their parents ‘wishes. This was why Percy was “a bit simple.” We didn’t understand. He smoked a special type of strong tobacco, but was too shy to go to a shop himself and buy it. He trusted Phil and gave him the money to buy it for him, which he did.

The Great Fence snaked around “Percys Bit “ , which must have been a few acres in total , including the cottage, the wood and the pond, and then enclosed a private road which led to Lordy’s proper , the vast woods and mysterious plains of the Estate, all securely separated from booming Crockie by the Great Fence. Somehow, we got permission to fish in Percy’s Pond , and started angling there. From the start, Phil showed great proficiency in the art of angling , studying the books by Mr Crabtree .He possessed the necessary patience and manual dexterity to tie knots , make casts , fix lead shot to lines, rig floats and sit patiently in pursuit of an underwater quarry.

For some reason , I have always preferred nets. How satisfying it is to take a net out of its bag, and run the strands through ones hands. What an ancient skill is hunting, and how deep it lies in our psyche. How foolish to deny it totally, for man is born to hunt and seek and walk, then return home tired. Natural history follows the same pattern, but we return home with knowledge, or perhaps not.

We caught coarse fish , with varying success , mostly Roach , but also Rudd , and I think some Dace. There were also Sticklebacks , but they were beneath our dignity .Our real targets were Tench , the mysterious denizens of the deep , which lay at the bottom of the pond , covered in slime, and deeply suspicious of all human tainted bait. Phil had consistent success with bread, and coaxed the monster up, slowly tiring it out , and bringing it ever closer to the bank. But Tench were slippery creatures. How often would our quarry escape from our grasp, sliding from our hands at the last minute and returning to its element with an irksome splash! Not until Phil acquired a catch net did we start to really catch Tench , and then a keep net was needed to store our hard won catch .Phil also got an aquarium, which was put on the landing at the head of the stairs. The Roach looked beautiful seen from close range , with silver scales and bright orange fins, but the Tench sulked at the bottom , green and slimy. Mum decided the tank was getting smelly , and one fell day added some dettol to keep the smells down .we found the fish all dead, floating on their sides at the surface .How we all cried that day , ! We buried the fish in the garden.

The double fencing became annoying to our parents , who found it difficult to maintain the yard of ground in between , impossible to get a lawn mower in and very awkward to make a garden .This led of course to WEEDS , a mortal insult to a precision engineer and a Manager to boot, and a deadly threat to Mum’s precious garden. We boys hatched a plot, and one summers day, we got our hands on Dad’s chisel and a hammer, and started to attack the low post with these tools, just above the point where the concrete post emerged from the fertile peaty loam of our garden soil. The fencing had already been removed; just these irksome posts remained .To our surprise, the concrete yielded chips to our young blows, and slowly revealed the thin steel rods which were its backbone.

We then started to push the post back and forward, then side to side. No one had told us to do this, nor how to do it . We just worked it out for ourselves. With surprising speed the steel weakened, became brittle at its weakest point and hot to the touch. Then it snapped. The vertical ferro -concrete post was reduced to a useless horizontal shorter piece, and a concrete stump in the ground. One after another the posts yielded to our attack, and fell to the ground defeated. In a day we cleared the fence totally, and our garden expanded by a yard .Our new boundary became the Great Fence of Croxteth, and Lordy our sort of back door neighbour .(He lived about three miles away behind yet more fences , patrolled by a small army of gamekeepers )

Dad came home from work, and was truly astounded .the fence had troubled him, and he had probably expended some brain power in working out a precision engineering solution to this problem. Two little boys had solved it by brute force and ignorance .He gave us half a crown each , and we were over the moon. We learnt a lot that day: that persistence brings its own rewards, that chipping away at an obstacle will eventually solve it, that a fence is only as good as its posts and that boundaries shift and migrate, usually to someone’s advantage.

People who made a difference

PEric Hardy

One day whilst bird watching on the Sewage Farm, and watching a group of wading birds feeding on mud at the corner of one of the filter fields, a very impressive man appeared, carrying an enormous rucksack and a very large pair of binoculars. He was tall , even for a grown up, with a moustache , and wearing an ex army great coat. With a booming voice he asked me what I had seen , and confirmed my identification of a Ruff. He had no compunction in talking to a schoolboy, and we talked about birds for a while .This was my first introduction to Eric Hardy , the locally renowned journalist , who wrote a weekly nature column in the Liverpool Daily Post , and a gardening feature in the Liverpool Echo.he had spent the War in Palestine in the British army, where he rose to the rank of

Miss Wisby

No doubt there were other teachers who all played an important part in my education , yet for some reason the one whose name lingers in my memory was Miss Wisby. She must have been my first teacher at Primary School, and I wonder if she was Irish . This is only because of a half remembered remark of hers that in Ireland the pig follows on the tail of the cow, meaning presumably that waste dairy products like whey could be used to fatten up pigs. Such a remark might indicate a rural Irish background, yet my parents never commented on that at all . She was very kind, and concerned about her pupils, and taught me to improve my handwriting .She was pleased with me, and no doubt other pupils, because I could read quite well on arrival at school.

This was because Dad read to me a lot on his knee, and showed me the letters, and also the boxes of breakfast cereals often had interesting pictures and messages. The way to literature is via a child’s stomach.

