CHAPTER 1 – December 2001
6th December – Thursday
Today I am fifty-five years old. At 7.45 a.m. the telephone rang. Turning over in bed, I picked up the receiver to hear Kelly, Amy and Wendy singing 'Happy Birthday dear Gran'. In a daze of semi-sleep I thanked them for their present before they dashed off their quick goodbyes and went to get ready for school.
Opening the carefully wrapped gift which they had give to me long before I was delighted to find a patterned mug on which the words, 'Groovy Gran' were printed. I liked that and was pleased to think that we had only minutes before been talking about Kelly's coming trip to see 'Steps live in concert'. At least Kelly (6) and Amy (5) don't laugh at me for watching 'Top of the Pops' each Friday evening.
Several friends have asked what I was planning to do on my special day and they have all been told that today I am embarking on writing this fragment of autobiography. Even John's offer to take me out for lunch has been declined. So here I am tapping away on the lap-top, a birthday present from John, bought as an encouragement to write something down about my life as a child on a Yorkshire farm. No doubt this story will be difficult for my grandchildren to understand. The freedom, wildness, poverty and dirtiness are in stark contrast to the way of life experienced now by our sons and their children. Have I 'come up' in the world or could it be that back in the 1950s life was pretty hard for most people and that our expectations were less?
Of course I can't remember the day I was born but I do remember some of the stories surrounding my birth. The most lasting influence has been the knowledge that my mother had been very ill when my older brother John had been born, three and a half years earlier, and had decided that now she had got her boy the family was complete. Finding herself pregnant again must have come as a shock knowing that she was likely to have a difficult pregnancy and birth. Throughout my childhood the words: 'she ought to have been a boy' were said with regular monotony. Whether I became a 'tom-boy' because I had to wear boy's boots, or because my position in the family was between brothers John and Andrew, I shall probably never be able to work out.
It is difficult for our generation to think of a time without having a National Health Service. We might complain about the present inefficiencies of the NHS but at least we do have free access to medical care. The NHS didn't come into existence until 1947 and Granny Smith wouldn't visit my mother who had to stay many weeks in the hospital at Howden in the East Riding of Yorkshire both before and after my birth. There was the continuing stigma surrounding an institution that for most of its life had been the local workhouse. Things were no easier when my mother returned home with me as a new baby. The winter of 1946/7 was one of the hardest in living memory freezing snow followed by floods. The farmhouse was damp and cold at the best of times, central heating was unheard of at that time but fortunately we did have a coal fire in every room. So I arrived in the world as the wrong sex, born in the wrong place and at the wrong time; not exactly an auspicious entry into the world for the third Holman daughter.
Fortunately I was totally oblivious to the above circumstances surrounding my babyhood. From the very beginning the most important thing to me was that I belonged to a family that was somehow very special. I was surrounded, not only by the immediate family of mother, father, sisters, Margaret and Gerry, and brother, John but also an extended family. Granny and Granddad Holman lived at the newer end of the farmhouse along with Aunts Jean and Minnie and Uncle Roland. Jean and Minnie were more like sisters than aunties and were always around, working on the farm along with my father and other farm labourers who lived locally. The extended family even went beyond the confines of the farm as many families in our village of Cliffe were related in some way or another. When my husband John first met me he was surprised how many aunts and uncles I seemed to have. This was hardly surprising as my mother was the eldest of fourteen and my father the eldest of seven with almost all of them living in the parish of Cliffe and Hemingborough.
Childhood birthdays were almost always a disappointment. Other children seemed to get lots of presents and cards plus birthday parties whereas my birthday was too close to Christmas to warrant much of a celebration. I do believe birthdays were the times when I received a new ball though, and that was always welcome. I liked the solid rubber balls best as it was easier to play cricket with these, they had a truer bounce than the lighter and empty rubber balls. Brother John and I would spend hours playing cricket down the passage-way next to the fold. Wickets would be drawn on the wash-house wall and a bat cut from some flat piece of wood which we would have found lying around in the stackyard or on the wood-pile. When John bowled he would run across the lane to the bowling crease that was at the lane gate whereas I would bowl by running from the gate to the end of the passage path next to the water pump. Unfortunately we often hit the ball up on the granary roof and into the spouting on top of the fold-yard. John would keep watch whilst I climbed up to the granary and out through the window onto the fold roof and along the spouting. Being the smallest I could still squeeze through the window besides which I was probably the one who wanted to keep playing. I was an insatiable ball player as a child. For a short while after my birthday I would have more than one ball that meant I could amuse myself for hours playing two-ball against the house wall. This must have nearly driven my mother mad but at least she knew where I was. The concrete yard, surrounded by what seemed at the time to be vast expanses of flat and windowless buildings, was my childhood idea of heaven. To this day I retain some skill at juggling.
Just before my eleventh birthday I went down with pneumonia. Wheezing was normal for me as I suffered from asthma and before the days of inhalers it was very difficult to throw off a constant wheezing. Presumably the pneumonia was thought to be just a bad asthma attack. Seemingly my eldest sister Margaret fell off her bike in a faint when she turned into the lane to find a green van parked. She thought it was George Durham the undertaker and that I had died whilst she had been out at work. Needless to say, it wasn't. It was the twice weekly Barton's grocery van dropping off the bread order.
Margaret was saving up and working hard on her 'bottom drawer' as she was to marry Colin the following year. She would sit for long periods whilst I was in bed poorly sorting the down from the goose feathers to make an eiderdown. I remember being excited when she told me that she and my other sister, Gerry, had already bought me a birthday present. Rosalyn Wright in the village had recently had a pair of stilts for her birthday and I thought everyone knew just how much I longed for a pair of stilts. When Margaret said she was sure I would like the present and after much badgering told me that the present began with an 'S' my joy was complete. I pretended to guess at lots of things beginning with 'S' but didn't want to spoil their surprise for me by letting them know I had worked out what they had bought as a very special treat. How I looked forward to those stilts. Nevertheless when the big day arrived and they passed over a soft and squashy parcel I pretended to be thrilled to bits, after all the 'Scarf' was Mohair and it would keep me warm as I started going out again after the pneumonia. It was very difficult to hide my disappointment but it was an experience worth learning in a world where money for presents was very scarce and hard earned. To have dashed their pleasure at being able to buy me a present at all was something I could not have done. After all it was probably the best birthday present anyone had ever bought me.
