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Dad's Memoirs

mbenne

mbenne

master brummie
I was prompted by EmmaLL's post 'Grandads Memoirs' to add some of my Dad's. In his 80th year he began to type his first words on a PC and started adding a few family photographs to bring his work to life. He also wrote a lot of poetry and usually added a poem to the end of each chapter. Despite his age he had a fantastic memory for detail and facts - I struggle to remember what to bring back from the shops half the time!

I haven't read all his stuff yet, which I took from his old PC hard drive and various CDs and floppy disks. Its not that I don't want to read it, but I like to select a piece every now again and as I read it it's like he's here telling it and to me this keeps him alive - if that makes sense?

The first piece is about the start of the 1950's after he married Mom. Having no place of their own they took the downstairs living room at my Granparent's in Cranespark Road, Sheldon. They can only dream of having their own place and then I come along - so the timing of this post is rather apt as its only a few days off my birthday. The places he writes about would be Elmdon Park, Sheldon Park, Chelmsley Wood (When it was a wood) and Marston Green Maternity Hospital - no specific references but I know their tracks well!

In a later piece they find a house close to my Nan's, an offer is accepted and they get their long awaited mortgage on the same day my Dad is put on short time. Before things get worse, Mom, ever the optimist, takes an evening job in the Sheldon Pub and I'm left in my Dad's capable hands- or maybe not. Even at the age of two I know that we have left the relative comfort of my Nan's house. I guess I should have been long in bed when Mom was working but I can still remember being scared to move from the only chair in the room as I watched Quatermass on an old 12 inch tv my Dad had salvaged and repaired. It had no case and acted as our only living room lamp which was lit with its array of hot glowing valves that reminded me of rockets. Similarly, the radio, another repair job, having no table of its own, was situated on the floor at the back of the room, next to the gas meter. We had no TV licence and the inevitable happened when one day we get a visit from the licensing authority and my Dad comes clean. The inspector must have felt sorry for him and asked if he came back the following day would he have a licence? My Dad tells him straight, that he's skint and this is why he didn't have one in the first place! All was saved when my Nan and Grandad came to the rescue - that was an often repeated family story but I'm afraid it wasn't in his memoirs. But now I'll let him tell the story from hereon. I think he would be proud to have known his efforts would be appreciated.

Ps- I've cut some bits about family which are probably only of interest to family and changed my Mom's name for anonymity
 
Years of preparation had gone into our wedding but it was to be no easy road from hereon. The wedding and two holidays had depleted our savings, but it was worth it. Perhaps we had mistakenly concentrated on marriage being the ultimate goal?

We had achieved much but there was more to be done, like saving for our own house and furniture to go in it. In the short term, we would register ourselves on the council housing register. Though on this point we were in for a surprise.

The council representative visited us and we were entered into their book after having been asked many questions, far too many questions. The outcome of the interview left us with very little hope. As it was explained to us, having no children we went automatically to the bottom of the list but each year of marriage would entitle us to be positioned a little higher on the list. However, if a couple had a child, they would take priority and we would go further down the list! We were asked if we intended having children and we replied, “Yes, when we are secure enough to have them, and not until”. So, it seemed that for a couple like us the prospects of ever being allocated a house were very remote. We looked at each other without comment. What was there to comment about? The hopelessness of us getting a council dwelling sometime never?

We would have to save in the hope of buying our own place and keep our fingers crossed that something affordable would turn up. But at this moment we were flat broke, except for the small change in our pockets. This didn’t worry us, up till now we had achieved more than many of our friends and we were determined. That’s all that mattered. Others we worked with, including men that I had recently returned from military service with, were also finding the same problems.

Weeks and months would elapse while each reviewed their prospects at the factory. It was an existence, that didn’t allow for the setting up of a new home. All of them had asked for wage increases as I had done. None of them succeeded.
We would hear of those who had left for new jobs elsewhere, now earning enough to obtain a mortgage. For us this was a difficult decision to make. We liked the company of the people at this factory, but was that enough? If we intended making any headway it would require much more than we were earning now.

So many things demanded the need of money. Even if we rented somewhere, we’d have to buy furniture. Our entertainment had to be modified to suit our pocket. At weekends Vera’s parents would take us with them in their car to their caravan instead of travelling on my motorbike, saving petrol money. And fishing was not an expensive pastime which we would combine with a picnic on days out.

