I remember the 1950s

The early years: losing Little Granny; the 11+; Childwall Valley High School; convalescence; the end of rationing; National Service for young men; Coronation celebrations.

It is more than 18 months since I wrote my last blog post, remembering the 1940s, and in that time life has changed in ways that I could never have imagined. In February 2020 I was commenting in my diary on Storm Dennis and the fact that it was the wettest month on record; by the beginning of March we were all becoming aware that Covid 19 was taking hold, with 100,000 cases worldwide and in the UK 160 cases, with two deaths. By March 23rd, we were in lockdown and plans to celebrate our 60th Wedding Anniversary with 30 family and close friends had to be cancelled. By April 25th I had noted in my diary that the UK's death toll was over 20,000, not counting deaths in nursing homes and in the community. Everyone was optimistic that 'it would all be over by summer' - echoes of  'it will all be over by Christmas' at the beginning of WW1! We did have a brief respite in the summer, we were able to see our grandchildren in August 2020 - although with lots of restrictions still in place - but I don't think anyone could have foreseen that a over a year later, despite a very large proportion of the population having been 'double-jabbed', we would still be having daily updates of increasing numbers of positive cases, and a daily death toll reported in the news.

As recently we have experienced added problems in our daily lives - petrol stations without fuel because of a shortage of tanker drivers, empty shelves in supermarkets, gas and electricity prices going through the roof, it has been an interesting exercise to look back to the 1950s and remember how simple life was in those early post-war years.

The decade began sadly for the family. My Spanish grandmother - we called her Little Granny because she was only 4'7" tall - had been ill for some time. Towards the end of the month she was virtually in a coma and my mother had gone to stay in the Liverpool Corporation house where Granny lived with my aunt and her young family. Mum sat by her bedside for a week, hardly sleeping, but came back at tea-time on the Saturday to check that we were all OK at home. It was unheard of for working-class families to have telephones and the only people we knew who were 'connected' lived in the dairy at the top of our road. This family must have been sick and tired of running around the neighbourhood relaying urgent messages and sadly, when my mother had only been back in the house half-an-hour, it fell to them to knock on our door to tell us that Little Granny had died. I can only imagine how exhausted and heart-broken Mum must have felt as she left the house to catch the bus back to Page Moss knowing that if she had only stayed another hour she would have been with her mother when she died. Little Granny died on the 28th of January and, by one of those strange coincidences, that was also the date my mum died some 36 years later.

I  missed my granny; catching the bus with my mum on Saturdays, or oftener during school holidays, to spend a couple of hours with her.  I wasn't left with memories of days out - I don't remember Gran ever leaving the house except for my uncle's wedding in 1945 - there were no bedtime stories, or chatting together about nothing in particular. My memories are of sitting with my younger cousins as a language I didn't understand floated above my head - the Spanish language. Strange how blood ties can be so strong that you can love someone dearly without ever having had a straightforward conversation with them. Despite the fact that she'd lived in England 35 years by the time I was born, I never heard my granny speak English and my mother only ever spoke Spanish when she was with her mother and sister, never in our own home. My cousins were luckier, they must have absorbed so much of the language just by being with our granny every day.

The month after Little Granny died, I headed off to the local secondary school one Saturday morning to sit the 11+ examination. The school was a mile away and I only just got there in time. Why? Because I had to wait until my dad had gone to work. He'd decided some time before that he didn't want me to go to Grammar School, my sister had passed the 11+, and perhaps he was worried about going through the expense of a uniform etc a second time, you didn't need a uniform at Secondary school. However, my mother was determined I'd get the same chance, so it hinged on whether Dad went to work that Saturday morning and I could go without him knowing. I waited until I heard him leave the house and the sound of his motor-cycle faded into the distance then dashed downstairs, managed to eat some breakfast and set off at a run, with my pencil case and my registration form.

Of course,  Mum and I hadn't thought as far as wondering what would happen if I passed the exam! 

The news came in May that I was one of ten pupils from my school who had passed. We still didn't tell my dad. My school uniform had to be bought from Lewis's department store and over the coming weeks and months my mother scrimped and saved and bought it bit by bit, hiding it at the back of the wardrobe. She couldn't manage the price of a new gabardine or leather satchel so scoured the local paper for second-hand ones. Dad didn't find out I'd passed until the night before I was due to start school, by which time it was too late to do anything about it as I hadn't been registered with the local Secondary school. 

 

Despite this shaky start, I enjoyed my time at Childwall Valley High School. There were problems of course. I recently unearthed the report for my first term, dated December 19th, 1950 and wish I'd kept all my school reports as that first one tells me things that I'd forgotten completely. My mum must have been pleased to read that I was making good progress, working well, and that my conduct was good and helpful, but the Headmistress's request 'Perhaps you will come and see me about Joan next term', would have made her even more anxious than usual. The reason for the Head's concern was that I had '27 Days Absent'.

I have no memory of why I'd missed over 5 weeks of schooling in my first term and had been absent for every exam except Art, but I assume it was for health reasons as the following January saw me being admitted to the Margaret Beavan Memorial Home in Wales - a convalescent home for children from Merseyside with health problems. I was there for a total of six weeks, a long time for a child when family wasn't allowed to visit. I can remember going to the washroom every Saturday morning just before the doctor arrived and washing my face in very cold water, then pinching my cheeks until they were red, in the vain hope that he would think I looked healthy enough to go home! My memory of those six weeks is very sketchy, I don't remember any of the other 'patients' - all girls. The boys' home was next door and I do remember that on a Saturday night we had a film show, projected onto a sheet/or screen in the hall, on the back of the front door, while the girls and boys, allowed to mix for this one night, sat in rows on the stairs, littlest ones at the front. We must have spent a lot of time outdoors, despite the weather, and I also vaguely remember a trip to Grych Castle where the Luton Girls Choir were giving a concert. 

Pensarn beach, I'm the girl on the front row wearing a hat and scarf!

When my mother did eventually go to a meeting with the Headmistress, she was told it might be better if I was sent to an 'open-air' school on the Wirral for children with chest problems. Obviously I would have had to live in and I was relieved when my mum refused to send me away from home. My health must have improved as the only other long spell of absence from school that I remember was when I had my tonsils removed. I was 12, spent a week in Whiston hospital and another week at home. I must confess though to 'pulling a sicky' on the day I knew we were going to dissect a frog in Biology!

In 1950 Harold Wilson became MP for Huyton, to my mother's delight, and throughout the early 1950s changes were happening to the rationing system that had been in place since 1940. By 1953, coupons were no longer needed for clothes, petrol, soap, tea, eggs, sugar and sweets, among other things. Meat, bacon and cheese were the last to come off ration in 1954. Fruit and vegetables had never been rationed but nevertheless were still in short supply, especially those which had to be imported.

