'SHANTY TOWN'

Childhood Memories of Poverty

and Happiness in Tyler Street Munition Huts

By

Betty Dickinson

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CONTENTS

Chapter One : We Move to Shanty-Town

Chapter Two : Playtime, Christmas and Uncle Bert

Chapter Three : Shopkeeping, Skipping and a Mucky Owd Chink Doll.

Chapter Four : Painful Tousing and Disappearing Ducks

Chapter Five : Postal Tramcar and Milkman's Horse

Chapter Six : Little Mother

Chapter Seven : Grandma's and My First Train Ride

Chapter Eight : Fire, Flood and Tempest

Chapter Nine : Olden Days and Golden Days

Chapter Ten : Failure and Limited Success

Chapter Eleven : 1926 and All That

Chapter Twelve : To Harry, a Son

Chapter Thirteen : The Check Man and the Cock With Half a Crow

Chapter Fourteen : Gloops and 'Star' Treats

Chapter Fifteen : Sickness, Sadness and Not-So-Innocent Play

Chapter Sixteen : Ink Wells, Bath Night and Home Remedies

Chapter Seventeen : Fox Furs, Fish and Chips and Fu Manchu

Chapter Eighteen : Owd Befoor Yer Time

Chapter Nineteen : Wincobank Swill-Tubs?

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INTRODUCTION

Towards the end of 1939 an entire estate at Tyler Street, Brightside which had housed over three

hundred families, suddenly vanished from the face of the earth. There was no mystery about this at

the time, all the families had been re-housed mainly at Parson Cross, a step which was probably

hastened by the looming threat of yet another war with Germany.

There is no doubt that the estate, which consisted entirely of wooden huts, would have been a

menace. Enemy incendiary devices would have lit up the whole of the vital industrial capacity of the

Don Valley and would have exposed this prime target perhaps causing the war to take a very sinister

turn early on.

I lived in one of the 'hutments' from 1919 to 1932, leaving just after my sixteenth birthday. I never

wanted to move away; our home just below the 'Rigs' was the only home I had ever really known

and most of all I hated the thought of moving to Wincobank. My parents however, had other ideas.

They wanted a 'proper house' and when uncle put in a word for Dad with his landlord who owned

several houses in Wincobank, Mam and Dad were delighted to receive the keys. In many ways our

move was a retrograde step, for the house, although of the more conventional bricks and mortar

construction, had no bathroom. We were forced back into the zinc bathtub before the fire routine

and what was worse, the water had to be carried in saucepans and buckets to fill the bath and

emptied the same way afterwards.

Added to this inconvenience we had the ugliest backyard I have ever seen before or since, which we

shared with four other families. A row of five lavatories completed the whole depressing outlook

from our back door.

I was devastated – gone were our hens, our rabbit and our cat, gone were the precious green grass

and flowers and worst of all, I was at least ten minutes walk away from my old playmate and good

friend Liz. I never settled at Wincobank and I have always thought of Tyler Street Huts as my home.

My memories of what may seem to some people a strange environment, poverty-stricken and

underprivileged, are entirely happy ones. I realised quite recently that almost sixty five years after

my parents took me to live in the huts, my memories of the years I spent there are still clear and

sharp and I can see in my mind's eye the faces of the people I knew and loved – warm-hearted,

tolerant people who simply had to be tough and resilient to survive in those times.

My story is not an account of an idyllic childhood spent in beautiful countryside although we did visit

such surroundings quite often. It is rather a story of making the best of the little we had and never

even knowing that we were poor, because we were with few exceptions, all in the same boat.

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The Munition Huts as they are called in the Sheffield Directories are not well documented. The

records which I have used to substantiate my story were all obtained by kind permission of the Local

Studies Department of our splendid Central Library whose staff have given me every possible facility

for research. Unfortunately with the exception of the Sheffield Newspapers and Year Books, little has

been written about my old home and so I must rely upon my own memories and the memories of

others who shared those years with me.

Happily, many of the children I grew up with are still around although like me they have lost their

parents who were our neighbours so long ago. I have had the tremendous good fortune to contact a

few of my childhood playmates since I decided to write my narrative and they have been most

encouraging and helpful.

Tyler Street Huts housed a close-knit community of a kind that is difficult to find today and although

my own standard of living, like that of my childhood friends, has changed beyond measure in a

material sense, we all agree that out lives are sadly lacking the community spirit of the 1920's and

30's.

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CHAPTER ONE

WE MOVE TO SHANTY-TOWN'

I was born in 1916, right in the middle of what some historians have called 'The bloodiest and most

wasteful War in history'.

My Father who had started work at the age of twelve was still employed at Cammell Laird's Cyclops

works in Grimesthorpe, Sheffield. He was rejected by the army in 1915 because of failing eyesight –

a fact that made him very bitter at the time, for like the majority of young men of his age, he was

full of patriotic fervour and a burning desire to have a go at the Hun'.

Mother on the other hand was greatly relieved, she and Dad had only married in 1914, two months

after the declaration of war and had as yet, no home of their own, being obliged to live first with

relatives and later in two rooms at the home of a friend. Both my parents were employed in

munition work until my mother became pregnant. Dad often told me when I was old enough to

understand, the story of the terrifying night that the Zeppelin dropped bombs on our city.

Sheffield was understandably a prime target for the German raiders, for our greatly industrialised

city was supplying arms not only to the British forces but also to their allies. Sheffield's

uninterrupted output was imperative for the maintenance of offensive as well as defensive warfare.

Warnings of enemy action were given by the sounding of loud sirens and buzzers from all the

factories; every light in the City was extinguished and all traffic brought to an immediate standstill.

Cigarette and pipe-smoking was prohibited out of doors during alerts and people were urged to stay

in their homes.

For over three years of war, Sheffield people were subject to the nightly menace as warnings of

enemy aircraft near the city were received. Most people ignored the advice to stay indoors and the

frequent searchlight practices during the early hours of the long winter evenings provided a never-

failing source of entertainment for young people who were always hoping that one night they would

see the searchlight beam pick up the sinister shape of the Zeppelin.

At 11 p.m. on September 25th, 1916, one of these frightful instruments of death did penetrate the

defences of Sheffield.

My Mother, who by then was six months pregnant with me, pleaded with Dad to take her out of

doors, she could not bear to stay inside, so like many other people they fled up into Wincobank

wood, where Dad lay trying to shield and comfort Mam who was absolutely petrified.

At 12.20 a.m. on the 26th, the first of the bombs began to fall; the attack lasted for fifteen terrifying

minutes, during which eighteen high explosive bombs and eighteen incendiary devices were dropped.

Eighty eight houses were hit and thirteen people died in one small area in Cossey Road.

5

On December 4th 1918 the Sheffield Daily Telegraph published pictures taken at the scenes of

destruction on that terrible night – pictures which for obvious reasons of security could not be shown

until the end of the War.

The chilling pictures were accompanied by a long descriptive article from which the following extract

is taken:-

'On the raid of September 25th/26th, 1916, the only time a raid was effective in so far as

damage was concerned, damage in a military sense was negligible, the Huns found their

twenty three victims almost exclusively amongst the women and children.'

On January 28th, 1919, fourteen hundred Belgian refugees left Sheffield to return to their native land,

having fled to Britain in 1914 when the Germans invaded Belgium1.

Many of the refugees had lived for the duration of the War in Tyler Street Huts.

The Burgess Rolls from the year 1919 describe the estate as the Munition Huts although other

sources of information state that the huts were purpose-built for Belgian refugees2. I believe that

the truth lies somewhere between the two because there are records which show that many of the

Belgians were, in fact, employed in munition work, also that native born Sheffield people occupied

some of the dwellings from 1916 onwards.

There was a serious shortage of housing in Sheffield after the end of the First World War; an

ambitious programme which had begun with tremendous enthusiasm in the immediate pre-war years

had naturally come to a halt at the outbreak of hostilities, so the Tyler Street Huts and a similar

estate at Petre Street were repaired and renovated and subsequently let to homeless Sheffield

people.

There was a large estate office on Tyler Street, built of wood like the huts themselves and it was

there that rents were paid each week by the tenants. Requests for repairs were also registered at

the estate office although little heed was paid to them as far as I remember.

I was two and a half years old when, in the summer of 1919, my parents took me to live at number

thirty one, Seventh Road, Tyler Street. The estate consisted of wooden huts built in rows starting

from Tyler Street itself at the bottom to Roman Ridge at the top, the main thoroughfare being

Roman Ridge Road. The dwellings toward the top of the hill, ours included, had stilts at each corner,

leaving a considerable gap between the ground and the floor of the hut. The local name for Roman

Ridge was, and still is, The Rigs'. The roads were rough and untreated and they remained that way

through all the years that we lived there.

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Little did we know or care as children that we were living on a piece of England's history. The site is

now an industrial estate and going back to Roman Ridge on a nostalgic visit recently, I stood at the

top looking over the Don Valley and I could easily see why the Ancient Britons chose Wincobank Hill

as their point from which to keep watch on the Roman Fort at Templeborough.

Strangely, our wooden homes, though looked down upon by some people in the conventional brick or

stone dwellings, had some real advantages. For instance, very few houses of the working classes

had a fixed bath in those days – ours was in the kitchen, a full size bath with a zinc boiler supplying

water heated by a gas ring.

A tap made of shining brass at just the right height, fitted over the edge of the bath whilst at the

opposite end a stone sink was fitted for our washing up; only cold water was laid on to the sink, a

short length of hose pipe being connected to the cold tap for cooling the bath water. The gas boiler

was also used on wash-days.

When not in use the bath had a wooden cover with sections cut out to accommodate the taps – taps

which were polished twice weekly with 'Brasso' and shone like gold. The bath cover, Mam always

carried outside on fine days, scrubbed thoroughly and rinsed it with cold water, a hint which she had

learned during the days in domestic service; that final cold rinse ensured that the bath top came up

white.

Lighting in our dwelling was by gas and we were constantly replacing the extremely fragile, lace-like

mantles which cost about two pence halfpenny to replace.

The one and only time (for reasons which will soon be obvious) that I was sent to the shop to buy a

gas mantle, I fell down as I was running home, dropped the little cardboard box and the mantle

reached my parents in tiny useless fragments.

There was a gas fitment in each of the rooms, including the kitchen and I seem to remember that

there were two in the living room although I am not certain about that.

The families like ourselves who lived further up the hill and nearer to Roman Ridge, enjoyed another

advantage. We had a bit of land which Dad fenced off on which we kept hens and also grew a few

vegetables.

Dad was hopeless when it came to killing a chicken after it had stopped laying – he always gave the

job to a neighbour and because of one incident in which a freshly killed chicken had jerked a couple

of times as he was carrying it home, Dad decided that in future he would leave the creature

overnight to make certain that it was really dead.

1 Sheffield Year Book 19192 See Appendix 1

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Dad was always terribly squeamish about the chickens, particularly if they were known by name as

many of them were. Clara Cluck, an old Rhode Island Red hen was allowed to live out her days in

stately retirement long after she produced her last egg.

By the time I was seven years old, I had been joined by two sisters, Jessie born on Christmas Eve

1919 and Doris two years later. Mam and Dad were both longing for a boy, particularly Dad. 'Every

man wants a son', he would say. 'Somebody to carry on t'family name'.

At the age of five years and four months I was admitted to the infants' department of Brightside

Board School. I remember little of my life in the infants' although my memory of that first day is as

vivid as though it happened yesterday.

Perhaps that is because I was hit in the eye with a bean bag thrown by a little boy in the first five

minutes of entering the classroom. When I looked toward the door after the kindly ministrations of

the teacher, Mam had gone. I remember the lump in my throat, the tears and the firm belief that I

would never see Mam again. Hadn't I heard her telling Mrs. Peel only the day before that she would

be glad when I had gone because Jessie was getting to be a bit of a handful?

I soon settled when I got used to Mam collecting me at dinner time and again at tea time with Jessie

sitting on the front of the pram and Doris, still only a baby at the back underneath the shed.

A few weeks ago I obtained from the Central Library in Sheffield a copy of the registration of my

entry into school on April 10th, 1922, also the date of my last attendance on January 5th, 1925. The

reason for leaving was recorded: Transferred to Girls Department.

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CHAPTER TWO

PLAYTIME, CHRISTMAS AND UNCLE BERT

Long happy days of play in the back garden and on the Rigs were all that mattered to my little

sisters and I, they were joyous carefree times which have remained in my memory more sharply

than my recollections of the infants' school.

We had few toys which had been bought in shops. Mam and Dad couldn't afford them although they

always made sure that we had a present at Christmas – a time which glowed with pleasure and

happiness for us.

Dad would begin about the end of August to pay a small sum each week into a meat club at the

butchers and on Christmas Eve he would spend the money on a large leg of mutton for our

Christmas dinner.

From the age of about eight I went with Dad on his Christmas Eve shopping trip; we would walk all

the way from Roman Ridge to Attercliffe Common where an hour before closing time on Christmas

Eve or on any Saturday night for that matter, shopkeepers always reduced their prices in an effort to

sell off their produce.

Oranges, usually the ones we used to call blood oranges sold at fifty for a shilling (5p), apples and

nuts were cheap and we could buy port for two shillings (10p) a pint. The nuts and port were just a

Christmas treat for us, a once a year extravagance.

On the right hand side of Weedon Street at the Brightside end, there was a short cut to Attercliffe

which Dad always took although the walk sent a chill through me. It was a fairly narrow footpath

with the River Don on our right, dirty and polluted with everyone's discarded rubbish from old

bedsteads and mattresses to tin cans. The water rushed over a weir at one point, frothing and

gurgling and for some reason I would cower all the way close to the walls of the huge factories on

our left, making sure that Dad was between me and the sinister looking, frightening river.

One day during the Spring of 1983 my husband and I took the very same route on our way to visit

Ye Olde Carbrook Hall, a pub of great historical interest due to its connection with Cromwell and the

Civil War – nearby the Hall is a little street called Naseby Street in commemoration of the famous

battle of 1645.

We were pleasantly surprised to note that the River Don and it's environs have improved

enormously; it was a lovely day and the weir which had frightened me so much as a child no longer

held any terrors for me. Trees had been planted along the river bank and there was no sign of any

rubbish. I felt heartened and could almost persuade myself to believe that one day salmon may

return once more to the Don along with pleasant river pastimes like fishing and boating.

9

In his Survey of Sheffield Manor in 1637, John Harrison wrote as follows:

'The chiefest ffishinge within this Manor is the rivers that pass through the same, wherein are

great stores of salmons, trouts, chevens (chubb), eeles and other small fish'.

My father always called our short cut going 'ower t'watter side'. An old unmarried friend of Dad's

usually came to share our Christmas dinner. He was given the courtesy title of 'Uncle Bert' and he

always gave each of us kids six shining new pennies at Christmas.

One of the unusual features of our wooden home was the stove, which not only gave heat but also

had an oven which Mam invariably used even though there was a huge, ugly old gas cooker in of all

places, the smallest bedroom.

The stove, black-leaded and gleaming was oblong in shape and stood on four steel feet; there were

three rings in the top with fitted lids which had a groove in them – a special tool was supplied which

enabled us to remove the lids easily and without burning our fingers. One of the rings was used to

feed coal or coke into the stove and the remainder for cooking or boiling the great black iron kettle.

There were bars at the front on the right with the oven on the left.

I remember so well sitting on the floor on cold winter evenings with a long brass toasting fork

making toast for Mam to spread with dripping bought at the pork shop and carried home in a stone

jar.

The strangest feature of our stove was its chimney which went up through a hole in the roof; we

could walk round the back of the stove and often stood behind it to warm ourselves.

Uncle Bert and the grotesque chimney at number 31 Seventh Road are inseparable in my memory.

