Cobbled Streets and Penny Sweets--Happy Times and Hardship in Post-War Britain

by Yvonne Young

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Becoming a Beat and Digging the Bands

  Reggie’s shop stood on the corner of Buddle Road and Maria Street. He ran the newsagent’s and tobacconist with his wife Elsie. The couple had two sons: Johnny, who was older and off doing his own thing, and Peter, who was my age and part of a band called The Bluenotes, who practised in the cellar of the shop. Joe was the guitarist and an excellent musician. Dave Anderson, one of the pals we hung around with, was chatting to the band one day when he stepped back and as he fell, snapped the neck of Joe’s guitar. Dave was mortified that he had caused such damage and still talks about it to this day. Joe prefers not to think about it. Lads were desperate to become a member of the band and the proviso was to own a musical instrument so this was naturally devastating. A lad called Tom turned up one day: his instrument had suffered a broken neck, which was held together with a massive nail. He was bitterly disappointed as this didn’t cut it to become a band member. I wonder where he got that guitar from?

  The Bluenotes played all sorts of genres and we loved to listen to them practise. We would sit on the steps discussing the music of the era, who liked The Beatles better than The Stones and who was in the Pop Parade for that week. A curious practice adopted by lads only was to walk around the streets with an LP under one arm, the cover clearly on show: Rubber Soul or The Rolling Stones No. 2. Meanwhile, the lasses sang their favourites, usually with a transistor radio clamped to one ear. Of course, I no longer had my lovely Sobell.

  Other odd habits adopted by the lads included placing a comb up the sleeve of their shirts and once they discovered the use of sachets of shampoo, they would carry one around to show folks what they would be washing their hair with that night. Vosene was considered OK, but with a strong smell, while Supersoft was the cheapie.

  I couldn’t afford to be fashionable but I did own a pair of bell-bottom jeans and a duffle coat, which classified me as a Beat. I went around in plimsolls (known as ‘sand shoes’). This resulted in athlete’s foot and I was sent to the doctor, who prescribed a dusting powder. But I stuck with my footwear of choice and attempted to customise to make it more fashionable. There was a bottle of correction fluid in the house so I painted the ridged toes and edgings around the soles. This caused much hilarity from more affluent kids who lived out of the area, who came to hang out in Benwell, but I didn’t care.

  Jean, Marian and Brenda were in the duffle-coat brigade too so we sort of gravitated towards each other and we all liked The Stones, so that sealed the deal.

  I had known Jean since I was five years of age as she lived opposite in Maria Street. Her mother was very glamorous and worked as a barmaid in various pubs along Scotswood Road, the Cushie Butterfield, Old Hall Social Club and Joan Street Club. When she left pub work, she worked on the bread-and-cake stand in Woolworths. Her dad was an ex-miner: he had been involved in an accident at work and subsequently was less active and had put on a lot of weight. He used to wear a huge woollen overcoat, which stuck out in front of him. One day, he was standing on the corner when a lad from Scotswood shouted ‘I am a Dalek!’ and in spite of his condition, he gave a good chase and nearly caught the lad. People didn’t stand for being the butt of jokes in our area, they had pride. Jean’s dad kept a pigeon loft at the Panyards on top of a hill and he offered her brother a shilling to clean it out. Jean used to go along too, but he always said, ‘You can’t wear that flairy [flouncy] frock in here, go home and put something proper on.’

  She loved to shake the seed tin to call the birds back and took great pride in clocking them in after a race. They had a baby hen, which they called Jiffy after Jiffy the Broomstick Man on the Twizzle TV show. I can still recall the signature tune.

  In Jean’s house there was always music: an uncle had a banjo and used to play in a pub in town. He usually carried on the show on the bus home to entertain passengers, bus driver and conductor.

  Jean was a flirtatious blonde with a twinkling smile. She looked and acted like Bette Midler. Marian was shy and pretty. Lads fancied her, but she wound up getting pregnant to a wrong ’un called Norman. Brenda was the youngest child in her family with four brothers who were considerably older. As such, and being the only girl, she was brought up very strictly. Brenda was also a brilliant swimmer – she won cups for the school at the Northern Counties competitions. She was tough and no lass would tackle her, no lad for that matter. Helen was always courting some lad or other. She was very beautiful with long black hair, but it was always thick with nits.

  Mind you, we all suffered this complaint from time to time and unlike today, when the teacher simply sends a note home to all parents and an odourless foam can be applied, a horrible soap and lotion called Derbac was used back then and everyone knew you had the little blighters in your hair as it stunk like creosote. Mam used to vice me between her legs over a sheet of newspaper and scraped my head within an inch of its life. She thoroughly enjoyed finding and capturing a nit or a ‘dickie’ (adult louse) so that she could crack it with her fingernail against the comb. My scalp was red-raw by the time she was done. I couldn’t wait for her to finish so that I could run outside again.