In 1952 my 18-year-old brother was called up for National Service in the army. I still have a souvenir he sent for my 13th birthday in May of that year when he was doing his basic training.  He was soon sent overseas - to Egypt - and the family would send him whatever goodies we could get hold of in a biscuit tin begged from the local grocer. Fruit cake was a favourite as it travelled well. There was a reduced postage rate for those serving overseas. National Service was initially for 18 months when it was introduced in 1947, extended to two years in 1950 due to the Korean War. The pay was a fraction of what the young men had been earning when they were called up, 28 shillings a week in 1948. Eighteen-year-olds, perhaps still on an apprentice's pay, would not be as affected as those who had deferred call-up until they were 21, when they would have been on a 'man's wage'. The basic pay had risen to 38 shillings a week by 1960, this was the equivalent of £50 in today's money. My brother signed on for an extra year as the pay and training was much better. There were exemptions from National Service for those in essential industries such as coal mining, farming, and the Merchant Navy.

 

A souvenir from REM. I've kept it in the envelope it was sent in, since 1952

The Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II in 1953 was an occasion of great  celebration through the UK - I can remember the day in school when we were all presented with a Coronation mug and an ice cream! I still have my mug, together with other souvenirs of the day. 

 

School Coronation celebrations

There was no street party where we lived, but I was invited to a small party at a neighbour's, with my friend Pat and the two little girls who lived next door and, like many others, we'd decorated the front window of our house with photos, bunting, etc. It was a big thrill when we could eventually go to the local cinema to watch a film of the whole Coronation ceremony - in black and white of course.

 

Me with Linda, who, years later, would be my bridesmaid.

 

 There are two children whose names I don't remember, I'm on the back row with Pat, the neighbour's children John and Pauline are on the middle row, and June (who would also later be my bridesmaid) and Linda on the front row. The grown-ups joined in that evening for a few drinks and a sing-song!

 

                     

 I'm on the front row, far left.

The middle years: leaving school; starting work.

The statutory school leaving age for grammar schools was 16 at the time but I left a year early. I can remember that my mother had to go to an interview with the Headmistress to ask for permission to take me out of school - there were only two of us out of the whole year who left at 15. In a way I was relieved to be leaving, although I would miss the friends I'd made. I still have a small autograph book signed by all my classmates and some of the teachers. 

Two weeks later I was no longer a skinny little schoolkid but a 'working girl' contributing to the household expenses, although I wouldn't have been contributing much as my wage was only £2.12s.6d a week and I had to pay bus fares out of that. I looked much younger than 15 and used to get really annoyed when the bus conductor asked me 'Do you want a scholar's love?' But oh, the thrill of discarding my thick, brown lisle uniform stockings and wearing nylons! The only snag (!) was their tendency to ladder very easily, but we were still in the age of 'make do and mend' and the local dry cleaners would repair a ladder for sixpence.

I loved the experience of travelling into town every day to my job as a typist - I've written about that job in an earlier blog, how I was 'plonked' in front of a typewriter on my first day and told to learn how to type. I started night school the following month and was soon a quick, accurate typist, passing all the RSA examinations with distinction. It was a friendly atmosphere in the office despite there being a wide age range. It didn't strike me as odd at the time that all the older women were single, in the 1950s it was still expected that once married, a woman would become a full time 'housewife' - there had been only one married teacher in the all female staff at my grammar school. However, many working class women did have part-time jobs, usually low paid, I can remember my mother working for a time as an office cleaner - 6am to 8am, then 6pm to 8pm, to fit in with family commitments. Like many others, she also did seasonal work, potato- or pea-picking, back-breaking jobs, usually for a couple of weeks in the summer. Some men resented their wives going out to work, seeing it as a reflection on their ability to provide for the family, but for some families the extra income, however meagre, was very necessary.

The middle years: leisure time with friends; dancing; the cinema; music; fashion; the radio.

So, how did young people enjoy themselves in the 1950s? You couldn't meet up in pubs - the legal drinking age was 21 - but coffee bars were becoming popular, I'd go to one in Wavertree Road called Capaldi's, with a girl from work who lived nearby. And dancing, whether it was ballroom or rock-and-roll it seems that every teenager in the 1950s went dancing - it's where most of our generation met our future partners. The Locarno was the place to go on a Saturday night, the Grafton nearby was a little more 'up market' at the time, there was a pianist who kept his top hat on the piano, and if memory serves me right, there was a little dog sitting in it!  I believe the Grafton's reputation changed over coming decades, when it became known as 'granny-grabbing' night! 

I loved the fashions of the 1950s. We mostly wore straight skirts, mid-calf length, and blouses to work, but after clothes rationing ended materials also emerged as big, bold and beautiful. One of my favourites was a skirt, almost circular, made of kingfisher blue felt. Taffeta skirts were also great for dancing in, especially when worn with a frilly, net underskirt that had been dipped in sugar-water. Tops in fluorescent colours were also popular, I wore a 'shocking pink' one and my friend Jean, who had auburn hair, wore lime green - we even had matching socks! Everyone seemed to 'dress-up' to go out in those days, men of all ages would change from their working gear and put on a suit, shirt and tie to go to the football on a Saturday afternoon. Young men would also put on a suit to go dancing or to the cinema, while girls would put on their best frock, usually matched with white stilettos and a white handbag, and often with little white gloves! It was also the era of teddy boys in their outfits of long jackets with velvet collars, winkle-picker shoes, etc. They had a reputation for fighting and causing damage, but I never saw any bother in the places I went to.

Going to 'the pictures' was also a popular, and cheap, pastime, there were always long queues outside the cinemas in Lime Street, often entertained by buskers.

After work, and at weekends, we would go to friends' houses and listen to records. There were booths in the record shops where you could put on headphones and listen to the latest releases before deciding to buy. The top stars who were appearing at the Liverpool Empire would sometimes visit the record shops and autograph their latest single, EP or LP. My sister has a Frankie Laine LP signed by him in Lewis's department store, and I have a photograph of Lonnie Donnegan signed when he appeared in a record shop in Dale Street. You could also get signed photos of the stars by joining their fan club. In 1955, we still had a piano at home - I'd had lessons at 2/6d a time with a local Welsh lady for a couple of years, and I loved to buy sheet music and try my hand at the latest tunes. One of my favourites was Unchained Melody, originally sung by Al Hibler but reaching No.1 with Jimmy Young. Radio Luxembourg was very popular with the younger generation, but not so with parents, who thought it had a bad influence on the young! It was banned in our house - until my dad discovered that one of his favourite singers, Jo Stafford, had a half-hour show on a Sunday night. Families often spent evenings and weekends listening to the radio together; Family Favourites, the Billy Cotton Band Show, Workers' Playtime, and on a Saturday night the very scary Appointment with Fear - introduced by Valentine Dyall as The Man in Black. Looking back, one of the strangest programmes was Educating Archie - Archie was a ventriloquist's dummy, on the radio! 

Bill Hayley and His Comets came to Liverpool in 1957, but not to the Empire. He appeared live on the stage at the Odeon Cinema, at the corner of Lime Street and London Road. I was in the audience, near the front in the 15 shilling seats. It was a very lively night with people dancing in the aisles. 

1957 to 1959: A wedding; the Cavern; Liverpool's lost transport systems - and an engagement.