Living in a damp and cold farmhouse it was probably the case that the date of my birthday often coincided with bad colds and asthmatic attacks. Perhaps that's why to this day I approach birthdays with a sense of apprehension. However, today, my 55th has sprung no nasty surprises but rather made me recognise just how comfortable life has become.
7th December – Friday
Today we drove into Braunton, John to the barbers and me to the hairdressers. We had our usual disagreement about using the wheelchair. As always John won and so I was wheeled in style to Tangles.
In the hairdressers I happened to bump into Trish, an old work colleague. She looked in great shape especially considering her ongoing fight against breast cancer. Sitting in the chair next to me was another young woman who was also struggling with the disease. Lucy, the hairdresser, spends one day a week working at the North Devon District Hospital in Barnstaple customising wigs for cancer patients. She has noticed that over the past few years there has been a startling increase in the number of young women who have breast cancer.
After popping into Slees, the hardware shop, where we picked up a popcorn machine for Andy's, our middle son's, Christmas, we drove home. By this time the day had turned grey and dismal. However, we were soon cosy and warm watching T.V. as we sat and had our lunch.
It's difficult to believe that I didn't see a television until I was seven years old when my Granddad Holman bought a small set to watch the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. There were only two televisions in the village at that time. Whole families plus neighbours would gather round the nine-inch screen marvelling at modern technology. In order to enlarge the picture Granddad bought a magnifying screen but everyone agreed that the picture was much sharper without it. There was one channel only, that being the B.B.C. and that in black and white.
In the winter evenings after school I would count the minutes until I was allowed to go round to Granny and Granddad's to watch children's television. Granddad always made an effort to finish fothering (feeding and bedding down the cattle) before five o'clock when broadcasting began. Many years passed before there was any daytime television. The routine was always the same. Yes, I could stay as long as I was quiet. Yes, I could have my tea with them. Out came the 'block' which was no more than a lump of wood worn smooth by generations of children and I would either sit on it quietly or use it as a table on which Granny put my plate of sandwiches, piece of cake and cup of tea. The Decca T.V. was switched on and if we were too early it was no more than a blank screen but a few minutes before transmission there would appear the test card, little girl and the noughts and crosses. Then exactly at five o'clock MacDonald Hobley would appear to present the programmes. There were many breakdowns at this time and we even had our own favourite 'interludes' during which time we imagined the frantic efforts being made behind the scenes to correct the fault. During long faults a voice would announce that the fault would take a little longer but 'in the meantime we shall play you some music'. And so we continued glued to the screen watching the waves roll in and out over the shingle or a potter working at his wheel. Exactly at six o'clock it was all over with the announcement that transmission would commence again at 7.30 p.m. So the set was switched off and we sat transfixed, watching the dot fade away from the middle of the screen.
It was with reluctance that I went back home. Although we lived at different ends of the house there was no through door so I had to walk home through the shed and along the path. Granny's house was so much warmer and comfier than ours. They had a carpet whereas we just had rugs that my dad made out of old clothes. First we would cut a piece of old clothing into strips and then clips. Dad would then stretch an old hession sack across a frame and then using a wooden pricker poke the clips through the sacking. The best wooden prickers would be found in loads of Shoddy that was spread on the fields. Sometimes I would sit underneath pulling the clips tight. It might be thought that we would be tired of seeing our clothes, which had been second-hand and passed down in the first place, but rather it was good to see them made new again as mats.
Even the grown ups in the family didn't stay up very late. I would leave Granny at just after 6 p.m. and then she would wait until after she had heard the. 'Archers', that ended at 7 o'clock, before going to bed. Her day though did start at 4.30 a.m. To the end of her long life she kept to a routine of early to bed and early to rise.
When I got home it would be just about time for a cup of cocoa which I tried to make last for a long time as I hated going to bed first. In fact I was frightened of the dark and would still be awake when Margaret and Gerry came to bed later after listening to 'Dick Barton' on the radio. This finished at 7.15 p.m. Before going to bed we had to make the journey down the yard to the wooden outside lavatory. This terrified me in the dark. I was frightened of walking down the yard and terrified of getting locked in once I got there. I thought that if I left the door open someone or something might come in and get me and if I locked the door I might not be able to get my finger through the hole to lift the outside sneck.. It was bad enough in the daytime knowing that someone might peer in through the square hole in the door or that a cow would poke her head through trapping me inside until she decided to move. The big gate to the cow-field was at right angles to the lav door so if I was unlucky I could be there for a very long time. If I'd been at Granny's I could always say that she had let me use her toilet which was a flush one and that I didn't need to go. Of course we all had a poe under our beds in case we needed to go in the night and for when we woke in the morning.
We basically lived in the kitchen where the fire in a black-leaded range was almost always kept going during the winter months. At one side of the fire was the oven and at the other side a boiler that gave us some hot water throughout the day. At night my mother would dip a jug into the boiler to fill our hot water bottles. Unless I was poorly and had to sleep in the single bed next to the fire in the bedroom I shared a bed with Gerry and Margaret being the eldest was given the privilege of having a bed to herself. I always found going to sleep very difficult often because of the asthmatic wheezing but mainly just because I couldn't switch off my brain. Gerry was so patient playing 'who can keep their eyes closed the longest game'. Not until my younger brother was born when I was eight, did I stop wandering into mam's and dad's bedroom, curling up between them on the big feather mattress.
