Little threads of my tapestry

Park Lodge was originally established in 1882 by a group of ‘do-gooders,’ local towns-women and was known as the Home For Friendless Girls. A property in Gladstone Road was purchased where 32 girls were accommodated and educated before leaving, many to enter Domestic Service. After 17 years a new property was bought and Park Lodge, 19 Park Street, a lovely red brick, Edwardian semi that lay in the path of the sun all day long, became a haven over the years for 132 children.

I have very few memories of my early years, but I do remember the day I went to live at Park Lodge. Friday, 9 September 1955 was a hot and sunny day and Fred and I were very excited because we were going to stay in a big house with lots of other children. We had been staying in a boarding house in Valley Road with some lovely people, whilst my father waited for his papers for a posting to Singapore. We were not to go with him and my Step-mother, but arrangements had been made for us to stay in England and go into care and a lady called Miss Sturdy (a Social Worker I suppose) came to collect us in her car and off we drove. A car ride was quite rare and exciting in those days as the only other person I knew that owned one was Grandad and he was in Southampton. It’s only a short distance of probably two miles from the house in Valley Road to Park Street, but Miss Sturdy cannot have known the area well as she got lost several times and eventually had to ask for directions. We were greeted at the door and shown into what I later realised was the Committee Room, very formal, and we sat swinging our legs from chairs too high, staring round and taking it all in.

But it only seemed like moments later that we were back out, in the sunshine, playing on the swing and running round the back yard which was a huge playing space with a play shed in one corner. Miss Sturdy left at some point, but we never noticed as we settled down to explore; the only fly in the ointment at that moment being that we would have to wait for the big girls to get home from school. I soon found and had my head in a book, whilst Fred, who had been given a junior joinery set, was busy hammering nails in to an old table (which were tactfully removed that evening when we were in bed).

At last somebody arrived, then another and another as girls came home from both the primary and secondary schools. The older girls made us welcome straight away, but I remember that some of the younger girls were a little shy. However, it didn’t take long before we were all sitting round the tea table and in a blink of an eye we had become part of a family of twelve; Barbara, Ethel and Irene (sisters), Pam, Nita and Rosemary (also sisters), Judy, Maureen, Ena and Margaret; we were the youngest. It never dawned on us that this was it; a new home, a new life and that it would be many, many years before we saw either our father or our step mother again.

Rena Champion was the Matron. Born in Rosedale on 7 July 1904, she was a bright eyed, rosy cheeked lady, all of 5’ even in her shoes, but everybody called her Mum and we soon learnt to respect her. She was kind and fair and for our part, we were in safe hands. Treacle toffees under the pillow, picnics on the beach and tender nursing of sick children were all part of Rena’s philosophy; and she was very much a philosopher. She despaired of the treatment meted out to some children by their parents and was saddened when others were quick to condemn and slow to listen to the young. In recent years it has become evident that many children suffered terrible abuses in some homes in the UK and I can only thank my lucky stars that we ended up at Park Lodge. Childhood is precious and it is fleeting. It is where we learn our views of the world and create the foundations for the people we eventually become. What right has anyone to steal it and leave any child with nothing but hate and fear in their hearts? I spent my childhood bewildered and afraid of my own shadow, but that was nothing to do with Mum and I can’t begin to imagine how much worse it could have been.

Life quickly enveloped us and moved swiftly on, the big girls kindly mothering us and showing us the way forward.

Saturday, our first full day was a hive of activity. The house had to be cleaned, there was a rota and we all had our jobs. Sheets were changed, floors mopped and bathrooms cleaned. The stairs were swept (both back and front) and the big old Potterton boiler in the kitchen black-leaded. But the job that became my favourite, was polishing the Playroom floor.

The Playroom was our sitting room where we would sit on an evening reading, doing puzzles and listening to the radio. But on a Saturday morning the tin of Mansion Polish came out, and on went the radio with Uncle Mac’s Junior Choice. With dusters on our feet we sang along to the music at the top of our voices, bopping, jiving, twisting and any other dance craze that came along.

