The People In Our Tapestries

There is a lot of noise in the world today about various peoples’ rights, but it is rare to hear anyone talk about children. They are at the bottom of the pecking order and only come to anyone’s attention when a case of abuse, neglect or even abduction and murder comes to light. But the world is full of danger for a child. Children’s Homes and other organisations are meant to be establishments where children who need care are protected, but from the stories we have heard that is not always the case. I am so thankful that Fred and I were sent to Park Lodge where ‘everybody’s Mum’ Rena Champion was the matron.

Our little lives were safe, and we were allowed to play and grow as any other child. Naturally, there were rules, you can’t have a household of 12 minors without some discipline but there was also respect for the individual. We came home from school and changed into our play clothes. When our meal was over we washed the pots, tidied away, cleaned our shoes and then we were free to play before it was our bedtime. If it was wet or in winter we read books and did jigsaws, and because I loved to sing, I would be hoisted on to the kitchen table to perform. In good weather we would be out and about, at the park, in the street or just in the back yard. We also had a play shed where we could play at house, with an out of tune piano, that we messed about on. I had such a musical ear that I was offered Piano lessons with a lady round the corner, but I was also a timid creature and only got as far as her front door before I burst into tears and begged to go home. Oh, I wish …..

Some people that we meet enrich our lives in different ways, some good, and some not so but still of importance. Connie had been an assistant at the home before Fred and I arrived and had such a good relationship with Mum that she was a frequent visitor, bringing with her John as her fiancé, then husband and later her children. The first thing you noticed about her were her eyes; deep velvet brown that sparkled at you from a very sweet elfin face. Topped with a crop of short black hair, she was quite beautiful, and I loved her. She was a five foot bundle of joy and charged the atmosphere with fun. By contrast, her husband John was over six foot: a lovely, laid back man and it was obvious that he adored Connie. A printer by trade, he took the opportunity to retrain as a teacher and never looked back. It did mean however that I lost touch with Connie when they moved away for a teaching post, but life has a way of turning things round and one day, many years later she walked into the village store in Elvington that Paul and I had bought. She only lived in the next village and it was lovely to be back in the company of someone where no explanations were needed. I wish there were more people in the world like Connie.

Numbers began to dwindle around the late fifties as five of the older girls left to be replaced by Katie, who was my age, and a young brother and sister who were only there whilst mum was in hospital. The Assistant Matron left, and a trainee Nanny came to live in. Elizabeth was a rather strange girl and fortunately only worked at the home for three weeks in the end; she was very serious and seemed to have the idea that she was some sort of saint sent to save us. She had very long hair down to her waist which she brushed 100 times each night; and we had to do the same. It was torture and we couldn’t wait for her time to be up.

After that Mrs Dennis came from across the road to keep an eye on us when Mum had a day off. She had a dog called Bess who I used to enjoy taking on very long walks and she happily looked after us until the home finally closed in 1964. (See my third blog about Bess).

The other helper was a cleaner called Mrs Bowman; Mum said she was a rather coarse woman, and when it all came out I couldn’t believe that we had been so mean about her. It was her job to scrub the stone flagged floors in the kitchen, washroom and pantry and we decided that was why she never smiled. One day her daughter Susan came to say that her mother was in hospital and may not be back at work and it was then that we learnt the truth behind Mrs Bowman’s apparent sullenness. It transpired that her husband never gave her any housekeeping which was why she had to work. In fact, he was a drunk who beat her regularly. On the last occasion she had fallen downstairs and had to be taken to hospital where it was discovered that aside from her broken bones, she also had Breast Cancer in an advanced state. I’m pleased to say that he was arrested and whatever the outcome, he left the family home and Mrs Bowman in peace. We took flowers and a card and discovered a house as neat and tidy as a new pin and a person of great interest. Sadly, her days were numbered, and it was only a few months later that she died. It was an episode in my life that I hope taught me that what people do is not important, it is the individual that counts.