10th December 2001 – Monday
On Saturday whilst John was out playing golf in a mixed competition my next-door neighbour, Anne, came over to share a lunch of stew and dumplings. It was a glorious day and I was sorry that I didn't feel up to accepting her invitation of a ride in the car followed by a short walk.
I was still feeling poorly on Sunday but managed to get up to entertain an old work colleague of John's. Louise and Andrew arrived at 1 p.m. showing off their young son Kyle who at six months is a solid baby and appeared to be in training to play football with his dad, if his kicking was anything to go by. When they left I had to give in once more and take to my bed.
The time wasn't wasted though as I remembered at length and with pleasure the Sunday routine that I used to have as a child. I can only just remember my father taking us to Sunday School at the Methodist Chapel at the top-end of the village. What does stand out is the enjoyment that my dad brought to his teaching. Sunday School was fun and had little to do with the Chapel service that would be going on at the same time in the next room. I can't remember it as having much to do with religion either. At this time I must have been very young, probably no more than four years old. We were all sorry when he stopped teaching and I believe that my brother John didn't go very often after Dad left. He would though give a solo at the annual anniversary. His voice had perfect pitch. As a child I didn't question Dad's reasons for leaving knowing only that he had fallen out with the minister. After that he only went to Chapel if my mother dragged him there and then, as if to make a point, he would fall asleep and snore throughout the service. After a while he went only to the Sunday School Anniversary and to the Harvest Festival. Much later I learned that the Minister had insisted that he must become a member of the Methodist Church if he wanted to continue teaching in the Sunday School. Dad refused and in so doing gave up a job that up until that time he had thoroughly enjoyed. There is a family trait of stubbornness in the face of institutional protocol.
However, I continued to enjoy Sunday School and Chapel as it gave me an opportunity to play the organ and sing. Granny and Granddad took over where my dad left off and faithfully walked the mile and a half each Sunday to teach and then go in to hear the sermon. It was no hardship to walk through the village with them, I was very proud of being their granddaughter. Everyone young and old knew them as Granny and Granddad only I knew that they were really mine.
During the first half of the service we would have Sunday School in the school room and then for the sermon we would file into the big chapel following Granny walking past Granddad first who would hold out the 'goodie' tin for us to choose either a fish or a pear-drop. We knew that it was forbidden to crunch them and by the time we had sucked our way through, the sermon was almost at the end. The congregation was only small consisting of Uncle Tom, Auntie Minnie who played the organ, Aunti Cissie and Hazel, Granny and Granddad, Mrs Burns who sang soprano very loudly, Mr and Mrs Waudby, the Thorpes and later on the Vines, mother and daughter, both very genteel.
Chapel was probably the biggest influence in my young life. After all we had a party once a year, a trip to the seaside, an anniversary, sometimes a concert, harvest festival and occasional trips to other chapels. It would be impossible to write a story of my childhood without featuring the various chapel activities.
I believe it is true that John and I were the last couple to be married in the chapel and Richard our eldest along with his cousin David, were the last babies to be christened there. It is hard to picture the top-end of the village with an estate of new houses occupying the place where the chapel once stood.
Winter Sundays were also special at home. Unlike nowadays when it seems as if the farm business would collapse if there was no work done on a Sunday, it would have been impossible to think of breaking the Sabbath as long as Granny and Granddad were alive. We were always made to believe that the 'Holmans' had the best crops in the village because we didn't work on the Sabbath unlike the Jacques's who lived just up the road at Cliffe Common. Of course Dad had to milk and fother but apart from that his Sundays were his own to read and sleep or best of all play. He used to do a lot of that before my youngest brother Andrew was born. After that he was often too tired what with getting up early in a morning to fother, working on the farm all day, fothering again and after tea grinding corn in the big barn, of which more later.
On Sundays we always had roast beef and Yorkshire Puddings after which Mam or Dad would take a shovel of red hot coals out of the kitchen fire and carry them through to make a fire in the front room. Initially Chapel was in the afternoon after which we would go straight into the room but I was still very young when it changed to a morning service after which we came home for a big dinner followed by an afternoon in the room. The thing that was so special about our Sundays was the music. The piano lived in the room and to my childish ears Dad seemed a top-class pianist. He never had any music and would just bang both hands and all ten fingers crashing along the keyboard playing perfect harmonies. "What next, what next?" he would ask and after a little thinking and fumbling to get the right key off he would go full tilt with Margaret, Gerry, John and I singing along. Although Margaret could play well, Gerry and John a little and me well for my age we all loved to hear Dad and see him so happy. We all enjoyed music but could never have thrown our head back and play without any inhibition of a wrong note.
The room was also tidy, the only room in the house that was. There was a brown leather suite with studs. Knowing now how little money we had at that time I doubt whether it could have been real leather. We had an oval table on which we would have Sunday tea consisting of potted meat sandwiches and sweet cake.
On Sunday after tea we would often go round to Granny and Granddad's and have a sing-along round their piano. Minnie was good and she would accompany the singing. Nearly always she would play from a brown song book which looked like the one we had at home but had some more popular song like 'Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do', and 'Cherry Ripe, Cherry Ripe'. Very occasionally I was allowed to play the piano and lead the singing. All the notes on their piano worked and the front piece didn't fall on your legs after using the pedals. The keys were yellow and the tone mellow. I suspect my dad had thrashed ours to pieces besides which one or other of us would always be playing. That was when I was very young. Later things changed as Margaret married when I was eleven and Mam and Dad seemed too busy for such pleasures. I continued to spend many hours though at that old piano. At that time I could never have imagined a life without a piano.
12th December – Wednesday
Today we should have been on our way to Castle Donington to take the boys their Christmas presents and to see Kelly and Amy in their school Christmas Concert. However, I haven't picked up enough to venture on such a long car journey, so yet again we miss something that we had looked forward to because of poor health. Recalling childhood memories of dark and dismal December days lifts me out from the present depths of despond and takes me back to the wildness of the winter of 1954.