Christmas Day was unfortunately not the only day that Uncle Bert got himself slightly inebriated. He

would call occasionally on a Saturday night fresh from the pub, decidedly unsteady on his pins and in

what Mam always called his 'maudlin' mood. He would bewail his single state, cry into his cup of tea

and taking one of us children on his knee he would say in that slurred speech peculiar to drunken

men, 'I wish I had a little girl like you', then wiping his red eyes he would say to Dad, 'You don't

know how lucky you are 'arry'.

Mam usually became rather impatient at this stage in the proceedings but as far as we kids were

concerned, although we knew we wouldn't get six new pennies every time Uncle Bert got drunk,

there was always a chance that we might get one old one which to our avaricious little minds was not

to be sneezed at.

To her credit Mam's impatience with Uncle Bert was prompted mainly by fear. He was alright while

he remained seated, it was when he stood up that Mam really panicked. Reeling rather than

10

walking, our six foot, sixteen stone half-sloshed 'Uncle' always made straight for the stove to have a

warm. Mam would turn white. 'For God's sake Bert', she would croak, 'keep away from that bloody

chimney!' She had just cause to panic; there was a joint right in the middle of the chimney for

cleaning purposes when the fire was out, but 'Uncle' had been known on at least two occasions to

dislodge it when a big fire was burning.

Not only had the immediate results been decidedly uncomfortable, but it had taken several days to

get rid of the soot and because we had no upstairs (the huts were of the bungalow type) every room

got its share of the grime.

Every time Uncle Bert set off for home Mam threatened Dad with dire consequences if he didn't warn

his old mate to stay sober next time he paid us a visit.

11

CHAPTER THREE

SHOPKEEPING, SKIPPING AND A MUCKY OLD CHINK DOLL

My sisters and I and other playmates from time to time, loved to play on the Rigs; there were so

many ready-made natural things to play with. Shopkeepers was for a long time our favourite game,

there were lovely stones of varying colours which we pretended were pieces of cheese, the small

multi-coloured stones represented all kinds of sweets and Mam gave us her empty jam jars to put

them in.

We would scoop the fine, smooth sand and this would be our sugar or flour. There was yellow clay

there too which with a little water we would slap about, making our hands sticky and dirty – a most

enjoyable and satisfying task. The result? Well, butter of course, what else? We didn't need much

imagination where eggs were concerned, there were quite a few pebbles about.

We had a pair of old weighing scales given to us by Uncle Ernest, a real Uncle this time who was

Mam's sister's husband. He worked on the dustbin cart and if ever he saw anything thrown away

that he thought we might play with he retrieved it and gave it to us. Many battered but welcome

toys came our way because of this and I remember vividly an old doll he brought.

The doll was a China man with a long black pigtail; one of his arms was missing and his face was

cracked but there was a long and bitter feud between us girls over who was to possess him. Finally

Mam, sleeves rolled up above elbows, face red and extremely cross, gave us her ultimatum, 'Either

you take it in turns to play wi'it or bang it goes back into t'dustbin for t'second time in its life!' Then

in an aside to her friend and neighbour Mrs. Peel, 'I've never known such a hell of a row over a

mucky owd chink doll'.

There were unfortunately no weights to use with the scales but we didn't let that worry us, we picked

up different sizes of stones and used those to make the balance.

Sometimes one of us would be the keeper of the chip shop using the tiny grit-like stones as chips

and larger stones for pieces of fish. We would of course take on the identities of shop keepers who

were familiar to us, for instance, if we were keeping the grocery and sweet shops we would be either

Mrs. Finch or Mrs. Worley. The chip shop proprietor was always Mr. Barsby – it mattered not at all

that we were the wrong sex.

Skipping was another favourite pastime with us. Twice each week a hawker would come round with

his horse and cart selling not only fruit and vegetables but salt in large blocks and crushed with the

rolling pin by housewives, vinegar, Yorkshire Relish and many other commodities.

In those days oranges came in wooden crates tied securely with strong yellow rope which the hawker

would sell to us for a penny or a halfpenny according to length. These were our skipping ropes, none

12

of your fancy handles with bells on, they were for the rich. We had great fun playing in the road

outside our homes, there were very few cars about then, at least on Tyler Street estate.

Occasionally on a Saturday afternoon one of the dads would buy a particularly long orange-rope and

all the grown-ups would join in the skipping, two adults turning the rope and changing places at

intervals so that all got a chance to skip. Meanwhile all the familiar rhymes would be changed as an

accompaniment to the skipping. There was one particular rhyme which always caused fits of

laughter; one of the younger women would skip alone to a chant of:

On the mountain stands a lady,

Who she is I do not know,

All she wants is gold and silver,

All she wants is a nice young man.

Whereupon all the males, young and middle aged would jump into the rope to skip with the young

woman or girl. The whole performance usually ended with the men in a heap on the floor, a result of

their pushing and shoving to get nearest to the female. It was all good, clean fun and a good time,

plus a couple of bruised ankles was usually had by all.

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CHAPTER FOUR

PAINFUL TOUSING AND DISAPPEARING DUCKS

Many exciting games of cricket and rounders also took place in the open spaces between the blocks

of huts. The gaps between the ground and the floors of the huts at the top end of Tyler Street

caused a great deal of scrabbling under the dwellings, not only for lost cricket balls and footballs but

for livestock of various kinds. Many a stray goose, duck or hen wandered under a hut never to be

seen again. There has never been any doubt in my mind that some of the creatures found their way

into a cooking pot belonging to someone who had played no part whatsoever in feeding and rearing

them.

One morning Mam was inflicting the daily dose of torture upon me with more than usual enthusiasm;

I was getting ready for school and Mam was tousing my hair with a wire brush. My hair was long

and unruly and worst of all it was so fair that it was almost white and had to be washed nearly every

night. Mam, I am sure could not have realised how the daily assault upon my hair hurt me, bringing

tears of pain to my eyes. 'Shurrup sore-bones!' she would yell, yanking me back by the bit of hair

she was brushing, each time I pulled away from her; any interruption whatever the cause, was more

than welcome.

On this occasion it was someone scuffling about underneath our home. I followed Mam down the

steps from the front door and stood beside her as she bent down to peer into the blackness right

beneath our living room to see what was happening. 'What's goin' off under theer?' bellowed Mam at

the top of her voice as my sister Jessie ran outside to join us. One of our neighbours from a couple

of rows away suddenly surfaced, shoving her head out of the black hole within. Her face was

smudged and dirty and great beads of sweat stood on her forehead, 'I'm sorry Mrs. Ellis,' said the

neighbour crawling out on all fours her hands covered in dirt and bleeding from several scratches,

'I've lost another bloody duck, that's the second in a fortnight. I'll bet I've seen the last o'them

buggers'.

'Well', said Mam grabbing hold of me to finish the tousing interrupted by the commotion, 'I don't

know about that luv, but we aven't ad em, we don't like ducks nor geese neether – too bloody

greasey!'.

Easter time for us was the time for real eggs decorated by Mam after she had boiled them. There

were some chocolate eggs in the shops but I cannot remember ever having one given to me. Shrove

Tuesday was the traditional time for the girls to have a new shuttlecock and battledore and the boys

new peg-tops or whip-tops; this custom died out many years ago, one rarely, if ever, sees a peg or

whip-top today. One Shrove Tuesday tradition is of course more popular now than ever – the

tradition of making pancakes.

14

We girls loved the shuttlecocks especially the large white ones with long pointed feathers which

seemed to reach a greater height than the more squatly shaped ones. Racquets were not used as

they are today in badminton; we had flat round wooden bats which sent the shuttlecocks flying high

into the air and our games consisted of hitting the shuttlecock as many times as possible without

allowing it to fall to the ground.

Whitsuntide was the time for new clothes and most of us, even when our dads were out of work had

at least a new print or gingham frock and a pair of white plimsolls, whilst the boys would be sporting

a new shirt and trousers. When things were going well for our family, Mam usually dressed us girls

in white on Whit Sunday and for Whit Monday we had what Mam always called a print 'slip'.

Pinafores were almost invariably worn over frocks by little girls when going to school.

One of the highlights of my year as a child was the annual event known as the Grimesthorpe Feast.

My grandparents on Dad's side lived at Barkers Buildings, a small cluster of houses which we reached

by climbing a small hill off Upwell Street. We would call at their house and walk together to the

feast, which was held nearby. The houses have been demolished now but I have vivid memories of

visiting Grandma and Grandad Ellis and listening to records played on the gramophone by my

youngest Auntie, Winnie.

Two of the songs stand out in my mind and must have been hit songs of the 1920's. They were

'Shepherd of the Hills' and 'All Alone by the Telephone'; they were a considerable change from Uncle

Arnold's records of military music, particularly the four National Anthems, British, French, German

and Russian. The latter was a little bit out of date – it was called 'Lord God Protect the Czar' – of

course I knew nothing of the revolution at the time.

The Grimesthorpe Feast consisted of the usual fairground attractions including swings, roundabouts

and coconut shies, but the main attraction was the Greasy Pole. The Greasy Pole was exactly as it

sounds, a tall pole covered in slippery grease from top to bottom. At the top, securely fixed on a

hook was a large succulent ham. The young men from miles around would enter the competition to

climb the pole and try to retrieve the tempting joint of meat whilst crowds of spectators looked on

helpless with laughter as the would-be meat snafflers slid one after the other down the pole,

sometimes having been only inches away from the coveted prize, which as far as I can remember

was always won by somebody before the night was over. Anyway, competitors and spectators alike

usually repaired to the 'Bowling Green' and other local hostelries where a good if noisy time was had

by all.

The Feast Walk, another annual event, attracted many well-known competitors and was as popular

and well attended locally as the famous Sheffield ''Star' walk.

15

CHAPTER FIVE

POSTAL TRAMCAR AND MILKMANS' HORSE

Naturally, being the eldest of three little girls, I had to take a back seat now and then, the attention

that my parents had given to me exclusively had to be shared amongst three of us. On the other

hand I retained quite a few small privileges I had enjoyed when I was the only child in the

household. One of these was going down to the postal tram on Friday nights.

Mam had a sister who was cook to a London family and each Friday Mam would write to her, telling

her all the news about the family including Grandma who always maintained that she was 'no good

at writing letters'.

The post tramcar left Brightside terminus at nine-thirty-five each evening but Mam chose Friday so

that I could go with Dad without having to worry about getting up early for school next morning. I

loved going to the tramcar - loved to watch the conductor change the trolley over on the overhead

wires using a long thin pole, to make the tram go back to Fitzalan Square. I was always fascinated

by the little blue and silver sparks which danced around the trolley and made a tiny crackling sound.

There was a driving seat and controls at both ends of the tram and the driver simply changed ends

at each terminus.

When I was a child there were two long seats facing each other on the lower deck of the tramcar.

These seats ran the whole length of the passenger area and the conductor would walk along the aisle

in the centre collecting fares, occasionally clutching at the straps provided for standing passengers

whilst the tram lurched and jerked its way along the track. The straps hung from an overhead rod

above each of the two long seats. The whole business of tramcar travel was extremely interesting -

every ticket had to be punched and unlike the bits of paper today, they were tiny cards which could

be collected and used in play to make our games of tramcar conductors and drivers much more

realistic.

The two long seats on the tram made it almost impossible to avoid looking at the people opposite, a

situation which could be embarrassing on occasions. Mam often told me the story in later years, of

the day when I was small and was sitting squeezed up in the corner of the seat next to Dad who was

holding Jessie on his knee. Dad suddenly turned his gaze upon me and to his horror I seemed to

have developed an alarming twitch in my right eye. He followed the direction of my gaze towards a

lady sitting opposite and knew at once that I was imitating her – she was suffering from an affliction

which caused her to appear to be winking. Dad couldn't wait to get me off the tram.

The top deck was much more interesting and I loved to ride up there whenever I could. The bays at

each end were open to the weather but I always pleaded to sit in that part of the tram and pretend

that I was the driver.

16

When the Friday night postal tram arrived Dad would lift me up the steps onto the platform and I

would put the letter into the little red post box feeling very grown-up and important.

One night the driver said to me, 'Eee tha't a clever little lass', and gave me an aniseed ball which I

sucked on the way home.

There was a low wall which we passed on our way back. Dad always sat me on it and then bent down

to hoist me up onto his shoulders where I would ride happily, occasionally whipping his back and

saying 'Gee up Ben!'.

Ben was our milkmans' horse which always stood outside our front door whilst Mr. Baker the

milkman called at the huts on the Seventh Road. Before he left the cart carrying his large milk can

in one hand and a measure in the other, Mr. Baker always put the nose bag on the horse and my

little sister Jessie and I would sit on our front steps watching Ben munching away at his dinner.

From time to time, Ben would pause in his eating to stamp his back foot on the ground, whereupon

Mam would come running to the door shouting 'Stay on't steps now, don't go near that orses' feet!'.

Mr. Baker's customers always had a jug or basin ready for him to pour in the pint or half pint of milk.

He took a long time on his round for all his customers enjoyed a friendly chat with him. During the

summer, Mr. Baker's daughter Edna came round regularly on Saturday and Sunday afternoons with

Ben pulling a different cart, to sell ice-cream.

For many years Edna had competition on her round in the shape of a quaint old lady who wore a long

black dress and cap, laced up boots and a light coloured apron covered by a black coat which was

never buttoned up. She sold ice-cream from a wheelbarrow and was always known as 'Owd 'annah',

her strange cry of 'ice' which she repeated over and over again was a familiar sound around the

hutments.

17

CHAPTER SIX

LITTLE MOTHER

I enjoyed playing the 'little mother' and while Dad was still in work I was allowed to take Jessie to

spend our Saturday penny. We would walk down to Mrs. Finch's little shop clutching our pennies

tightly, passing the fire bell on our way. The fire bell always seemed enormous to me in those days,

but of course I was quite small myself. It was rung to summon the volunteer firemen who would

tackle a chimney fire or a small outbreak which did not require the services of the official fire

brigade.

On Sunday mornings a small crowd of spectators, mainly children, would gather to watch our keen

and capable part-time firemen practicing unrolling the hose and running with it to the water points.

Those volunteers were an enthusiastic and dedicated group of men who were able to prove their

worth during a disaster which occurred in July 1923, when they worked untiringly alongside the

regulars and earned the unending gratitude of the hut dwellers. I will return to the story of that

occasion later.

Mrs. Finch, the owner of the little shop on the Third Road, was well known to our family – she was

the daughter of our next door neighbour, Mrs Pheasey. The Pheasey family confused me more than

a little as I grew up for half of the children bore the surname Hill and the other half, Pheasey. The

answer was simple enough really but difficult for me to understand as a child, Mrs. Pheasey had

married twice having become a widow when her first little family were very young.

Spending a whole penny just once every week was a serious business, which required some careful

thought. With Jessie it wasn't too difficult; she had to have something she couldn't choke on, usually

two halfpenny chocolate bars. I was different, sometimes I would be so uncertain about what to buy

that I would only spend a halfpenny then return later to start the whole business over again.

Mrs. Finch knew that we were out there looking the shop window – trying to make the big decision.

When we walked into the little shop, starting the bell over the door tinkling she would come out of

her living quarters wiping her hands on her apron. 'Na then luv', she would say, 'ave yer made yer

mind up then?'. I had, until I got inside then I became unsure again as I began to look around at the

colourful jars of sweets on the shelves. 'Well ginger-nob', said Mrs. Finch ruffling Jessie's auburn

curls, 'I know what you're 'aving, Mam said chocolate didn't she?', Jessie nodded her head and Mrs.

Finch tore a small cone-shaped paper bag from a string on a nail in front of the counter, putting two

little chocolate bars into it. 'I'll have some little jellies', I said, 'but only a ha'porth'. 'Oh aye', said

Mrs. Finch putting her hands on her hips and staring at me with her head on one side, 'and what's

that other little word then?' I hung my head and mumbled 'Please'. 'I didn't hear you little lass', said

Mrs. Finch. I said, 'Please' again louder that time and was given the sweets and a halfpenny change.

'Tell your Mam I've got some black cotton in now, she was asking for some', Mrs Finch called after us

as we closed the door.

