The Rich Tapestry of Childhood

When I look at children of today I realise that growing up in the fifties we had a much more carefree childhood. We didn’t have the peer pressure of having the latest trainers or video games; there were no mobile phones and photos were taken on a camera to be developed months later not instantly splashed over some social media website.

Although the austerity of the war years were receding, we hadn’t quite reached the stage of keeping up with the Jones's’, but televisions were becoming the norm and the Committee for the Children's Home decided that we should have one, but which one? I would come home from school on an evening to find a different set in the corner of the Playroom. Sometimes friends would come with me so that we could watch Mr Pastry or Sooty and even Bill and Ben. They would gape at ‘another new TV set’ until eventually one was chosen and it stayed. The screen size was a consideration, but more importantly it had doors and a key as viewing was restricted to when Mum said. Our imaginations were fired by programmes such as Robin Hood with Richard Greene, Ivanhoe with Roger Moore, and the American shows of Bonanza and The Lone Ranger. We rode our imaginary horses to school and round the playground at break time, each taking a character from whichever show we were play acting. Of course everyone wanted the best characters and nobody wanted to be the Sheriff of Nottingham. The best programmes by far were the Sunday evening dramas on the Beeb. They dramatized classics such as Oliver Twist, David Copperfield and Lorna Doone to a very high standard and it was real family viewing. I learnt a lot from those programmes and wish that something like them was still being made. After that it was Songs of Praise followed by Sunday Night At The London Palladium hosted by Bruce Forsyth. We loved watching Beat The Clock but we were only allowed to watch that during the holidays as we had to be in bed early for school the following day.

After assembly one summer’s morning we were all led out of school and across the main road to The Mere. Excitement grew when we saw The Hispaniola, a small replica pirate ship moored at the landing and then realised that we were going on board. At first we thought we going to be on television ourselves but the film was part of a tourism promotion for Scarborough. Anyway, we all climbed aboard and were filmed as we sailed over to a little island where we disgorged and pretended to look for treasure. Two of the boys had already been chosen to find it and when they did it was all aboard again, over to dry land and back to school. It had taken up the whole morning and kept us high all afternoon so goodness knows how the teachers managed with us.

One of our favourite stopping off points on the way home from school was the old brick pond at the foot of a small quarry. We knew all about Amphibians from school and this was the place to find them. Frogs, Toads and Newts were what we sought and we weren’t disappointed. Children don’t have Nature Tables in school anymore but we were quite happy to dispatch one of our friends to her house down the road for some jam jars and we would scoop them out of the water and roll up to school the following day with our prizes of frogspawn or Newts. It might sound a bit selfish of us by today's standards, but in those days we had no notion of the impending peril of our natural life which has been brought about largely by the development and impoverishment of land. We were simply interested enthusiasts.

Winters always seem to have been really cold when I was young and I certainly remember a lot more snow. Running to school was a good idea if only to keep warm, but I was very clumsy and most of the ‘excellent slides’ ended up with me on my backside. I was probably soaked by the time I got to school. I remember one morning it being so cold that Mr. Catton, the headmaster brought an extra heater into the classroom. It smelt awful but it radiated lots of lovely heat. I don't think he would get away with it now, they would just close the school and send everyone home.

We had been given a toboggan that would seat at least four if not five of us. It was beautifully made in wood with metal on the runners and was the envy of all the kids for streets around. We didn’t have to go far to use it either as we lived on a hill, but it was far more fun to go up to the Park. I preferred to sit behind my brother even though he was a bit reckless, and when he, Eric and Bill got together it was laughs and crashes a minute. Snowball fights would ensue whilst we were waiting for our turn but that meant that your gloves and hands soon got wet and once I was cold that was it. With my cold hands and nose and my feet freezing in my wellies I would run home, remove my wet things, find a book and sit as close as I could to the old boiler in the kitchen and read.

Reading was probably one of my favourite pastimes and we always had plenty of books around. Enid Blyton’s Famous Five, The Secret Seven and Mallory Towers were best, but there were adventure books for girls, and plenty of outdated annuals that had been donated at Christmas. I usually read the Rupert annual from cover to cover and then attempted the origami that was featured. I say attempted as I never did get close to anything like the diagrams, but it kept me occupied and out of mischief for quite a while.