In 1957, the young ones in our office found a new way to spend our lunch hour other than window-shopping down Church Street or eating our sandwiches on the grass at the Pier Head - a jazz club, with lunch hour sessions, opened in Matthew Street. A couple of years later the Cavern would become famous as a venue for rock and roll musicians and, of course, for the Beatles.

 

  Friends from the office 

In July 1957, I was a bridesmaid at my sister's wedding, which meant that when she left home I had a bed to myself for the first time since I was a very small child! 

St Michael's Church, Huyton, I'm on my sister's left and on her right is her best friend, who the following year would marry our brother and become a much-loved sister-in-law.

Despite the novelty of having a bed to myself, I missed my sister, as she went to live in Kendal, her new husband's home town. Although less than 70 miles away, and now an easy hour's drive up the M6 motorway, back then it was an epic journey involving a coach from Skelhorne Street, changing at Preston, then a bus to Kendal town centre. It took hours! 

Liverpool's Overhead Railway - the Dockers' Umbrella - closed that year and working close by, just off Castle Street, I watched its demolition over the next couple of years. I'm glad that one of the carriages of this iconic transport system has been restored and preserved at The Museum of Liverpool; sitting in that carriage I can remember a school trip on the railway. As with the Docks, the Houses in our school were named after famous Liverpool men - Sandon, Huskisson, Gladstone and Langton. Also that year Liverpool's tram system closed, special tickets were issued for 'the last tram' and I still have mine.

November 1957 was a turning point for me. My friend Jean, the friend who had left school the same day as me, had tickets for a dance at Holt High School and I was to meet her at the entrance to the school. I can remember exactly what I was wearing that night. I had a new poplin raincoat in pink with a white faux fur lining, it had a matching beret and as it was a chilly night I wore a white angora wool scarf. I'd bought the coat in C & A's, it cost £7, much more than a week's wage, even though I was now earning more, so my brother lent me the money and I paid him back at £1 a week. Underneath I was wearing my kingfisher blue felt skirt with a sleeveless yellow top - very colourful! As I was getting off the bus at the nearest stop to the school, a boy came down from the upper deck and got off at the same stop - and I realised I'd seen him before. The previous New Year's Eve I'd been to a dance at Brooklands dance school in Huyton with a friend, Edie, from next door and I'd danced with this boy. Unfortunately, we'd been told to be home by midnight and, just like Cinderella, I'd left before the last waltz. I could tell that he'd recognised me too, but he was with friends and as I crossed the road to the Holt, they all went into the Five Ways pub on the opposite corner. It was easier for boys to pass for 21. 

Jean was very late and as she had the tickets I was on the point of going back home when she eventually turned up. We had only been in the hall a couple of minutes when the boy from the bus came in with his friends. So many 'what ifs', he should have gone to night school that night but decided instead to go for a drink with his friends and then to the dance; I was within five minutes of giving up on my friend and going home! On such small things a future life is decided. We danced together all night then Jim took me home on the last bus, even though it meant he had to walk three miles back to his own home afterwards. We've been together ever since.

We saw each other three or four nights a week. Even though Jim was on a small wage as an apprentice, and as in all working families, contributed something to the household budget, we were still able to visit the cinema and go dancing regularly, although one of our first visits to the cinema was almost the last! We had queued up in Lime Street to see The King and I - Yul Brynner being a hero of mine. In those days the doorman would let a couple of people in to stand at the back of the cinema until seats became vacant and that was what happened to us. As we stood there, with me engrossed in the film, Jim whispered 'Are you enjoying it?' My reply: 'Oh yes, this is the 17th time I've seen it'! Fortunately he later saw the funny side of it. Saturday night was always the night for dancing - favourite venues were The Locarno; Signal House, just off Queen's Drive; and the Harlequin Club, above Burton's Tailors on the corner of Church Street. Among the few mementoes of my youth I still have my membership card for the Harlequin.

I've always considered myself very lucky that Jim's parents welcomed me into their family and treated me like a daughter. Most Sundays I went to their house for tea - ham salad followed by a selection of Sayer's cakes - and in the summer of 1958 I went on my first family holiday with Jim, his parents and his older brother and his wife. We were booked into three chalets in Butlins, Filey. I shared with his mum, his brother and sister-in-law were in the middle chalet and Jim and his dad shared the end one so absolutely no chance of sneaking around in the night - not that we would have done, of course! Chalets were very basic in those days, no washing facilities or toilet, just two wooden beds and somewhere to store your clothes, 

We had a glorious week, and there was one very special day. Anyone familiar with the Butlins holiday camps of that era will remember that activities revolved around competitions; knobbly knees for men, glamourous grannies for example. This particular day the family were on their way to watch a competition down at the swimming pool when Jim's dad held me back saying 'Let them go on, there's another one I want you to see first, go and get your glad rags on'. Soon he was walking me into the ballroom where a redcoat was handing out numbers and before I knew what was happening I was carrying a card bearing the number 13 and standing in a line of girls and women of varying ages parading around the room! I had no idea what was going on, and having very little self-confidence I was in a panic. 

 

Without telling me, Jim's dad had entered me in the Miss She competition!

It is only recently that I have discovered the background to the Miss She competitions at Butlins. Apparently it was a 'Day Wear' competition sponsored by the She magazine for 30 years and Filey alone had 10,000 entries a year. I'm not sure about how it worked but I suppose the winners of the weekly heats of each camp eventually competed nationally. I've read that many entrants took it extremely seriously, shopping for special outfits and competing at multiple locations. On the other hand there must have been many young girls who entered on the spur of the moment - although not many 18 year olds who had been unwittingly dragged along by their future father-in-law.

 

 

 My expression says 'How did I get here?'

The winner wore an off-the shoulder dress, with a fur stole and elbow-length gloves, not the kind of 'day wear' familiar to me or the young girl who came second. At the time I didn't even know there were prizes, obviously the winner would go through to the next heats, I don't know what the second prize was, but a week after I arrived home I received a large cardboard box containing a year's supply of shampoo - unexpected and very welcome. 

Jim's dad was as pleased as punch - although being very prejudiced he thought I should have won - but the rest of the family, especially Jim, couldn't believe what they'd missed. I think his dad knew that if the whole family had been there it would have unnerved me. I found it embarrassing enough that the photographs were put up on notice boards all around the holiday camp and complete strangers would come up to me and say 'Well done'!

 

And this is how the afternoon ended!

We were engaged on the 20th December, 1958. Jim finished serving his apprenticeship in the summer of 1959 and I changed my job for one nearer home with better pay as we saved to pay for our forthcoming wedding, which was planned for March 1960. We still managed to have fun though, films, dancing and nights out with friends. It surprises me now just how far money stretched back then.

 

 Jim carried this photo around in his wallet for years!