In September of that year I returned from the hospital, after having had my tonsils and adenoids removed, to find Mam in bed, downstairs, in the front room. As a consequence nobody noticed me working through the box of newly picked Victoria plums that very quickly resulted in stomach ache and the rest. At the same time the doctor arrived shortly followed by the ambulance that took Mam off to Acombe Hospital just on the outskirts of York. It was only later I learned that she was expecting another baby that wasn't due for many months. Due to thrombosis she was to stay in bed until Andrew was born on December 17th not returning home until the middle of January the following year.
When she left I had been a pretty little girl with big blue eyes and fair curly hair. Before long I had mousey, greasy, lank hair with everyone feeling sorry for me. I did pretend to go along with this idea of missing Mam but in fact it was one of the best periods of my childhood. I became a dirty, scruffy urchin who was allowed for the most part to run wild.
Grandad and Granny had a black Morris Oxford car, MWF 582, which twice a week Dad would borrow to go and see Mam one evening and each Saturday afternoon. When Acombe closed down, transferring patients to Fulford Maternity Hospital, Dad took John and me with him a couple of times. Children were not allowed to visit parents in hospital in those days as it was thought that it might upset both patient and child. However, because Mam was on the ground floor Dad showed us the window through which we could look. I remember it being very dark and frightening. We had always known about 'Naburn Lunatic Assylum for the Insane, and occasionally we heard about patients being on the loose. It was awful in those days to call such a place, the 'looney bin, and at times being threatened with it if we did anything a bit silly. This hospital was very close to the Maternity Unit so when our faces were pressed against the window it can be imagined what the patients thought especially now that I was in my urchin phase. We saw Mam at the farthest end of the ward with a great big bulge in the blankets that covered a cage to protect her legs.
After tea each evening Dad would go off to the barn to grind corn and as long as we had done our jobs we would shortly follow. I remember my job being the emptying of the poes, I suppose I wasn't able to do much more than that. Whereas I remember this time as one of uninhibited freedom my older sister, Gerry, remembers it as a time of struggle and imposed responsibilities. Margaret was living with Auntie Gladys in Leeds and working for I.C.I. in Huddersfield so Gerry was the one who carried the heaviest load. I gave little thought to that at the time. She left very early in the morning to catch the bus to go to the Technical School in Selby and she arrived home whilst I was with Granny and Granddad watching T.V. and having tea.
As soon as we could, John and I would find our way to the barn. This was no easy task as there was only one outside light on the corner of our house and after that darkness. Sometimes we would go through the fold but we would get told off for switching on the fold light and disturbing the cows which were bedded up for the night. Even with the light on I was terrified at having to walk past the sleeping beasts often standing in the cow claps. I didn't dare take care and go slowly as my only concern was to make it to the fold door leading into the barn, before I was caught by one of the cows. As frightened as I was of going through the fold yard I was in little danger.
However, we mostly took the outside path that took us down the pitch darkness of the lane between the fruit trees. The barn window with its little light was like a beacon towards which we silently moved, so nobody would 'get us', passed the cart-shed and the engine house and at last to the barn door. The barn door itself was huge to give enough room to take in tractors and trailers during the day but at night this was closed so we went in through a tiny door cut into the big one. Before we could get into the barn properly we had to negotiate our way passed a belt that went between from tractor at one side of the barn to the grinding machine which was at the other. Because the tractor was making a huge noise and the belt was turning at a very fast speed we slipped into the barn unnoticed. We knew we were supposed to keep our backs flat against the door and walk around the tractor but it was much easier to crawl flat on our stomachs under the belt. We had to keep very low as we could already feel the draught of it as it continued only inches above our heads. To us there was no danger in this and we couldn't understand the constant reminder that we wouldn't be allowed to go into the barn when Dad was grinding if we did it again. So for a few times we would squeeze passed the tractor until the threats were forgotten and then use the usual route hoping that we wouldn't be seen.
The farming cycle is at its end at the time I begin my story. After the corn harvest in the summer the threshing machines would visit the various farms in the village separating the straw from the grain. Not only did Dad grind our own corn but that of the other farmers as well. Bringing up four children on a farm wage of £7 each week must have been hard especially as another baby one was on the way. Dad kept the grinding money and added a bit more by keeping hens that were sold at Christmas.
The bags of corn were up on the stage that could only be reached by climbing some very heavy, moveable steps. Underneath the stage were two separate sections. One was usually filled with turnips, sugar beet or worzels (wozzels as we called them), The other space under the stage was where the chopper was housed. This was rather like a giant mincing machine that pulped the turnips and wozzels into winter feed for the beasts.
The rest of the barn was filled with straw at this time of year and this was the attraction for us during the winter months. Two ropes hung from the beams of the barn and these were wonderful for swinging on. They were knotted at the bottom and tied onto them were thin bits of hairy-jack band that reached down to the floor. I would climb onto the stage whilst John swung the ropes by the hairy-jack so that I could hold on to the thicker rope. Up he would come and together we would sit on the knots and leap off the stage. John would swing a few times and then land on the soft straw whilst I hung in mid-air fearful of letting go. John would then swing me until I was sure to get a soft landing. After that we would race up the steps, jump on the ropes and fly in the roof before falling down on the straw again and again. Then with difficulty we would climb to the top of the straw pile and slide down bringing along with us much of the loose straw.
For part of the time I would go and watch Dad emptying grain into a metal bin with a hole at the bottom. I would take off my shoes and socks, sit on the edge or inside when the bin was full, and feel the grain slip between my toes and fingers. I could only do this with Dad watching on but it was great fun. Afterwards I would sit on the sacks of grain or help Dad as he fixed two empty sacks onto the flour machine watching for when one sack was full, pulling the flap from one tube to the next so that the second sack could be filled. There was no mechanical fork-lift truck then but rather a manual trolley to move sacks one by one. Some of the time I would climb over the sacks looking in between for mice. At this stage in my life I had little fear of mice. My phobia was to come a few years later after one ran over my face in bed. I swiped it from my face and heard it hit the cupboard door. From that day to this I have re-dreamed that little event, waking from sleep in a dread sweat.