I gave Vera’s mom half of what I earned and Vera did likewise. This had been the usual arrangement with both our parents prior to our marriage. In this respect, little had changed. Vera wasn’t bothered about having children but I had secret thoughts on this matter, though I didn’t mention them to her.

We still needed enjoyment as much as anything else. It was necessary. There’d be no point in a commitment to a life of “all work and save” and no play. The beauty of being married was that we went home together which meant we could be off out that much earlier.

We were not ones for staying too long indoors and in the evenings took strolls through the nearby park and woodlands. If there were any oddments of bait left over after a day’s fishing, we’d take it with us to feed the ducks. There’d always be plenty of hungry mouths to gobble it up and it cost us very little. They would enjoy their free feed and do plenty of cackling. We would be doing a lot of cackling too, but of a different sort. Ours was usually about the future.

My older brother, Geoff, had committed all his spare time to building his own house. He had joined a “Self Help Builders” group. It meant three years of constant allegiance to the scheme. A condition being that all spare time must be devoted to building. There were fifty men in the group. No holidays would be taken by any of them during the building period. Vera and I were not involved with this scheme so for us it meant holidays as usual. So, in the summer of 1952 it was back to the Isle of Man for us. We had taken a liking to the place. My brother and his future wife obviously couldn’t go.

Several years went by and our saving continued. But something else happened. Someone was putting on weight and having difficulty with the tightness of her clothing. Vera was pregnant. It was fortunate that it didn’t happen months before when she was being fitted for a bridesmaid’s dress for my brother’s wedding.

Vera had now become as popular as a fairy on a Christmas tree. Her mom was delighted with the prospect of a grandchild. A thought occurred to me – Would this qualify us for a council house? Vera’s concern was – Would it restrict her from coming out with me. She didn’t like being confined to indoor activities and made every effort to go out and seek enjoyment while there was still time.

Our last long trip was to Warwick castle. It was a day to remember. We had walked the grounds and then decided to go on the conducted tour of the castle interior. It was a leg aching process. In one of the rooms the guide was giving a lengthy account of the supposed ghosts that still frequently pay visits to the many rooms. Vera was feeling the strain of carrying her portly weight. She wanted a rest. Anywhere would do. She chose a crotchety old wooden seat in the corner. Here she would be unobserved by everyone. Then in a loud voice the guide announced, “and IN THAT CORNER THE CASTLE GHOST IS KNOWN TO SIT AND OBSERVE ALL”. All eyes turned in that direction. I stood to one side to give the spectators a clear view. Vera sat there puffing and blowing with the strain of her lump and aching feet. She stared at the crowd and immediately reddened to express her embarrassment. I announced to the crowd – “This ghost would soon be giving birth to another ghost. We must keep the enchantment going”. Vera was off her seat faster than she had settled into it.
 
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Her lump was large but nothing to what it was going to be. As time progressed Vera began to put on weight far above the normal and the doctor was very perturbed about it. Prior to pregnancy she weighed 50 kilos. This had now increased to 88 kilos. The doctor diagnosed toxaemia as the cause. Vera would have to be hospitalised.

This did not suit her. She was always keen and ready to be out with me so staying indoors was not for her. Regardless of what she wanted she was duly admitted to hospital. One night she pleaded with me to get her released. I asked to see the doctor and he explained Vera’s condition. He would only release her if she promised not to walk whilst at home. There was to be no unnecessary walking for any reason. Vera agreed and she was released in my care subject to being checked at the hospital once a week. The doctor stressed the importance of Vera not walking. She was in a bad state.

A week later the doctor asked to see me immediately. It was important. He was refusing to allow her to go home. She would be hospitalised again. He wasted no words of comfort in my ears. He spelled out his dissatisfaction of my removal of her from hospital. She was in a critical condition. Her weight had increased even more in the last week and was now at a dangerous level. The doctor said that if I sanctioned her release again and she died I would be responsible. Back at Vera’s bedside, she pleaded with me to get her released again. I questioned her. Did she rest while she was at home – NO she didn’t! Apparently, she had been going out to the shops each day with her mom.

She pleaded that if I got her released, she would promise not to walk. I knew she wouldn’t be walking because this time I didn’t intend having her released. There came tears and more tears. There came pleading and begging. All this was to no avail. She would be staying here. I left her bedside with the sound of her sobs ringing in my ears.

