does anyone remember there coal deliverer?
Dear KMT123, I would think everyone would have memories about coal if you lived through the 40's and 50's and possibly later [ I can't remember when the clean air act was introduced ], in Birmingham.
In the dreadful winter of 47/48 my father was carrying a sack of coal which might have come from a railway spillage and possibly illegal, or from a coal merchant in Sheepcote Street.
In any event he had a wife and 3 small children to take care of through that dreadful winter.
Carrying a heavy bag of coal he slipped on the icy steps between St Vincent's Street and Sheepcote Lane and severely hurt his back.
We had a coal hole under the stairs and later the council built us a bunker in our yard.
Yes, I remember our mother counting every 1 cwt bag.
Yes, I remember slack or was it slag? Something to bank up the fire with.
Yes, I remember holding a sheet of the Birmingham Mail over the fire place to increase the draw, and watching it slowly go brown and then ignite.
I, remember once. the soot in the chimney catching fire and my mother using a glass mirror to look up the chimney, to ascertain how the fire was proceeding.
We managed without the Fire Brigade.
Bats, I remember. A dull coal. Easy to break up.
Which was my job after school. Every Monday to Friday.
This is how coal was a part of my childhood.
The Barker Street Triangle.
I always ran home from school, hopping and
skipping over the cracks. So that I could be at Barker
Street by 5:00 pm. I flew past Tailbys timber yard,
the screeching sounds of the saw rising in pitch as it
sliced it's way through the Baltic pine. Showers of
sawdust flying into the air, wood stacked in neat
rows with coloured sawed through symbols and words
opened up to the weather and the air, the smell of the
pine was intoxicating
Flying on down the hill, past the factory on the
other side of the road that skinned rabbits. The yard
was piled high with brown rabbit skins.
Over Vincent Street past Hickmans the grocers.
In large white enamelled trays on a white marble
slab. cold mackerel with their dark blue stripes and
red eyes, balefully looked at you. Eels with black
tops and aluminium painted stomachs still moved.
There was always a pile of black mussels dripping
water and flecked with bits of bright green seaweed.
The fishmonger wore long black wellingtons and
emptied buckets of water onto the footpath, I
splashed past and guessed at the time. Over Nelson
Street and Garbett Street I turned left into my
street and home.
The key was under the window box, I opened the
door and checked the time, 4:27.
There was a brush and pan to clear out the ashes
of the previous night and a copy of the Birmingham
Mail to provide the base for this nights fire.
Sometimes I had to chop wood but most times it was
already cut and held together by a dark red rubber
band. With the head of the axe I smashed the big
lumps of coal, shutting my eyes just before impact.
Pieces of coal would sting my face, richoctte of the
coalhouse walls and down my neck. 4:47.
Two old infirm spinsters lived at the bottom of
our yard, they were sisters. Every week night I had to
check if there was anything that they needed. Simple
things like fire lighters, a can of soup, occasionally
snuff. It wasn't uncommon to see old men take snuff
but it was unusual to see women take it. The snuff
smelt of tobacco mixed with spice. The younger
sister had bright blue eyes and small delicate hands.
She alway offered me threepence for running
errands, I always refused, she always insisted.
One box of fire lighters, one small loaf and
threepence for my trouble, 4:58.
Running up to the top of the street, I turned into
Shakespeare Road and then right into Barker Street.
This street ran parallel with the Birmingham to
Wolverhampton railway line. On this line every night
the Glasgow to Birmingham express steamed the last
mile of it's journey into New Street Station. Towards
the end of Barker Street it curved closer to the
railway line squeezing the brick red back to back
houses until they ran out and ended in a small factory.
The factory made brass buttons, it had a giant
press that would spit out small buttons without ever
seeming to pause. Crump hiss, crump hiss, thousands
of bright yellow buttons would spill out over the
earthen floor. To the left of the factory using well
worn foot holds I scaled a rough blue metalled wall,
and dropped down into a small triangle of waste
ground. Draped over a wooden fence overlooking the
railwayline were half a dozen boys. "Have I missed
her?" "No, nothing yet." It was 5:10.