Eventually we would have to go in and this is something I just don't remember, could it be that I was carried in asleep or very nearly so? At this time I certainly don't remember having to get washed before getting into bed. Neither can I remember my hair ever being washed. I do remember being astounded that Christine Dunkerly, who shared a desk with me at school, would have her hair washed once a week. Neither can I remember having a toothbrush at this time. I think it very probable that in fact I did rarely wash and never did brush my teeth.
Before going into school each morning we would have to line up in the playground like soldiers. We were drilled by the headmaster who tried to recreate the habits of his army days. Before being allowed into school our hands were examined for dirt and our general tidiness assessed. Anyone not up to scratch stayed in the playground whilst the rest marched in. I was always left in the playground, along with Leslie Lofthouse, to be harangued at our dirtiness. We always appeared suitably ashamed of ourselves before being taken to the sinks where our hands and nails were scrubbed clean and our faces washed until they shone. Without this daily washing I could have joined a band of gypsies without being out of place. However I never swore, which was a blessing, as Leslie Lofthouse regularly had to rinse his mouth out with salt and water as a punishment for using bad language.
These were happy days though. Everyone felt sorry for me, I didn't have to wash regularly, I was hardly ever told off, I can't remember having to go to bed in the dark as I was probably asleep before getting there, I spent lots of time with Granny and Granddad, I didn't ever seem to stay indoors and the stackyard and barn were much more exciting than modern adventure playgrounds. I probably was the only person who didn't have time to miss our Mam as life was too full of adventure and play.
14th December – Friday
Yesterday I was at last fit to get out albeit in the wheelchair. Pushing me round Tesco is the least favourite outing but at least we managed to get the turkey and drink ready for Christmas. Before John's Mum arrives on Tuesday we shall get the Christmas decorations out from the cellar and sort them in readiness. When I was little, the decorations and Christmas tree never went up at home until Christmas Eve. At the village school, once the end of term tests were out of the way, we would make streamers and lanterns out of bright sticky-backed paper which had to be licked.
I used to enjoy our end of term tests. There were three different ones each marked out of twenty; reading, arithmetic and intelligence. School at this stage was very easy as I learned most things from my brother and sisters at home. I can never remember learning to read, it was something that I had always been able to do, at least I learned beyond where my memory stretches. This was due to my eldest sister, Margaret, spending hours playing teachers with me. However, I remember how cross I would be to get a mark deducted from every reading test. We would stand by Miss Rawson's knee, read a couple of pages from a reading book and then explain in our own words what the piece had meant. In our house the h's were all silent and consequently I never sounded them until much later in my life and to this day I feel self-conscious about the many dropped h's or added h's where they don't belong. Our Yorkshire farming dialect was concise to the point of almost being another language. If Dad sent me into the house he would say: 'Get thisself i't'ouse'. There was little wonder that I've had a life-long struggle with the English language and throughout my school days suffered at the hands of both teachers and fellow-pupils. What did annoy me most was that Miriam Fell who couldn't really read properly at all would get the full twenty marks.
One year the arithmetic test happened to be on the day before my birthday. The sums would be put on the board and we would work them out in our books. Arithmetic again was easy, and this test was no exception although I did wonder why we had a long-division £. s. d. sum using a double number to divide by. We had only used single units up until that time. I presumed that we were being tested to see just how far we could be stretched. I felt confident that I would get twenty out of twenty so imagine my surprise when the books were handed back the next day and I had only been given eighteen. Mr. Wright, the headmaster, was a bully. He came and stood by me and asked me to explain what I had been doing with the incorrect sum. He made me work it out again, and again I got the same answer. He repeatedly asked me to look at the sum on the board and read out what I saw. In the end he hit me hard across the bottom of my back and sent me to the blackboard. As soon as I walked away from my desk I recognised the mistake. On approaching the board I saw that the figure was an eight and not the eighteen which it had seemed to be from my desk. I would probably have avoided another smack if I had apologised but instead I tried to explain what had happened. No I had not been careless, why would I make it more difficult for myself and anyway had I got it right? He shook me and smacked me again. This would never have been allowed in school now but then it was accepted and if I complained at home they would say that I must have deserved it. Perhaps this incident stands out because it happened on my birthday. I thought that Mr. Wright was a bully then and nothing happened after that to alter my opinion. Adults aren't always right however many times they might tell us so.
At least the tests were out of the way and preparations for the school Christmas could get under way. This meant decorating the school and practicing hard for the school carol concert and the outing to Barlby School where many of the surrounding schools met to sing carols together, but more of that next week.
15th December – Saturday
Today John prepared the lunch whilst I ironed the covers for the spare bed, ready for Nan on Tuesday. How I look forward to her visit. Next to John I find Nan the most comfortable person to have around. When I hear stories of other mother-in-laws I recognise just how lucky I've been.
What a panic though when I came to use the computer, we could neither switch it off or on. Visions of having lost the past ten days material filled me with dread and the thought crossed my mind that like many of my other projects this one too would be doomed to failure. Imagine my delight when at last I worked out how to fix the machine. The delight was double as John had been unable to solve the problem and that is almost unheard of. This was just the confidence booster that I needed whilst struggling to do almost anything useful.
I particularly wanted to make an entry today as one of the nicest memories of childhood happened exactly 47 years ago to the day. Again this was whilst Mam was in hospital awaiting the birth of Andrew. By this time a little grey Austin van (7185 BT) had been bought for the farm and was available for Dad to drive. He said that before visiting Mam he would take John and me into York so that I could see Father Christmas. Being the fourth of five children I can't ever remember believing in a Father Christmas who delivered presents on Christmas Eve but I do remember the anticipation of receiving presents. I hated everyone knowing that there wasn't a real one whilst trying to spin me a fairy-tale that I knew wasn't real. I hated being treated like a baby.