And so ended the decade. Slum-housing still existed in pockets of the city but it was slowly being cleared and new council estates had sprung up on the outskirts, although my parents never got to the top of the housing list and lived in their rented two-up, two-down with an outside toilet until the 1980s.  Jobs were plentiful and pay was improving. What would the 1960s bring? In our case, marriage; followed by Jim's National Service; and living with his parents while we saved a deposit for a home of our own before starting a family. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you remember...?

I remember the 1940s

We had an air-raid shelter in the back garden, half-buried in the ground and accessed by a steep, wooden ladder.This is how I describe it in Chasing Shadows:

Joan was glad when the grown-ups told her the war had ended.
   'Mum, does that mean I won't have to go down the air-raid shelter again?' She hated that shelter. It crouched in the back garden like a monster, waiting to swallow up the whole family as soon as it was dark. She hated the smelly paraffin stove that stood in the middle of the earth floor and threw huge dancing shadows around when her dad lit it.
 
I don't know if our shelter was erected by my dad. Perhaps it was already in place when we moved from our lodgings in Liverpool city centre into a rented, two-up, two-down terraced house on the outskirts soon after the outbreak of World War II. Anderson shelters were built from sections of corrugated steel and the government gave them free of charge to households whose income was below £5 a week, anyone earning above that had to pay £7.

Before our move from Toxteth, I was evacuated - very briefly - with my mother and older siblings. As I was only a couple of months old at the time I can't claim to have any memories of being taken into the home of a young doctor and his wife and have to rely on family anecdotes for the story that they wanted to adopt me!

I remember food and clothing being rationed, every family member having their own ration book, green for under-fives, blue for older children, and buff-coloured for adults. If you had a green ration book then the family were given preference if bananas appeared in the local greengrocers, but that didn't happen very often.

Baby clinics supplied orange juice and cod liver oil to under-fives and there were many 'tonics' or food supplements available. A jar of malt and cod liver oil was one of my favourites, my mother also bought me Virol, Parish's Food that turned your tongue purple, and bottles of a thick white liquid called Scott's Emulson. I look healthy enough in this photo, but by the age of eight I was in hospital for a month with 'a shadow on the lung' and had a couple of spells in convalescent homes. This was pre-NHS but because of being a low-income family we would have been exempt from charges. I also had sessions of 'sunray therapy' in a local clinic. Children with chest problems and other ailments would sit in front of sun lamps, stripped to our knickers and wearing goggles. In recent years, research has suggested that this practice in the 1940s has led to an outbreak of skin cancer in my generation, but we have to remember that we also played out day after day and had never heard of sun protection creams.

When I see photos of the amount of meat, butter, cheese etc, that was the weekly ration for each person, I'm amazed how meagre it looks - and yet I don't ever remember feeling hungry. I do remember my mother creaming together lard and margarine to make it go further. I also remember dried-egg powder, not very appetizing to look at, or smell, but a necessity when the egg ration was only one a week for each person. Anyone with a merchant seaman in the family could rely on extra treats - I can remember my granny's larder having big jars of pickled eggs and tins of jam.

The weekly sweet ration was 2ozs and oh, the excitement of walking to the sweet shop with your hand tightly closed around your two pennies, then choosing what the shopkeeper would scoop into the paper cone. Would it be dolly mixtures, or pear drops? Chocolate was a rare treat, but a home-made mixture of cocoa powder with a little sugar and licked from the paper made a good substitute. Less successful was experimenting with Ex-lax, it looked like chocolate and tasted like chocolate but as its name suggests, it had unpleasant consequences! I spent my eighth birthday in hospital and at visiting time my mum brought in a huge bar of chocolate, sent by my merchant seaman uncle. I don't think Uncle Tony ever knew that he actually treated the whole ward of 20 children, as the nurses shared the chocolate out between everyone. Only fair, I suppose, but it was a shame my older brother and sister didn't get to taste it. Children weren't allowed to visit, and parents were restricted to one hour on a Wednesday afternoon and one hour on a Sunday.

I'm not sure when this photograph of a toy shop dates from, but I could never dream of playing with toys like these. With my best friend Pat, I played at 'chip shops', scraping the pith from orange peel to represent the fish, cutting up the peel into little strips for the chips and wrapping the portions in tiny squares of newspaper. I also had a battered, tin, doll's pram, handed down from my older sister. I was ten before I had a doll of my own, but before that our tabby cat, Tinker, was quite happy to be wrapped in a scrap of blanket and wheeled around!

As well as wrapping pretend chips and fish, newspapers had many practical uses, a double sheet could be held in place with a shovel against the fireplace to help the fire 'catch', often resulting in chimneys on fire if the upward draught took the paper up the chimney! They would also be cut into squares, with string threaded through a hole in the corner and hung on a nail in the outside loo - no Andrex in those days; or you could take a bundle of clean newspapers to the local chip shop and get a free portion of chips for your trouble.

Mostly, I remember outdoor games, a home-made top and whip; chalking hop-scotch on the pavement; playing with two balls against the entry wall - with three balls once you were very experienced; tick; and perhaps my favourite, skipping, especially when it was a very long rope and there were plenty of little girls taking turns to swing the rope as the rest skipped in and out. There were many skipping rhymes - "Once you're in, you can't get out, until you touch the ground".

When money was tight, mothers got their shopping 'on tick' at the local shops, and the pawn shop also came in handy to "tide me over until pay day". It was an era of 'Make Do and Mend'. Dads repaired the family's shoes until they were outgrown or fell apart. Mothers were rarely without a piece of knitting on the go, when cardigans or pullovers were outgrown the wool was unravelled and knitted up into another garment. Nothing was wasted, any food scraps, peelings, etc, were put to one side and a woman we called 'the pig lady' used to walk around the streets with a wheelbarrow, collecting them for her pigs. No-one around us had a car, but the rag and bone man's horse and cart used to come down the street - with a double benefit. If you had any rags for him he'd hand over a 'donkey stone', used for whitening the concrete front step, and if the horse left a bonus behind, Dad would send me out with a bucket and shovel to collect it for the garden!

Once coats and warm skirts were too worn to be handed down but too good for the rag and bone man, Mum used to cut them into strips and with a piece of canvas for the backing and a bodkin to push the strips through, made rag rugs. We didn't have carpets, upstairs we had lino and downstairs the floors were quarry tiled. Mum used tins of Red Cardinal polish on them and me and my sister used to enjoy sliding around the two rooms with dusters tied to our feet to give the tiles a good polish.

We were lucky in that our two-up, two-down had a long garden backing onto a field, but there was one drawback. Our kitchen door was always open in the summer and everything got covered in flies. I can remember the yellow, sticky fly papers hanging from the ceiling, usually next to the light or from the clothes rack that hung over the table, they looked disgusting when they were full of dead flies. As well as fly papers we were armed with a Flit spray. Hard to imagine nowadays spraying DDT around your kitchen, with food, crockery and pots and pans lying around!