18

We always saved our little cone shaped sweet bags and took them home to Mam. They were useful

when there was no money for sweets; Mam would put a mixture of cocoa and sugar or a little

dessicated coconut into them and we thoroughly enjoyed licking our fingers and dipping them into

the mixture – we could make it last for quite a while. Another substitute for sweets was a piece of

rhubarb when in season, accompanied by a small helping of sugar to dip it in – we would keep

running in and out for extra sugar, somehow the rhubarb always outlasted it. When there was

absolutely nothing else we would nibble a piece of raw carrot or turnip.

My little sister Jessie was notoriously accident prone, choking was not the only hazard that we were

constantly on guard against. She never learned how to come out from under the table where she

would play for hours, without banging her head as she surfaced. If anyone got a speck of food fast

in the throat it was Jessie; beads had to be locked away because of the danger of Jessie pushing one

of them inside her nose or one of her ears. The most amazing feat of all was the 'thumbs trapped in

the drawer' caper.

We had a large sideboard in our living room – no home seemed to be without one in those days.

Besides two cupboards there were two fair sized drawers in our sideboard and just below the large

mirror were two small drawers where our parents kept various important papers and a few

photographs.

Now those two little drawers were an obsession with our Jessie who had been told time after time

not to pry into them. All to no avail; as soon as Mam turned her back Jessie would drag out the little

wooden stool which was kept under the kitchen table and which forever afterwards enjoyed the

name of Jessie's meddling stool' and place it right where she could stand on it to reach the two little

drawers.

Of course she was always in the middle of her meddling when she would hear one of our parents

entering the room. In her haste to get out of her guilty situation she would slam the drawers shut,

leaving her two tiny thumbs trapped inside.

It wasn't easy setting her free again for as Mam often said, she had to hurt Jessie to get the drawers

open. Her thumbs were invariably white at the ends where the blood had been temporarily

prevented from reaching. In spite of the pain, however, my nosy little sister never learned and was

into those fascinating little drawers at every opportunity.

19

CHAPTER SEVEN

GRANDMA AND MY FIRST TRAIN RIDE

My Grandma played a very important part in my young life. I loved her dearly, many of the times

that I recall with the greatest happiness are connected with in memory with Grandma.

I realise now that she understood how as the eldest child I was missing the undivided attention of

my parents, so she would take me often on those lovely outings which meant so much to me. I

never knew my maternal Grandfather, he died before I was born.

Grandma took me on my first trip to the seaside; I slept at her house the night before so that I

would be ready to make an early start on our journey to Cleethorpes the next morning. I sat beside

Grandma in the corner of the seat near the window, excited, happy, but eager to arrive at our

destination and start my day's play on the sands. 'Are we nearly there Grandma?', I asked over and

over again. 'How far is it now?'. A lady with a large hat who was sitting in the seat opposite gave me

an apple which I was still eating when we got off the train.

When we arrived it was raining and we stood on the station for a while but it cleared up and I was

able to take the little bucket and spade Grandma bought for me at one of the many shops along the

front and play on the sands. We bought some sticks of rock for Jessie and Doris and I filled my little

red bucket with shells to give to Mam. Grandma told me long afterwards that I wouldn't go

anywhere near the sea and she didn't try to force me.

Then there were our outings to the pictures. Grandma had a large handbag which had no handle so

she would carry it tucked under her arm. The bag seemed to be bottomless and Gran would dive

into it at intervals all through the picture show. There would be sweets, an apple and best of all,

there would be tiger nuts. I loved tiger nuts, they were moist, sweet, plump nuts which most

children enjoyed crunching and which sadly do not seem to be obtainable nowadays.

The clasp on Grandma's handbag was a noisy one and looking back on those frequent visits to the

cinema, I am certain that I was more interested in whatever came out of the bag every time I heard

it being opened, than I was in the silent films on the screen. Incidentally, some shopkeepers kept

those luscious nuts in a basin of cold water, using a strainer spoon to transfer them to the weigh

scales.

Grandma loved the pictures, I often saw her wiping her eyes, completely carried away by a story

that I didn't understand for I couldn't read the captions underneath; I was happy when I saw her

shaking with laughter at the antics of Harold Lloyd, one of her favourite comedians, also Buster

Keaton and Fatty Harbuckle. I think the latter name did begin with an 'H' although I never heard

anyone use it, he was always called 'arbuckle.

20

CHAPTER EIGHT

FIRE, FLOOD AND TEMPEST

The Tyler Street Huts were nothing like as ramshackle as the name suggests. The majority of the

tenants although poor were house-proud, keeping their little homes clean and tidy and forever

washing and ironing the window curtains.

There were many lovely little gardens in which their owners took greatest pride and most of the

people were kindly and tolerant, always ready with a helping hand for anyone in trouble.

Beyond the railway line which ran parallel with and behind Tyler Street, was a vast industrial area

and the smoke and grime from the steel works made housekeeping and cleaning a never ending

grind. Every other week curtains had to come down, sometimes black and occasionally purple from

the fumes which belched forth from the various chimneys.

My Mother and Father fought a continuous battle to keep our hut free from vermin and I know that

most of our neighbours suffered the same ongoing problem. We lived at one end of our particular

block and our next door neighbour joined in my parents' annual spring time assault on the bed bugs.

Every year, usually during March before the weather warmed up, Dad would take down the beds

using a bed key or spanner. The beds would then be thoroughly cleaned with Jeyes' fluid and every

nook and cranny including the springs were treated with paraffin. Eventually because of the co-

operation of the remainder of the tenants on our block, Mam and Dad were able to keep the pests

under reasonable control. Nevertheless as I grew older I cannot remember a summer passing

without our parents seeing signs that they were still with us.

As children we never thought about the problem, but in later years we realised the despair that Mam

and Dad must have experienced as during June, July and August they searched the walls of our

bedrooms anxiously, quite often to have their worst fears confirmed.

Mam's main washday of the week was Thursday, that way she explained, she was able to get all the

ironing and airing done before the great Saturday bread baking session. The baking was invariably a

twice weekly job at our house for by Tuesday all the bread would be gone. Mam made up a stone of

flour at a time with a handful of salt and four ounces of yeast, or to give it its' old Yorkshire name,

barm. A large red pancheon, cream coloured on the inside, was used for mixing dough for bread;

they came in various sizes and I still possess one which I have had since my marriage forty six years

ago.

Mam always stood the pancheon containing the dough on the 'meddling stool' beside the stove.

After about an hour it would have risen and soon the delicious smell of baking bread would fill the

house. There would be several loaves but because we were always in urgent need of bread for a

21

meal, Mam usually made a few bread cakes which she always stood on end on a tea cloth inside the

open kitchen door to cool. They were easier to cut than freshly baked loaves.

There was always some neighbour to whom one of Mam's bread cakes was welcome, perhaps

someone elderly or not very well, perhaps a neighbour who had done Mam a good turn like bringing

something from the shop to save her a journey.

To return to Mam's Thursday washday, the one which has lived in my memory all my life was on July

12th, 1923. I was barely seven years old at the time but I can remember how very hot the day was.

I was sitting on the back step linking together the clothes pegs Mam hadn't used. I had a shoe box

made of cardboard with a little mattress and pillow in it that my Auntie Flo had made for me, two of

the clothes pegs lay in the little home made bed wrapped up in tiny blankets; those old fashioned

clothes pegs made lovely little dolls.

Nearby were our two wash tubs lying on their sides drying in the open air. Lightning kept flashing

followed by a horrible crackling of thunder and suddenly Mam came outside expecting rain at any

moment, to take in the washing. Mrs. Peel also appeared, anxious to help and I heard her say, 'I've

never seen the sky that colour before Mrs. Ellis, I don't like the look of it at all'.

'I expect we'll have to have a storm', said Mam, 'to cool things off a bit and I for one won't be sorry'.

Later that night the thunder woke us all up; it was a most terrible storm which was to bring disaster

to the Eighth Road and to people who had been our friends and neighbours since we came to live in

the huts.

There was a lull during which we returned to our beds only to be awakened again about 1 a.m. The

sound of rushing water from the torrential rain was extremely frightening and Dad remarked how

lucky we were to be living at the top of hill, where at least we wouldn't be flooded out.

There was continuous thunder and lightning for almost five hours and during that time a bolt of

lightning fell on the home of Tommy Wilkes and his family, setting fire to and completely gutting

their dwelling, whilst seriously damaging the three adjoining huts in the same block on the Eighth

Road. A small terrier dog died in the same blaze but sad though that was, mercifully all the human

occupants were safe.

The following day a blanket hung out between two clothes posts near where the Wilkes' family home

had stood only twelve hours before and was now an acrid, smoking ruin. A piece of cardboard was

attached to one of the clothes posts and bore the legend: We are homeless and have nothing left,

please give anything you can spare'. Already there were several items in the blanket, coins, clothes

and saucepans also a few picture books and toys.

22

Mrs. Wilkes had been very good to Mam and Dad in the one way she knew how. She had been the

proud owner of a sewing machine and being a very clever needlewoman she had often saved us

money by making dresses and nightgowns for myself and my little sisters out of larger items of

clothing given to us by our numerous aunties.

The saddening sight of the Wilkes' half burned out furniture standing soaking wet outside what was

once their home, coupled with the acrid smell of smoking wood, have stayed with me always.

The Sheffield Daily Independent and the Yorkshire Telegraph and Star on Friday July 13th, carried

the full story of the storm. The headlines went as follows:-

'FIRE AND FLOOD HAVOC IN GREAT STORM'

'NIGHT OF TERROR IN SHEFFIELD'

'DWELLINGS IN FLAMES'

The newspapers went on to describe the various experiences of the people of Sheffield and

surrounding areas. People had stood watching in amazement as vivid lightning played around the

famous Crooked Spire of Chesterfield. They described the 'night of awe and brilliance'. They told of

hundreds of flooded houses, falling chimney pots and the 'strafing of Sheffield by thunder and

lightning'. 'A meteorological bombardment', was the graphic account given by The Yorkshire

Telegraph and Star.

Under the heading, 'Dwelling in Flames', the Sheffield Daily Independent paid tribute to the volunteer

firemen of the hutments who had played a great part alongside the official fire brigade in saving the

three other huts attacked by the blaze which destroyed the home of the Wilkes family.

At Thorpe Hesley a powder magazine belonging to the Thorpe Pit of Messrs. Newton Chambers and

Company was struck by lightning and demolished.

The whole devastating storm was described in the newspaper as 'An unprecedented electrical

disturbance'. That, if my memory serves me correctly was a gross understatement.

Tommy Wilkes and his family were to the best of my knowledge and belief, given temporary

accommodation in Blackburn near Wincobank and later found a house there.

Another tragedy, this time in our own family, which was believed to have been brought about by the

storm, was my Auntie Mary's loss of her baby. Auntie Mary was, Mam told me many years later,

eight months pregnant when the storm struck and was terribly upset and afraid. Two days later, on

July 14th she gave birth to a premature stillborn baby girl. She called the baby Marguerite after a

famous actress of the time, Marguerite Clarke.

23

I remember seeing the tiny coffin in my Aunts' living room shortly before the funeral. Mam told me

that the baby had jet black hair and was my little cousin who had gone to be with Jesus.

24

CHAPTER NINE

OLDEN DAYS AND GOLDEN DAYS

I have been inclined to scoff in the past when hearing people in their seventies or eighties talk about

the summers of their youth. 'There were no bad summers in those days', declared an elderly farmer

recently, speaking of the 1920's and 30's. I was transcribing from a tape recorded interview – an

interview which for me was a pleasant and enlightening experience. The farmer's words were quite

sincere, as I believe are the similar statements made by many older people when recalling summers

long past.

Could it be that, like myself, they only remember the good days. My youthful summers seem to

have merged into one long, golden sunlit haze. I find it impossible to separate one summer from

another, although certain incidents remain very clear and fresh in my memory.

Which summer was it when my adored playmate Liz and I poked Mrs. Peel's white rabbit with a stick

as it munched carrot inside its' hutch, causing Mrs. Peel to ask us angrily, 'How would you like to be

prodded with a stick when you couldn't get away?' On being told the story later Mam told Mrs. Peel

she should have clipped us one'.

Which summer was it that Dad took us three girls for a long walk in new boots, bringing us home

without any skin on our heels? Did all these things happen in the same year? I don't know – all I

know is that the days were all the same, hot, sunny and seemingly endless.

Unfortunately the antics of my playmates and I didn't stop at poking captive rabbits with sticks, quite

often we would leave open the gate to the hen run and in no time at all the hens would be out,

wandering for considerable distances pecking about on the way.

Sometimes I would run and tell Mam straight away and she would grab the sweeping brush and

chase them, occasionally helped by a neighbour who happened to witness the commotion. As the

hens went slowly through the gate, stopping to peck with maddening regularity, Mam would help

them on their way by vigorously shoving the business end of the sweeping brush into their rear and

shouting, 'Gerrin yer buggers!', then turning her full venom in my direction she would yell, 'wait 'til I

get owd o' you'. Thank heaven by the time I went indoors Mam's temper had usually cooled a little.

We often went for walks together as a family, visiting Grandma or some other relative and

sometimes merely for the pleasure of a walk. If we went over the Roman Ridge we would have a

pleasant saunter as far as Grimesthorpe without going near a street or road.

Many of our walks took us in the opposite direction towards Dropping Well. Mam and Dad always

made the most of the luscious blackberries which grew, year after year, up the hill which led to

25

Dropping Well; we took jam sandwiches and cold tea in a bottle – sometimes ginger beer. We would

pick the juicy black fruits, pausing frequently to eat a few.

It was on one of these blackberrying excursions that Jessie fell over a bramble root and winded

herself by hitting her stomach on a large stone. Which year was that? I wonder!

There are houses on our old blackberry site now and have been for many years. It's useless to

grieve over the many beautiful and serene places of our childhood which have been swallowed up in

the name of progress.

My husband and I used to take our children to places like Stannington and Dungworth, spending a

whole week on a Stannington farm in 1946 because we could not afford a seaside holiday – in any

case most of our east coast resorts were still depressingly littered with barbed wire and other grizzly

reminders of World War Two.

The farm and surrounding countryside have vanished now and a large housing estate covers the area

where we once enjoyed freedom and fresh air only a short bus ride from the city centre.

People need houses and of course we still have beautiful countryside around Sheffield, nevertheless,

we are having to travel further and further to reach it.

The City of Sheffield has spread it's tentacles in all directions since the Second World War; I am

proud of my City and its achievements but I am glad that at least I have known the pleasures of

woods and green fields before they disappeared forever. I fervently hope that there will be stricter

conservation of our beautiful islands for future generations to enjoy.

26

CHAPTER TEN

FAILURE AND LIMITED SUCCESS

I was just eight years old when I moved from the infants' department to the girls' department at

Brightside Board School. This great change in my school life although daunting at first was a change

for the better. Immediately life became much more interesting and exciting; each pupil became a

member of an allotted 'House', each house bearing the name of an outstanding British woman who

had in some way made her mark in history. The four 'Houses' were Edith Cavell, Grace Darling,

Elizabeth Fry and Florence Nightingale.

Beginning with marks for good and punctual attendance each week, a pupil could earn many points

for her house and there was intense competition amongst the girls especially in sport. I didn't really

shine at anything very much; my attendance record was good and I never dropped any points for

being late, which was just as well for with the exception of English which included composition

(essays), I was just an also-ran.

Team games were the great house point earners, rounders in summer, netball in winter. It's true to

say that if one was good at either of these two sports one was popular with the teachers, some of

whom took games as a second subject.

I hated games of all kinds; for one thing I was no earthly good at any of them. I was frightened to

death of being hit by the ball at rounders and too small to be effective in a netball team. Mam used

to write notes to the teachers, trying to get me excused from sport but all to no avail; they had seen

all the excuses before. One afternoon I had been banished to a fielding position on a boundary

during an inter-house rounders match and when the ball came whizzing towards me for a certain

catch (with anyone else fielding), I ducked and the ball went over my head much to the annoyance

of my team mates.