Or maybe not! Katie came to the home following a tragic car crash in which both her parents died. Whilst she was still in complete shock, her brother was taken to live at Throxenby Hall because as a boy he was too old for Park Street, and her stepsister stayed only a short while before leaving to find work. You would think that I of all people would have understood Katie’s devastation, but not a bit of it. I disliked her from the outset and was jealous of my position in the house. We bickered all the time and Mum got tired of splitting us up. One day in a rare fit of temper I whacked her over the head with a broom. I have no idea what came over me and worse still, I wasn’t sorry even when I was sent to bed without any tea! I should have been sorry though, because life had not finished throwing bricks at Katie. She was adopted by a wealthy family from Aislaby near Whitby, who wanted a companion for their daughter. I was really jealous, they had stables and horses, were posh and went to a Public School. But the cup she held was a poisoned chalice. Michaela had no interest in her new sister, it had been her parent's idea and consequently she treated Katie like a dogsbody. Even worse, Michaela’s friends took her side and there was bullying at school. Life was not worth living. Katie left as soon as she was old enough, returned to Scarborough, found her brother and lived in a squat until her death a few years later from a drugs overdose. It was a very hard lesson that pulled me up sharp.

I have come across so many kind people over the years and their kindness has always come at a time when life hit the buffers and I needed someone to make me see that life goes on. In the early fifties a newspaper called the Sunday Pictorial ran an article asking people if they could spare time to give a child from a Home a holiday. One of the committee members, Mrs Huggan had a niece who came forward; she and her friends would be only too happy to do that. And so it was that the Robinson family came into my life. Auntie Margaret and Uncle Cecil chose me, whilst their friends chose Fred. The irony of it was that we lived in a seaside town whilst the Robinsons and their friends lived in smoky old Bradford and Dewsbury. Whatever the arrangements were, we went for the occasional weekend and generally had a nice time.

I loved Auntie Margaret and Uncle Cecil. They had two sons, Graham and Michael and a Boxer dog called Brandy, and lived at the head of a cul-de-sac. The road to it was full of enormous potholes that filled with water like little ponds when it rained. I was later to discover that the road was ‘unadopted’ and eventually everybody paid to have it repaired, after which time the council took it over. Everybody seemed to know each other, and they were all very good friends but I can only remember the ones who had dogs. Hilda and Frank had a white Giant Poodle called Mitzi, whilst Margaret and Walter had a black Scottie called Duncan whom they had rescued. He had lost one of his front legs in an accident, but it didn’t stop him; he was a grand old fellow. They also had two daughters, Ann and Jennifer, nice girls who I would often play with.

People said that Bradford was a dirty old city with lots of industry and smoke, but the Robinson’s home was on the outskirts and the view from their back garden was of moorland. It fell away sharply into a valley and I remember seeing Magpies there for the first time in my life.

These weren’t the only firsts either. The sky at the end of the road was criss-crossed with overhead wires which were for the trolley buses. They zipped along with their two long trolley-poles reaching up to the cables that went from one wire to another as they changed direction. My amazement grew as we went into the city centre and saw trams running down the roads. I had never seen anything like it. We were on our way to a big department store called Brown, Muff & Co. Anyone who remembers it will know that it was a wonderful old fashioned emporium and the place to go. In those days children had to be seen and not heard, but that didn’t bother me, I was too overawed with everything to speak. Out on the street was another education as I saw people with dark skin, men in turbans and ladies in saris. I had only ever seen that in picture books and was fascinated. It was all so exotic.

At some time between visits the family had moved to a big, detached house on Halifax Road, with a nice garden. The front door was in the middle with two large windows either side and as you climbed the steep garden path you were drawn into its welcoming arms. A powerful smell of wool carpets hit you as soon as stepped inside, and it is still a smell that I love. There were even more firsts as I went through the house. A barometer and clock on the side, locks on the windows, a fridge as well as a pantry! A hoover that looked like a big bubble and followed you round, and a twin-tub washing machine. But the thing that impressed me most was the cellar. I had no idea that houses could have cellars, and it wasn’t just coal down there either. They can’t have been in the house very long as one night they had a housewarming party. Graham, Michael and I were put to bed, but there was no chance of sleep. Auntie Margaret and Uncle Cec were very sociable and popular people. Margaret was a Girl Guide leader and belonged to several ladies’ organisations, whilst Cec was a Rotarian, a member of the local Chamber of Trade and the Conservative club and I have no idea what else. It was a very jolly group of people that came to the party that night and they certainly enjoyed themselves. I listened to it all, the laughter and the chatter before finally falling asleep, but Michael was very cross and put his head under the pillow to try and drown out the noise. It didn’t work.

But they were good times. I remember once Fred was also going to stay with us overnight so that we could return to Scarborough together the following day, and I was so happy that I sang and sang. They put us to bed and still I sang. In the end the couple from Dewsbury had to come and get Fred just to get me to stop singing!