Living in Scarborough, we often went down to the beach for the day in summer. We would take a picnic, our swimming costumes and towels and as the beach was usually densely packed, it was important to stake a pitch, which we did, just below the junction of Foreshore Road, the Spa and Valley Road. In those days there was a kind of viewing tower where there had once been a bandstand and the idea was that if any one of us got lost we could always climb the steps and look down to see where everyone else was.

I was a real water baby and very eager to learn to swim and there were always plenty of helpers. I got into the water and floundered around, probably getting several mouthfuls of salty water, but hands grabbed me and instructions were shouted and I moved my arms in wide breast stroke movements. The worst part was when I just got confident and a wave would floor me, but I kept going. I don’t know how many times or for how many days I went in to the sea and out but gradually splashing turned to doggy paddle which eventually turned to a half decent breast stroke. There was no stopping me after that. I don’t think they quite got the hang of swimming costumes in those days and of course there wasn’t the super material that is used now. Mine was cotton seersucker and, as was the fashion was ruched with sheering elastic. When dry it looked very pretty, but once wet the weight of the water pulled the whole thing down to my waist which embarrassed me and made the others giggle. One of the older girls eventually came to my rescue and made sure that the straps were tied very high behind my neck. Even then it would sag, but was a lot better and preserved my modesty. At lunchtime we would all stop what we were doing, swimming, building sandcastles, playing rounders and flock back to Mum for lunch which was sandwiches. I can taste them now, huge chunks of bread with potted meat or jam and sand, you just couldn’t avoid it. If we were really lucky there would be money for an ice cream and we all volunteered to be the ones that went across the main road for twelve cornets, but only the big girls were allowed. They would return with ice cream dripping through their fingers and we all raced to grab ours before they melted any further. Then it was back to playing or swimming.

On very rare occasions when the tide was right, Mum would disappear and go for a swim herself. I didn't even realise she could swim and although I heard about it, I never actually witnessed it and she always returned fully dressed. At the end of the day we would shiver in our towels as one, then another was shielded as we stripped off our costumes and dried and dressed before making our way back up Valley Road and home. One year my grandparents visited with my favourite Auntie Jean and Uncle Fred and we had a wonderful time playing on the beach. We rode on the donkeys and the children's merry go round, but I suffered terribly from motion sickness as a child and no sooner had we set off than I wanted to get off again.

Twice a year we had a new outfit for Sunday Best which would either be something brand new (usually the older girls) or passed down. For instance my swimming costume would have come out of ‘the cupboard’. This was a large airing cupboard where clothing was left when it had been outgrown but was too good to throw out. They were real hand-me-downs. There was everything from Brownie uniforms to bras, socks, dresses and jumpers. Nothing was wasted. If a garment was considered too shabby it was stripped of it’s buttons and zips or any other re-usable frill and turned into dusters. Jumpers and cardigans were unravelled and the wool balled and knitted into a new item of clothing. I can remember sitting in the kitchen, bored out of my trolley as someone first wound the wool round my outstretched hands, then reeled it back into a ball. School uniforms also came out of the cupboard and you could tell from the style how old they were. Mum would buy a big bottle of 1001 Carpet Shampoo every summer and once the school holidays got underway she would ‘dry clean’ the tunics ready for the autumn term. Then you simply found one that fit and claimed it as yours. Shoes were a bit more important however and I can remember having a fitting at the Clark’s shop and feeling very proud of my new shoes. But shoes also had to last and so we took them to the cobblers. The man we used was Mr.Knowles and he had his repair shop right at the bottom of the town in Eastborough. He was a really kindly man and we always got a lovely reception from him. I only have to close my eyes and I can be back in that shop with the smell of leather and see Mr. Knowles’ bright twinkling eyes and gentle smile. Mum said that he and his wife had been unable to have children which made me sad as I think he would have made a wonderful father.

Children have no real concept of Children’s Homes or being in care and I suppose Park Street was a fairly relaxed establishment. This big house with children tumbling out of it, playing in the back yard or riding our bikes up and down the street. Our friends were always welcome and it amused me later in life when more than one of them told me how, after a family argument they had threatened to come and live at my house.