I can't remember which store we went into but I do remember Father Christmas sitting me on his knee and asking how old I was. My eighth birthday was totally forgotten in my shyness and I promptly gave my age as seven. Off I was taken to get the present suitable for a seven year old. I was so happy to receive something called a 'doodler' that was no more than bits of thin metals with lots of joints which could bend the 'doodler' into many different shapes. This was a real toy to me at a time when we had so few toys. It absorbed me for many hours and meant that at last I had something to show my friends. I can't remember any other visit to Father Christmas until we had children of our own. We must have gone on to the hospital afterwards but my whole attention was given to my new toy for many days following. I became absorbed in the world of 'doodling'.
18th December – Tuesday
Yesterday was brother Andrew's forty-seventh birthday. I last saw him in September at the hospital at York the day our mother died. His first birthday and first Christmas without her will seem strange as he was always her baby and since Dad died twenty-six years ago he has been the one always at hand. When Mam and Dad moved out of the farmhouse to their new bungalow built at the bottom of the garden, Andrew and Adel moved into the farmhouse. Mam never got out of the habit of wandering in and out of their home whenever the fancy took her. He was very upset during her last illness and it's bound to take him a long time to adjust to her not being there.
For the past three evenings John and I have been playing Rumikub and the last two evenings I have lost!! Last night I went to bed and couldn't settle, thinking of Christmas and all the things I must remember. It seems silly to spend time being anxious now that John is happy to do all the worrying for me but I suppose it's something I share with almost every other woman in the Western world. Reading The Children of Men by P.D. James isn't exactly comforting reading at bedtime. Perhaps my anxiety was more to do with imagining a world where no births had taken place for twenty-five years with all the consequences that entailed. Her writing is only a recent discovery for me but once started her novels are hard to put down.
John has now gone off to pick up his mum from Tiverton Parkway. He has just telephoned to say that the train is running half an hour late and that it is very cold at the station. Thank goodness I opted for staying behind.
Childhood Christmases were free from anxiety and full of fun and anticipation even though we didn't get many presents. Only now can I recognise the effort that my parents made to make Christmas special. Being one of five children and Dad not earning very much I remember both Mam and Dad frantically preparing for the big day. They earned extra money by grinding corn and selling poultry for Christmas dinners. Most people ate chickens, geese or ducks then, I think turkey became more popular later on.
Dad would wring the chicken's necks and I could hardly bear to watch. Then the hens would be hung up in readiness for plucking. That was Mam's job although we all had to pitch in and give a hand. It was a long time before I would be allowed to help with the plucking. I was the one who had to 'pen' the plucked chickens. I never understood why this expression was used but now I think that perhaps the terms is connected with the part of the feather which used to make up the quill of a writing pen. Anyway my job was to pull these little hard end bits out without tearing the skin, leaving the chicken smooth and ready for the oven. It was a cold job as we all sat in a small shed to one side of the fold path. Feathers seemed to get everywhere. We couldn't put gloves on to keep our hands warm as we needed our fingers to 'pluck and pen'. Some customers bought the plucked chickens straight from the farm, however, most of them were picked up by Freddy Harrison who took them to sell at the market in York.
Mam also used to knit a jumper, cardigan, bonnet or balaclava as part of our Christmas treat. If for any reason I used to go downstairs for a drink, when I should have been asleep in bed, I would catch her sitting in her chair, a cigarette hanging from her lips and needles busily clicking away. I remember hating all my home-knitted clothing with odd buttons and rarely fitting properly. Everyone else at school had bought cardigans but not me. It wasn't until I went to the Grammar School that I had a bought navy cardigan and that was given to me by my Granny. The balaclavas were the worst but they were warm. Only now can I appreciate the effort that Mam put in to making our Christmases special on a low budget. It was fortunate that being farmers much of the fruit, vegetables and meat came free.
How different things are today. Even though most people have far more money to spend there is just as much anxiety. The Christmas period has been extended and the expectations of children and adults alike are fuelled by the media and the big retail stores. My two grandchildren are overwhelmed with gifts and one wonders how they will look back on Christmas when they become adults.
19th December 2001- Wednesday
Our Christmas holiday seems to have begun now that Nan has arrived. After shopping in Ilfracombe for some last minute presents we drove over to the Golf Club to have lunch. John hasn't managed to spend all his money on the catering card so we are now having to lunch at the Club twice before the year is out. Until falling poorly we would have been planning our Christmas golf, a world away from my childhood where Christmas meant carols and music.
Two evening in the week before Christmas I would have gone carol singing with Granny and others to raise funds for the Chapel. Mrs Burns was a stalwart with her overpowering soprano voice. With such a powerful leader the rest of us could sing our hearts out knowing that we were hardly likely to be heard. On the first night we would do the top end of the village and the following night we would finish up at Cliffe Common ending at Common End Farm where Mrs Jacques would be waiting for us with hot mince-pies ready. As I grew older the number of singers dwindled although the volume was kept up by the miniature piano-accordian which I had been given. I do remember though how very cold it was. I never had proper gloves and scarf until I got the mohair scarf from Margaret for my eleventh birthday. Sometimes I would have old socks but they were no use for keeping out the cold. I could always hope that my knitted present from Mam would be mittens. Her gloves were always odd with different coloured fingers of different sizes depending on what colours were available. At least mittens only needed one thumb. Mam's knitting was always a joke although at times she would suddenly get it all right at the same time which seemed a bit of a marvel.
It's with a nostalgic look at the past that only the week before Christmas I sent over to Kelly and Amy the last pieces of knitting which Mam had managed to do before she died. In the end she did get it right and it will be possible for the two bobbled hats to be worn with pride.
