Childhood Reminiscences
Lancashire England
1941 -1951
Before my childhood was done.
The days seemed longer,
Full of freedom and fun.
Lasses and lads playing together,
Mainly outside whatever the weather.
Roaming over the hills and far away.
Violence and fear no part of our day.
Trusting, truthful and trouble free,
Innocent, carefree, happy were we.
Doors left on the latch.
Or string through the letterbox
With door key attached.
Neighbour looked out for neighbour.
Always ready to do a favour.
Big hearts with open doors.
Sparse covering on bare floors.
Rag rugs by firesides
A welcome present for any new bride
Sideboard gleaming in the firelight,
Rubbed with mansion polish bright.
Gas light and cobbled street.
Living rooms small but neat.
On the wireless, Hancock Murdock and Horne.
The BBC where home entertainment was born.
Mothers in curlers and pinny,
Standing at the door singing out,
For their Winnie or Minnie.
To come home, tripe and onions for tea.
Bought fresh from the UCP. (United Cattle Produce)
Kettle simmering on the fireside grate.
Cups and saucers with doily on plate.
Home made bread, biscuits and pies,
Fresh from the oven a lovely surprise.
With beer collected in a jug,
For fathers supper mug.
Streets of tramlines for the horse drawn tram.
Manure for the gardens, where the horses ran.
Bells dinging, people clinging,
Tramlines singing, strap hangers swinging.
As they where transported around the town.
Going to work, or for a beer at the Rose & Crown.
Then the Trolley buses swished silently by.
Powered by overhead rail and electric supply.
Street parties and a family sing song,
In parlours where Aspidistra’s belong.
Tin baths and Tipplers down yards. (Lavatory)
Glowing coke fires and fire guards.
High stacked chimneys on Cotton mills.
Distinctive landmarks on northern hills.
Low lying weaving sheds alongside lodges.
Where illicit swimmers knew all the dodges.
Filled with fish, a fishermen’s delight.
Women in clothes black as night.
Lyle stockings, clogs and shawls.
Trawling around the market stalls.
Clog irons sparking on cobbles.
Where high heeled ladies hobble and wobble.
Local drapery shops selling goods.
Stiff collars, cuff links and studs.
Fleece lined liberty bodice vest,
Rubber buttons harnessed it round our chest.
Hand knitted woolly socks scarf and gloves.
Made by mum for those she loves.
Heavy tweed coats, Sunday best.
Easter time bonnets better dressed.
Knocker up and lamp lighter.
Demob suits fitting looser or tighter.
Silver Cross coach built pram.
Monday washing day for our mam.
Boiling babies bottles and teats.
Lines of washing filling back streets.
Hand wringing, boiling and possing.
Busy day no time for gossiping.
Dolly Blue brings out the white.
In lines of nappies what a sight.
Corner shop, ration cards and slate.
Paid off on Friday, unless wages were late.
Fresh baked white loaf, crusted black.
Wrapped in fragile tissue paper sack.
Bacon slicer cuts rashers thick or thin.
Spam or Corned Beef from a tin.
Doorstep milk delivered by the farmer.
On horse and cart in churns much warmer.
Doorsteps and flags dubbed white.
With Donkey Stones was socially right.
Or painted Cardinal Red instead.
Then pity anyone who dared to tread.
Rag and Bone man’s barrow patrols the streets.
Collecting old clothes in exchange for treats.
Goldfish in jam jars swinging by a string,
Or a paper windmill for anything you bring.
Concrete bunkers on seaside promenades.
Corrugated air-raid shelter in backyards.
Flags and buntings lining the street,
Trestle tables spread with lots to eat.
Street parties full of fun,
Maypole dancing in the sun.
May Queen processions down our street,
Field days an annual treat.
But nothing ever stays the same.
Except memories, that stay bright as any flame.
<©>Valerie CookFebruary 1999
My Home
My childhood home,
Was a two up two down terraced house in Tonge Moor.
Cobbled streets lined with copy cat houses;
Row upon row a regiment on parade,
Doors numbered 1 to 100.
We faced the railway arches.
Gateway to green fields and space to run
Free from restrictions of the street.
My Grandparents lived next door, Aunty Sissy two doors down,
Aunty Nelly and Aunty Annie, always in and out
My dad was the youngest of seven sisters
We had cousins galore.
Our house had running hot water, a full sized bath in the kitchen,
A flushing lavatory too, where most had tipplers and cold water taps.
We had a flagged floor until dad covered it with Asphalt,
A rich ruby red, polished to perfection by mother.
Front windows and vestibule leaded with fancy glaze
And a solid shiny brass door knocker at the front
Dad was a journeyman plumber,
Could turn his hand to anything.
It was fascinating to watch him work
Scraps of lead melted by blowtorch
Poured out in strips on the kitchen step
To set into solid shiny silver sticks of solder.
Many backyards contained concrete air raid shelters
By 1942, dark and smelly.
Our backyard had a timber and glass roof
It was dad`s workshop.
Neat and tidy with a swing for us kids
Hung from an overhead beam.
The sounds and smells that came out of my home where unique.
Monday was wash day, boiler bubbling, mother possing away.