Once the chores were done it was time to play. The back yard had a swing and was big enough for tennis and rounders, although our balls inevitably ended up in our neighbour Mr Wilson’s back garden. Once in a while he would gather them all up and throw them back and then we would start all over again. We rode our bikes up and down the street or went to the Park which was just at the top of the hill. From there we might play on the swings and seesaws or climb to the reservoir at the top and then roam back down through the jungle that was Foxon’s field. I was quite adventurous, having spent so much time following my brother around so it wasn’t long before I fell off a wall and lost my two front teeth.

Health and Safety hadn’t been invented in the fifties, but someone had considered the threat of fire in such a large house. The building itself had two wings, each with its own staircase and a long corridor that linked the two halves. The back wing was only two stories and there was an alternative escape route from a bathroom window and over the coal shed roof, but the front wing was three storeys high. The answer came in the form of a rope and sling pulley which was fixed to the wall up in the top bedroom. It was very basic and would be immediately condemned if offered for use now. The sling went over your head and under your arms, then you had to scramble on to the window ledge and be lowered to the ground encouraged by shouts of ‘don’t look down.’ I was petrified on that first Fire Drill when I realised that I would have to take my turn, but my brother was straight on it and if he could do it, then so could I. I can still taste the fear which gradually turned to joy as I realised what fun it was. My first abseil at the age of six! I couldn’t wait to go back upstairs and do it all over again.

Saturday night was bath night. The old Potterton boiler was lit to provide gallons of hot water and we lined up, youngest to eldest for a good scrub. I remember Ena buying some rather posh bath oil and when nobody was looking, I poured some in to the water. Then a bit more, and a bit more. It was lovely and the water was all smelly and swishy, and of course it wasn’t long before I was found out. But I knew I had been naughty and instead of confessing what I had done I played the innocent. Ena was cross, and the others were trying to defend me as I stuck to my lie. I became more and more frightened that I was found out until finally I was in tears. Poor Ena, she had bought that for herself from her meagre pocket money, but I was so afraid of anger that nobody ever did extract the truth from me, believing that the bottle fell in the water.

We did what most people did on Sundays in the fifties; we all went to church. In the morning it was the local Methodist for Sunday school and in the afternoon the Church of England for another dose. The fact that Fred and I were both baptised Catholic was never considered and we were too young to know any different. A lady called Miss Smith led the Methodist Sunday School. She was a District Nurse and lived with her mum and cute little West Highland White Terrier called Wendy, and we loved her. She and Mum were best of friends and when Miss Smith retired, we often took the train to Robin Hood’s Bay to visit her in her new home.

Mum could be very naughty when she wanted and her name for the dog was Windy Wendy because she farted a lot. Of course that made us giggle, and we had to try extra hard not to show it in front of Miss Smith.

Sunday lunch was as familiar in our household as any other up and down the land. Two Way Family Favourites on the Home Service, Roast Beef and Yorkshire puds along with a dose of Billy Cotton’s Band Show and Beyond our Ken or The Navy Lark kept us cheerful.

I loved to sing as a child. In fact if I remember rightly they couldn’t shut me up! I would sit on the table in the kitchen on an evening giving my own performances. I missed the dog at my grand-parents’ house so it probably was inevitable that my favourite song was ‘How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?’ I would then go off to bed still humming something or other. It must have been a nightmare for Fred and Babs with whom I shared the Low Dorm. I sang at Sunday school, joined the church choir and loved school assembly. Sadly my voice has deteriorated over the years and I tend to whistle more than anything now. Something Fred taught me, much to my delight and the disgust of our step-mother who insisted that ‘only empty cans rattle!’

We had only missed a few days of the new autumn term at school and on Monday morning we set off for Hinderwell County Primary School. The school was built between the wars and was a nice modern building with good size classrooms, a big assembly hall and separate art and craft room. I have very happy memories of Hinderwell. Both Fred and I already had a good level of literacy and Fred was also good at numbers. We fitted in well and soon made friends, some of whom I am happily still in touch with over sixty years later. Fred’s best mates were Eric Simpson from the top of our street and Bill Blackburn from the bottom and the the three of them charged around happily like characters from the Just William stories. When not at school they would be playing in their den in Foxon’s field, swinging on a rope which was strung from a tree at the side of Red Hill, playing on the swings at the park or roaming over the top of Jacob’s ladder. It wasn’t all swings and roundabouts sadly and Fred's outbursts of anger, especially at school earned him many a slippered back side.