Three weeks before the birth she was released. Her condition had improved. It was still serious but not as critical as it had been and she was to continue with her weekly check ups and go back into hospital three days before the expected birth. I would be taking her in my van, along with my fishing tackle. There was a pool nearby. This would be my next port of call after dropping Vera off. But she had a few ideas too. She would also come along for the fishing before taking going into hospital. There didn’t seem anything wrong with this arrangement. It was a jolly good idea. We’d make a picnic of it. A packed lunch and flask of tea was loaded into the van alongside the fishing tackle. We had one of the best day’s fishing ever. The fish were biting as if they hadn’t eaten for a month. This moment was something that didn’t exist and as I reeled in another fish, I took a look at my wristwatch. We were now six hours late for our appointment at the hospital! Our marvellous time was followed by the fastest retreat of all time.

At the hospital we were met with a volley of questions as to why we were late. The questions were put to us courteously enough. There could have been a justifiable reason for our lateness and my answer might change their attitude. I explained about the fish. We just couldn’t leave while they were biting. Vera grinned and nodded in agreement. This was met with a look of amazement and followed with a volley of abuse to which we had no answer. It was worth it though. It had been a very good day. Vera went to her bed feeling happier for the outing regardless of the complaints we’d received. She would now be kept in hospital until after the birth.

Days passed with nightly visits from me. What upset Vera the most was that I still came each time with fishing tackle in my van. The pool that we had visited previously was the next place I’d go after leaving her. I’d be there until it got too dark to see.

The happy day finally came. We were now parents. I did not know until I mentioned to Vera on this visit that she wasn’t quite so fat. She certainly wasn’t thin though. She told me I was a Dad and would I like to see him.

“HIM”! . . . . . . . . . I wanted a daughter. Couldn’t she swap him?

Soon I would have to listen to the usual chat from friends and family saying . . . . . isn’t he like you. “NO”! would be my every answer. I am not red in the face like him and neither do I cry. Come to think of it I have every cause to do both of these things.

Vera had given our baby a name before I had been consulted and I asked when we were having a daughter. “As soon as you are willing to give birth to one” was her answer. She didn’t want to go through all this restriction of no play and hobbling about like an elephant again. There was no comment from me. Vera was kept in hospital a further week before release. The hours in wait couldn’t pass fast enough for her. She wanted her freedom as bad as we wanted a house of our own.

Back home and now with a new addition, we realised the inadequacy of living in one room. Our living condition would certainly restrict us from having another child for the time being. A one-room accommodation doesn’t allow enough space. We would need a place of our own. Perhaps we may stand a chance of a council house now.

We were about to be disillusioned again when the housing agent once again came to visit us. Our hopes were dashed when we were told – You will only be given priority over childless couples but there are far too many clients with two or more children still waiting. If you do get a place (which could take several years) it will only be a high rise flat – Maybe twenty floors up. It will also be in the city centre. There would be no chance of expecting a place with a garden. I told them to “shove it” and asked to be removed from the register.

A decision had been made there and then. We would carry on saving and get a mortgage.

TBC
 
wonderful story and such lovely photos...the story highlights the struggles of yesteryear...look forward to the next instalment...

lyn
 
Mom and Dad began to realise they desperately needed a place of their own. Dad's search was on for a new job and his new found hobby, gardening.
ps re Land Rover - this was my Dad's view and I can't question it!
 
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There had been no holiday for us this year. Mbenne’s birth had clashed with the factory holiday period. I had also made a decision to not run the van anymore. That would be a saving of road-tax and insurance. We would make do with just the motorbike. But bikes are made for two and now we are a family of three. This didn’t mean that we would be deprived of outings though. We would still be able to go to the caravan with Vera’s parents at weekends.

Of my many hobbies I had become a keen gardener and would now get up extra early on one day a week and go to the newsagents to buy a gardening magazine. I must get us a house with a garden. My father-in-law had loaned me part of his garden to let me practice my skills. As yet, I didn’t have any but I was a willing pupil.

Vera spent the next four months at home with Mbenne before going back part-time, when her mom would look after him. Her long-term wish was to go back full-time. Now, three things took priority. Job hunting, saving and scanning all the newspapers of the house market. It all seemed so remote and far from our grasp right now.