Are there still Sunday Schools and if so do they have outings? We all got a Chocolate Egg at Easter and at the start of the school holidays came the annual Sunday School Outing. A coach was hired to transport children, helpers, picnic and the Vicar off to our destination which always seemed to be Snainton. Don’t get me wrong, I love Snainton but our destination was a rather large field which bears no comparison to the beautiful facilities which are there now. There was no lovely village hall with all amenities, just a small wooden pavilion. There may have been some swings and a slide, I can’t be sure of that but the grass was rough and long with thistles and cow pats where the cattle had grazed, and you also had to watch out for huge horse flies. Once the coach was unloaded and the picnic carried into the pavilion for the ladies to organise, we were shepherded onto the field for games. After the running races came the sack race, three-legged race and the egg and spoon and even I who hated sports entered into the fun of it. Then at some point a pitch was created and a game of cricket was started which was when you had to look out for the cow pats and running for a ball could be quite hazardous. Most of the time the weather was good but I do remember one hot sticky day when no sooner had we got started than there was a violent thunderstorm. We all piled into the pavilion getting in the way of the ladies trying to set up the picnic. But the Reverend Sam Cooke was a very jolly and resourceful man and soon had us singing and playing indoor games. He had served as a chaplain in the Royal Air Force during World War II and been decorated for bravery. I remember him wearing his medals on Armistice Sundays and the RAF wings were emblazoned proudly on his tippet. The picnic was always the same. Potted meat and egg and cress sandwiches, butterfly buns, jelly in those waxy paper, flower shaped dishes and still orange juice. But it was all very nice and it was a day out of the normal routine to somewhere we otherwise would never have gone. In later years, numbers had dwindled quite dramatically and instead of the coach there was just a convoy of three cars. This time we drove through Snainton and turned right for Troutsdale. I had never been before and was bowled over by the beauty of it. We parked up on the grass verge and went for a hike instead of playing games and that was probably my favourite of all the outings.

Rosedale was in Mum’s blood and she was never happier than when we went for a holiday. She would find the resources from somewhere and in the early days rented an old Shooting Box called White Lodge. The girls loved it there and would tell stories of seeing swarms of glow worms in the grounds after dark, or finding a sheep sheltering in the outside privy when they wanted to use it. When it came to my turn there were only three of us so we rented Primrose cottage next door to Mum’s Auntie Lily and Uncle Fred. They were a lovely old couple and spoilt us rotten, Auntie Lily in particular loved making us cakes and biscuits which suited us fine. The cottage was halfway up Chimney Bank and stood in a square with four others. Primrose and Bluebell cottages were at the top and the other three stood down one side. Opposite them was a row of five privies and down at the bottom ran the road. Nowadays we would chuck everything into the boot of the car and be there in an hour, but we only had public transport to rely on. Laden down with bags and packages with food, our first stop was Pickering and after an hour’s wait we caught another bus which took us as far as Wrelton corner. Here we alighted and began a 7 mile long trek. As with all children, it wasn’t long before we started asking how much farther and we always believed Mum when she said, ‘just round the next corner’ or, ‘at the bottom of this hill.’ But even if she had told us how far it was it wouldn’t have made much difference as we had no idea of distance. Mum plodded stoically on with us trailing behind, and like the milkman’s horse, grew more determined with every step that took her closer to her beloved Rosedale. The cottage was a tiny, two up, two down worker’s cottage with no running water or electricity and a double mattress on the floor of each bedroom. We had a bucket to catch water from a spring at the back of Uncle Fred’s cottage and a paraffin stove to cook on. None of this phased Mum and on that first evening we soon had a fire laid, a meal organised and the beds made up. Babs, Kate and I all climbed in together and although Mum had bought us long flannelette nighties, the extra body warmth was appreciated. I loved visiting Mum’s various relatives especially going to Uncle Harry’s farm. We watched amazed as a lamb was born, were allowed to collect the hens eggs and help to wash them and played in the hayloft. The kitchen was warm and welcoming and we wolfed down the bowl of stew that was put down in front of us. We wandered by the river, picked Daffodils and Primroses and wherever we went we seemed to meet somebody who knew Mum. Thankfully at the end of the week we were spared the long trek back to Wrelton as we were able to catch a bus from the village centre. I did enjoy our holidays there but it was cold and I am a creature of comfort who likes to be warm. Going home to Park Lodge, a cosy bed, inside toilet and electric light was very welcome indeed.