Finally the games mistress, realising that I was a complete and utter failure – not to mention a

menace to the team effort, gave me the job of giving out the team ribbons and sports equipment

and made me responsible for collecting everything after each weekly cavorting session. My fellow

members of Edith Cavell House breathed great sight of relief, for my appearance in a team game

practically guaranteed a house point for whichever house we happened to be playing against.

The second half of Friday afternoon was taken up by a drawing lesson, another nightmare period as

far as I was concerned. Miss Cooke our drawing teacher was one of my true favourites; I would

have given anything to please her but certainly I could not do so through my artistic efforts. Each

Friday afternoon Miss Cooke offered a prize of one penny for the drawing which she considered to be

the best; she would choose the subject which would be placed where we all had a good view of it – it

could be an item of fruit, an inkwell or as on one occasion, a shoe. I never came even close to

winning for over a year until one glorious heart-warming Friday I actually, really, definitely won the

27

competition! The subject on that occasion was a ball of wool with two large knitting needles stuck

through the middle.

I was quite reconciled to losing yet again as I watched Miss Cooke going through the drawings one

by one and occasionally laying one aside for a second look – some of the girls had won the penny

several times.

When Miss Cooke came and stood before the class to announce that days winner, I just couldn't take

it in at first but when she called me out to the front and gave me my penny, asking me to pass my

drawing around the class, I knew that it was not a dream. I ran all the way home to show my penny

to Mam, passing three sweet shops on the way without the slightest temptation to spend it. There

was further excitement when Dad got home and all the weekend as Grandma and several Aunties

heard the news; by the time everyone had heard about my success the penny had grown to

sixpence.

There were many diversions once I had moved into the Girls' Department, frequent rambles to

Woolley Woods at bluebell time and later in Autumn to study and eventually write about trees. It

was quite a long walk from our school in Jenkin Road to Woolley Woods at Wincobank but we

enjoyed it – like most children we welcomed any alternative to the classroom.

Even now, almost sixty years on, a walk through sun dappled, sweet smelling autumn woodland, my

feet crunching through fallen golden leaves, brings back with startling clarity the memory of our

'educational rambles' all those years ago. I remember the long 'caterpillar' formed by the two

classes – the frequent stops of the girls in front as they waited for the stragglers to catch up – the

constant admonitions of our teachers (there were usually two) to conduct ourselves quietly and

remember the good name of the school.

A short service of remembrance was held in the school assembly hall each Armistice Day and any girl

whose father had been wounded or killed in action during the 1914-1918 war was invited to sit on

the platform where a minister, usually the Vicar of Saint Margaret's Church, Brightside would conduct

the service. We always ended with the hymn 'Now Thank We All Our God'. The afternoon was a half

day holiday. A full day holiday was taken annually to celebrate Empire Day.

The beginning of May was a happy, enjoyable period to be at school – the maypole was taken

outside if the weather was fine, if not the school hall was used. The dancing-class pupils would

perform before the rest of the girls – there was country dancing, one dance was called Gathering

Peascods'. The most fascinating dance of all for me, was the sword dance; how I envied the girls

who took part in it, each holding a wooden sword, in perfect time with the music, which was played

on the piano by our singing mistress, they would tap the swords against each other. Right at the

end of the dance the girls would thrust their swords in the air and cleverly lock them together to

form a most intricate pattern. One girl would end up holding high above her head all the swords

28

interlocked. There was an air of secrecy about this feat that ended the sword dance, for not one of

the girls who took part would ever divulge how it was done.

Although I tried, I was never chosen for the dance teams, I was just about as good at dancing as I

was at games.

29

CHAPTER ELEVEN

1926 AND ALL THAT

On May 7th 1926, the following statement was written in the log book of Brightside Board School:

'Notwithstanding difficulty of transport through the strike all teachers have arrived at

school. Many had to walk long distances on the first day, one teacher, Miss E Williamson

in Standard IV walked eight miles'.

The reference was of course to the General Strike which had a direct effect on our family. Dad, like

many other men in Sheffield suffered the immediate consequences, being employed in the

steelworks. He was cheerful about the situation at first; a staunch supporter of the Labour Party, he

would go about the house singing the Red Flag, that is he would sing the only bits where he was sure

of the words. 'We'll keep the scarlet standard 'igh', he would bellow at the top of his voice, 'Beneath

it's shades we'll live or die'. The rest of the anthem he would grind out with 'da-da da dee da da dee'

and poor Mam already harassed to death would bawl, 'I wish to God tha'd learn t'words to that

damned song or forget tune!'

We soon became short of fuel, we could never afford to stock up. Dad and I started to make daily

excursions to the 'tips' at the bottom of Roman Ridge Road where we picked coke out of the hot

ashes brought by the lorries and tipped at regular intervals.

We were not alone down there at the bottom of the heap, there were many like us, with small rakes

and buckets gathering any small pieces of coke and occasionally bits of coal that we could find.

Suddenly someone would yell, 'Look Out! There's a lorry', whereupon we would jump back out of

the way of the smoking dusty load as it tumbled down towards us.

We had a small wheelbarrow made from a wooden box and four old pram wheels; our bucket had no

bottom in it, just a piece of old cardboard which Mam would replace each time we returned home

with our spoils. The heat from the cinders had already destroyed one bucket and Mam had no

intention of losing another.

Occasionally a piece of clinker1 would find its' way into the coke bucket with dire results, for when it

was put into the stove and became very hot it would shoot out of the fire and hit the wall opposite at

terrifying speed. Fortunately, none of us ever got in the way of one of those small, but potentially

dangerous missiles.

1 Stoney residue from burnt coal (slag or lava)

30

Strangely I cannot remember noticing any kind of physical change in Mam during those days of the

General Strike although I can remember her irritability which was manifested by her shouting at any

of us who happened to get in her way. Dad of course was the main target, she wasn't used to him

being 'under her feet'. I can remember going outside almost in tears and sitting on the grass near

the hen-pen whenever Mam and Dad were shouting at each other. I was miserable and very

frightened. Eventually all would be normal again, they never seemed to bear a grudge for long.

Dad was a gentle man when we were all young and on winter evenings he would sing sentimental

songs, some of which were popular at the time but for the most part they were well loved tunes from

the days when he and Mam were young. We would cluster around his feet in front of the fire while

he sang – some of the songs were quite weepy and as I grew old enough to understand the words I

would find myself actually crying.

One of the ballads was about a married couple who were about to part until their child brought them

together again. The words, as I remember them went like this:

And a little child shall lead them,

Lead them gently on their way,

And that little child will teach them,

How to love more dearly every day,

Thro' the world of storm and sunshine,

Down the path of smiles and tears.'

I cannot remember any more although I still feel the awful lump that came into my throat every time

Dad sang the song.

Another of Dad's favourite songs is still heard occasionally today:

When the fields are white with daisies,

And the roses bloom again,

Let the love light in your eyes more brightly burn,

For I love your sweetheart only.

So remember when you're lonely,

When the fields are white with daisies,

I'll return.'

I can just imagine some modern youngsters getting a great laugh out of all that gooey sentimental

stuff.

When Dad realised that I was near to tears he would put his cloth cap on back to front and start to

sing:

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A nasty black eye had my poor Uncle Jim,

He said somebody threw a tomato at him,

But tomatoes don't hurt you I said with a grin,

No! But these buggers did cos they were in a tin!'

Soon I would be all smiles again.

We had no wireless or gramophone to help pass the long winter evenings although there were a few

about where people could afford them. I remember my favourite Uncle Arnold, husband of Aunt

Mary who lost her baby just after the great Sheffield storm, having a crystal set in the early days of

wireless in the home. The voices, which one listened to by using headphones, sounded squeaky and

unreal. Gramophones in those days were fitted with a huge horn from whence the sound came; the

contraption had to be wound up between the playing of each record and a box of spare needles was

always to hand, the needle having to be changed very frequently. I remember a gramophone very

much earlier than the type mentioned above which played records that were cylindrical, almost like

black jam jars without bottoms or lids. They were quite amusing for after the needle was placed

upon them, a voice would proclaim amidst the hissing and scratching, 'This is an Edison Bell Record'.

A comedian called Tom Foy who was quite famous in the early 1900's performed regularly on those

early recordings.

My parents spent many winter hours making hand-pegged hearth rugs and other floor coverings out

of old clothes, some of which were our own cast-offs, but many were given to us. My sister Jessie

and I would try to help, but it was a tiring and for us, boring task.

The material used for backing the rugs was hessian. Grocers in those days received their sugar

supplies in large hessian sacks and would then weight the sugar into one pound or two pound bags.

Mam would unpick the stitches down each side of the sugar sacks which our grocer Mr. Rodgers sold

to us for sixpence (2½) each, after which she would wash and dry them ready for the pegging

operation, stitching two sacks together to make a large one.

In the meantime the old clothes would have been washed and all sleeves removed from coats or

dresses. Dad's job, a job which wore his fingers to the bone, was to cut up all the rags into long

strips and then into pieces about four inches long by one inch wide. If we were fortunate enough to

acquire a brightly coloured garment, say red or green, this was used in the centre of the rug to fill up

a pattern which Dad would have outlined in chalk of an easy to see colour. Sometimes the four

corners of the rugs would have the same pattern though a little smaller repeated on them. Diamond

shapes, star shapes or circles formed some of the background patterns for the centre and corners.

The clippings used had to be of wool or similar material; silk, satin or cotton was quite unsuitable.

32

Our rugs took many months of patient, back aching work, in the early stages one could sit on a chair

and work with the rug on ones knees, but eventually the whole thing became so heavy that the only

way to work was by sitting on the floor, preferably with one's back against a wall. When they were

completed the rugs looked wonderful and gave a great deal of satisfaction to their creators, the only

problem was that one woman on her own could not carry them outside for their daily shaking so the

help of a friendly neighbour was usually enlisted.

This pastime of rug making went on right up to the end of the Second World War and my husband

made many a nice hearth rug for ourselves and members of our family; the last one to be thrown on

the scrap heap lasted until 1959 when carpets became the order of the day, even for the working

classes.

33

CHAPTER TWELVE

TO HARRY, A SON

In the early hours of June 2nd 1926, my little brother Harry was born. I had been wakened by my

Mother's cries as she gave birth to the son she and Dad wanted so much. Dad came to me as I

sleepily opened the door and crept out of the bedroom where I had left Jessie and Doris still fast

asleep in the three quarter sized which we three shared.

'Don't wake the others luv', Dad whispered as he took my arm and led me into the living room where

the fire was burning in spite of the warm, early summer night. The big black-leaded kettle was

singing on he hob and Mam's biggest saucepan full of water occupied one of the boiling rings.

'What's up with Mam?' I asked, shivering a little because of my fear. 'She's alright luv', said Dad,

'Nurse Slater's with her'. That very moment Mam's bedroom door opened and Nurse Slater came out

beaming, 'Tha's gorra lad 'arry and what's more 'es got red 'air'.

Little Harry's auburn hair was to even things up in our family. Jessie and Harry were auburn and

Doris and I were blonde. It was easy to see where Doris and I got our colouring, Dad had very fair

hair and was known to all his relatives as 'snowball', whilst Jessie and Harry inherited their curly

auburn locks from Mam's side of the family.

'Alright', went on Nurse Slater, 'Get thisen movin' and make her a cup o'tea, tha can go in and see

'em in a minute'.

Nurse Slater was a capable, kindly woman who had been with Mam when Jessie and Doris were

born. I have never been able to ascertain whether or not she had any nursing qualifications and

whether the title of 'nurse' was merely a courtesy, but she seemed to be present at every

confinement that took place at Tyler Street Huts.

I believe she was also called upon to prepare people who died for their last journey. It is difficult for

anyone who did not live through those times to realise that dead relatives were actually kept in the

houses right up to the time of the funeral.

I could never put my children through the ordeal which was accepted as normal and which I suffered

several times as a child, that of being taken by the hand and led to the coffins of my grandparents

and aunt and actually made to kiss them goodbye.

A few moments passed and Nurse Slater called Dad and me in to see the new baby. 'I'nt he luvly,

Bet'? asked Mam pulling me towards her as she lay in bed. I nodded several times, more to

convince myself. He was all red and wrinkled and as I stood there he puckered up his little face as

34

though he wanted to scream the house down but he didn't, he just lay there with a deep crease

between his eyes in the crook of Mam's arm.

Dad brought him out to the fireside and sitting me upon his knee, he put Harry on my knee and

nursed us both. 'My owdest and my youngest', he said proudly and there were tears in his eyes.

I was just nine years and six months old on that never to be forgotten night in 1926, I seemed to

grow up in twenty-four hours.

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36

37

38

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Harry was an extremely fretful and noisy baby, yelling all day and most of the night.

'You've got up too soon and you're losing your milk', said well meaning neighbours, 'You ought to

rest more and drink lots of cocoa'. Others remarked with a knowing look, 'You're spoiling him with

too much nursing Mrs. Ellis'. No wonder Mam was half out of her mind.

In those days, the 'lying-in' period following a confinement was fourteen days, but Mam, fed up to

the teeth with cups of tea and bowls of gruel, got up on the tenth day. Gruel was at the time

accepted as the staple diet for a nursing mother and consisted of oatmeal boiled with water or milk

or a mixture of both. Not a particularly exciting dish.

I remember quite clearly a morning when Harry was about a week old, my aunt who lived on the

Ninth Road, called to see Mam. Her husband was a hawker who was absent for days at a time

selling fruit, vegetables and other household commodities in the outlying villages. Aunt Nell had a

large family and she was a kindly, sympathetic woman. After sitting with my Mother for a while she

came out into the living room and giving me a shilling she said firmly, 'Your Mam's 'ungry, Bet, sod

all that sloppy gruel. Go down to Mrs. Finch's and fetch her half a pound of butter puffs and a

quarter o' best butter'. I hesitated, 't'nurse ses', I began. 'Ne'er mind t'nurse', said Aunt Nell,

shooing me out of the door, 'Gerroff and do as yer told'.

Neighbours were kind and helpful, although Dad did a good job of looking after us all. Nurse Slater,

following the usual custom, called each morning to make Mam comfortable and to bath the baby.

A baby's layette in 1926 was completely different from the modern idea of what the well dressed

infant should be wearing. First of all there was the vest, short sleeved and tied at the neck with

ribbon, often referred to as a 'shift'. The 'binder', usually of flannel, was tightly bound around the

baby's middle to secure a coin, wrapped in cotton wool and placed over its' navel.

This was meant to result in a neat little tummy button. The nappy was next and was invariably

folded into a triangle and then – wait for it – the barrow. The barrow was a long garment made of

flannelette or winceyette which fastened by a broad tape threaded through a slot at the waist and

tied at the back. The bottom of the barrow, which was at lest half a yard too long for the longest

baby, was folded up and firmly pinned at each side to cover the tiny feet already encased in woollen

bootees.

Next came the nightgown, the matinee coat and the head-shawl. The latter was worn both indoors

and out for several weeks and to cap it all, a veil was worn to protect the baby's eyes from the light.

I often wonder if my contemporaries can remember that sixty or more years ago babies never

opened their eyes during the first two weeks, whereas today they seem to turn a clear gaze on this

funny old world as soon as they are born.

40

After about six weeks the infants were 'shortened'; no need to panic, they didn't get their extremities

cut off, it was merely that they were put into frocks, boys and girls alike. At six months old the boys

were 'breeched', dressed in little short trousers made of cotton, silk or satin, there were no man-

made fibres then.

The Christening of a young baby took place at about the age of one month and was accepted as a

matter of course, as was the 'churching' of the mother. A strong superstition existed at that time

and I believe had existed for many generations, whereby a mother who had recently given birth was

not allowed over the threshold of any friend or neighbour, nor in many cases even relatives until the

churching was carried out. The ceremony conducted by the clergyman at the Christening was

believed to cleanse the mother of her sin. What sin?