And a huge wooden mangle, the clatter deafening
Until we got electric wringers with super silent rubber rollers .
Line after line of snow white sheets filled the back street
Blowing in the wind like an Armada in full sail .
Then Mother sleeves rolled, pink cheeks,
Elbow deep in Dolly Tub, scrubbing and rubbing.
Intent on collars and cuffs white and bright.
Sunlight soap, the smell often haunts me, as does
Mum baking bread, cakes and custards every Friday.
Most families including mine, had an allotment.
Digging for Britain in the 1940s .
Grandad loved it down there by the river
On his precious patch of rich brown earth.
He worked hard and we ate well.
Within ration book restrictions
Fruits, vegetables, chickens and lots of eggs.
I can visualise Mum and Dad sat by a blazing fire,
Listening to the radio,
Dick Barton`s signature tune fading into the distance.
Front door ajar, step donkey stoned to classic proportions.
Warm inviting smells coming from the kitchen.
I can hear our grandfather clock chiming,
The fire crackling.
The house is still there
Facing the railway arches.
But the fields have gone
Replaced by an Industrial Estate.
A sign of the times.
© Valerie Cook August 2007
Alice Elizabeth
My mother had the purest heart
She had a good heart and a willing soul
Life dealt her many blows
But her strength of character
Pulled her through.
She lost her mother at an early age
Was brought up by someone
Who had no mothering skill
A dried up prune of a woman.
Who treated her like a servant
And that was all she knew.
Married young
Gave birth to five children
A son and daughter
Lost to Meningitis
Aged six and seven.
She never spoke of them ever.
Her misery sunk deep into her soul.
It was as if they had never been.
She knew she had to get on
With life and never look back
At the suffering and sorrow of the past.
I had a charmed childhood
No suffering for me.
My two brothers and I
Probably took her for granted.
I know my father did.
She was a work horse.
As good a provider as he.
There wasn’t much display of affection
In our family
1940 post war years
Was about utility and survival.
Mother worked on the buses as a clippie.
And waited on tables in the UCP
Dad was in the Royal Navy, submariner
A proud mountain of a man.
A stranger coming home
Firm, resolute and totally in charge.
My grandfather Thomas was a Publican
Mum was brought up in the pub
She took over the license when he died.
It was long hours and hard work
But she never complained.
She so much at home behind the bar
Enjoyed her Guinness,
Had a good singing voice,
Was a superior darts player.
180`s Champion and loved the game.
Dad was jealous, he didn’t like her
Going out and having fun
So he stopped her playing .
She obeyed without a word, but her smile
Disappeared for a long time.
She was a wonderful Grandmother
Always there for me.
It was only when she had gone
Never to return
That I realised how special she was.
Meek, mild, gentle and willing
How do I think of mother
She was an angel.
V Cook 2007
My Mother
"Was I a good mother?" I ask of my three.
You see, it was what my mother asked of me.
I told her "yes" she was always gentle and kind.
That was the memory she would leave behind.
As a child she lost her mother
And was raised by another.
This woman was mean and didn`t love her.
So she assumed, because she didn`t have
The love of a mother.
She couldn`t provide a mother`s love for another.
So you see I have a problem,
Was I a good mother?
Being taught by my mother, brought up by another,
Who wasn`t her mother.
And didn`t love her
Well, we where put to the test
We both did our best.
And I know I was blessed
With a Good Mother
(c)Valerie Cook 2007
This poem was written for Ben my grandson who emigrated to Australia in March 96 aged 4 years old
My Friend Ben
With his little hand clutched tight in mine
I know this is a good sign
That everything will be just fine
We`re going to have a lovely time
Because he is my friend.
As he sits in comfort on my knee
He likes to share his news with me
He brings his treasures for me to see
And requests cheese on bread for tea
Because I am his friend
He asks for cuddles when he`s sad
He hides from me when he`s been bad
He doesn`t want to see me mad
But he knows that soon I will be glad
When once again we`re friends.
He likes me telling stories new
I must listen to his reading too
Hear his tables and what`s two time two
And know his favourite colours blue
Because he is my friend
He likes to hear the Back Street Boys
Their music appeals far more than toys
I can`t complain about the noise
Because I too like the Back Street Boys
That`s why we are such friends.
Even though he`s five years old
He`s a big bonny boy to behold
A strong character, beautiful and bold
And worth more then his weight in gold
And he will always be my friend
(c)Val Cook 1997
His Treasure Trove
His precious treasure trove is hidden in a box
In the bottom drawer, beneath his sweaters vests and socks.
It’s a collection of coloured stones and shells,
Bits of string and broken things no one ever sells.
On days when he feels unhappy or sad,
He takes his treasures out and recalls all the fun he had.
He cleans and polishes the stones until they brightly shine,
Admiring his collection and thinking it quite fine.
It doesn’t matter that the watch won`t go;
Or the fancy chain was broken long ago.
They are his treasures, his secret and his joy.
Collected through the years since he was a little boy.
Then carefully he replaces the treasures in the box,
Puts it in the bottom drawer under sweaters vest and socks.
(c)ValCook 1999
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