21st December – Friday
The last few days have been so busy that there has been no time to make a diary entry. Yesterday John, Nan and I had a walk along Marine Drive. The weather was perfect, a cold but sunny crisp day. The sun was shining on Woolacombe showing it at its best and the sea was calm. There were several people on the beach making the most of a lovely day.
In the evening Richard arrived to exchange Christmas presents. John cooked a dinner of Lemon Chicken with Noodles, impressing both Richard and his Mum. Afterwards the four of us played Rumikub which was great fun.
Today we have been to a Scrabble party where we ate far too much. John being on the winning team won a box of chocolates. Now we are absolutely exhausted but pleasantly so.
This morning I enjoyed playing a few carols on the keyboard. As a child playing the piano and singing carols together was part and parcel of enjoying Christmas. I suppose I would be about seven when it was discovered by the travelling music teacher that I could play the piano quite well. Once it was know I automatically played for school assemblies and carol concerts. All the primary schools in the area met together at Barlby School before Christmas making it a very special occasion. Imagine my joy at being asked to accompany the singing at such an important event. At that time it never occurred to me to be nervous and yet now there is no way that I could be persuaded to play in public.
Margaret taught me to play the piano at such an early age that it never struck me that it was supposed to be difficult. I was probably about five or six at the time. It is with great pleasure I remember being shown how to follow the music to The Vicar of Bray and practicing like mad all day so that when Margaret returned she would be so pleased to see that I could play it just as she had shown me. I believe she was surprised but pleased. We then moved on to The Minstrel Boy, Ash Grove, Clementine, Little Brown Jug and many more taken from our brown, hard-backed, song book. After that I played whenever I could and that was often. However, I was totally undisciplined ignorant of scales or arpeggios.
The piano lived in our best room which for most of the time was a cold and damp place only being used on Sundays. We had a large cardboard box full of sheet music but much of the music was nibbled at the corners as we shared our house with many mice. The biggest difference between then and now was the absence of television. We made our own enjoyment and that meant doing rather than watching. What's more I can never remember any of us complaining of boredom or of needing more than we already had. What price progress?
22nd December – Saturday
I rang my sister Margaret today to enquire how Jean, our auntie, was getting on. It's difficult to think of Jean as an old lady in her eighties. Last week she had a major stroke and is now lying in a hospital bed in York with little hope of any improvement. Fifty years ago she would have been allowed to die with dignity but now she has to suffer the indignity of not being able to do any of the basic functions of living and unable to communicate. She is fed by tube and emptied by tube and lies in a strange bed away from home and the people she loves.
Jean and Minnie were Dad's sisters and figured highly in the lives of me and my brothers and sisters. They always worked at home splitting their time between helping Granny and working on the farm.
Breaking up for Christmas holidays was an exciting time for me. On a Saturday like today fifty or so years ago I would be up early to watch Minnie and Jean do the milking. I remember clearly that Minnie used to milk Biddie the cow by hand. We always had a cow called Biddie who was brown. Not the same cow but the name was passed down from Biddie to her calves. One day Minnie would show me how to milk by hand. She sat down on the milking stool with three legs and sank her head and shoulder into Biddie's side and then the milk would gush into the pail as Minnie rhythmically pulled the teats. It all looked so easy that I was sure that I could do it. Down I sat and tried to copy Minnie's actions but to no avail, not one drop could I extract from Biddie. I stood up again and the worst was to come as Biddie messed right into my Wellingtons. Minnie and Jean had a good laugh at my expense.
Biddie's milk was usually used to feed the calves. This was a job I enjoyed. Minnie showed me how to dip my hand in the warm milk and then put my milky hand into the calf's mouth. It seemed that the calf would swallow my hand and arm as it licked the milk from my hand with its big rough tongue. How they butted until they were able to get their heads into the bucket and even then it seemed a hard job to hold onto the bucket so that they didn't spill the milk.
Most of the milk even then was collected electronically before being taken to the shed built onto Granny's house where it was put through the cooler into the milk churns that would be put near the gate for the milk-lorry to collect. There were a few neighbours who had their milk fresh from the cow and often I would be the one to deliver the warm jugs of milk.
During these cold winter days Minnie and Jean would go down the lane to the wozzel and turnip pie to fettle them ready for cattle feed. During winter weekends and holidays I would join them at the pie to 'help'. They wore woollen gloves with the fingers missing so that they could hold the wozzels safely. Jean used a straight-bladed fettler and Minnie used a curved blade almost like a sickle. I never did master the curved blade but even at a young age managed to be quite useful with a straight blade. The wozzles and turnips were heaped in piles covered with mud and then straw. We would take one at a time, firstly cutting off the stalks and then the mud and shoots and finally tossing them into a nearby trailer. It was cold work as we sat there sheltered from the wind to some extent by the straw pile. My two aunties were so fast it seemed as if they would chop off their fingers as they fettled and moved the wozzels in their hands at great speed. When the trailer was full it would be taken into the barn ready for my dad to put through the turnip chopper. Sometimes in the evenings when he was up to date with grinding he would stand beneath the stage in the barn feeding the turnip chopper machine. When the large sacks were full he would unhook them from the machine and drag them into neat lines where I would be ready to hold the sacks whilst he tied them up with 'hairy-jack band'.
Even at this time of the year when it seemed to outsiders that farming was going through a lull period there was always something to do. It was true that Dad managed to get into the house for his drinkings but that didn't signify that he wasn't hard at work. Even today my brothers and nephews rarely find an extended period in which to totally get away from the demands of farming.
24th December 2001 – Monday
Today we have been busy preparing for the big dinner planned for tomorrow trying to do as much as possible before the big day itself. The giblets have been boiled ready to make the gravy. The turkey has been stuffed with chestnut and sausage-meat ready to be switched on early tomorrow morning. Glasses have been washed along with the best crockery and cutlery. Our neighbours, Anne and Alan plan to eat with us, making five for lunch. In the evening we played a game of Rummikub which Nan enjoyed thoroughly.