Nowadays parents quite often choose not to have their child Christened at all. In almost every case

where a mother was refused entry into a house until after the Christening, the resident would make

the same excuse, 'I don't believe in it myself, but…….'.

Harry continued to scream the days and nights away until finally Mam, driven to desperation by all

the advice offered to her by anxious relatives and neighbours, sought the help of our local doctor.

Doctors were rarely consulted in those days for a visit to the surgery cost two shillings (10p), whilst

a home visit cost two and sixpence (12½p). The fee included whatever medicine the doctor

prescribed and incidentally, the doctors made up the medicines for all their patients in a small

dispensary attached to the surgery.

Most of the occupants of Tyler Street Huts were used to the familiar sight of the 'doctor's man' who

came round regularly on his bicycle to collect outstanding bills at sixpence (2½p) a week. Sad to say

some of the residents, having spotted the bike leaning against the wall of a neighbouring dwelling,

would lock their door before he arrived, but by and large, the bills were paid off gradually because as

my Aunt Nell once remarked, 'You never know when you're gunna need t'doctor'. I heard my Mother

say over and over again that since we kids had arrived she and Dad had never been out of debt to

Doctor Sinha.

Coloured doctors were few and far between in the 1920's and many children were afraid of Doctor

Sinha who was Indian, although once we got to know him, we in our family quite liked him.

Doctor Sinha was in later years to suffer a terrible personal tragedy; his infant son got out of the

garden gate of his home which had been accidentally left open. The whole population of the village

of Wincobank was shocked to learn that the tiny tot had been killed riding his little tricycle on to the

busy road outside.

Harry was found to have gained very little weight during the first six weeks of his life, so the doctor

decided that he would be better on the bottle. On production of a certificate signed by Doctor Sinha,

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the welfare centre at Orchard Street supplied Glaxo at a cheaper price than the chemists. Glaxo was

reputed to equal, if not surpass mothers' milk in terms of nutrition and sure enough, little Harry

began to thrive. Our nights were little more peaceful if not our days.

Our baby brother continued to bawl most of the day and Jessie and I spent the time we would

normally have spent outside playing, pushing the pram backwards and forwards while Mam tried to

cope with all the work that a family of six entailed. My youngest sister Doris had a remedy for our

little brother's yelling, she would go to the pram and cover the screaming, angry crimson little face

with a blanket. We dared not leave her alone with the baby!!

Before I was ten years old, I was trusted to go alone on the tram to the welfare for the Glaxo. The

fare for a child was at that time a halfpenny. One Saturday afternoon I was getting off the tram at

Brightside terminus with Mam's basket containing two tins of baby food, when the tram driver said

me, 'How old are you little lass?' 'Ten', I replied, trying to sound grown up. 'Where do you live?'

'Tyler Street Huts', said I. 'Oh!! You live at owd shanty town do yer?', said the driver, rubbing the

top of my head, 'well you'd better geroff 'ome afore it gets dark'.

I called on errands most afternoons on my way home from school and at weekends I would go down

to Brightside to fetch feed for the hens. I can almost hear Dad saying, 'Fetch a quarter of a stone of

Indian corn, a quarter of a stone of wheat and a packet of Karswood poultry spice'. Sometimes the

order would be a little different and I would bring bran and sharps mixed together in one bag, usually

a quarter of a stone. Occasionally Jessie would accompany me, but as she was only seven the

journey took longer and she couldn't carry as much.

Towards the end of 1926, Dad lost his job. The threat had loomed over him ever since the strike,

but it was still a tremendous blow which hit my parents hard. Many men were on short time in

various factories and although Dad presented himself regularly every Monday morning at the factory

gates hoping to be taken on, it was not until 1934, when the threat of a second world war started

the rearmament programme, that he found another job.

Our family was nothing like as large as some of our neighbours' but we all had to be provided for.

Once again as in the days of the General Strike, Dad and I resumed our task of picking coke to eke

out the coal we could afford.

The huts were oppressively hot in summer but extremely cold in winter. On cold winter nights Dad

always took out the oven shelves and wrapped them in old pieces of sheeting and placed them in our

three quarter bed, removing them just before Jessie and Doris and I got in. He and Mam used two

clean, whole house bricks to warm their bed.

Two khaki great-coats minus their shiny brass buttons, given to us by our two ex-service uncles,

Arnold and Ernest (they and the great-coats had seen over three years service in the 'war to end

42

wars'), were thrown over the foot of our beds in winter and very grateful we were for them even

though their weight pinned our feet down all through the night.

In the meantime life was one continual struggle for survival. Dad got his 'labour' money for a certain

period and then he had to go on 'relief'. Relief was paid partly in cash for rent and fuel and the

remainder in the form of a relief ticket which had to be exchanged for groceries. There was good

reason for this rather humiliating condition, it was to prevent families from going without food whilst

the menfolk spent the money on drink.

Friday was the day that Dad went to Attercliffe to draw his relief and the memory of one particular

Friday is indelibly printed on my mind. Dad walked into our home looking the very picture of misery

and he said as he handed the money and ticket to Mam, 'There might be nowt next week kid, I've

got to face t'guardians'. To me, a child of ten years old, the Guardians had horns and a forked tail.

Who were these faceless, frightening men who had made our Dad look so pale and worried? What

did they intend to do to him next Friday?

Dad tried every way to earn a few shillings, delivering newspapers on Sunday mornings for which he

was paid one shilling and sixpence (7½ pence) and running errands for a cobbler at Grimesthorpe.

When our boots needed mending he either did them himself, (I still have his old hobbing foot), or

paid for them mending with some of our precious eggs.

There was nothing unusual in the 1920's about a child being unable to attend school because he or

she had no boots. An entry in the Brightside Board School log book dated 3.2.22 states:

'Attendance has not been good during the last three weeks owing to bad weather. A great

number of my children have no boots.'

The Board of Guardians distributed boots to needy children through the schools and just before my

eleventh birthday, I was overjoyed when I received a ticket entitling me to choose from three

different shops where I could obtain a pair of new boots free. Dad took me along to Langtons shoe

shop which was near the Wicker then. I'll never forget the look on Dad's face when the assistant

stamped the upper of each boot with an indelible mark and explained that this was a precaution

intended to prevent pawnbrokers accepting the boots as security for a loan.

As though the wearing of boots stamped on the uppers were not enough to give me an inferiority

complex for life, I once went to the home of a school friend to ask if she could come back home with

me to play, she lived in a 'proper house'. As I hung about the back door waiting for her to ask

permission, I heard her mother exclaim in a loud voice, 'How many times have I told you not to play

with those kids from the Huts?'.

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As the time passed and Dad couldn't get work, the pawnbroker was no stranger to him or Mam, but

the articles which disappeared from our home were not our clothes, but the few ornaments. Some of

them were wedding gifts and Dad's precious pocket watch given to him by his father and which he

never saw again.

The effects of such poverty do not stay in the period of the original suffering, they reach out through

the years and occasionally stab with the same vicious pain that was felt at the time.

In 1966, two years before Dad died at the age of seventy nine, he said to me one evening, 'Bet, if I

could live my life over again I would starve before I'd part with that pocket watch your Grandad gave

me'. Knowing my father I can believe that he would have starved, but I am positive that he would

not have seen Mam and us kids go hungry.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE CHECK MAN AND THE COCK WITH HALF A CROW

Poverty was not the only menace that dogged us during those years. Diphtheria, Scarlet Fever and

Smallpox were prevalent as the school log book covering my years at school shows quite clearly;

children were not the only victims of those deadly diseases but in some cases teachers too.

An entry dated 12.11.26 reported three cases of smallpox at Brightside Board School, one of the

victims was the mother of an infant scholar who also had the disease.

We continued to keep our few hens and by this time it had become one of my many duties as the

eldest girl, to collect the eggs. There were never many – our efforts at rearing poultry were always

on a small scale. When Dad was working, the eggs and an occasional chicken provided the luxuries

of life; after he lost his job those commodities were used more and more to pay for necessities other

than food. The odd chicken or a dozen eggs when sold, never I might add for their true value,

brought in a few shillings which would go to pay the check man on his weekly call.

The check man, known in some parts of the north as the 'tally man', supplied checks which the client

could spend at one of a number of shops; once the check had been offered in exchange for goods,

the whole amount of the check had to be spent at the same shop. For this privilege the client paid

one shilling in the pound extra, for example a check for two pounds would be repaid at two shillings

weekly – the total sum repaid being two pounds, two shillings (or two guineas).

It is well to point out at this stage that a check for two pounds went quite a long way but by the

same token, two shillings each week made a considerable hole in one's income when the

breadwinner was unemployed. I would not like to be misunderstood with regard to those checks, my

parents were grateful for their existence – they kept us supplied with much needed clothing.

All was not as it may seem, unrelieved gloom, our situation had its lighter side. One of the several

cockerels my Dad owned over the years provided our immediate neighbours with much amusement.

He was a fine specimen, pure white, proud and sporting a brilliant red comb – an attractive and

compelling contrast to his snow white plumage. Sadly though, he could only manage half a crow.

He would lift his proud head, stretch his handsome neck – start to crow and then stop suddenly

halfway through with a ghastly sound that was half cough and half gurgle. He was the target for all

the neighbourhood wags.

'I eered your cockerel 'alf-crow this morning 'arry, did tha' gerrim for 'alf price?', one of the

neighbours would ask, chuckling loudly at his own joke; another comedian would say 'ows that owd

cock o'yours 'arry? Its t'only one I know that can crow t'half hour'. Dad would only laugh and say

45

that the old cockerel could crow any way it liked for all he cared, so long as it got on with its job of

keeping the ladies' happy and contented.

On one occasion Dad bought two clutches of eggs to be hatched out by our broody hens; when he

started to examine them he found that one was a duck egg which had obviously got in by mistake.

Nevertheless, he put the egg with eleven hen eggs for one of the broody hens to hatch, knowing that

she wouldn't notice the difference, at least until her job was completed. Later when the eggs

hatched out and the little duckling appeared Dad had to shut it away in the coal place in an old

discarded rabbit hutch.

Disregarding the tears and the pleading of my sisters and me, Dad finally gave the duckling to a

neighbour who already had several ducks. This measure was taken for its' own safety for every time

the poor little creature strayed into the hen run it was viciously attacked by the hens, including the

one responsible for hatching it.

Merely living in the huts provided us with some hilarious situations at times; our next door

neighbours would knock on the wall occasionally when winding up their clocks before going to bed.

Either our Mother or our Father would answer enquiringly 'Yes?' and Mr. or Mrs. Pheasey would shout

back, 'What time do yer make it please?' Added to this, if my sisters or I were thinking of going out

to play we would knock on the wall to see if either of the Pheasey girls wanted to come too.

After the advent of talking pictures, we began to pick up the words and tunes from some of the

musical films being shown at various cinemas. Before that time we learned current popular songs

from the artistes who appeared from time to time at our local community hall. The building, known

to the locals as 't'hall' was of wooden construction just like the dwellings and the Saturday night 'hop'

was always well attended. On rare occasions a travelling troupe of variety artistes gave a show or as

it was called in those days, a concert.

It was at one of those concerts that I first heard the lovely Strauss music, The Blue Danube actually

sung with lyrics. I became stage struck at that time and I would sing away in a high soprano voice

the arias from The Desert Song and any other tune to which I happened to know the words.

One Saturday morning I was screeching in the living room, putting all my heart and soul into 'one

alone to be my own' when there came a loud banging on the next door wall. Mam called out 'Yes?'

and Mr. Pheasey shouted back, 'Will you tell Madam Melba to shurrup, we can't ear us'sens think in

ere!'

46

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

GLOOPS AND 'STAR' TREAT

Our Sheffield newspaper, 'The Telegraph and 'Star' did a lot to alleviate the effects of poverty in the

1920's and 30's. Most children were members of the Gloops Club although by no means everyone

living near us could afford a ''Star'. Once their own children had been made members of the famous

club, coupons from the newspaper, which had to be filled in and returned to the ''Star' office were

passed around all neighbours who could not afford an evening newspaper and so through the

kindness of regular readers a great proportion of the children on Tyler Street Huts became Gloopers,

proudly wearing the Gloops badge in their lapel.

All through Dad's years of unemployment, one of our more fortunate neighbours passed on his copy

of the ''Star' every evening so that Dad could peruse the 'Situations Vacant' columns.

Gloops was a white cartoon cat whose antics in the 'Star' every evening drove his master and

mistress, Burford and Belinda, almost to distraction – there was also a maid named Emma who wore

her hair in a tight 'bun' on top of her head. The adventures of the cartoon family were followed

closely by Sheffield children – also children in many areas outside the City.

The Doll Show was an annual event organised by the 'Star' and held in the 'Cutlers Hall' just before

Christmas. The dolls, bought from donations by the public plus a generous contribution by the

newspaper, were dressed by volunteers using their own materials. Some garments were expertly

knitted, others beautifully sewn. The dolls were dressed from head to toe, including underwear and

lovely little hats and shoes.

My younger sister Jessie and I were fortunate enough to get a ticket one year; only children of

unemployed fathers were chosen. The scene as we entered the Hall was breathtaking; tall Christmas

trees beautifully decorated almost reached the ceiling (or so it seemed to us) and trimmings hung

around the vast room.

We children walked in single file to one of the trees where a man stood on a stepladder waiting to

pass down the doll of our choice to a gracious, smiling lady who presented it to us and wished us

Happy Christmas. The boys each received a train set, a game or some other good present.

I chose a doll with dark hair and a pink dress but Jessie chose one which was wearing a blue knitted

suit with a woolly hat to match. I cannot remember for certain whether the lady who made the

presentations was the Lady Mayoress or the wife of the Master Cutler. Our lovely Christmas present

was completed by a large bag of boiled sweets.

In 1936, I was to experience nostalgic memories of that wonderful occasion, when I returned to

Sheffield from Blackpool, where I had been in domestic service, to take up a similar position in my

home town where my family and the boy to whom I was engaged still lived.

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When I presented myself for an interview with Mrs. McLaughland, wife of Doctor McLaughland of

Darnall, I was shown into the dining room which was littered with all kinds of sewing materials plus a

sewing machine, whilst heaped together on a chair lay twelve dolls, stark naked.

'Sorry for the mess', said Mrs. McLaughland who was to prove one of the kindest employers I ever

had, 'I'm dressing dolls for the Star Doll Show'.

In 1929 along with Jessie Childs, the girl who shared my desk, I received another wonderful treat,

again by courtesy of the 'Star'. Fifty girls were to be taken to Skegness for the day on June 17th. We

were told immediately we returned from the Christmas holidays. Jessie said very excitedly that she

would bring a calendar from home so that we could mark off the days to the great event. However,

next day she came to school looking very dejected and bearing the news that her Mum wouldn't give

her a calendar so we took a piece of cardboard and drew circles on it in red crayon, taking it in turns

to cross off one circle each day.

When at last the wonderful day arrived, we travelled by 'charabanc' and were each given ten shillings

worth of tickets to spend on rides in the amusement park. Added to this we received our dinner and

tea.

We all sang on the way home and were completely exhausted when we arrived back at school where

our parents collected us. Miss Briggs, Miss Parry and Miss Clemson accompanied us, each taking a

group; the following Monday morning in assembly, Miss Bannister our headmistress praised our party

and said that all the accompanying teachers had reported 'exemplary' behaviour on the part of her

particular group.

Of course the inevitable happened, in our next English lesson we had to write a composition on 'A

Day at the Seaside'. It was a wonderful day and we talked about it for ages, mainly in class, much

to the consternation of our long-suffering teachers.

It was about the time of our lovely trip that Mam and Dad decided to make an application for me to

have free school meals; Jessie was rather a fussy eater so it was arranged that she should continue

to go home at midday with one or other of the parents who called daily at the school to take their

children home for dinner.

I had by that time reached the age of twelve and a half and as several of my friends stayed for

school meals I was quite excited at the thought; there would be more time to play – I wouldn't have

to walk home and back twice every day.