I can remember people smoking on buses, which also had warning posters 'Spitting Prohibited'. People smoked in pubs, clubs, cinemas, theatres, restaurants, even hospital wards and my dad, a smoker from the age of 13 when he left school, was hit hard by the shortage of cigarettes. He often sent me out to shops within a mile radius to ask 'Ten cigarettes for my dad please'. I was about 8 or 9 at the time and if I was lucky the shopkeeper would reach under the counter and hand over ten Woodbines. Another little errand I remember being sent on was when Mum ran out of the right change for the gas or electricity meters, which only took shillings. I'd run to the bus stop at the top of the street and when the Crosville bus stopped I'd hand the conductor the half-crown or two shilling piece and ask 'Can you give me some change for the meter please?' A real treat was when the conductor not only handed over the change but also gave me the end of his ticket roll. To someone who loved to scribble that paper was precious.

I remember the first book I owned, Alison Utley's The Great Adventures of Hare. It was a school prize, awarded to me when I was seven for coming top of the class - a miracle never to be repeated! There were always books in the house, but they came from our local library, a mile away.

Thinking of Junior School reminds me of a painting competition run by Gibbs toothpaste. In hindsight, it must have been a concerted drive to improve the dental health of children - as well as a good marketing ploy - as every child who entered was given a tin of toothpaste!

Looking back, I'm sure it couldn't have been hygienic since everyone in the family rubbed their wet toothbrush across the 'cake' of toothpaste! Better than a visit to the dentist though - having a black rubber mask placed over your face and 'gassed' until you became unconscious, then waking up minus a couple of teeth, was not a pleasant experience!

I loved the free school milk that came in quart bottles, in the winter when you took the top off there was a little plug of ice on top of the milk. In the summer, when we had fresh milk at home it was kept in a terracotta pot that was half-filled with cold water, but we mostly used 'Steri', a long-lasting milk that came in bottles with a metal cap.

Remembering the 1940s means remembering harsh winters - especially 1947 when the snow drifts were so high we couldn't walk to school - but also long, hot summers when during the school holidays we'd roam far and wide with a bottle of water and a jam butty. As the railway line ran right in front of our house down to Cronton Colliery, and the train only passed twice a day, a safe walk was 'down the line'. It ran past corn fields, bluebell woods, and 'Hill 60'. We knew nothing about the significance of what that name commemorated, to us it was just a bit of a hill that we could run up and down. Towards the end of the line was a large pond called the 'Sour A' - I've no idea why! Bullrushes grew around the edge and Pat and I would carefully gather a bunch to take home to our mums. They lasted longer than the bluebells we picked, the poor things had always perished by the time we got them into water. I believe it's now against the law to gather wild flowers, or to take pebbles from the beach.

There are many other memories of the 1940s, being in the Brownies - I still have my metal Brownie badge; wearing fleecy-lined liberty bodices in the winter. I've no idea why they were called liberty bodices, they had tiny buttons made of rubber to save them being broken when they went through the wooden rollers of the mangle.

As the decade ended, the war had been over for five years; rationing was still in force, but my Spanish grandmother no longer had to register at her local police station as an 'Alien'. I was ten years old and the highlight of my life so far had been in December, 1945 when I was a bridesmaid at my Uncle Tony's wedding. As 1950 was ushered in, my little world was about to change.

I am indebted to various sources for these photographs. My apologies if any are subject to copyright, if necessary I will acknowledge and/or remove them.



  

A very special birthday present!

I celebrated a milestone birthday this year and got the best present ever from my long-suffering husband, another trip to the city which means so much to me - Santiago de Compostela. He's been with me on numerous trips over the past nineteen years but, having mobility problems as he awaits knee replacement surgery, he opted to stay at home this time. We have usually stayed in the city for a couple of nights either at the beginning or the end of a driving holiday. Over the years we've explored most of Galicia; Cantabria; the Picos de Europa; driven through Oviedo, Leon, Salamanca, Caceres, and down into Portugal. But on this trip I was going to be based entirely in Santiago for five nights. Initially intending to travel alone I was thrilled when my dear friend, Elizabeth, said she had always wanted to visit the city and would be more than happy to be my travelling companion. She is a seasoned traveller; I knew she would be happy to spend a couple of hours alone each morning while I did my research and, as an added bonus, she speaks Spanish!

We didn't have any luck finding two hotel rooms at short notice. One website stated that Santiago was 98% full, so we opted for a two-bedroomed apartment in a residential area about twenty minutes' walk from the Arquivo. I timed leaving the apartment so that I could stop for a coffee and pincho de tortilla before the office opened at 9.30am.

I have written about my connection to Santiago de Compostela in previous posts; it was my grandmother's birthplace and visits, however short, have always included time spent in the Arquivo Historico Diocesano, where I've solved some of the mysteries concerning my Spanish ancestors.

Over a number of years my contact at the archives has been Victor Camino. He is incredibly supportive, as are all the staff. I don't suppose they have many silver-haired elderly ladies from England researching their Galician roots! I think they appreciate my love of their city, of Galicia in general, and my sheer doggedness in returning time after time to uncover more pieces of the puzzle. Each time I visit Santiago I worry that it may be the last - this photo was taken on my visit in 2017, so this year's trip was a real bonus.

On my first day, I climbed the now familiar stone steps and, passing through two sets of incredibly heavy iron doors, gained access to the archive department. The original stone steps to the first floor have now been covered by a wooden staircase. There is even a lift - which I was using towards the end of my stay! A shiver of anticipation as I signed in and was allocated a desk in the research room. Would I discover anything new today?

With more time in the city than usual I was able to split my research into four, two-hour blocks. The search method in the arquivo has evolved over the years. Each volume is listed on the department's computers; baptisms, marriages and deaths in the various parishes covering certain spans of years - for example, if you want to look in the ledger for baptisms in the parish of Santa Maria del Camino for the year 1850, there will be a volume number which you enter on a slip of paper and one of the archivists will bring that particular volume to your desk. You are usually limited to three volumes at any one time. They are heavy, very fragile, often tied with tape, and their pages are stiff with age. I found it physically, mentally and emotionally impossible to sit and concentrate for more than two hours at a time.

Oh, the relief when you open a volume and find that the priest, writing hundreds of years ago, had a good, legible style and the ink stands out almost as clear today as it did when he originally took up his pen. And the sinking feeling when the priest's writing is barely readable, written in almost invisible ink! My limited Spanish is not much of a drawback at this stage of the research as the names are written in the margins of the ledger and you soon get used to translating the dates and the general gist of the document. I have mentioned in previous posts that baptism certificates in particular are a treasure trove of information, giving not only the name of the child but the exact time and place of birth, the names of both parents and both sets of grandparents, often with their occupations, and their parishes. This is invaluable in confirming that you have the correct ancestor before you order the certificate, especially since the spellings of family names are not always uniform; Vilarelle may be spelt Vilarello, Morana can become Moran, or Morano. It may have been that the relative registering the event wasn't totally literate. There are also many entries which make sad reading, where the baby's father is 'incognito' - or where the euphemism 'born on the pavement' is used.