I was always fascinated by the house at the top of Red Hill. It had a high boundary wall and a turret and I imagine the most magnificent views over Scarborough judging by its eyrie perch. We were told that a German spy had lived there during the war and he used to flash messages to German ships at sea. It was all tosh of course, but children love a mystery and we were quite in awe of the place because of it.

School was quite a distance for youngsters and the route we generally took was through Falsgrave Park, as it was the shortest. It also meant that we could stop for a quick go on the swings on our way, as long as we weren’t late; and even if we were. But as time passed and I discovered friends locally, I would call for them on the way. There was often quite a band of us by the time we arrived. First to Glynis’s house in Oak Road, then down on to Seamer Road for Helen. A couple of streets along for another friend, up to Anne’s back down to Diana’s and sometimes Valerie’s and then up Barry’s Lane to school and for some reason that I can’t remember, we ran all of the way. I always envied Anne. When we got to her house she would often still be in her pyjamas. We crowded in to the back parlour waiting for her to dress and I shall never forget watching as Anne’s mother handed the freshly warmed and aired clothes from the side oven of the old fashioned range. To me at that time I felt it was real love.

What did I like most about school? Reading, drawing, singing and nature studies, they were my favourites. I can still see the classroom nature table in my mind’s eye. The catkins and pussy willow in jam jars, along with the frogspawn. Some ammonites, shells, feathers and other curiosities we had found and various bunches of flowers which we would draw in lessons. We grew pea shoots in jam jars pressed up against blotting paper, carrot tops in dishes of water and mustard and cress. In our art and craft room we had clay (which I hated because it made my hands dirty) and plenty of room for our pictures to be displayed which I loved. We did papier-mache, made our own scraperboard pictures and created people out of correctly proportioned ovals which we then pasted in to a pose on a sheet of paper and painted a picture around it. Magic.

I mentioned that I loved to sing, so it will be no surprise that I enjoyed the daily school assembly and sang the hymns happily. But Friday morning was the best treat of all, because on that day, the Head Master of the Junior School would have the gramophone in the hall and we all filed in to the strains of a piece of classical music being played. He must have decided to broaden our minds and give us a glimpse of the finer things in life. It worked for me, I have very catholic tastes in music but I think my love of classical music was nurtured in that school hall.

For some unknown reason our parents had had studs put on our shoes. I hated them. The metal rang out on the ground as I walked and I felt that I couldn’t be trusted to walk properly. And, if the truth be told, I couldn’t, but it was many years before it was discovered that I had inherited a form of muscular atrophy from my mother which meant that I have no natural spring in my feet. But Fred as always had an answer to my problems; he taught me how to slide, and if the surface was rough enough we could even impress the other children by making sparks.

It would be too easy to get ahead of myself here as all the tales of friends and school are shouting out to be told, but time for that on another occasion.

Each Saturday we received our pocket money which for us younger ones was the princely sum of sixpence. We would troop down to the corner shop where Mr Knowles had a tall glass display cabinet and we would choose our sweets. Usually Smarties, Fruit Gums or Fruit Pastilles because you got so much for your money. Or maybe a bottle of pop, Dandelion and Burdock was our favourite; and we could get a penny back on the bottle.

During the half term holiday the Fair came to town, setting up their stalls and fairground rides on the Weaponess Valley Car Park (long gone to a housing estate and other facilities). The big girls advised us to save our pocket money so that we could have a go on the rides and it was with disbelief that we set off one evening after tea. I had no idea what to expect having never been to a Fair before. You heard it first, the noise of the music blaring out on the cold night air. Not one tune but a cacophony coming out to greet us. The air smelt sickly sweet of hot dogs, popcorn and candyfloss and the bright lights were marvellous against the sky. I wanted to see and ask about everything but kept being dragged along by the others in their excitement. You had to watch where you walked as big cables ran across the ground from noisy generators to power the rides. We went on the dodgems, great, but it ended just as I was getting used to it and I wanted to win a goldfish but the hoopla fell far short. The firing range caught Fred’s eye, a boy with a gun! It seemed like a huge place walking between the rides and a bit scary too. We went on the Waltzers; it looked ok, but I soon realised that it was not my thing. I was green and my stomach lurched inside me. I remember trying to laugh and wanting to cry and I couldn’t wait for it to stop. After that it all became too much for me. The diesel fumes mixed with the effects of the Waltzers made me feel ill, we had run out of money very quickly and I was a tired little girl and I wanted to go home. I was placated with a stick of candy floss and the thrill of knowing that as we made our way home, it was way passed our bedtime.