The house was on the main road at the end of suburbia and opposite the last trolley bus stop, so that there were overhead wires to the left, but the sky was clear to the right. The countryside was swallowed up a long time ago, but in the fifties the garden led on to a field with geese in. Michael would take me to feed the geese and try as he might to persuade me they were nice, I was scared of the big birds, and neither did I like the way they pecked and honked. I still don’t. He was happy around animals, loved his dogs, and was so broken-hearted when Brandy ran onto the main road and was killed by an oncoming car, that he was offered two young pups and kept them both. One was another Boxer who he named Pedro and I was quite confused when I saw him, the two animals were so alike. Michael was a kind and thoughtful boy who dreamt of becoming a farmer, but sadly his parents vetoed it which eventually caused a rift in the family. He was also was closer to my age and for a time after Fred left, he became a kind of substitute brother. Uncle Cec had a familiar way of calling Auntie Margaret darling that came out more as ‘dwarling’. It was a word that Michael picked up on as a toddler, but when he said it the word came out as Dolly. As these things often do, it stuck and Auntie Margaret ever after became known as Dolly within the family circle.

What a lovely Dolly she was too. She was always warm and welcoming and would crush me in a bear hug as soon as she saw me. As I got a little older I would be put on the West Yorkshire bus in Scarborough and be met at Leeds bus station by Auntie Margaret and Uncle Cec with the car. I was a terrible traveller and the first thing I always did as I got off the bus was throw up. Without fail. But Margaret didn’t flap, she simply took out a flannel and towel that she just happened to have handy and cleaned me up. Then it was off on another journey to Bradford. She was proud of her appearance and had a weekly shampoo and set at the hairdressers, but I never knew until I saw her what colour her hair would be. Pink, purple, green. It was a long time before I realised that her true colour was black. Kids today think they invented hair dye, but ladies of a certain age in the fifties beat them to it. Her love was inclusive, and I shall never forget that feeling of amazement when, on a Sunday morning we children were all allowed to pile into the big double bed and snuggle up as a family. The last time I had done that was with my stepmother and she just sighed and got out of the other side.

Uncle Cec was gorgeous. He was jolly and kind, loved classical music and if he had a dream come true it would have been to conduct an orchestra. Probably at the Last Night of The Proms. He would hum happily to himself as we drove along; maybe he was imagining standing in front of some great orchestra. He hated violence and did not want to fight in the war so became a Bevin Boy. Neither alternative sound good to me and I can’t imagine what it must have been like to have even lived through those terrible years, but he still served his country by providing the fuel for industry and the homes of the nation. He ran his own business dealing in Pharmaceutical supplies and I remember being taken to the warehouse which was a cornucopia of goodies. I was allowed to choose one or two smelly things to take home and then I waited in the car with instructions not to open anything. Well, of course I did. I was too excited not to, but then when Auntie Margaret got back in the car she could smell the evidence. I tried to lie, then I cried because I didn’t want to be naughty, but it was just too much temptation for a little girl. Uncle Cec loved a cigar and was very proud of his collection, which included some from Cuba and one of the brands that Winston Churchill favoured.

Graham was a lesser known quantity. He was older and the age gap made a difference. I got to know him better in later years and found him to be a genuine and very kind man.

They were a busy family and despite protestations from Uncle Cec that she would never do it, Auntie Margaret learned to drive, and I think that sealed her fate. It gave her the freedom to rush round here and there, look after the house and multi-task until one day it was too much. She had a massive stroke one morning after she had delivered the boys to school and lay all day on the kitchen floor until one of the family came home and found her. First my upcoming holiday was cancelled and then I was told that I would not be able to see her as it was touch and go. Margaret was in a private hospital for over a year and when she did go home, Uncle Cec wrapped her in cottonwool and devoted his time to caring for her. He took a back seat in his business and recalled a reluctant Michael from Agricultural College to run the show. Margaret had Speech and Occupational therapy sessions, but there was no great improvement, and she remained an invalid for the rest of her life.