My excitement was short-lived; once the novelty had worn off and the true quality (or lack of it) of

the food provided had robbed me of most of my appetite, I longed to go home and once more share

with my sisters whatever Mam could provide.

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Breakfast at school was served from about eight a.m. and consisted of an enamel mug of weak cocoa

and two thick slices of bread spread sparingly with either dripping or jam, there was neither butter

nor even margarine under the jam. I had always had a fondness for dripping of the kind that Mam

bought at the pork butcher but the school dripping bore no resemblance to it or to anything else

edible for that matter, so I stuck with the jam choosing in my opinion, the lesser of two evils.

The dinners were in the main, indescribable – their appearance on the plate was enough to put a

child off without even tasting it and as we waited in the queue to be served, the concoctions stank

when the lids were removed from the huge pans.

Sometimes the puddings were eatable although anything made with suet was heavy and soggy. The

best sweet of the whole week was served on Fridays – we were allowed to choose between a wedge

of fruit cake or Madeira cake – I preferred the latter. School meals were of course only served to

children whose fathers were out of work and were free of charge.

Quite frequently as I go about the area nowadays, I see a large, beautiful apple lying in the gutter

with only one bite having been taken from it – this happens often and in many different places. As I

pick up these apples to give to the horses in the field near our flat, my mind goes back to the days

when two or three of us would share one apple as we walked down to school and almost invariably,

some one on the fringe of the group would say pleadingly, 'Save me t'core'.

I continued to have free meals for almost a year, but although I was lively and always on the go, I

was small for my age and painfully thin; Grandma and my aunts gave it as their opinion that the free

meals were doing me no good and that if I kept getting thinner I would, to use their expression,

'catch summat I couldn't get shut on'. Finally Mam, herself very worried sent a note to the

headmistress explaining that I would be giving up school meals. What they probably didn't realise

was that the fault didn't lie in what I ate at school – it was what I couldn't face eating that caused

me to be so painfully thin.

From a financial point of view, things were not improving much at home and two or three times a

week Mam gave us porridge to fill us up after sandwiches or toast at dinner time. We continued to

have our main meal about five thirty as we had when Dad was working. Hash was one of the dishes

we had regularly, although there was very little meat in it we got the goodness of the root

vegetables Dad had grown plus suet dumplings which, with the exception of our Jessie we all

enjoyed. Root vegetables were quite inexpensive when it became necessary to buy them. Mam

would send me to the dray which came round twice a week, 'get a penn'orth o' pot-herbs' she would

say and I would come back with two onions, a few carrots, a parsnip and a turnip.

One inexpensive but tasty meal that Mam often prepared was potatoes and onions. This was cooked

in a shallow dish, the onions being lightly fried on top of the stove until they were a golden brown

after which a stock made from Oxo and boiling water was added. The potatoes were then sliced and

49

placed raw on top of the onions and the whole dish put into the oven. When the meal was ready, the

potatoes, having absorbed the flavour of the onions were brown and crispy, smelling and tasting

absolutely delicious. We all ate piles of unbuttered bread with it.

When Dad collected his relief on Fridays he usually called in Attercliffe Common and bought bacon

and a large tin of tomatoes for Friday tea. Joints of meat were unheard of but rabbits – the fresh

English kind were cheap and made delicious stew.

50

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SICKNESS, SADNESS AND NOT-SO-INNOCENT PLAY

By the time I reached twelve years old, the games I played with my pals had lost much of their

innocence, sometimes our games could be downright dangerous. The Roman Ridge separated

Brightside from Wincobank and there was a continual feud between rival gangs of boys from the two

districts. Derogatory names were used by each gang for their rivals; the Wincobank clan referred to

our boys as the Brightside Bulldogs whilst they were known to us as the Wincobank Swill-tubs.

The first people to know of an impending 'war' outside the gangs themselves, were the long suffering

mothers who were temporarily robbed of their dustbin lids which were invariably commandeered by

the 'army' for use as shields. The ammunition consisted of stones collected on the Rigs and the

more adventurous of the girls (including me) would go along and keep up a constant supply of the

missiles at the ready.

One of the roughest, noisiest of our games was kick-can'. We would get a game under way and the

longer the game went on the noisier it became; eventually one of the hut-dwellers (usually a man)

would open his door and stand there, braces dangling and fist shaking. His face scarlet with

annoyance he would bellow at the top of his voice, 'Nah-then clear off, get down to t'other bloody

end yer noisy little buggers!!' Whereupon we would make our way giggling to the Roman Ridge end

of the Seventh Road and resume the game. Not for long though, out would come another enraged

resident to bawl out, 'Gerroff back to t'other end where yer've cum from afore I set t'dog on yer!!'.

We would start to walk dejectedly away and suddenly one of us would see the funny side and before

long we would collapse in a heap on the floor, our eyes streaming with tears of helpless laughter.

On one of the rows further down towards Tyler Street – I believe either the Fourth or Fifth Road

there lived a lady reputed to be a spiritualist medium. We knew the evenings on which she held her

meetings and we would watch her visitors arrive then wait for the light to go out; forming a line we

would crouch down and walk backwards and forwards below the windows making the weirdest

howling and groaning noises.

One evening quite a few of us were caught unawares and were completely unable to outrun the

bucket of cold water flung with amazing accuracy from the doorway. One of the boys caught the

water full in his face and had to make desperate and rather frightening contortions before regaining

his breath.

It was not easy for those of us who got the worst of the dousing to explain our wet clothing once we

got home. My Mam pinned me in the kitchen and scared the living daylights out of me – plus the

whole sordid escapade, after which I was kept in for a week and even worse, was not allowed to go

to the pictures on Saturday.

51

Dad never punished us girls, wearing a look which was meant to convey that he was 'more sad than

angry' at our misdemeanours, he left the punishment to Mam who was more than capable. The

funny part was that nine times out of ten after she had clouted me she would remark, alternately

shaking then rubbing the hand that had struck the blow and making grimaces of extreme pain,

'gerout of my sight while you're still breathin', I've urt misen more than I've urt you!!'. She could

have fooled me!

The nearest Dad ever got to walloping me was to stand facing me and place a hand on each of my

shoulders. Looking into my eyes, his face twitching with ill-concealed laughter he would say 'If you

don't turn over a new leaf my lass I shall be compelled to take the painful necessity of horizontalising

your perpendicularity!'

Come to think of it, kids don't change much really.

Most of our pranks were annoying but fairly innocuous, one of the more common ones was knocking

on the front doors of the huts and then running away before the occupants could reach the door and

open it. Another perhaps more infuriating trick was to tie two neighbour's door knobs together with

string, the doors were unusually close together. A quick hard rap on both the doors, followed by our

immediate retreat to a safe distance would bring both residents to their doors and we would watch

the resulting tug of war from our hiding place and laugh our heads off.

Eventually Mam got to hear of my misdemeanours and for many months I was not allowed outside

again once I arrived home from school.

I think the worst time in my young life was in 1928. Diphtheria was a common scourge at the time

although I cannot remember worrying about it as a child until one awful day my younger sister Jessie

was taken into Lodge Moor Hospital suffering from the disease. As if that wasn't bad enough, our

little brother who was only two years old contracted it and was taken away a week later.

I remember with horror the 'fever ambulance' with it's dark blue windows and the two ambulance

men accompanied by a nurse carrying bright red blankets in her arms.

My youngest sister Doris and I were very frightened, mainly because our Dad was crying. We had

never seen him cry before, but we saw the tears falling into little Harry's hair as Dad held him in his

arms, waiting for the ambulance man to write down particulars of our baby's age and also Dad's

name as next of kin. We could hear the awful frightening noise of Harry trying to breathe. When we

went to bed that night, Doris and I cuddled very close together and when she asked me, 'is Harry

going to Jesus Bet?' I could only whisper 'I don't know, I don't know'.

The following day two men arrived to carry out the 'stoving' of the house to try to prevent further

cases of the dread disease in our household; they left two large bottles of Jeyes Fluid for Mam to

wash all the bedding and scrub the floors. Doris and I were kept away from school for four weeks

52

and neighbours did our shopping for several days; no money changed hands for Mr. Rodgers, our

grocer, knew us very well and was content to wait until we were out of isolation.

Mam and Dad were allowed to visit the hospital once a week on a Sunday and even then they were

only allowed to look at the patients through a window. When they arrived home on the first Sunday

they had mixed news for us. The happiest news was that realising that Jessie and Harry were sister

and brother, the nursing staff had put the baby in a cot next to Jessie in the same ward. Jessie had

improved slightly since being admitted, but little Harry was still dangerously ill.

All through the weeks that our two children were in hospital we followed their progress in the 'Star'

which was thrown in at our door by Mrs. Pheasey. Each patient was given a number which was

printed on a card supplied to relatives and the numbers appeared under the appropriate headings as

follows:-

Dangerously ill

Seriously ill

Ill but making satisfactory progress

Satisfactory

When their numbers reached the bottom group we knew that Jessie and Harry would soon be home

and what a welcome they received when Mam and Dad arrived with them. They were fussed over

and petted for a while but it wasn't long before we were all back to our normal squabbles. Our

parents were of the opinion that Jessie was kept a little longer until Harry was well again so as to

avoid the danger of Harry fretting and so impeding his recovery. It is wonderful to know that

Diphtheria along with other dread diseases like Scarlet Fever and Smallpox are unheard of today.

53

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

INKWELLS, BATH NIGHT AND HOME REMEDIES

When I returned to school following my enforced isolation, I was installed as ink monitor in company

with a classmate, Edith Lockwood. Both of us had been chosen for the job because of our reputation

for punctuality. The task necessitated our being early on Monday morning to replace the inkwells in

the desks before the school bell rang at five minutes to nine.

Edith and I were allowed to leave our lessons half an hour early on Friday afternoons to collect the

inkwells from all the classrooms. We then carried them down on a large wooden tray to the

cloakroom where, in addition to the row of small washbasins used by the scholars, there was a large,

deep sink. Edith and I removed all the messy inkwells and scooped out the blotting paper and other

vile substances stuffed into them on purpose and proceeded to wash them out, after which we would

fill up the inkwells with lovely fresh ink. A wipe around the rim finished off the work in which both

Edith and I took great pride. We usually left school about half an hour late but our headmistress had

given us each a note to take home to our parents, warning them of the delay and seeking their

permission.

Sometimes Miss Bannister would be staying late herself and on those occasions she gave us half a

crown (12½p) between us. A half crown was a lot of money to us then and I always took my one

and threepence home to Mam, who gave me threepence back and saved the rest in case we went

somewhere for the day on the tram.

I have already related some of the minor accidents suffered by our Jessie. On one occasion, one day

shortly after she moved up to join me in the Girls Department, she fell heavily, twisting her ankle

which became very swollen. Miss Bannister with her usual kindness sent for me and gave me half a

crown with instructions to take Jessie straight home and tell Mam to use the money to pay our

doctor to treat my sister's ankle.

Mam however was quite capable of attending to Jessie's injury herself; she used comfrey leaves

soaked in hot water and then plunged the foot into cold water covering the swollen ankle. The

treatment was repeated several times until the swelling subsided; it took about three days.

The following day Mam gave me the half crown and told me to take it back to our headmistress and

thank her, but explain that Jessie often twisted her ankles and that Mam had a tried and trusted

remedy.

That morning in assembly Miss Bannister told the story to the whole school whilst I stood beside her

on the platform, blushing and shuffling from one foot to the other.

54

Finally placing her hand on my shoulder the headmistress said loudly and clearly, 'Mrs Ellis could

have kept the money I gave her and spent it on other things but her honesty compelled her to send

it back and I admire her for it'.

At playtime several girls gathered round me, eager to know the whole story at first hand and for a

little while I enjoyed being the centre of attention.

Saturday night was bath night in our house and as I grew older, I was given the task of helping to

dry the other three children and put on their nightgowns. In winter, as the kitchen was so cold, we

all went and stood on a towel near the stove in the living room to complete the drying operations.

I always enjoyed bath night especially when it was our little brother Harry's turn for he would splash

so hard that the water would quite often hit the ceiling. He loved to have the aluminium colander in

the bath so that he could watch the water pouring out from the holes; I'm not sure who in the family

started that caper but judging from the squeals of joy emanating from the bath, it was a jolly good

idea.

After the happy frolics of the bath tub and our drink of cocoa came, unfortunately, the weekly ritual

we all hated. Regardless of whether our bodily functions took place naturally or not, we were all

given a laxative on Saturday night. In our case, it was liquorice powder mixed to a paste with the

minimum of cold water. No one escaped, we went to bed with the taste of the vile substance still in

our mouths, where it remained until morning.

Mam refused to allow us a drink of water after our ghastly medicine, pointing out that water would

dilute it and spoil the effect.

Needless to say we had to remain fairly close to home for the first few hours on Sunday mornings –

it wasn't unusual for us to be up and about rather earlier than was normal for most folk on the

Sabbath – we had urgent 'personal' business to attend to.

Mam, like many of her contemporaries was a great believer in home remedies. After the killing of a

goose, as many people as possible in the immediate vicinity would be supplied with a stone jar of

goose grease which was rubbed on the chest, back and soles of the feet of anyone from the

youngest to the oldest who happened to be suffering from a cold or influenza. Raspberry leaf tea

was given to young girls in their teens, whilst adolescent boys suffered a weekly dose of brimstone

and treacle. The last ghastly substance was reputed to prevent that well known scourge of the

teenage male - boils.

I remember vividly, boys of my acquaintance suffering from boils; they usually appeared on the neck

or face and once they arrived, the treatment for them was nothing short of drastic. There were of

course, no antibiotics then. Red hot poultices made with linseed or bread would be slapped on to the

55

terribly painful area until it finally burst. Occasionally only temporary relief would occur with the

bursting and the boil would fill up again, when the whole horrific treatment would be repeated.

Parents applying the red hot poultice seemed to have no mercy at all, their philosophy appearing to

be, 'If I can't feel it, it doesn't hurt'.

56

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

FOX-FURS, FISH AND CHIPS AND FU MANCHU

When I was twelve years old, like many other girls of the late 1920's I was old fashioned for my

years. Once every fortnight I would travel straight from school on Friday evening to stay with

Grandma who lived at Intake, returning home on Sunday afternoon.

I caught the tram which went straight from Brightside terminus to Intake via Darnall. The indicator

on the tram bore the legend 'Darnall and Intake (Elm Tree)'. Elm Tree was the name of the hill

which led down to Intake.

Grandma had by that time become less able to cope with shopping and all the housework and was

living alone. I would make several trips to the shops on the Saturday and I always cleaned both

back and front door steps, finishing them off with a rub of donkey stone. I was paid sixpence by

Gran each time I went to help her and eventually I joined the 'penny bank' at school.

Unfortunately Grandma had no idea of fashion for twelve-year-old girls and she would sometimes

dress me in garments given to her by acquaintances, garments which were far too old for me. On

one occasion she gave me a pair of very shiny black patent leather shoes which fastened with a strap

and one button. The shoes were at least two inches too long for me in the foot, but she stuffed them

with tissue paper and I was compelled to wear them on the journey home. I loved Gran and never

wanted to hurt her, but the girls near my home got into the habit of waiting for me at the corner of

the Seventh Road just to see what ridiculous apparel I had been sent home in.

Although I never wore any of those old cast-offs again once I reached home, stories of my old

fashioned get-up soon reached the playground at school and groups of girls would giggle as I passed

them, making unkind remarks about Gran's 'gifts'. I became very unsettled and unhappy. The final

straw came when Gran dressed me one winter afternoon in an old fox fur with the head of the fox

dangling at the back of my neck. As soon as I left the tram I took the fur off and carried it home.

Mam understood how I felt and she told me that I had done the right thing by not unsettling

Grandma but taking off the fur before I met the girls. The unhappy incidents of the playground were

soon forgotten by everyone but me; as far as I was concerned they left a hurtful memory in what

was on the whole a very happy school life.