Miss Wisby was most concerned about children who took the wrong path in life , and had a fund of stories about children who had strayed from the path of righteousness. One sad tale was of a young boy who took to a life of crime. It all started small , stealing sweets from a corner shop .But it led to worse things .One evening he climbed a drain pipe, in order to burgle a house. Underneath the house were cast iron railings with spikes on top. Unfortunately , our young miscreant slipped and fell .beneath him were the railings , which pierced his little body in several places. The blood poured out of him ,and he grew weak and pale. By the time the Police arrived it was too late. The poor misguided creature had died !And the moral was , do not take that fatal first step , but stay on the right path.

Another dangerous practice which concerned her was the dreadful prevalence of stone throwing .A custom had arisen for groups of boys to conduct open warfare by throwing stones at one another .Surrounded , as we were by constant building works and unguarded materials , there was no shortage of ammunition. Miss Wisby stressed that once a stone had left a boy’s hand, no power on earth could call the stone back. A stone could knock out the eye of an innocent child, and could never be replaced. Her entreaties about stone throwing were so oft repeated that possibly they did cause a reduction in that particular sport. Certainly ,her little charges were left in no doubt that it was a dangerous game to play. Probably also the completion of building work and eventual landscaping reduced our supply of ammo.

Mr Tucker

Was our teacher as we neared the dreaded eleven plus examinations, that process whereby the academic sheep were separated from the goats. He was a good teacher , who made his lessons interesting , yet by what means , I cannot remember. Mum always said that he was far too good for Croxteth , and did well within the Liverpool education system , a large and growing organisation , and eventually became Head of a big school. One day , we children were all summoned outside the class rooms to witness a new miracle. Mr Tucker had a new engine on his bike ! Indeed it was true. Mr Tucker’s bike was the same push bike as before. But , mounted just behind the saddle was a new small , and very noisy two stroke engine. This connected to the outer rim of the tyre by a rotating contact head , and pushed the bike along without effort on Mr Tucker’s part .Suitably impressed we trooped back inside again, and of course that afternoon all rushed home to impart the news to our parents. I sometimes think of Mr Tucker’s bike when walking past schools today, with the staff cars parked outside.

Mr Thomas

Was the Headmaster of our school, the first Head of a brand new school at the very edge of a big city. He came from Wales , and personified the huge , and largely unsung , contribution which the Welsh have made to Liverpool. A quietly spoken, dignified man, he ruled us with a gentle authority , and was patient with my endless curiosity. On a coach trip to Wales ,he mentioned an animal in a field as a Bull.”How can you tell its a Bull Mr Thomas “ I asked. He merely smiled.

Mr Darton

Was my first form master in Form 3A at the Liverpool Collegiate. A darkly dressed and quietly spoken man , he was also devoutly religious without ever mentioning it. He taught by example in that respect, and it was Phil who told me that he was a member of the Plymouth Brethren , a puritan group. He taught us about the School , and what was expected of us boys in our new place of learning. His subject was English , and he it was who revealed to me the structure of the English language, which I had until then merely absorbed by imitation and constant reading. Patiently , he explained English Grammar; the significance of verbs, the meaning of nouns, the use of adjectives, the formation of adverbs, the use of tenses, and even, at the tender age of twelve the correct use of the subjunctive mood.

How hard it was , and yet how well he explained it. I fell in love with English Grammar , and to this day always strive to use correct Grammar, yet have but scant respect for spoken accents. After all , accents and pronunciations vary tremendously , and are trivial , but correct Grammar is a much graver matter , and a grammatical mistake always makes me wince. For example , recently I notice people using the expression “He should of done this , that or the other “ This is grammatically impossible, of being a preposition , and the word have is the correct use of the verb to have. Yet this mistake is not picked up on word processors, and if not corrected might slip into common usage. This is serious , yet languages change constantly .Buses ,for example used to run out of a bus depot ,the circumflex over the o having been lost .Yet , after the building of the Paradise Street Bus Station , in the 1970,s the usage shifted to Bus Station , which is the one used today .Does anyone care ? No. Does it matter ? Mr Darton ,thank you for explaining these things

Mr Hurst

Nora Fisher Mcmillan

Eleanoror Fisher who married “Mr McMillan” late in life was a very keen , lifelong naturalist , who lived in Bromborough and worked for many years in Liverpool Museum. I met her via Henry Larsen , her next door neighbour ,when we moved ”over the water “ to Bromborough in 1972 , and used to push Jillian round in her pram after Sunday lunch. She was an Ulster woman , from a prosperous Antrim industrial textile family .She was a mainly self taught expert on molluscs, and did her early field work on the shores of Belfast Loch .There is an excellent black and white photo of her as a child naturalist in a book , called , i think , Ireland’s Eye. She encouraged me in botany, and molluscs, and had an endless stream of anecdotes and numerous contacts. She was, of course no friend of Eric Hardy , as part of the split and divided world of Natural History in the Liverpool area .She baked her own soda bread, and kept goats for milk until very late in life. Nora taking a goat for a walk round Brotherton Park was a sight to behold ,as the animal dragged her towards municipal rose beds.

Rob Cockbain

Derek Cutts

Bob Hughes

Dave Rowlands

(This is an unfinished document. It has been left unedited. I wish only to add that i know that my father would have writen about the people named above given time. As he valued them greatly. Carol Eades)