Vera was pleased with the success of one thing in particular. She had reduced in size to her normal figure. Never mind Vera – You will fatten up when you have a daughter, I said. Vera only stared. There was no need for to express her opinion.
Vera’s new hobby was learning all the techniques of child raising. “Did you get an instruction manual with him Vera?”, I would say. “I only have manuals for cars and motorbikes”. Vera’s mom would always come to the rescue. She would put her past experience into operation. I think she was about to be spoiling him too. She thought the world revolved around her grandson.

The few hours a day that Vera worked brought in badly needed money. We could live well enough as things were at this moment, but we needed more if we were to get our own place. Every so often I would make outside enquiries with the intent of changing jobs. On each occasion my attempts failed. Jobs further afield that paid more money were always offset with additional travelling expenses or a lacked overtime working. Also, even though I was married I still went to mom’s for my midday meal, using my bike on alternate days to also take my other brother Maurice. He would do likewise for me, saving on petrol for both of us. This was a good saving to both of us with the bonus of getting a more substantial meal rather buying a meal in factory canteen.

Bouts of job hunting gradually declined as we began to accept our present way of life. The will to succeed was still there, it never died, but it did go under a mild tempering. As yet, Mbenne didn’t take up much room, he wasn’t very big and his crib didn’t take up much space either. Also, Vera’s mom. would commandeer him into her living room as often as she could. At times it was difficult to imagine that we had a child. Perhaps we ought to give him to Vera’s mother?

Vera said I wasn’t aware of having a child because I didn’t have to do the necessaries. She kept threatening to give me instruction so that she could have a break. Time passed and with it Mbenne became somewhat bigger than the original bundle. More than this - He was getting to the crawling age. It was this that made me realise the lack of space in our bed-sitter.

The bouts of not bothering to job hunt would begin all over again with yet another determination to seek other employment. It was not all gloom though. There’d come moments of hilarity. We were at the cinema one night. As yet we hadn’t purchased tickets. I was at the kiosk looking through the selection of sweets. I was in no hurry. It wasn’t that they were offering such a wide range either. It was a matter of what to buy rather than the quantity. Vera had decided to purchase the tickets while I was occupied. She hadn’t quite got to the point of speaking before the cashier stepped in with her comment. “You cannot go in” she said. “It is an A that is showing. You will need to be accompanied by an adult”. Vera brandished her wedding and engagement ring in front of the cashier and said – “Will my husband do. He is at the kiosk”. At that point I came over and paid for the tickets myself.

It was embarrassing Vera, always appearing underage. We had this trouble on our honeymoon. She will be getting a bad reputation if she is seen in public with our baby. I said she would have to get a full-time job, that would put years on her appearance. She made no comment. It was her rosy cheeks that mislead people. Perhaps she ought to put some powder on them to tone down the colour? Quite often when we might speak to strangers they would comment about Vera’s fresh complexion. They would remark that she obviously had an outside job. There was a good side to this problem of appearing to be a teenager. When you have put on a few years you will have the advantage of holding your age better. Young looking or not; none of this helped in the endeavour to get our own house. Whenever this train of thought began it would prompt us into life again – The quest for our own property and so we would review the housing market again. It would also bring back the determination for job swapping.

Land Rover was within walking distance from where we lived. They also paid the highest wages in the Midlands. It was also difficult to get a job there. It was not a question of ‘what you know’ – It was “who do you know”. My application was rejected. So were two other attempts. Many years later I happened to talk with a union official that worked there. He told me that the union review all applications before they will allow the management to employ a person. An answer I gave on my application form would have displeased them. A particular question on the job application form was

Q - What would you do if your machine broke down.
A - I would ask to be found other work while it was being repaired.

He said we don’t like people doing things like that. You would be a threat to our code of practice. We never work when we have machine problems. We sit down and wait for it to be repaired. We also demand our full wage payment while doing so. Doing things your way would encourage the management to employ less men than we normally have. That in turn would mean the existing workforce having to do more work. We work to union rule here. We do not intend that the management get the upper hand. We must protect our way of working. All but one of the men I had previously worked with had gone to this firm and been accepted. All of them had each in turn spoken for the other. Why didn’t I do the same? I could have got in touch with a few but I, being the youngest, had never been accepted fully as one of their buddies. We all got on well together but there was an unseen barrier that seemed to exist.