I didn’t see any of the family for a few years following Auntie Margaret’s stroke, but one day I received a card with an invitation for me to join them for Sunday lunch. I think I was about 16 by then, at Art school and very independent. I caught the West Yorkshire bus to Leeds (did not throw up on arrival) then took the connection on to Shipley where the family had moved to a lovely bungalow. I soon found Nab Wood, a quiet, leafy suburb with views down on to the Aire valley. The welcome was as warm as ever, and I tried not to show my shock at seeing Margaret who looked very much an invalid which aged her considerably. Then grandma arrived and we all sat down to a feast of roast beef and Yorkshire puddings. Thinking about it now, I have no idea who cooked the meal, but it was delicious. After lunch we all jumped into two cars and drove off to Morton to look at the cottage which Graham and his fiancée had bought and were ready to settle into. The countryside was beautiful, and whilst I was there I had the strongest feeling of déjà vu that I have ever had. I knew the road, the cottages and the people that lived there and I could see it from a child’s eyes, yet nobody could ever recall me having been taken there before. Interesting; had I been there in a former life? Uncle Cec took Grandma home after tea whilst the rest of us helped with the washing up. It was like old times when we would all be in the kitchen on a Sunday night, listening to Sing Something Simple on the Home Service, cleaning up and putting things away. It was strange staying overnight in this unfamiliar bungalow. It had none of the warmth that the house on Halifax Road had, but it suited the family at that time in their lives and it was nice to be back in the fold, if only briefly.

There was a gap of almost twenty years before I saw them again.

The swinging sixties saw an explosion of life. At last the war years and the following depression had gone, and there was prosperity in the country. It was like taking a black and white painting and filling it with colour. I wish I could have enjoyed it more, but these were my growing up years. Hinderwell School and all that innocence was left behind as I became a pupil at Falsgrave Secondary Modern. It was a ten minute walk down the road instead of a daily mile long gallop through the park, collecting friends along the way. It’s only now that I realise how much I missed that camaraderie.

My friends and I knew that we would be in the same class, but on that first day as we looked around, we realised that Helen was not there. The family had moved during the summer holidays and a decision had been made for Helen and her sister Judith to go to Lady Lumley’s School in Pickering. It was left to Glynis who had to stand up in registration and tell Mrs Ryder that Helen would not be coming. I know it upset her and it stunned us.

Our lives come in stages. From birth to ten or eleven we learn to walk and talk, to explore the world around us. Then comes the years when we change from a child who is told what to do to a person who wants to tell everybody else how it’s done. We cause mayhem and disruption without even understanding why or how? But life is all about change. What we once would have worn every day, we suddenly wouldn’t be seen dead in. We form opinions where once we had none, we use different words and are suddenly influenced by new people and things outside the home. We also change physically, from head to toe, inside and out. And in the midst of all this we move on from our friends of childhood and find new faces and experiences. No wonder the teenage years are a nightmare.

I stumbled through, with my self-esteem waning daily. Practically everyone had left the home and I missed them terribly. I grew convinced that there was something really bad about me and I was the reason they had gone, otherwise, why was I the only one left? It was obviously a fault with me. Each evening I would come home from school and look in the mirror searching for answers and cry until I was exhausted. Sadly, I’m not the only one to live through this type of experience and when I hear of youngsters today, I want to reach out to them and tell them that it will be ok. They need someone to talk to, who will listen and impart some understanding, reassurance and encouragement more than anything.

But it wasn’t all doom and gloom and although I was middle of the road academically, school grounded me. I loved Mrs Ryder. She wasn’t very tall and was, shall we say, top heavy. She would stand in front of the class and fold her arms on top of her ample bosom and say ‘Now then girls’ in a Miss Jean Brodie kind of way. She was firm but fair and as a Maths teacher she was a demon. Numbers have never been my thing and I got left behind as she would be rubbing the sum off the board whilst I was still getting it down and trying to understand it. Miss Haigh’s English lessons were always fun and was where I first came across T S Eliot’s Old book of Possums. We were Cats long before Andrew Lloyd Webber. I would like to have had more time in Science and I suspect that Miss Lister could have taught Physics given half the chance, but that was not a subject for us lesser mortals at secondary school. Miss Clark became our Form teacher in the third year, and we all adored her. She had a flame of red hair and a natural charm. We all sat up and listened when she began to speak. We were all devastated when she left to have a baby. I have no idea how we knew where she lived, but a few of us got together and paid her a visit. We caught the bus out to Crossgates and took some flowers and were rewarded with a peep at a contentedly sleeping baby boy. The oddest teacher of all was the music teacher, Miss Dowson. She was very starchy, reminiscent of the Suffragettes and I swear I never saw her smile. She must have smoked quite heavily because she always wore little bandages round her fingers, covered with Sellotape so that the nicotine didn’t stain them. She was ancient and lived with her even more ancient father and her younger sister who was Headmistress of Central School. But her pride and joy was the school choir, and it was a good one. You had to be auditioned before you could join and although I had a good voice I didn't make the grade. I remain eternally mystified and offended not to have got in. Our Headmistress, Mrs Newton was an old blue stocking and never seemed happy in her role. Her glasses always seemed to be in the wrong place, and she would frequently take them off and put them on again so that she could see what she was doing. She reminded me so much of Alastair Sim in his role of Head of St Trinians.