Quite often we had chips from Barsby's chip shop on Saturday dinner times and Liz and I would go

down Roman Ridge Road to the wooden building about eleven thirty to be first in the queue when Mr.

Barsby opened up at twelve o'clock. A portion of chips cost one penny, pieces of fish varied in price

from a penny to threepence depending on the size. A tail end piece which had no bones was usually

threepence.

57

The unmistakable fragrance of frying fish and chips would drift out to us through an open window as

we stood there getting more and more hungry, waiting for the door to open. There was always a

large saucepan of mushy peas simmering away. My favourites were the scallops, there were three of

them for a penny.

Liz, who had several brothers and sisters all older than herself would take her little piece of paper in

which her mother had written the list of purchases for the family dinner, I would be clutching my list.

When Mr. Barsby opened the door we would go the counter and wait until he had made his last

minute preparations for commencing to serve. His two daughters, both grown up, always helped

him in the shop on Saturdays.

As we waited for attention, not too patiently, Mr. Barsby often had occasion to tell us with

considerable annoyance, 'Stop tapping your money on the counter!!' or 'Will you give over scraping

your feet on the wall?'

Every few minutes someone would pop a head in the doorway and order fish and chips to be ready

for a specified time and occasionally someone would call out to Mr. Barsby, 'Save us twopenn'orth o'

chips and threepenny fish for about one o'clock'. Whereupon we would turn round to get a better

look at the millionaire who was splashing out on a threepenny fish.

Saturday being bread baking days we always had new bread cakes with our chips. Mam usually

made a large rice pudding to follow and there was always a row over who was to scrape the dish;

Jessie often won because as Mam rightly pointed out, she didn't eat very much. Doris and I would

watch her, hoping she might feel sick or something and leave a little of the lovely crispy baked-on

skin for us.

At one period Jessie and I were allowed to go to the penny matinee at Wincobank Picture Palace on

Saturday afternoons. It was quite a long walk down Roman Ridge Road, then down Barrow Road

turning off along Chapman Street and eventually to the cinema, where by one thirty when the doors

were opened there was always a queue of children waiting to go in.

The show began with an episode of the serial which always ended with the poor helpless heroine

either hanging by her fingernails from a cliff edge or screaming her head off at an open window with

the house ablaze around her. We would gasp in horror as the caption appeared on the silent screen:

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK

All through the performance both of the serial and the 'big picture', an intrepid pianist would be

banging away on a not too tuneful piano concealed somewhere beneath the screen.

58

For evening performances there was also a violinist. Frequent breakdowns in the film occurred in

those days and on those occasions the lights would go up. Pandemonium reigned for the duration of

the breakdown as the young, impatient audience stamped their feet, whistled loudly, booed and

banged their seats up and down. Appeals for order by the manager were to no avail. No one could

hear them anyway.

There was once a serial shown for several weeks about an evil Chinaman called Doctor Fu Manchu

whose wicked deeds and mysterious goings-on caused my poor little sister Jessie to spend the whole

episode with her head buried in my knees.

The wicked doctor always outwitted Doctor Petrie and Nayland Smith – two adversaries who were on

the side of the law. Virtue did triumph over evil but not until the very last episode and although

Jessie was scared witless she insisted upon going with me every week.

That horrible Chinese doctor was the direct cause of my receiving a well aimed clout on the ear from

Mam for telling lies.

It happened this way; I was old enough to understand that the wicked Fu Manchu was merely an

actor playing a part, his name was in fact Harry Agar Lyon, but two little girls about Jessie's age

whose mother asked me one Saturday to allow them to accompany us to the pictures, did not share

my superior knowledge. So, there I was with the three of them, my sister and her two little friends

screaming blue murder in the middle of Wincobank pictures on a Saturday afternoon surrounded by

little morons protesting that they were 'trying to watch t'picture'.

I had to leave without seeing the main feature and as I walked home with three almost hysterical

children, I tried my best to explain that Doctor Fu Manchu wasn't really a bad man, I got carried

away. 'Why', I elaborated, in my attempts to soothe them, 'he used to nurse me when I was a

baby'. Of course our Jess in her innocence told Mam the tale as soon as we got home. 'Doctor Fu

Manchu used to nurse our Bet when she was a baby, didn't he Mam?' Mam didn't wait for my

explanation, hence the wallop that set my ears ringing.

I had discovered the magic to be found in books and Miss Lindley one of the many teachers whom I

loved, did everything possible to encourage me. She possessed a large selection of books and never

hesitated to lend them to me, her only stipulation being that I return each book before borrowing

another.

I read 'Anne of Green Gables', 'Jane Eyre' and several other classics including 'The Adventures of

Tom Sawyer'. I would lie for hours on the bed I shared with my sisters, reading whilst my erstwhile

playmates kept calling for me to go out to play, unable to understand my sudden withdrawal from

circulation.

59

I am happy to say that I always retained my love of books and am well aware of the rich store of

literature still waiting to be enjoyed.

Mrs. Peel, my mother's old friend had for several years taken two weekly magazines called 'Peg's

Paper' and 'Red Letter'. These and two others, 'Poppy's Paper' and 'Red Star Weekly' were the

popular women's magazines of the day. When Mrs. Peel had read the two books she always passed

them on to Mam, it was inevitable that I, with my interest in books should want to read them.

It was in 'Red Letter' that I first encountered the tale of Maria Marten or 'The Murder in The Red

Barn', a chilling story of a wicked squire with evil designs on a poor innocent servant girl. Maria's

sticky end at the hands of her wicked lover caused me many sleepless nights, (shades of Doctor Fu

Manchu!!).

It's very strange the way we all love to be scared, indeed one of our favourite pastimes at the age of

twelve or thirteen was to tell each other ghost stories. When the days began to shorten and

darkness fell at about four thirty a small group of us girls would gather together, sitting on the front

doorsteps of one of our homes. The more frightening and ghoulish the tales, the more we enjoyed

them, that is until those of us who had to go to our homes wended our way with cold chills and

watchful, wary eyes as we passed each opening at the end of the blocks. Nevertheless we all

returned the next evening for another session. I invariably ran the last hundred yards or so each

night and literally fell into our front door frightening Mam to death in case someone with ulterior

motives had chased me.

I loved to go to Liz's home at number 17 only a couple of blocks away from ours. The Steels had a

larger backyard than we had, their hut being situated on a corner. They always kept two or more

dogs and I remember particularly Floss, Nip and Toby. Always a little afraid of dogs, I didn't mind

Floss and Nip who always greeted me with a friendly wag of the tail. Toby was different, he always

came bounding out of the gate barking and on more than one occasion he knocked me to the

ground.

Mr. Steel, Liz's father was always known as Mac. He kept a very healthy flock of geese which were

even better watchdogs than Toby. Mr. Steel always said that no burglar would attempt to rob him

while he had those geese.

Going to Liz's place was a bit like going home, there was always something going on. Her married

sister Lil lived just above Liz on the Eighth Road and used to make delicious toffee apples on sticks

which she sold for a halfpenny each.

At the same time as our family left the huts, Liz's sister left too and took a small fruit shop in Apple

Street (most appropriate).

60

I remember vividly one Sunday when Liz and I took over the little shop for the day while Lil went on

a day trip to Cleethorpes. When she arrived home the whole of Apple Street was littered with plum

stones, we had sold out the entire stock of plums to the local kids in halfpenny-worths. Was she

pleased? Not likely, there was scarcely any money in the till, we had practically given the plums

away. Needless to say she never left us in charge of the shop again.

My Dad was becoming increasingly worried about the operations of the tossing rings in the vicinity of

our home. This form of gambling was illegal as indeed was street-corner betting. On Saturday

afternoons and also during Summer evenings while ever it remained light, groups of men and youths

would gather in the spaces between the blocks of huts and gamble away their money and their time.

There was one such gambling ring quite near to number 31 Seventh Road and unfortunately boys

and girls old enough to understand would earn a copper or two from the gamblers by keeping watch

and warning them if a policeman on the beat was approaching. I was told very firmly by Mam and

Dad never to allow myself to be used as a lookout.

All the men and youths involved in gambling were absolutely harmless in every other way, their only

weakness was their love of a gamble. If the gamblers received a warning of an approaching 'bobby',

they invariably fled and left the money lying on the ground.

It was not until many years later and I was much older that I learned that the pennies and

halfpennies left behind by the 'tossers' were in fact only front money' and that in reality much larger

sums were involved.

For various reasons, not the least of them being gambling, my parents started to look around for

another dwelling.

On August 26th 1929 Miss Winterton joined the teaching staff at Brightside Board School; there were

already three teachers of whom I was very fond but Miss Winterton was to prove my all time

favourite.

I made a hot drink for her at morning playtime, she always drank Instant Postum and I also fetched

her lunch from Mrs. Frith, the caretakers wife. By that date of course, I was almost ready for leaving

school and spent a lot of my time left in charge of younger classes when their teacher was absent

from the room for any reason.

Miss Winterton took me on two separate occasions to see concerts at the Y.M.C.A. and bought

sweets for me. It's very strange to remember how much older that I she seemed, but she lives on

Earl Marshall Road now. She is in fact only five years older than I, so she would only be about

eighteen years old when she first arrived to take charge of my class.

61

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

OWD BEFOOR YER TIME'

Dad's youngest brother John, had for a number of years carried on a thriving newspaper business

from his own home, much to the exasperation of at least two other local newsagents who complained

bitterly of the fact that Uncle had no overheads such as they had to pay, having regular shop

premises. Uncle John was fairly thick skinned and took no notice whatever of what he was pleased

to regard as their 'jealously'. He was well known in the Grimesthorpe area and after finishing his

Sunday round of regular deliveries, he had a stand outside the Firth Park Working Men's Club and

Institute in Idsworth Road where he would catch the Sunday lunchtime trade as members entered or

left the club. In later years he was even allowed to erect a small weatherproof hut there from which

to sell his papers.

It was Uncle John who offered Dad a much needed job in the late 1920's – albeit a job that only

earned Dad one shilling and sixpence a week, that of delivering newspapers on Sundays.

When I was thirteen years old I began to accompany my father on his round with a view to taking

over eventually, a round of my own. I still carried on helping Gran but I returned home on Saturday

instead of Sunday as had previously been the case. During the summer months I travelled home

about four o'clock, but when winter came I left Intake immediately after our midday meal.

A small wheelbarrow was made for me by my uncle and I took over a paper round which started with

calls in Wade Street, Popple Street and Lloyd Street, taking in Bolsover Road and several other roads

and streets in the area. I then pushed the wheelbarrow up the hill to Firth Park where I served

customers in Addison, Hamilton and Vivian Roads. My last call before making my way down to Page

Hall was in Windmill Lane.

Many of the newspapers familiar to me in those days are no longer in circulation – papers like

Reynolds News, Sunday Observer, Sunday Pictorial and Sunday Graphic. Many comic papers too,

have disappeared, amongst them the penny ones like Chips, Funny Wonder, Larks and Comic Cuts

and the twopenny issues like Rainbow, Sunbeam and Playbox. Needless to say, if there were any

comic papers left over I would read them once I reached my 'stand'.

When I arrived at the doorway of a shop at Page Hall, a shop known to be closed on Sundays, I

spread out my papers, magazines and comics on the floor. That way I attracted passers-by to look

at and hopefully, buy my papers.

I was paid ninepence every week by Uncle John for the actual delivery round, plus a penny in the

shilling, for any papers I sold from my 'stand'. I rarely took home more than a shilling – there were

two little slot machines on the wall outside the closed shop and if I was sure that I had earned more

than a shilling I would treat myself to either a Nestle's chocolate bar or a small tube of Pascall's fruit

62

drops from one or other of the little machines. My choice usually depended on whether I was hungry

or thirsty. Each of those delectable goodies cost one penny.

One Sunday afternoon a girl only a year or two older than I, came to look at my display. I

recognised her at once as an older sister of one of my classmates. Her name was Vera Curtis and

her sister's name was Olive. Vera had a living-in job in an off-licence shop owned by people named

Cross – the shop was only a few yards round the corner on the main road to Firvale. I don't believe

that Vera's wages were very high but from that Sunday onwards she always spent at least a shilling

at my stall, mainly on women's magazines, thus ensuring that I had at least one penny to spend in

the slot machine.

Looking back on those days, I wonder how I managed to keep up my newspaper deliveries, for I

suffered agonies in winter from chilblains on my toes and the backs of my heels. When there was

snow I wore old socks over my boots and gloves with the fingers cut out to enable me to handle

coins for change.

Sometimes in the evenings I would sit by the fire and continually rub in 'Snowfire', a well known

salve reputed to cure chilblains – it would relieve the itching for a while but never really cured them.

Occasionally, due to my constant rubbing and scratching they actually bled. The awful irritation of

chilblains kept me awake well into the night and plagued me every winter of my life until middle age.

One particularly bleak winter Sunday, an old man came to buy Thompson's Weekly News from me as

I stood in the freezing cold stamping my feet in an effort to get warm. As I fumbled with blue fingers

to give him his change, the old man remarked sympathetically, 'Eah I don't know luv, yer owd befoor

yer time'. He probably thought that I was much younger than thirteen because of my small stature.

The shilling that I earned on Sunday was used to help pay the check man for clothes or boots and

when I had done my Sunday job for three weeks I was allowed to keep the sixpence I collected from

Gran. Very soon I had two or three shillings in the school bank, even after buying sweets for all of

us.

Long after I started my first job in domestic service on a daily basis, I continued with my Sunday

newspaper round. Many customers, once they came to know me, were very kind – one lady made a

sort of money belt for me which fastened like an ordinary belt around my waist but had two large

pockets at the front, one for silver, one for copper. Any notes that were paid to me I kept in a small

purse given to me by an Aunt. Christmas time was really good, I received many small presents and

a number of twopences, threepences and on one occasion a shilling for myself.

Many of my benefactors would advise me earnestly, 'Now don't mix your Christmas box with your

paper money child'.

63

As I approached the age of fourteen years, a disfigurement that I had lived with from birth, began to

trouble me sorely. The birthmark, which took the from of a string of wart-like blemishes down the

right side of my throat, standing out from the skin, was clearly visible and most unsightly except

when I wore a scarf.

There had been the usual questions from school mates throughout my young life but they had

ceased long before I was fourteen – there was no problem from that point of view. I was simply

growing up and becoming conscious of the fact that unless I always wore a high collar or a scarf, I

would never be able to hide the horrid mark.

Mam had turned a deaf ear to all my pleading to be taken to hospital to see if the birthmark could be

removed. For some reason, I suspect superstition, she refused quite categorically saying that I

should 'leave well alone'.

Liz Steel who had been my childhood playmate and had become my dearest friend and confidant

suggested that she and I should go to the Royal Infirmary and find out if there was any way that the

doctors could help. 'After all', pointed out my pal, 'we shan't have lost owt wi'tryin''.

We set off together Liz and I, one Tuesday morning during the school summer holiday – Liz actually

told her mother the truth of our errand but I merely said that we were going for a walk. We paid our

halfpenny fare on the tram to the Wicker, saving a halfpenny each for the tram fare back. The walk

along Bridge Street and Infirmary Road took us ten minutes – we arrived about ten thirty.

At first the young nurse who spoke to us said that nothing could be done without one of my parents

present but after listening to my tale of woe, she agreed to speak to the surgeon on duty who

decided that he would take a look at me and see what could be done'.

Liz was asked to remain in the waiting area and when my name was called more than an hour later,

I followed the nurse into the small consulting room swallowing hard and knocking at the knees. After

thoroughly examining my neck the surgeon said that the birthmark was only skin deep and could be

removed without any danger. The operation he explained, would leave a scar, mainly because of the

stitches, but even that he assured me would gradually fade. 'Even so, little lady,' he said kindly, 'I'm

afraid you will need the written consent of at least one of your parents and we would prefer that one

of them accompany you when the operation is carried out'.