As a child Christmas Eve Day was always hurried and special. Everything had to be prepared before evening when Christmas proper began for us.
Whilst Dad worked in the morning the rest of us would put up the streamers, some of which we seemed always to have had plus a few which we had made. The Christmas tree was decorated. These decorations were mostly very old and included a soldier in a sentry-box, all made of tin. Seemingly Dad had decorated his tree with these decorations when he was a child.
Mam would be rushing around in a frenzy telling us to get out from under her feet, giving us one job after another. At lunchtime, which we called dinner, dad finished work until the day after Boxing Day. He would change into his going-out clothes and take John and me on the bus into Selby where he would buy the extras plus presents for Mam and Granny. When I was very little, probably five or six, I was told by Dad to hold tightly onto his overcoat. This was very heavy with a black and grey zig-zag pattern. Happily I followed him through the crowds and then horror of horrors he turned round and it was someone else. I explained to the stranger what had happened and together we successfully located Dad who hadn't even noticed that I was missing. In spite of the impact and the memory it must have happened so quickly but that doesn't take away the memory of panic at being lost. Dad always made life seem safe.
When we got home everything seemed ready and shortly after tea our Christmas began. Earlier Dad would have arranged for Jean and Minnie to fother and do the milking so that he had time to wrap his presents. Today the holiday has extended over the whole of Christmas period and on into the New Year celebrations. However the holiday has less of an impact than when all was concentrated into the big day itself and the day after.
Relations came round on Christmas Eve and how I hated being the little one in the family, the one who had to miss all the excitement and go to bed ready for Father Christmas who I didn't believe in anyway. It has to be said though that when Mam and Dad finally gave in for the first time and let me stay up I was somewhat disappointed. It had been good to wake up on Christmas morning to find a present at the end of the bed than have it passed over on Christmas Eve. The magic had gone even though I had always known that it was Mam and Dad who left the present at the end of the bed.
The magic of Christmas is still the same as I watch Kelly and Amy anticipate Father Christmas delivering the toys. The volume of toys cannot be compared but the magic can.
25th December – Tuesday
Having no children in the house, waking us up to open presents very early, we roused ourselves slowly, the only deadline to meet being that of switching on the turkey. Not until after breakfast did we get round to opening our presents. We didn't have lots but we did receive gifts that we had asked for. Having grown out of my dressing-gowns I had asked John to give me a satin night-set from M & S. It feels lovely to wear although showing every little speck and splash.
Not often is it possible to say that everything went right and to plan but this particular Christmas Day was perfect. Anne and Alan appreciated the embroidered map of Devonshire that I have worked on for the past two years. The meal was splendid and even John took his time before clearing up. The games went well and Anne and Alan stayed until nine o'clock.
I remember that as children we were exhausted and 'crabby' by the end of the day and would rarely make it to bed-time without tears. This wasn't surprising considering the effects of trying to stay awake to catch Mam and Dad playing at Father Christmas. We never did catch them but they probably struggled to find enough time to slip into our bedrooms between us going to sleep and waking up on Christmas morning. One Christmas I remember getting a toy film projector that only worked in the dark. I must have gone into John's bedroom in the middle of the night to show him how it worked. Of course we had both got our usual orange and jar of boiled sweets.
One Christmas I had set my heart on a pair of roller-skates and was so disappointed to find that Father Christmas had brought me a 'walky-talky' doll.
As hard as everyone tried to turn me into a little girl rather than a tom-boy they never succeeded. What an ungrateful brat I must have been when the doll was totally forgotten as John blew up his new football ready for us to go out and play.
Every Christmas morning Mam's brothers would come over bringing with them a big box of biscuits for Mam and presents for us children from Granny Smith. The presents were usually very nice being either jig-saws or board-games. Granny Holman gave us an Annual each. I often got Rupert Bear whilst John got the Beano or Dandy Annual.
The fire was lit in the room very early although we did eat Christmas Dinner in our living room/kitchen. Mam seemed to take the taste out of many of our meals but she could make an excellent Christmas Dinner and the best Christmas Cake and Christmas Pudding I've every tasted. It was good to see a lot of our Dad as the fothering was always shared out between Minnie, Jean, Granddad and Dad over the two days. It was almost unheard of to have Dad at home with us for a complete day without a break.
We played indoor games, made jig-saws and sang with even greater gusto at Christmas. I don't know how or where Dad learned to play the piano and violin but he could certainly get an excellent tune out of both.
After Andrew was born we did seem to get better presents. I think it was probably more to do with Margaret and Gerry starting work around this time and contributing to the family funds. Even though Gerry left school at fifteen to become an apprentice hairdresser earning a pittance, she still had to hand most of her wages over to Mam. I'm sure it's true that Margaret and Gerry had even less than John, Andrew and me.
Two Christmas presents stand out as being exactly what I had hoped for. The first was bought by Gerry whilst she stood in for Mam who was in hospital with Andrew. I hadn't even expected it but was very pleased when I discovered a Diablo at the end of the bed. I practised and practised until I could not only keep it spinning but could also toss it into the air, catch it and keep it spinning. I remember it being blue.
The next best present was a desk that I vaguely remember as having to share between birthday and Christmas as it was an expensive item. I loved that desk and would sit at it for hours pretending to work. But probably the most used Christmas present was the football that was John's. Unlike today's plastic balls it had an outer leather case that was laced up over an inner bladder.
Over fifty years the range of toys has extended becoming more colourful and diverse. My granddaughters have dolls that behave like real babies and have accessories just like people have in real life. Both have dolls' houses that aren't big enough to hold the various bits of furniture and extras essential in the world of Barbie. Although board-games and jig-saws haven't lost all their attractions they can hardly compete with 'play-stations' and computers. One wonders what their grandchildren will be receiving from Father Christmas in fifty years time.