I shone at Art and the practical things like Needlework and cookery which were all held in classrooms across the road in another equally old school building. It was like escaping from school when we ran across to Sitwell Street for our lessons. Mrs Fieldhouse was our Art teacher and she inspired me, but not just in Art as she also took us for swimming. Every Friday morning in summer we would take a bus down to the North Bay swimming pool for our lessons and at the end of term there was a swimming gala in which we competed in our School Houses. The pool had a swimming club and most Monday nights saw Glynis, Helen, Linda and I down there after tea splashing around and generally having fun. Then we would each buy a bag of Smith’s crisps from the kiosk as we left and raced for the bus home.

I gradually achieved a balance and began to make new friends whilst the old ones were still there in the background. I still enjoyed hurtling round on my bike and teamed up with Christine, a new girl who had a lovely Labrador called Heather. I would collect Bess, Mrs Dennis’ Alsation dog and together we walked the dogs for miles most evenings after school. Sandra was another new girl who joined us. Her father had transferred from Devon to Scarborough with his job and we soon became good friends. The thing that fascinated me about the whole family was that when they laughed or smiled, which they often did, their eyes crinkled up and the happiness shone through. That simple expression really made an impression on me and gave me a more positive outlook on life. I associated it with sunshine and warmth.

In 1964, we moved to a brand new building and joined with Central to become Raincliffe Secondary Modern. Not wanting to favour either of the old schools with the uniform choice we ended up with a mixture of blue, red and green stripes with red hats. Prefects wore badges and our hats had a red tassel, it was all so embarrassing, and we were teased for it. But it was a lovely school with space to breath, classrooms for everything, and the Domestic Science rooms were to die for. Not only was there a beautiful array of work stations with gas and electric ovens in the kitchen, but a bathroom suite for Child Care lessons. Our form teacher was Mrs Lyons who taught English, and we benefitted from having a wonderful school library next door to our classroom. When I wasn't in the spacious new Art room I could be found in the Library helping to organise the books on the shelves and trying to read most of them at the same time.

The school looked out over generous playing fields, Raincliffe Woods and across the way, the Boy's High School which was the cause of a few detentions as girls were seen sneaking over to meet various boyfriends at lunchtime. It was so open and flat that it was just too exposed for discreet behaviour

One of my fondest memories was towards the end of our Secondary School days. The school had a proper hall and stage, and it was decided that we should produce a Nativity play along with an award ceremony as we had been unable to have a proper Speech Day that year. Glynis and I were Wise Men and one of my lines had something about, ‘and so this is our meet.’ I got a bit silly when it came to rehearsals and each time I said the line I muttered the words ‘and Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes and two veg.’ Glynis was next to me and that set her off giggling which was very infectious, and before long we were all at it. We tried to calm down, but even when I didn’t add the Yorkshire puddings the laughter was already in the air. I don’t know how we got through it on the day of the actual performance, but I’m sure Glynis must have been biting her lip. Someone had the bright idea that as I was playing Balthazzar I should be blacked up. I also wore black gloves and stockings; it was very convincing.

As we quickly changed for the presentation after the play, we were replaced on stage by the Headmistress and the Chair of the Governors who just happened to be my dear friend Lady Whittaker. I followed the line up to shake her hand, and she paused. Holding my hand a little longer she said, ‘I’ve spoken to Miss Dowson (the Headmistress) and told her that you must be allowed to take a bath before you go home, to wash off all that black.’ Keeping a straight face as I thanked her wasn’t easy, as I knew there wasn’t much to come off at all, but I was delighted and luxuriated in the hot water instead of going back to the classroom. I was also proud to be the very person to use the new facilities.