It isn't necessary to visit the archives in person. Many family historians would find it difficult to travel from abroad, especially from the Latin American countries, to where many Galicians emigrated, but it is possible to fill in an application form online. If you know the parish and an approximate date, the archivists will search within a five-year period. Obviously, this is very time-consuming and you may have a long wait to receive a certificate. On this trip it took me eight hours to find four certificates. It's not just a question of finding the relevant document, typed copies then have to be prepared for the researcher - a task that must be a great strain on the eyesight.

In the past couple of years the advice of genealogist Daniel Smith Ramos has been invaluable in breaking down brick walls and solving mysteries on my family history journey. He has an excellent blog on https://the genealogycorner.wordpress.com, full of excellent advice for family history addicts. We initially made contact through twitter and despite the almost fifty-year disparity in our ages Daniel has become a good friend. We met up in person at the 'Who Do You Think You Are?' event in Birmingham in 2017 and since then have met twice in Santiago de Compostela and again in Birmingham this summer at:

where I also met up again with Sonia, another twitter friend whose detective work solved the mysteries in my Spanish grandfather's life.

But nothing quite compares to that feeling of excitement when you discover something for yourself; when your finger hovers over the margin of a page and a family name jumps out at you - when you feel like punching the air and shouting 'Yes!' You don't of course, silence has to be observed.

Before I flew home from Santiago I requested copies of four documents, at ten euros each, to be sent by post. Had I been staying in the city longer they would have been ready to pick up within a couple of days. The typewritten copies are much easier for me to translate and I'm thrilled that I now have the marriage certificate of my great-great-grandparents on my grandfather's side, which also gives the names of my 3xgreat-grandparents.

 

My trip this year wasn't just about more research. Not only did Elizabeth and I have plenty of time to immerse ourselves in the sights, sounds - and tastes - of my grandmother's birthplace, it was also a wonderful opportunity to meet up with dear friends. Anyone who has read Chasing Shadows will know that I met Nicola when she was spending her school holidays with her Galician father's family in a small village that by a strange coincidence has my grandmother's family name. Although Nicola was only fifteen at the time, we have kept in touch over the years. We were guests at her wedding to Antonio in Spain in 2007 and they are now the proud parents of two beautiful daughters. We have been welcomed into their home on many occasions and also spent time with Nicola's parents in Spain and in London. They now feel part of my extended Spanish family and I was thrilled to be able to introduce Elizabeth to them when we all met up in Santiago for Sunday lunch on our first full day in the city. It was also very appropriate that the restaurant was on the Rua San Pedro - the street where so many of my ancestors lived.

Late that afternoon, we were making our way back to our apartment when we came across an orchestra playing in one of the squares and stood immersed in the atmosphere and music.

 

On previous visits I've been disappointed to find the church of San Pedro Apostol closed and wondered if perhaps a shortage of priests meant it was no longer in use. On Monday afternoon we walked past the church and into the Calzada de San Pedro so that I could show Elizabeth the house where my great-grandfather had lived with his parents and siblings. Just as we paused outside the house, the door opened and an elderly woman came out onto the street. In all the times I'd stood outside that house this had never happened before. Had I been on my own I woudn't have trusted my basic Spanish enough to speak to her but it was surely fate that on this one occasion Elizabeth was with me. She explained why I was interested in the house and we learned that the woman's family had lived there for forty-seven years. I could hardly believe my luck when she also told us that the church would be open for mass the following evening.

Tuesday was a busy day. After my research session we took the train to Coruna. I don't know if it's true of the rest of Spain, but certainly in Galicia the Renfe and the railway stations are a shining example of rail travel at its best. No trip to Coruna, however short, is complete without a visit to the Torre de Hercules. On this occasion pouring rain somewhat spoilt the view from the base of the tower and, some nineteen years older than on my first visit, I didn't feel up to repeating the feat of climbing all those steps to the top. Despite the bad weather the view of the tower as we approached it up the long walkway was awe-inspiring.

When we returned to Santiago the rain had stopped and we walked from the station through one of the city's beautiful parks, exiting in the square right opposite my ancestors' church - and the door was open:

at last I would be able to go inside!

We slipped into a pew at the rear of the church. Despite my mother's nationality and religion, I was not brought up a Catholic, yet there was something in the atmosphere that made me very emotional. It may sound fanciful, but it was as though the physical presence of my forebears in that small space, over hundreds of years, the highs and lows of their lives, had somehow permeated the walls. I was imagining my grandmother's parents standing in front of the altar at 5.30pm on Christmas Eve almost a hundred and forty years ago as they exchanged their marriage vows. Gran was three years old and her mother was seven months pregnant with her second child. Why did it take them so long to decide to marry since they were both of age? That is what is so tantalising about genealogy, we can discover facts but in most cases motives elude us.

The priest seemed amiable and although I could only understand a few words of his sermon, I recognised that he was preaching love and tolerance. I was overcome with emotion and before the service was over I was trying to stifle my sobs. You have to be a very good friend not to be embarrassed in that situation and Elizabeth stood the test! As the service ended, she asked me if I'd like to speak to the priest and I dried my eyes and nodded. A couple of members of the congregation had stayed behind, observing us with good-natured curiosity as we waited for the priest to emerge from the vestry. Elizabeth spoke to him and I showed him the copy of my great-grandparents' marriage certificate. He was genuinely interested in my story, reading through the document carefully and taking time to show us around the church. He told us that it was just as it would have been all those years ago, except that the font where many of my grandmother's siblings were baptised had been moved to the front of the church from its original position at the rear.

As Elizabeth and I walked back to our apartment, after dinner and a couple of glasses of wine, I recalled some of the stories my mother had passed on to me in my childhood about my grandmother's life in Santiago. Crossing the square we could hear the sound of music coming from the colonnades opposite the cathedral. How could we not investigate? We were about to experience the music of Tuna de Derecho de Santiago de Compostela. A very lively hour followed, the music was foot-tappingly good, the crowd happy and friendly as we sang along - when we could - clapping and cheering. As we left, I bought their CD and listening to it brings back happy memories of our trip.

The following day was extra special as two of my cousins - who had found me on facebook in 2017 - had arranged to travel into Santiago from their home town of A Estrada. We met in front of the cathedral and spent the next couple of hours in a coffee shop poring over my family tree, and copies of obituaries and marriage announcements which Daniel had found for me in newspaper archives. Soledad and Antonio are related to me through my grandmother's family, our great-grandfathers were brothers. Although we have only met twice I feel we share a special bond, and they are a link back through the years to my Little Granny, Micaela.

Elizabeth and I flew home the next day, exhausted but exhilarated. When my certificates arrived I was thrilled with the accompanying email from Victor commenting that the staff at the arquivo believe my "effort and tenacity" to discover my Galician roots make me an "authentic native of Santiago"! I hope Micaela would approve.



Acknowledgement: The photograph of the inside of the Arquivo was downloaded from their website.

Dirk Bogarde 1921 to 1999

It is twenty years since Dirk Bogarde died, on 8th May 1999. I had been a 'fan' since I was 15 years old, although I believe he would have hated the word 'fan'. I was out of the country the day he died; I was drinking champagne in France, celebrating my approaching 60th birthday. Quite fitting, since Bogarde's happiest years had been spent living in France, and the afternoon before his death in London he had also been drinking champagne in the company of Lauren Bacall.