For most of my childhood I lived in a large house halfway up a steep hill. Not the best of places for a child to learn to ride a bike, but I was very determined. My childhood tricycle had been accidentally crushed by a car backing in to it, I didn’t like roller skates, couldn’t even stand up in them and I was fed up with my scooter; all that hard work pushing and getting nowhere fast. No, my friends had bikes and it was what I wanted too.

I rooted around in the back shed and found an old black Hercules that looked like it was second cousin to the Penny Farthing. It had one brake and no gears, but it did have handlebars, a saddlebag and, most importantly two wheels! Another search revealed a bicycle pump and after ten minutes I was ready to go out into the street. I remember somebody holding the bike back and front, but I don’t know how many times I was wheeled out before I realised that I was on my own and I’m pretty sure I fell off at that point. As the day progressed, so did my confidence and after several runs along the bottom road I was ready to go downhill. I should like to say that after pushing my bike to the top of the hill I got on and whizzed down, but I’m a bit more cautious than that. I know that I will have trickled slowly down, one hand steadily squeezing the brake and my legs dangling ready for an emergency stop. But I still had that feeling of elation when I reached the bottom. I did it, I did it!

There was no stopping me after that. Did mum want some bread from Fields the bakers? I volunteered to go. Forgot to drop the weekly order in at Edward's the grocer; happy to be of service. Friends all out after school; out came the bikes. Life took on a new dimension and even though I was only seven, I felt so grown up. School holidays were the best and as it was the nineteen fifties there wasn’t a lot in the way of traffic to worry about. There were just four cars in our street plus the milkman’s float.

A new family by the name of Garnett moved into the street and despite my good memory I just cannot remember the time frame or who left the street first, but they were very nice and very sociable. Dad had just been demobbed from the Army and was looking to settle the family. Mum was Maltese, gorgeous looking and very jolly. She was also pregnant with child number four. Eva was the eldest child, a bit younger than me, a real dark haired, dark-eyed waif and a little rebel. She had a bike, I had a bike and we quickly became firm friends, cycling buddies. The area was completely new to Eva, so I felt it my duty to show her around and her mum was only too glad to have her out from under her feet. We rode for miles out to the hospital and Woodlands cemetery until one day we ventured down through the valley and up on to South Cliff right up to the Holbeck Hall Hotel (sadly washed into the sea in 1993). We were exploring and happy, but of course Eva’s dad didn’t see it that way. We were still children and anything could have happened to us and with hindsight I can see that it was a bit reckless. So sadly our trips were curtailed to the street and the surrounding area. But the one thing that I will always thank Eva for and that is she taught me how to stand up. On my bike that is. Stand and pedal. It was something I envied of others but was too scared to try for myself. But she made it so competitive as she raced away from me that I had to give it a go, and once I was up there was no stopping me.

By that time I was riding confidently and it was quite normal to see my friends and I pushing our bikes up an even steeper hill beyond ours and coming down again at breakneck speed. When we got bored with that we wandered further afield, riding up Stepney to the Girl’s High School round the top to Sandybed, Racecourse Hill and Jacob’s Ladder and back down through the park. Then as we got a bit older our rides took us along Scalby Road, past the hospital, down Lady Edith’s Drive and out to Forge Valley, almost as far as East Ayton. I revelled in the fact that Linda had a posh bike with three gears and a speedo, and I could still beat her hands down. We were really adventurous which made us very independent and I feel sorry for any child who has not experienced the chance to safely roam.

Our usual mode of transport was bus, ‘shank’s pony’ or bicycle and the local police did a really good cycling proficiency scheme which we were all encouraged at secondary school to sign up for. We were each given a copy of the Highway Code to learn, as we would be tested on it but the greatest part was a specially designed course around which we rode our bikes. It was on the plateau above the Open Air Theatre and was a miniature network of streets painted on the ground with Stop signs, Zebra crossings, Junctions, Crossroads etc. We went for two or three weeks, each taking our turn riding the course, then after a break we went again, following the instructions of the Police Constable who would correct any mistakes. Finally the day came when we we rode the course in what was something very similar to a driving test, being marked on our progress. I don’t remember how the Highway Code was tested, but I do know that we were all very proud of having passed and receiving our badges and certificates in School Assembly a few days later.