Remember, remember the fifth of November. In those days you could buy Penny Bangers and Fred, Eric and Bill did. Little beggars would set them off at any time making us all hop around as the bangers jumped after us. I remember Mr and Mrs Skinner from Tennyson Avenue who were kind enough to bring a big box of fireworks and put on a display in the back yard for us. Fred, Eric and Bill had helped build a bonfire with some of the other local lads in Foxon’s field, so after tea we all climbed the hill and watched as Mr Skinner lit the pyre. Guy Fawkes sat at a crazy angle on the top and we all cheered as he disappeared in to the flames. Then it was back down the hill to Park Lodge for our fireworks. Somebody had been busy, there were rockets in bottles and Catherine Wheels had been hammered in to place on the upright of the swing. One by one Mr Skinner lit Roman Candles and Snow Bursts; Rockets showered the sky with brightly coloured stars and the Catherine Wheels whizzed round on their nails. And if that wasn’t enough, we all had sparklers to wave around followed by toffee apples.

Our days were busy with school and our evenings were reading, listening to the radio, talking, doing jigsaw puzzles and rugging. There was always a rug on the go to be made and we quickly learnt the art. With clippies in one hand and wool in the other we knotted squares building up the painted pattern on the open canvas grid until the rug was finished. Fred went to Cubs and my favourite time was going to Brownies. We belonged to the St James Church pack and Brown Owl was a lovely lady called Miss Ghrist who wore her uniform with pride. Miss Ghrist was a teacher and would have made a lovely mum. She really cared for us girls and not only did we learn a lot doing semaphore and various crafts, but Brownie night was also fun. A few years after we had left Brownies, I learnt that Miss Ghrist had broken her arm and Mum agreed that I could go and visit her. I went one Saturday morning and climbed to her flat right at the top of a tall building on Ramshill Road. She was really pleased to see me and even more delighted when I volunteered to go to the local shop for a few items including some tea and biscuits. I was eager to please and found everything that she had asked for except the biscuits; what a disappointment. She had asked for niece biscuits but all I could see were Nice biscuits. I dithered and I dithered until in the end I decided that I liked the idea of Nice biscuits and chose them. Well, how was I to know that it was French? I did feel a twit, but it gave Miss Ghrist a good laugh and I did go to cheer her up.

Christmas, oh Christmas, every child’s dream time of year and we had happy memories at my grandparents, but this year was going to be very different.

Christmas is a time of celebration and love, and Mum was determined that we should all share in the experience. We spent our time in the evenings making paper chain decorations and presents and trips in to town to shop at Woolworths became very important. With our limited pocket money we had to get value for money. The front sitting room was also the Committee Room and a place that we rarely ventured, but at Christmas it became the store room for presents which would arrive daily. They came either through charities and organisations or parents and relatives. I remember buses that would drive round the streets delivering parcels from the BFPOs in Germany, Malta, Aden or Egypt and these often stopped at Park Lodge. Everything was spirited away quickly and quietly in to the Committee Room where all around the floor were large boxes that once held eggs and were sent from the grocers with our weekly order. Each one bore the name of a different child in thick black print and it was in to these that Mum placed the presents. She always saw that it was fair and nobody got more than anybody else. At the end of term, the Christmas tree that had stood in the school hall was delivered to Park Lodge and with great excitement we wrapped red crepe paper around a coal bucket, filled it with coke and planted the tree firmly in the corner of the playroom. After tea the steps would come out and we all took part in decorating the tree and the playroom. The lights were put on last and then the room was plunged in to darkness as everybody waited for the magical moment when the tree would be lit. Christmas was on its way. Christmas Eve must have been a nightmare, getting everybody to bed and quietly adding the final touches. In our first year, Fred and I were in the Low Dorm, which was opposite Mum’s bedroom. We were crazy with excitement and I can remember creeping downstairs with Babs and Judy. We nearly got away with it too, only Babs put her hand on her hip and told me to ‘put my leg in’. I had never heard the expression before and didn’t realise that she meant me to put my arm through, so I tried hard to do as I was told, lost my balance and fell over. There was a lot of shushing going on but we were helpless with laughter which quickly roused Mum. As soon as her bedroom door opened, we froze in terror. 3 o’clock in the morning, what did we think we were doing, get back to bed this instant! Many years later she told me that she still had her clothes on under her dressing gown as she had only just finished and was on her way to bed.