I eventually left my job for another. I wasn’t happy at the place I went to. I didn’t expect to be, it had all been done on impulse. I’d criticised myself so often about the steps I needed to take to do something about our situation. This new place was a slave camp and I was being far underpaid for my experience.
I had applied for a job as a press tool-setter. I explained that this is what I am already employed as. They made a half promise but I would have to start as a press operator. This wasn’t the job that I wanted but I was in no position to choose.

Soon after starting I made further enquiries about a changeover but was told that I might be there several years before a vacancy arose. Nobody had left from a tool-setter’s job in the last decade. The job as operator that I was now lumbered with had no long-term prospects. It might be better to move on again. I had only been here a few weeks, but It was enough to know that it wasn’t for me.

I took another change of occupation to the B.S.A. (Birmingham Small Arms) where they manufactured armaments and motor cycles. It was only marginally better than the last job but I hoped it would be a good start. I asked for a tool-setters job. I was refused. They would only offer me a press operator’s position. I accepted. Maybe I could get reinstated to the position I wanted at a later date?

Operator rate was slightly better than I’d been getting but nothing to get excited about. Overtime was plentiful and it increased the take-home pay. From my first week onward the bank became the first port of call on pay-day. If it meant having to get in a queue every time to make a deposit I didn’t mind.

For the first time there now seemed a way forward!

TBC
 
Thanks for these memoirs, mbenne, evocative, instructive about how we lived and thought 50 or 60 years ago (and what we had to put up with, as well) - and, on top of everything else, so beautifully written.

An example to all us BHF members.....

Chris
 
Our turn for house ownership came in 1956.

We’d viewed countless properties but never been able to meet their price. Finally; the opportunity that we had waited for arose. It did so because other buyers showed an utter lack of interest in this one. It was situated just two roads away from Vera’s mom. And now we were having our first personal meeting with the seller. All previous contact regarding this property had been conducted via the agent.

‘Conducted’ seemed fitting because this man was a bus conductor. I had got on his bus and witnessed his outbursts and onslaught on passengers many times. He could gripe about the weather, the government, anything that allowed his venom to run wild. I once witnessed a passenger being ordered off his bus into the rain. He, the conductor, had mistakenly allowed too many passengers to board, a discovery he made after the bus had proceeded on its journey.

“Oh yes” – I knew of him and that I wanted to buy his house made me feel ashamed of encouraging him.

The house was a challenge to my integrity and well I knew it. Our problem (as always) was other purchasers. They always offered more than the stated price which would put us out of the race immediately. There was not a single occasion (in those we’d previously visited) when the price stayed at that advertised. This house didn’t represent ‘value for money’ by a long way. And, if we managed to acquire it, our funds would be stretched to the limit. There’d be no allowance for the slightest increase.

The property was run-down. Neglected would be the more fitting. The outside had not had a solitary thing done to it since it had been built. This was something I could correct. The seller was against a detailed inspection – something most people welcomed. It gave them the opportunity to point out additions and the ultimate saving to the purchaser after he became the owner. It also paved the way for a price increase without the owner asking for one.

The price had to be within my income bracket, and subject to mortgage acceptance. This would also be based on my wage alone, regardless of what Vera earned. The only thing in our favour at the moment was that everyone else had turned it down. So, our only chance was this house, the one that everyone else had rejected. The question was – Would I reject it?
The agent secretly conversed with me to resist the seller’s price and wear him down - its condition had already halted any clamber for a quick sale.

For the want of a fitting name – ‘Mr Scrooge’ (the owner) wouldn’t take anything less than the stated figure. This he made clear to the agent. He echoed it with such conviction that I believe the neighbours must have heard.

‘Mr Scrooge’ knew the market and so did I. He knew that he had the upper hand. I was not impressed, and even less so with the asking price of £1,700. Houses nearby had been advertised at £1,600, though they’d finally finish up at a higher price. This was definitely overpriced and considering what we would be getting in return it would mean taking on a big commitment to renovate it. Nevertheless, a decision had to be made.

Agents didn’t like extra work. They got the same fee regardless of the effort involved. A speedy sale meant a quicker turnover for the agency. For them, this property had been hard work.

The owner wasn’t influenced one bit with my request to reduce his price. He wanted every penny and nothing was going to stand in his way.