Dirk Bogarde was born Derek Van den Bogaerde on 28th March 1921. His father was a journalist and his mother had been an actress, until she had to choose between her career or marriage and motherhood. The first film of his that I remember going to see was Doctor in the House, made in 1954. He was then 33 - although he looked much younger - and his dark good looks made him the darling of the box office throughout the series of Doctor movies. Like many young girls in the 1950s I used to write to fan clubs for autographed photographs of my favourite film stars; we also waited outside the stage doors of theatres until the popular singers of the day made an appearance and signed autograph books, or handed out signed photos. This was, of course, in the pre-Beatle era of huge crowds of screaming teenage girls. Over a couple of years, I acquired a number of these autographed photographs, including Margaret Lockwood; Jean Simmons; one signed To Joan by Lonnie Donnegan, whom I met in a record shop in Dale Street, Liverpool; and one signed by David Whitfield when he appeared at the Liverpool Empire in The Red Shadow - he also kissed my hand! But my favourite was always the one of Dirk. I've kept these photos in a large envelope for over 60 years, it's somewhere in our loft and now we've begun the task of de-cluttering the house we've lived in for 57 years, I'm hoping it will emerge some time soon!

One of Dirk's early films that I have good reason to remember was A Tale of Two Cities (1958). I saw it on a first date with the boy I later married. The opening shot showed Bogarde as Sidney Carton, slumped in a coach, white with exhaustion, on his way to the guillotine - sacrificing his life for love of a woman. By this time in his career I was so besotted that I couldn't help a small, quiet scream escaping. Even after all these years, my husband swears that my scream was neither small, nor quiet, and our first date was almost our last!

It is clear from Dirk Bogarde's autobiographies that although those early Doctor films were huge box office successes, he did not find them fulfilling. He believed that films should "Disturb, educate, illuminate" and he began to turn down 'commercial' films which he felt would compromise this belief. The films which followed, among which were Doctor's Dilemma in 1958 (which audiences were startled to find was not another in the Doctor series), Victim (1961), The Servant (1963) and Death in Venice (1970), became, in Bogarde's own words "...by and large, critical successes but box office failures".

Throughout his career in film and on the stage, Bogarde's manager and constant companion was Anthony Forwood. When they first met, just before World War II, Forwood was married to Glynis Johns and they had a young son, Gareth. Following their divorce, Forwood and Johns remained close friends and Forwood was to live with Bogarde in England, Italy and France, enjoying what Bogarde described as "a fifty-year-old friendship", until Forwood's death in their London home in the 1980s. By this time, Bogarde had given up on the film industry and he had spent most of his time in France, writing. I came to appreciate his writing, as earlier I had come to appreciate his change of direction in film. Simple phrases such as "Toothbrushes huddled in a tumbler like old men at a wedding" and "...she used words as if they cost her money..." delighted me.

Although Bogarde's autobiographical writings told of early romances - falling in and out of love at the drop of a hat; being head over heels in love with the film star Capucine when he was 38 and living with Forwood - John Coldstream, in his official biography of Bogarde, quoted Sheila Attenborough as saying "Dirk imagined his life". At 15 I knew nothing of the ambiguity surrounding Bogarde's sexuality and anyway, my day-dreams didn't go any further than wanting to meet him in person, to admire those dark, brooding good looks close up rather than on the screen. 

In the early 1990s, I fulfilled that lifetime's ambition. For a couple of years, Bogarde had been on the theatre circuit with a one-man show in which he talked to his audience about his career in film and his life as a writer, and I saw him at The Royal Exchange in Manchester. He was a witty, slightly acerbic speaker who, quite rightly, refused to be drawn on matters concerning his private life, although he did mention that many of his female fans sent him gifts of ties - which he found quite puzzling! At the end of the talk he was signing copies of his books. I stood in line, hands trembling, a knot of excitement in my stomach. After all those years of day-dreaming about meeting him, I was about to shake his hand. When my opportunity came to speak to him, I told him I was a mature student studying for a BA(Hons), my next module covered Autobiography and I asked if I could write to him. He was charming, said "Yes, of course", and wished me luck as he signed my copy of A Postilion Struck by Lightning.

I never did write to him, I suppose I was afraid he was just being polite and there was no chance of his replying. Having since read Ever, Dirk - The Bogarde Letters, (Edited by John Coldstream) I realise that he was an inveterate letter-writer. His letters are a fascinating read, with no regard for spelling or grammar, acerbic, often very un-politically correct, but showing great love and loyalty towards family and friends. Had I written to him, I may just have had another letter to add to the book.

Looking back, I have mixed feelings about meeting the man I'd idolised for most of my life. Should I have left the theatre directly after the talk? I was now past middle-age and I shook hands, not with the dashing, handsome film star of my youth, but with a small, elderly man of 72. Perhaps some dreams are better left unfulfilled. However, there is still enough of the 'fan' in me to make me an avid reader of such books as John Coldstream's excellent authorised biography. 

Bogarde's own letters, Ever, Dirk, edited by Coldstream, chronicle all the highs and lows of his and Forwood's life in France, their enforced return to London where Forwood died from cancer and Parkinson's disease, and Bogarde's own spiralling health problems.  

Coldstream's biography gives a fascinating insight into the life of this very complex man, beginning with a description of how Dirk's mother turned up at the nursing home where she was to give birth, "her lipstick smudged, her hat askew and a perceptible whiff of alcohol on her breath"! So, yes, on balance I wish I'd taken the chance of corresponding with Bogarde about his autobiographical writings, and perhaps had the opportunity to discover more about the enigma that was Dirk Bogarde the man, rather than day-dream about Dirk Bogarde the film star. 

Grandmothers

 

Browsing the racks of birthday and Christmas cards in shops we can see the variations of 'titles' given to grandmothers. I wonder if there are regional differences - is it only in Liverpool that they are called Nin? Though I have yet to see this on a card. None of my friends' grandchildren call them Grandmother; Grandma isn't unusual, although Nan, Nanny, or Nana are more common. Or maybe that's just in the north? I have known a couple of families where children called their grandparents Mother and Father, which always puzzled me. Both my grandfathers died before I was born so the question of what to call them never arose, and there are fewer variations on the card racks, most of them are to 'Grandad' - usually with only one 'd', rather than 'Granddad'.

When I was a child, most of my friends called their grandmothers Gran, or Granny.
I called my dad's mother 'Big Granny' - although she was probably only about 5'2" tall - because my mum's mother was only 4'9" and was therefore 'Little Granny'! My two grandmothers couldn't have been more different and inter-family relationships were never cordial. The two women, linked by the marriage of their son and daughter, never met. Neither attended the wedding, in Little Granny's case probably because it wasn't taking place in a Catholic church. I was told Big Granny didn't know her son was marrying 'a foreigner' and a Catholic at that, until after the register office ceremony when my dad took his new wife home to meet his mother!