24 pairs of eyes searched the gloom for signs of
the approaching train. To the right almost opposite
the fence stood a small wooden signal box, painted in
LMS colours cream and a dark red. If you peered
closely the lights inside the box showed the
signalman, sleeves rolled up with an unbuttoned
black waistcoat. We watched and listened for the
smallest sign. Nothing, he was just making a cup of
tea. We could hear the spoon tinkle as he stirred the
pot. To the left of the box on the up line was a signal,
it's arm lay in a horizontal position and it's lamp was
red. Further up and on the other side of the line was
another signal which came under the keenest
scrutiny, this was the downer.
It was impossible to see the signals lamp, but
the horizontal arm told us there was nothing doing.
"Do you think it's been cancelled ?" "Nah she's come
through later than this." Ding, ding. It sounded like
two bells, you could have heard a pin drop. "What was
that ?" There was no movement, perhaps it was just
his spoon, another latecomer slipped over the wall. It
was 5:17.
Ding, ding. There it was again. The silhouette of
the signalman moved towards one of the twelve
brass levers and with a cloth wrapped around one, he
eased it forward, The end of the signal arm nearest
the upright post slipped down, the other end pointed
upto the sky, One hundred yards down the line, right
in front of our eyes the points clanked home.
"Pegs up on the downer!" Thirteen heads turned
and all ears tuned into any sound that would now
come from the two nearest lines. In every head now
there was only one thought, "Don't let it be
Polythemus." 550521 Polythemus was a train that
haunted us, night and day it turned up everywhere.
Sometimes the only reward for three hours waiting
on a slow wet Sunday afternoon would be Polythemus
shunting backwards and forwards trailing black
mushroom shaped clouds behind her.
The lines began to jangle. We looked down the
line intently, it might be a "Pate" [a shortening for
the Patriot class], or more frequently a "Scot"
[Scottish class]. We could tell which class of engine it
could be at some distance, because on the front of
the engine were two large plates mounted in a
vertical position, that slipstreamed the smoke from
the funnel up and away from the following carriages.
The slightly different outlines described to which
class the engine belonged. We called them blinkers.
"Looks like a Scot." "No it isn't." "It is." "No it
isn't." "It isn't a Pate, is it ?" Even the older more
knowledgeable boys were unsure. 5:19
Ding! Ding! "Pegs up on the upper!" Another train
was making it's way out of New Street up the line.
Eyes widened, notebooks open, the grip on our
pencils tightened, two trains at the same time, it had
happened before, the train coming down the line
would mask the other going up it. We could hear the
train coming up the line, slowly gathering speed it
pulled its carriages up the line through a long curving
tunnel. You could here it chunting and hissing. Bam
bam bam bam, it came nearer.
The down line jangled with more intensity. "It
can't be a Semi can it?" I'd seen a Semi [semi
blinkered] once before, Princess Mary Rose. A giant
maroon steel monster hissing steam, flashing wheels,
shaking the ground, thundering up to the north. But
that was on a different line. What ever was looming
towards us, I had never seen before.
Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam the train on the
upper black smoke belching from it's stack
hammered towards us. BAM BAM bam bam [under a
bridge] BAM BAM BAM BAM up the long curve it came.
"It's a Scot! it's a Scot!" Number 5445, in vermilion
letters on black background over the pounding
wheels, The Royal Inneskillen Fusiliers.
SCREECHSCREECHSCREECH the steel rails howled the
arrival of the large dark shape bearing down upon us.
The train was close enough to see her swaying as she
came towards us at speed. "It's a Brit it's a Brit! look
at the blinkers it's a Brit!" The only Brit I had ever
seen was in a grainy black and white photograph. I
watched transfixed. Still swaying she was almost
upon us. The black shape became one of dark green,
her steam scalding the track around her. Orange from
an open firebox lit up the fences and the rails around
her, sparks like the tail of a comet streaming over a
gleaming and glistening bulk she slithered past us
hissing like a giant cobra.
5:23.p.m. Number 70000 first of her class,
Britannia.