At that time the housing market was akin to the car market. The war years had ceased production and created a shortfall. If a house or car vaguely fitted the description of such then there was a vibrant market for it.
I accepted Scrooge’s final, and only offer of – “Take it or leave it” with a Yes.
I knew that my answer at this moment would not be legally binding. So, until contracts had been signed there was nothing to stop me having second thoughts and backing out. It was unlikely that I would, but the option was there.

If I’d had a highly paid job then I would have been in a better bargaining position. I would have preferred to reject it but I didn’t. I was motivated by knowing that if I obtained a mortgage; hard work would ultimately put right the wrongs of this house. My decision was further influenced as I knew Mr Scrooge knew my weakness and would not settle for less.

Finally, he asked if I wanted his garden shed. It was a six-foot by four-foot wooden affair and had been erected on ground that wasn’t level and was now showing the affects. That would be £10 extra. I rejected it, I couldn’t have afforded it anyway! I mentioned this to him half hoping he would throw it in for goodwill.

“No money – No shed” were his only words.

The final hurdle was the mortgage acceptance. The insurer who acted on behalf of the Building Society had meticulously checked my bankbook and questioned me at length about a shortfall for furniture removal costs. At this time, a full house removal was £5 – Such wicked prices.
I told him there’d be more money added to my account in the coming weeks. I further satisfied him by saying I had a relative in the removal business who would do it for free (a lie). At this point in the interrogation a further assessment of the remainder of our bankroll was made - Excluding all fees and conveyance charges would leave us with £1.
Avoiding closure of an account required a minimum balance of ten shillings. So, I would have twice this amount in my account. “Aren’t I rich”, I thought!

The mortgage was approved.

TBC

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May 1956

I was given leave from my employer to take a couple of hours off work to visit our solicitor and estate agent. Both offices were situated in the city centre. Formalities were completed and I was handed the keys to our house. I felt relieved.

Both the agent and the solicitor asked why we hadn’t moved in sooner. The seller had moved the week before and said he would tell us himself. I was confused by this but unconcerned for now and just felt a mild sense of contentment - I was not one for showing over excitement.

I arrived back at work just one hour before finishing time but before going to my section I was ushered into the overseer’s office. I wondered why? My curiosity was not left wanting for long. “Here is something for you to read”, said the man wearing the bowler hat - he was the foreman but tended to think of himself as God. He handed me a piece of paper, a note about future working. It read, ‘short-time working will commence for all employees at the end of this day’s shift’. The new times were two days per week!

As I read the bombshell message the gaffer withdrew his long service gold watch. It was tethered to his black waistcoat to display the brilliance of the gold. As he glanced at me, he went through the process of polishing it meticulously. My gloom must have reflected upon it like an unwelcome smudge. I was aware of his gaze as he studied my reaction. He was used to the sight of suffering.

The new times of working dominated my thoughts. For a brief moment – I could see the walls of our house tumbling. Fate was steering a different course to the one we had set. Maybe I ought not to have been surprised. Never in my life had I won a raffle or felt that Lady Luck was on my side. If ever I picked a horse in the National, it would surely be scratched, or worse still; break a leg.

Here was proof that I was on a losing streak and I hadn’t bought a ticket for anything. But I had, “YES I HAD “. IT WAS A HOUSE.

While I was digesting the latest bad news, Vera was waiting patiently in our bedsit for my return with the ‘special key’. I knew her well enough to know she’d have visions of me presenting it to her with a smile on my face.

I returned home and there was no smile from me but there was from her. It portrayed sufficient happiness for two. She was literally beaming with joy, oblivious of my solemn looks. I showed her the key and told her of our plight. We would badly need Vera’s money now. The trouble was - it was nowhere near enough for our needs.

My mental arithmetic predicted the future. Vera was doing only a few hours a week and after paying her mom for child care and bus fare to work she was left with less than £1 15s a week. Whilst I’d been in full time working this wasn’t a problem but it was now. Mortgage payments would be £2 3s per week and my wages would be £2 10s per week. Unemployment money would be £2 every fortnight. What remained, would have to provide for gas, electricity, coal, food and clothing.

The doors of Hell had just opened. I was speechless but Vera spoke for me. “We will manage”. She talked as if what I’d told her was no more than a hiccup. She always had a strange way of seeing the sunny side of things while everything before her showed the opposite. It was something she had always done since I had first met her. Maybe the key I handed to her represented sunshine.