23 April 1961 was a Sunday. It was also St George’s day and the last day of the school holidays. There had been an incident reported in the Evening News that had taken place in Raincliffe Woods and we were mad keen to investigate, but it was the St George’s day Church parade at midday and as Girl Guides, we were expected to attend especially as Glynis and Helen were both to be flag bearers. What should we do? Well we got on our bikes of course, with threats ringing in our ears to keep an eye on the time.

The four of us raced along the familiar route, all excitement and no idea. At Throxenby Mere, we threw our bikes down in the grassed off car parking area next to the water and climbed up into the woods. I don’t know what we expected to find, but all we saw was a carpet of primroses and windflowers (anemone) in a tranquil springtime setting. What an anti-climax. We wandered dejectedly down the slope only to realise that we had come too far along the bank of the mere and the only way round was over a small inlet. Then Linda looked at her watch and we panicked, we knew we didn’t have time to go back the way we had come. The weather had been cold and frosty all week and the edges of the mere were coated in ice. We had to risk it. One by one, a hop, a step and over. A hop a step and over. A hop a step, a creak and over. A hop, a step a crack and my foot was covered in freezing muddy water. But no time for tears, we had to go or face the consequences.

We raced home and changed into our uniforms as fast as we could. I don’t even remember how I got into town but I know I arrived just in the nick of time at Westborough Methodist church. Everyone was already on parade including Helen’s mum who, as our Guide Leader was hopping mad and giving Helen and Glynis angry looks as they belted up to take their flags.

I was in the Netball Team at school and loved swimming, but apart from that my sporting prowess was quite pitiful and the thought of Sports Day always filled me with dread as we were all expected to take part in something. But Falsgrave School was closing and we were to move to a new site on the outskirts, merging with Central, the other girl’s secondary school in the town. Our last sports day was a more of a day of fun which was held on site in our two playgrounds and to my delight we were to have a Slow Cycle race. Most people would not have been seen dead with an old bike but it was mine and I was very loyal and I happily signed up for the event. It was well subscribed too and there were several heats which gave me lots of opportunity to study technique. It was much more difficult than I had thought it would be but I did reasonably well and got over halfway down the track, however I had not even given a thought to the sheer weight of the bike and it was my undoing. I wobbled and I wibbled and wobbled a bit more, then down went my foot and I was out. I probably could have got a prize for the oldest bike there, but I didn’t contest it.

Falsgrave School wasn’t the only establishment that closed in 1964; in the July of that year Mum finally retired and I moved with her to her little two up, two down terrace house in the middle of town, me being the only child left in the home. The Hercules came too, but it didn’t get much activity after that. School was two miles away and I either walked or used money from my Saturday job to catch the bus occasionally. Also, living in the middle of town meant that most things were to hand anyway. The shops, the library, the station. Its last outing was with Chris. We had both passed to go the Art School and were enjoying a bit of freedom before the new term began. The day was wall to wall sunshine and we decided to ride out to Forge Valley. Thinking that we would buy a snack somewhere, we were disappointed to find that the only shop we came across was the Post Office at Everley which closed at mid-day and by that time we were not only hungry, but very thirsty. With the sun still high and the day getting hotter, we carried on to Hackness and paddled in the stream to cool down. It is the most beautiful countryside graced with a long row of magnificent Copper Beeches all the way up the hill. We almost missed the sign at the top outside a small farmhouse nestled in the hill. Cold drinks and ice lollies. Yes please to both. Back on our bikes we carried on home, a little bit rested and a little bit refreshed. The farmers had been busy and wagon after wagon passed us carrying great bales of straw. I hope they got them under cover as that evening the heavens opened and there was a real humdinger of a storm.

And that was Hercules last ride. Eventually Mum got fed up with it cluttering up the place and wheeled it round the corner to a second-hand dealer who gave her two pounds ten shillings (£2.50) for scrap. It was quite a while before I got back into the saddle, but you never forget how to ride a bike and I will always be grateful to whoever it was that held me steady and set me off on two wheels.