Little Granny was a Spanish Catholic and didn't speak English despite living in Liverpool for almost fifty years. Having brought up three children in the city, I can only surmise that her lack of English was a conscious attempt to hang on to her Spanish identity. She died at the age of 71, when I was only ten years old. I have written extensively about her life in Spain and Liverpool in Chasing Shadows but have never put my memories of Big Granny down on paper, so perhaps it's time to redress the balance slightly.

Little Granny

Big Granny was Welsh Chapel and lived to the ripe old age of 92, by which time I was in my early thirties and she was great-grandmother to my three children. She lived in a large, old house at the junction of two cobbled streets in Bootle, Merseyside. The front door opened onto a small, sooty garden, the side door onto a cobbled yard surrounded by a high brick wall, topped with the standard security measure of the time in that area - broken glass set in concrete! At the furthest corner of the yard stood the brick-built lavatory that was, quite literally, to prove the death of my grandmother in her 93rd year.

Big Granny's house was stuffed full of furniture and knick-knacks, the floors hidden beneath rag rugs made from long-forgotten garments, the walls covered with pictures, photographs and framed embroideries. As you entered the long, gloomy hall, with its high ceiling and dark walls, the first door on the left led into the front parlour. The door to this room was kept locked. It was the room where one of my aunts had died, aged 27, after contracting rheumatic fever - reputedly due to sleeping in cold, damp barns during her stint in the Land Army during World War II. Years later, when I was in my early teens and taking piano lessons, Granny would - on very rare occasions - unlock this door and give me permission to play the huge Canadian organ that stood against one wall. I was always left alone in the room, sitting on a high stool, feet barely able to reach to pump the pedals, trying to coax a wheezing tune from its depths. Conscious of the privilege I'd been granted, there was also the niggling awareness that somehow I was invading a hallowed space. I felt like apologising to the smiling woman in the black-edged photograph who looked down on me as I played.

It was the room next door - the kitchen - that was the hub of family life. Of course, the kitchen wasn't strictly a kitchen, despite the black-leaded range, since all the cooking and baking took place in the 'back-kitchen', or scullery.

I was fascinated by these fire-dogs when I was a child.

Known in the family as 'the Dutch boy and girl', they stood

either side of the black-leaded range and

were rescued by a cousin and lovingly

restored before Big Granny's house was demolished.

My most vivid memory of the kitchen on my Sunday visits, is that it was nearly always full of men - Big Granny's sons, my dad amongst them - swapping yarns, smoking, drinking tea and eating home-made fruit loaf. I can still see Granny quite clearly, bustling around the room, cutting more bread, replenishing cups of tea, while joining in the banter - she looked like a story-book grandma, glasses perched on the end of her nose, her ample, 'cottage-loaf' figure topped by a bun of thick grey hair that, when I was a child, was still streaked with auburn.

None of the married sons brought their wives to these Sunday afternoon get-togethers. One son never married and still lived at home - an engagement came to a disappointing end while he was in the army during the war. An unmarried daughter also lived at home and a married daughter who lived next door would pop round - minus her husband - and the two sisters would try to make themselves heard above the general din. Often, someone was playing the piano, there was a piano in the kitchen as well as an organ in the parlour. The air was always thick with smoke, two uncles smoked pipes, the others - and my aunts - smoked cigarettes. With hindsight, it isn't surprising that they all died well before their allotted span, what is surprising is that sadly, Big Granny lived on long enough to see most of her children buried.

So, what was I doing during these visits, apart from my occasional forays into the front parlour? I don't remember my cousins, or my older siblings, being there at the same time as me. Was I the centre of attention then - with fond uncles and aunts patting me on the head, asking how I was doing at school, congratulating me on passing the 11-plus? Well, no. To all intents and purposes I was invisible. The old adage 'children should be seen and not heard' still held good in the 1940s/50s. Big Granny would absent-mindedly pass me a piece of fruit loaf from time to time and when I was leaving put a shilling in my hand and smile, as if a little surprised that I was still there. If I visited without my dad, when none of the uncles were there, the situation hardly changed. I still sat in silence, but in a quiet, dull room, listening to Big Granny's knitting needles clicking and clacking; my aunt wheezing as she lit yet another cigarette, while the tiny bird in the cuckoo clock ticked off each endless quarter-hour as it sprang out of its little door.

There was never a cuddle from Big Granny, even when I was little. Birthdays passed without notice, and sadly I have no idea whether she was fond of me or not. Even when the house was full, I felt more alone in the midst of this large, close-knit family than I ever was in my Spanish grandmother's house. For there, despite the language barrier, I knew I was loved.

It is only recently, having spent years researching my Spanish side of the family, that I have learned more about my Welsh grandmother's life. My father rarely spoke about his childhood and never mentioned his own grandparents. It wouldn't surprise me if I now know more about them than he did, especially my Welsh great-grandmother, who died before he was born. Did he know that she was married three times in three years? Mary was thirty when she married for the first time and she was widowed five months later. Within a couple of months she had remarried but was widowed again after only two years, left with a young son. Less than a year later she was already married to my great-grandfather - a widower with two young sons - and they had a daughter, my grandmother. Two more daughters and a son followed, but by the time my gran was sixteen, her mother had died aged only 49.

 My great-grandmother

I never formed a close bond with Big Granny, I was fond of her, but she always seemed rather 'distant'; uncovering all this information about her family background has led me to think of her more sympathetically. I've yet to research how my great-grandmother died, whether she was ill for a long time, but eventually it must have fallen to my gran to bring up three younger siblings. Her brother was only four when their mother died and was still living with her at the time of the 1911 census, when he was 20 and she was married with three sons aged from four to seven. In all, Big Granny had twelve children, three of whom died in infancy, and by the time the grandchildren came along perhaps she'd had enough of kids!

Her long life came to an abrupt end, she didn't linger with a debilitating illness. It was November, bitterly cold, and the yard, and therefore the route to the outside 'lav' was frozen over. Granny slipped on the ice but picked herself up and didn't tell anyone. It was a couple of days later when a married daughter, who had come to stay because her sister was terminally ill in hospital, noticed that her mother was having difficulty dressing herself. Persuaded into admitting what had happened, the doctor was called and discovered she had a broken collar-bone. For the first time in her long life, Granny was admitted to hospital and 'slipped away' six hours later, just three weeks before her daughter died from lung cancer.

I don't have special Christmas memories of either of my grandmothers. I was never taken on outings or had my photograph taken with them, but perhaps that had more to do with the times we were living in. My own children, born in the 1960s/70s, loved, and were loved by, their grandparents and have many happy memories. Now Christmas 2018 has just passed and over the holiday period we've had fun with our own four lovely grandchildren, who call me 'Nanny'. Although they live a couple of hundred miles away, we spend as much time as possible with them, in our home and theirs, and on holiday. I hope that in years to come, when we're long gone, they will have happy memories of the times we've spent together, that they will know how much they were loved, and how precious they were to us.

That is the best legacy we can leave them.

Image from Pixabay