Contrary to Vera’s views, mine were always the opposite, ones of harsh reality. I could have asked her how we were going to manage but this would have taken the thrill and excitement away from it all.

The removal day came. There was no need for a removal van. We owned only two items – A bed-settee and a cot – we had a wardrobe but that didn’t belong to us. While living with Vera’s parents there was no need to buy our own furniture and there was nowhere to store our own.

The removal was completed within a very short space of time. My brother helped me carry our bed to our future residence, two roads away. We had a small amount of coal too which was transported in Mbenne’s pram - What would the insurers have thought if they knew that I would be going on short time working? We were on a cliff-edge with the prospect of a long fall.

TBC

The long awaited letter

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The House

The house had been built only eighteen years before but looked as though it had suffered a century of wear. It was worse than we had imagined but, in fairness to us, the seller had denied us a detailed inspection, having told us that we could rely on his word that everything was as it should be. This explained why he would not allow us to make further visits unless he personally conducted these tours.

A shortage of housing had bred sharks such as the one we had fallen victim to.

Mr Scrooge had vacated one week earlier, retained a spare key and used the time to make daily visits to strip the place of everything. He had removed coat hooks, electric light bulbs, curtain hooks and anything that wouldn’t cause the building to collapse - even removing plugs from the sink and the bath! Enquiries with the next-door neighbour confirmed that he had openly admitted that he wasn’t going to give anything away.

The kitchen was void of fittings other than the gas stove. This was the free issue that came with the house when it was built. Needless to say it didn’t qualify for any other description than ‘A GAS STOVE.’ The kitchen walls bore a coat of dark green gloss paint and the skirting boards were varnished dark brown. Both inspired a feeling of depression. The ceiling displayed the plasterboard beneath the flaking ‘ball whitening’ – Commonly known as ‘pig wash’. This had once been the topcoat and was nearing surrender. The flakes that now clung to it resisted departure and fluttered gently whenever the steam from the kettle tantalised and enticed their submission. Their gallantry was worthy of praise.

The living room was papered. Many of the strips were peeling. It wouldn’t have surprised me to hear that it was due to the former owner having tried to peel them off. The windows (all windows in the house) were void of curtain hooks. We were faced with the plight of not being able to buy any. For a while we lived in the equal of a goldfish bowl. I later smeared the windows with a thin mix of flour and water to give privacy. This also gave the impression of us being in the midst of decorating. We eventually acquired some material from a jumble sale. Nails and string provided the means of support.

The only furnishing in our living room was an easy chair. Before acquiring it we sat on the floor. The person who had previously owned this chair had intended burning it on bonfire night - the leather side panel and arm were ripped and exposed the wooden structure. We gratefully accepted it and offered it a better fate. We shared this chair. It wasn’t wide enough to seat the both of us so the arms had to double up as secondary seating. The floor covering on which our chair stood was linoleum - of two different sorts and pattering too. Both were practically worn out. These had served as the underlay for a carpet that had recently graced the floorboards. The worn patterning in the centre of the linoleum gave the effect an island with the solitary chair resting upon it.

The bathroom was a disgrace, the floor covering had been removed and though half tiled many of these were cracked or missing. The toilet pan had a small crack. This had seen some prior first aid. It occasionally leaked to prove that it wasn’t well. The cast iron cistern which boasted a barnacle coat of rust coughed and spluttered at each pull of its equally rusty chain. The pedestal wash hand basin fell in half when I pressed on it. It had previously been broken in two. Several layers of thick brown paper had been glued underneath to temporally hold it together. It was unusable and had been obviously joined together for the sake of the sale. The bath was of the cast iron type, white in colour. After we cleaned it, it took on a different shade. Large areas of the enamel were worn away, and in others it was chipped. It had been painted over with a matching colour of ordinary household paint. The first hot bath caused it to bubble. None of this was apparent when we viewed it - My only request to see the bathroom received a strong protest from the seller. When the door was opened, a clotheshorse (draped with clothing) prevented me from entering! I now realised that this was done deliberately.

The bedroom floors were without covering too. We used just one bedroom, the front, this contained our bed-settee and the baby’s cot - As I had no garden shed the rear bedroom would later be used to house my fishing tackle, tools and spares for my motorbike.