On my arrival home, I haltingly told the whole story to Mam; she was furious at first that I had

deemed it necessary to go behind her back. However when I pointed out that I had asked her

several times to take me and that the disfigurement was becoming more embarrassing as I grew

older, she promised to go with me and make an appointment.

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In due course the operation was done, I needed only a local anaesthetic – the stitching was the most

painful part.

When the surgeon, Mr. Mouat had left the room and the kindly nurse was cleaning me up ready for

leaving I enquired timidly, 'Have you got a mirror please?' She didn't have one but she asked me to

wait a minute and disappeared, returning a few minutes later with the lid of a large biscuit tin, the

inside of which was shiny and as good as any mirror. When I saw the row of stitches straining the

skin tightly at either side of them, the ugly scar a vivid red in colour, I fainted for the first and only

time in my life so far.

It was a horrible sight and when I recovered from my fainting attack I began to wish that I had

listened to Mam and left well alone.

I need not have worried, the surgeon was right, the scar did fade eventually leaving a white mark,

which can be covered up with the use of a little make-up.

My school days were drawing rapidly to a close by the Christmas of 1930, I had reached my

fourteenth birthday on December 9th but I was not allowed to leave school until Easter 1931. My

feelings were mixed, one half of me being eager to try and find a job and help Mam and Dad, the

other half dreading to leave my school friends and the teachers who had been so kind to me. As I

said my farewells to Miss Winterton, Miss Crean, Miss Lindley and others I promised them all amidst

my tears, that I would return often to see them. I meant it at the time but I never went back.

The labour market in Sheffield was a severely diminished one by 1931, for every vacancy advertised

there were forty or more applicants. I earned a few coppers here and there by taking hot dinners to

Cammell Laird's works for two men who had worked with Dad and who still had jobs. They were

both experienced furnace-men whereas Dad had just been a labourer.

I carried the hot meals in wicker dinner baskets in which the men's wives would place a basin

covered with a cloth securely tied around the rim, a knife and fork and usually a couples of slices of

unbuttered bread. Salt was included and in the case of one of the men, a small bottle containing his

favourite Yorkshire Relish.

I had to be waiting at the gates of the works by 11.55 and the two men would appear promptly at 12

o'clock. I was paid sixpence every Friday dinner time by each of the men until I managed through

the good offices of a friend of my mothers to get a daily domestic post.

Mrs. Benskin, Mam's friend, had worked for several years for the Misses Beach of Skinnerthorpe

Road, doing the weekly washing and the upstairs rooms. One of the two ladies was totally crippled

with rheumatism and confined to a wheelchair during the day. I began my duties in the summer of

1931 at the age of fourteen and a half; my hours were from eight a.m. to five p.m. and my wages

65

were five shillings per week with lunch and tea provided every day except Saturday when I finished

at twelve thirty.

I began each morning by cleaning the grate and laying the fire in the sitting room. Another rather

larger downstairs room was occupied by the invalid sister as a bed sitting room and the fire there

was invariably burning brightly by the time I arrived, having been lit by Miss Alice Beach, sister of

the invalid.

My next task was the front door step and door knocker which were always thoroughly cleaned and

polished every day. By the time I had finished the doorstep, Miss Alice would have made cocoa and

cut two large slices of bread – there would be jam or honey for me which I appreciated, having little

time to eat breakfast before I left home.

Carpets had to be brushed vigorously, there was no vacuum cleaner and dusting of the heavy old

furniture and ornaments had to wait until the dust caused by the brushing had settled, so my waiting

time was naturally filled by other jobs such as silver cleaning or running errands.

Lunch was promptly at one o'clock followed by the washing up with Miss Alice drying the dishes.

Very shortly after two o'clock I would be pushing Miss Edith Beach up the steep hill to the duck pond

in Firth Park where she would sit for about an hour.

The old lady was extremely heavy and I had to stop frequently in my long climb up the hill to the

park. A little over an hour later we would be on our way back down the hill – that journey was sheer

torture for me because I needed all my strength to stop the wheelchair from running away from me.

Before leaving at five o'clock, the tea things washed and put away, I got in the coal and sticks ready

for the fires next morning.

I was still doing my Sunday paper round but because of my new job involving Saturday mornings,

two of my aunties took on the task of helping at Grandma's on alternate weeks. I couldn't stay away

from Gran though and often my Saturday afternoons were spent with her. Always as I ran along the

road to her house I could see her at the window looking for me, her face lighting up in a smile as I

came into view.

The meals at the Beach's house were good and my plate invariably contained more food than either

of my employer's; one would have expected me to become heavier and more robust. In fact the

opposite was the case; my friend Liz often jokingly remarked that she had to hold on to me tightly

whenever we crossed a drain in the gutter for fear of my slipping down it.

66

Another of her jokes was that if anyone chased us when we were walking through the hay field over

Roman Ridge, I wouldn't need to worry, I could always hide behind a blade of grass.

The daily visit to the duck pond continued in all but very bad weather and gradually I developed a

large lump in my right armpit which gave me a great deal of discomfort. I had been with the Misses

Beach for over a year by that time; I was keeping myself in clothes via the check man whom I paid

with my earnings from the Sunday newspaper round. With the exception of one and sixpence pocket

money I gave my wages to Mam. My sense of my own importance grew enormously when I began

to give Jessie a weekly penny and Doris and Harry a halfpenny each to spend on sweets.

I had, in spite of my wealthy status continued to pay only half price for my seat at Wincobank Picture

Palace where Liz and I went each Monday and Thursday; the programme always changed on

Thursday beginning new films at the matinee. We had no difficulty in finding a couple or a woman

on her own to buy our half price ticket at the box office – a child entering for half price had of

course, to be accompanied by an adult.

I was so small and slight that I got away with a halfpenny fare on the tramcar too.

Gran, bless her was always tickled pink when I diddled the Tramways Department by travelling for

half fare after I reached the age of fourteen years. 'What did yer pay ont'tram today?' she would

ask, arms akimbo and eyes twinkling. 'Ha'penny', I would answer, trying hard not to laugh. 'Ee thar

little bugger', Gran would say in mock anger, 'th'art as wide as t'Wicker Arches'.

Liz would be ready when I arrived home from work having had my tea and we would be in time for

the first house which began at six thirty and finished at eight thirty. I was not allowed to go to the

second house which did not finish until after ten thirty. I had to be in by nine o'clock at the latest

every night – no excuses would work but in any case Liz and I were allowed to spend an occasional

evening at each others homes.

The swelling under my right arm was getting steadily worse until one afternoon I had great difficulty

in handling Miss Beach's chair on our way back from the park. I felt sick and was in a great deal of

pain. Miss Alice noticed at once that I was not well and as soon as tea was over she told me to go

home and leave her to get in the firing for the following morning.

There was little sleep for me that night and next day I went 'dahn t'village' which was the local name

for Wincobank, to see Doctor Sinha who on examining me diagnosed an abscess and promptly signed

me off work.

In those days it was 'no work, no pay' for anyone under the age of sixteen. At sixteen and over

there were two sets of contributions, one card was the unemployment stamp card and the other the

health insurance card, hence the time honoured expression, 'you'll get your cards'.

67

I was ill for many months, during which I had to attend the Royal Infirmary three times a week for

artificial sunlight treatment on what turned out to be a tubercular abscess.

I never went back to the Beach's, they needed a replacement for me and could not wait for my

return to health. My new found prosperity vanished overnight as my paper round had to be taken

over by a cousin.

After my sixteenth birthday I was given an examination by an independent Medical Officer and was

granted six shillings a week sick relief.

Unknown to my mother and I, Dad went to see Doctor Sinha; he was desperately afraid that because

I had suffered a tubercular abscess, I would fade away and die of T.B.

The doctor soon put Dad's fears to rest when he reassured him that my very mild attack of

tuberculosis through the abscess had probably immunised me for life against the dread disease. He

was right, once I recovered from the illness I never looked back and have led a pretty healthy life

ever since.

68

CHAPTER NINETEEN

WINCOBANK SWILLTUBS

Just three weeks after my sixteenth birthday we left Tyler Street Huts and moved to Wincobank.

Our parents had waited over two years after Uncle Arnold has asked his landlord to give them the

chance of a key to a 'proper house'. The timing could hardly have been worse, our move had been

arranged at very short notice and was to take place six days after Christmas 1932, one day before

New Year. We had celebrated Christmas as usual, but the days following had been very hectic.

Our coal man who by that time had given up his horse and dray in favour of lorry had offered to take

our furniture over to the new house for a nominal charge. Mam wasn't too happy about the

arrangements at first, with her usual direct approach, she asked, 'what about t'coal muck?'. The

man assured her that the lorry would be clean for the occasion and also promised that large canvas

sheets would be provided in case of rain or snow. Mam gave in, at least the price was cheap.

Uncle Arnold, one of the earlier motor mechanics (he had learned the trade in the army) came along

with a borrowed Baby Austin and made so many journeys to and from Wincobank carrying clothes,

bedding and many other articles that we all remarked that it was wonder the little car didn't drop to

bits. Uncle had borrowed the little Austin on several occasions to visit us and its extreme slowness in

getting up Roman Ridge Road had earned it the name of 'creeping Jesus' from the neighbours on the

Seventh Road.

Mam was not in the least religious but when I referred to the little car's nickname in her presence

she reacted strongly. 'Don't you dare say that again if you want to call it anything, call it creeping

Moses!!'

Mam and Dad were the only happy people in our little family on that bleak December morning; Harry

was very bad tempered indeed, his few toys had been packed and there was nowhere for him to

play.

Doris, Jessie and I were doing the best we could to help, miserable as we were now that the moment

had come to leave our friends behind and start afresh in a strange place. It was decided that Mam

would go over to the new house taking the three younger children on Uncle Arnold's next journey.

Dad and I would stay behind until our larger furniture was stowed aboard the lorry and make sure

that the fire was safe and our old home left as tidy as possible.

Even Mam, who had been longing to move away was touched and almost in tears as many

neighbours including Mrs. Pheasey and Mrs. Peel came outside to say their goodbyes to her and the

kids when they climbed into the little car. Mam told me later that all the way down Roman Ridge

Road people came to their doors to wave as the car passed.

69

There was no livestock left in the backyard, our chickens had been found new homes along with our

white rabbit Gloops, named after the cartoon cat in the 'Star'. Our cat, Ginger, had gone too, Mam

was always a firm believer in the old adage that a cat was attached to a house and not the people

who lived there. ''E'll keep wandering off back to t'huts', said Mam, 'it's better to leave him with one

o' t'old neighbours'.

For many months I felt like old Ginger – I wanted to keep wandering back to t'huts.

On that night of our removal from Tyler Street, Harry and Doris had been put to bed early because

we had all been through a long and tiring day. Two hours later when Jessie and I went to bed, Doris

was sitting up in the middle of our three-quarter bed sobbing her little heart out. Jess and I ran and

put our arms around her as her tears fell onto the bedclothes. 'What's up luv?' we asked her over

and over again. 'What's up Dot?'. When she could manage a choking reply our little sister burst out

defiantly, 'I'm not gunna be a Wincobank Swilltub, I'm not, I'm not!'

On Wednesday July 19th 1939 the following news item appeared in the Sheffield Daily Telegraph and

Independent:

'Within the next few weeks the last of the 350 families who have for years been living in the

wooden huts at Tyler Street Estate, which were built for Belgian refugees during the Great

War, will be moved to new homes. When the demolition of the huts is complete it will mean

the end of a community, members of which have been friends for many years. Only eight

families now remain in the huts, four of them on Roman Ridge Road, one of the main

thoroughfares of the Estate'.

The item went on to report of Mrs. Bell who had lived there for twenty three years, another person

not named who was born there and Mrs. Leverton who moved in during the February following the

signing of the Armistice in 1918. All the old neighbours described the scene as 'dismal now that the

people have gone'.

There were broken windows everywhere, a scene of total chaos. 'We didn't want to move' said Mrs.

Bell, 'but it's most distressing now'.

The report ended with the words, 'They will miss Tyler Street Huts – the home that has been the

boundary of their world for so long.'

So ended an era and a community, amongst them the people I remember and will continue to

remember all my life. The Pheasey's next door, the Mallet's, the Wain's and Coleman's, Mrs. Finch

and her little shop, Mrs. Peel and her unwavering friendship for Mam through the years, the Wilkes's

and the tragedy of losing their home. I remember too, the joyous carefree days of childhood play on

the 'Rigs'.

70

I remember Liz and the way she and I used to put one penny each towards two ounces of paradise

fruits and then share them – they were tangy boiled sweets with soft centres – a little out of our

range in those days at fourpence for a quarter. I remember Liz's mother who rarely swore and when

she did it was to combine two swear words together to make it come out as 'bloodin'.

The hut that Liz and her family lived in was a fairly large corner one which had a real Yorkshire

range, completely different from ours which I have already described. My memories are of always

standing well back from the Steel's enormous fire which seemed to burn both summer and winter

because of the family cooking.

Most of all I remember Mam and Dad who started their married life in 1914 with such high hopes –

Dad in a job where he had worked since he was twelve years old and Mam who at the time was in

domestic service at the Sheffield Arms, a public house where Dad called regularly early in the

morning after his night shift to buy a large rum and coffee at one penny per cup.

Dad was out of work for seven and a half years and life was a tremendous struggle for our parents

just to keep us in food and clothing.

Prosperity returned gradually after 1934 – little did we realise that we were facing yet another War.

However, that's another story and as Dad remarked to Mam when he brought home his first wage for

many years, 'I feel like a man ageean now I'm earnin'.

71

Appendix

For Munition Workers or Belgian Refugees?

Since this book was completed, information has come to light which may settle a question raised

many times over the years with regard to the purpose for which the Tyler Street Huts were erected.

One opinion is that they were built for Belgian refugees fleeing from German occupation in World

War One and the other that they were intended for munition workers. By kind permission of the

Local Studies Department of Sheffield Central Library, I have recently obtained the following facts,

taken from a report of Sheffield Corporation:

Estates Committee March 22nd 1916 - Temporary Housing Schemes

The erection of buildings on the respective sites at Petre Street, Tyler Street and Tinsley is

proceeding as rapidly as possible considering recent unfavourable weather. Buildings being erected

are of the following types:

A Type

Separate dwellings each containing living room, scullery with bath and three bedrooms.

B Type

Comprises hostels containing separate sleeping cubicles for thirteen workers, with bathrooms,

lavatories and day rooms. Kitchens and quarters are also provided for hostel keepers.

C Type

Similar to 'B' but accommodation for 28 workers.

D Block

Contains sleeping room for 30 men.

E Type

Contains dining and recreation rooms with kitchen and quarters for a steward. The occupiers of 'D'

Blocks are provided with meals and recreation at 'E' Blocks. All buildings except 'A' type (for

families) are furnished throughout except for the private rooms of the caretakers.

The Ministry of Munitions have requested the Corporation to manage the estates on their behalf.

Some of the houses of the 'A' type on Petre Street are practically ready for occupation. They are to

72

be let at six shillings and sixpence per week clear. The three Public Halls, one on each estate are to

be used for religious and social purposes.

The Sheffield Year Book (1921) contains the following information:

The temporary houses erected during the war for munition workers are now being used by

Sheffield citizens. Since erection, alterations have been made to convert the hostels into

houses.

73

REFERENCES

(I) The Sheffield Year Books *

(ii) Sheffield Newspapers *

- Report on Zeppelin Raid

- Report on Demolition of Tyler Street Huts

- Report on the Great Sheffield Storm

(iii) Burgess Rolls*

(iv) John Harrison

- Survey of the Manor of Sheffield 1637 *

* Courtesy of Sheffield Central Library

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Margaret Weller For her encouragement

Doris Ellerby (nee Pheasey) For the loan of photographs and sharing her photographs

Doug Hindmarch For help with processing of photographs

Karen McGrah For her patience in typing the original manuscript

Lynn Tingle For typing and typesetting the final manuscript

Louise Carley

Marie Sorsby

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