But the following morning all was forgotten as we made our way downstairs. Remember the boxes? Well it was tradition that Mum should hide them all over the house, in the pantry, the wash house, under the stairs, in the bath, on the toilet seat and so on. The game of Christmas was to find your own box of presents and not let on if you had spotted somebody else’s. It certainly added to the fun and just as any other children in the country, we were soon down to the serious business of tearing open presents to see what Santa had brought. After a special breakfast of boiled eggs and ground coffee, it was time to clear up for Father Christmas and any other visiting dignitaries who had hopped on the sleigh.

Poor Mum must have been worn out by the time Christmas Day was over. There was usually a goose or turkey to cook and all the trimmings and I can still taste her bread sauce and stuffing which were legendary. Apparently on one particular day she had been so frazzled that she had forgotten to light the oven and only realised it when a visiting dignitary had asked to see what we would be having for lunch! Christmas dinner was a tad late that day.

The home was still a charitable foundation and so money had to be raised for its upkeep. There was a committee of very formidable, respectable ladies all from good families in the town, who met quarterly to go over the books and discuss the welfare of the children and any extra support that might be needed. We rarely saw them, but maybe because I was there for such a long time I got to know several of them fairly well. Mrs Ralph Rowntree, dear Lotte Wallace whose husband was the home’s accountant, Miss Gabb and Miss Wragge who shared a flat in at the top of a building in Highfield and in my teenage years I would earn some Saturday money by cleaning the stairs for them. There were quite a few ladies at that time who had lost the love of their lives during the war years, and these were two more, drawn together by their loss. After I had cleaned, they would invite me in for tea and biscuits and I listened as they told me stories from their lives. I loved it. I was always welcomed by Mrs Thomlinson if I was walking the clifftop at Osgodby, and Heather Allan whose husband was a GP and they had a wonderful walled garden in their house in Snainton. I can still smell the roses and hear the bees humming in the sunshine as we took tea outside.

My favourite was the Chairwoman, Gwenllian Whitaker, sister-in-law of Heather Allan. Her husband owned the Evening News and they lived in a very splendid house on Deepdale, Oliver’s Mount. Her son and daughter were of similar ages to Fred and I and I can remember us being invited to a birthday party very early on. It was all so grand and strange, but we were made welcome and joined in all of the fun. Her husband was eventually knighted and sweet Mrs Whitaker became a Lady, but she was more than any lady, she had a genuine loving soul and was very kind. She befriended me throughout my life and I could go and talk to her about anything and she would always listen and try to advise. In later years she wanted to meet Paul and the boys and so we went for tea on a couple of occasions. Once to her huge house in Dalby Forest which the boys loved exploring, and then when she downsized to Thornton Dale where there was a plunge pool and the boys took their swimming cossies and played in the water. She never changed and I was very sad to learn too late, that she had died and I had just missed her funeral and was unable to pay my last respects.

Lady Whittaker with P&I Phil, Ian and Sadie on the bridge Phil and Ian Dolly Elwes was another lovely lady. She lived in a grand house in Cloughton, high on a hill overlooking the sea. In my mind’s eye I can still see the French windows from the sitting room flung open wide and the view down to the bay below. It was quite breath-taking. We picnicked there one hot summer’s day. A special day away from school, we played roly-poly down the long sloping lawn and ate egg and tomato sandwiches. I thought I was in heaven. But the day had a terrible dark secret and we returned home to find that my brother had gone. My father, who had recently returned from Singapore had been and collected him whilst I laughed in the sunshine. On that day a little light went out in my heart and my former confidence gradually faded. I was alone now. My mum had gone, my parents had gone, my wonderful grandparents were far away, and now my annoying, horrible, simply wonderful, constant companion and best brother was gone. But life goes on regardless of whether we join in or not and that’s not how the story ends. It’s true that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and ultimately luck stayed on my side because from then on Park Street was my family and Rena Champion was my Mum.