The garden had not received any attention since the house had been built. It was littered with rubbish. The seller had boasted of his hate of gardening. I now wondered why he didn’t say the same of ‘house maintenance’ because it showed the same lack of enthusiasm.

I was born during the slump years of the 1920`s. By comparison, that era was luxurious. Conditions right now felt like a re-entry into the squalor of a bygone age.

TBC
 
mbenne said:
The House

The house had been built only eighteen years before but looked as though it had suffered a century of wear. It was worse than we had imagined but, in fairness to us, the seller had denied us a detailed inspection, having told us that we could rely on his word that everything was as it should be. This explained why he would not allow us to make further visits unless he personally conducted these tours.

A shortage of housing had bred sharks such as the one we had fallen victim to.

Mr Scrooge had vacated one week earlier, retained a spare key and used the time to make daily visits to strip the place of everything. He had removed coat hooks, electric light bulbs, curtain hooks and anything that wouldn’t cause the building to collapse - even removing plugs from the sink and the bath! Enquiries with the next-door neighbour confirmed that he had openly admitted that he wasn’t going to give anything away.

The kitchen was void of fittings other than the gas stove. This was the free issue that came with the house when it was built. Needless to say it didn’t qualify for any other description than ‘A GAS STOVE.’ The kitchen walls bore a coat of dark green gloss paint and the skirting boards were varnished dark brown. Both inspired a feeling of depression. The ceiling displayed the plasterboard beneath the flaking ‘ball whitening’ – Commonly known as ‘pig wash’. This had once been the topcoat and was nearing surrender. The flakes that now clung to it resisted departure and fluttered gently whenever the steam from the kettle tantalised and enticed their submission. Their gallantry was worthy of praise.

The living room was papered. Many of the strips were peeling. It wouldn’t have surprised me to hear that it was due to the former owner having tried to peel them off. The windows (all windows in the house) were void of curtain hooks. We were faced with the plight of not being able to buy any. For a while we lived in the equal of a goldfish bowl. I later smeared the windows with a thin mix of flour and water to give privacy. This also gave the impression of us being in the midst of decorating. We eventually acquired some material from a jumble sale. Nails and string provided the means of support.

The only furnishing in our living room was an easy chair. Before acquiring it we sat on the floor. The person who had previously owned this chair had intended burning it on bonfire night - the leather side panel and arm were ripped and exposed the wooden structure. We gratefully accepted it and offered it a better fate. We shared this chair. It wasn’t wide enough to seat the both of us so the arms had to double up as secondary seating. The floor covering on which our chair stood was linoleum - of two different sorts and pattering too. Both were practically worn out. These had served as the underlay for a carpet that had recently graced the floorboards. The worn patterning in the centre of the linoleum gave the effect an island with the solitary chair resting upon it.

The bathroom was a disgrace, the floor covering had been removed and though half tiled many of these were cracked or missing. The toilet pan had a small crack. This had seen some prior first aid. It occasionally leaked to prove that it wasn’t well. The cast iron cistern which boasted a barnacle coat of rust coughed and spluttered at each pull of its equally rusty chain. The pedestal wash hand basin fell in half when I pressed on it. It had previously been broken in two. Several layers of thick brown paper had been glued underneath to temporally hold it together. It was unusable and had been obviously joined together for the sake of the sale. The bath was of the cast iron type, white in colour. After we cleaned it, it took on a different shade. Large areas of the enamel were worn away, and in others it was chipped. It had been painted over with a matching colour of ordinary household paint. The first hot bath caused it to bubble. None of this was apparent when we viewed it - My only request to see the bathroom received a strong protest from the seller. When the door was opened, a clotheshorse (draped with clothing) prevented me from entering! I now realised that this was done deliberately.

The bedroom floors were without covering too. We used just one bedroom, the front, this contained our bed-settee and the baby’s cot - As I had no garden shed the rear bedroom would later be used to house my fishing tackle, tools and spares for my motorbike.

The garden had not received any attention since the house had been built. It was littered with rubbish. The seller had boasted of his hate of gardening. I now wondered why he didn’t say the same of ‘house maintenance’ because it showed the same lack of enthusiasm.

I was born during the slump years of the 1920`s. By comparison, that era was luxurious. Conditions right now felt like a re-entry into the squalor of a bygone age.

TBC
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