  * * *

  There were around fifteen of us standing on the corner outside Reggie’s one day when we saw Mrs Dean from along the road rush past us with her pram and young baby, her husband in hot pursuit. He was a squaddie who was always absconding from his barracks. He was shouting at her to come back and hurling abuse. As they passed us, we were saying what a bully he was. He got a couple of more yards, then turned on his heel, elbows out and fists at the ready. We all scarpered to the four winds and didn’t come out again until after teatime. When we did, we saw a covered wagon blasting down his street. As half a dozen privates jumped out and manhandled him into the back of the vehicle, a cheer went up.

  Nearly everyone from the surrounding streets used Reggie’s shop. They had three cats, who all loved to sit on the newspapers, so when you wanted to buy one you had to shift a cat along. We bought a quarter of this and a quarter of that, four Fruit Salad chews or four Black Jacks, a penny Dainty bar or two. I tried Caramac chocolate when it was first introduced, but didn’t like that. A lovely bar called Bliss had whole hazelnuts lined up along a ridge of milk chocolate, but unfortunately, it didn’t last long and was withdrawn from sale. There were lucky bags, Craven Mints and Merry Maid mints. I loved the sherbet dips, which had a length of liquorice inside, or Flying Saucers, also filled sherbet but sealed within rice paper.

  We had our newspapers delivered to the house and I sometimes took a few of them to the local chip shop in return for a free bag of chips. They were put onto greaseproof paper, then wrapped in a kind of roll within the newspaper. If the papers weren’t exchanged for chips, they would be cut up into squares and hung by string on a hook in the ‘netty’ (outdoor toilet). Nothing was wasted.

  There were many shops along Buddle Road: a butcher’s, cobbler’s, Laws Stores, a wool shop and a little general dealer. A woman called Bella had a tiny little place which sold sweets, paraffin, mothballs and all kinds. Sometimes if you were in the shop, she went behind a curtain to have a pee in a bucket.

  ‘Mind, don’t you steal anything, I can still see you.’

  The Post Office had excellent displays of toys in the window, which you could pay for weekly until Christmas. We rubbed our noses up against the window, playing a game called ‘I Bogs’. This meant that you shouted out which toys you wanted. The postmistress was none too pleased to have scruffy kids soiling her window with snot and handprints so we were chased. The red box stood outside and one day, as I approached, I noticed six children holding onto each other in a line behind it. They were attempting to avoid a kid who hung out of his bedroom window, trying to take pot shots at them with an air rifle.

  A new family came to the road to set up shop. They moved into what used to be an old Co-op, which sold mainly fruit and vegetables, cheese and other foodstuffs. They were Pakistani, and the first in our area, so inevita
bly, there was a lot of interest.

  Jean was a terror of a lass and she went into the shop asking for tartan paint or stripy thread. One day, we were standing outside looking at the display of fruit and veg through the window. I feel ashamed to say now that we were making fun of a spelling mistake: banana had as many n’s and a’s in it.

  ‘Bannannannnnna!’ we shouted.

  I was suddenly aware of a tall person standing next to me: it was Arif, the shopkeeper’s son. He just stared at me while eating an orange. As I looked up at him, he spat the pip out onto my cheek. I thought this was hilarious and from then on, we got on like a house on fire. He let us sit on his motorbike, which he kept outside the shop.

  It took a little longer for Jean to get on friendly terms with him, partly because of her aggravating nature. She held onto the freestanding bubblegum machine which stood outside the front of the shop, shook it so that the bubblegums bounced around, while singing ‘Not Fade Away’ by The Stones – she was using it as a maraca. When Arif came belting out of the shop, she threw the machine down and the bubblegums were all over the pavement. Jean took off down the back lane, but he chased after her all the way down Greenhow Place onto Scotswood Road – we couldn’t believe that he didn’t give up, because Jean could run.

  She also madly fancied Dave Anderson, who used to hang about with Bob Barton and Tom Locky. Each time Dave appeared, Jean would scream, ‘Dave, Dave, ah, yar gorgeous!’ He was terrified of her as she ran after him to grab and cuddle him wherever he went. It was just like a fan chasing The Beatles. But she soon got to know what this was like when a new lad called Phil started hanging around the concrete train where we hung out and he chased her in the same manner – it wasn’t so appealing then.

  There were no mobile phones in those days so kids chatted about this and that. Dave talked about when he was a kid and they found a stash of World War II Land Army helmets. He put a large box into his haversack, pretending that it was a radio, and wore one of the helmets. Then he turned the sitting-room chairs on their sides so they looked like the front of a landing craft:

  ‘May Day, May Day, Mother approaching!’

  We also used to chat about the latest programmes on TV and if anyone had a set and their parents were out, everyone congregated at their place.

  We clanned around the concrete park on Buddle Road. It’s possible that the council were put off installing anything of a wooden nature after the swings and roundabout were used on the bonfire so a brick maize was constructed as well as a massive concrete train. My cousin Tom had worked on the structure when he was sixteen. He said that the funnel was part of an old sewer pipe and other parts recycled as part of an environmental project. The whole thing was rendered with concrete held in place with huge wooden frames.

  After a really heavy downpour of rain a massive area of the park caved in to reveal a disused and blocked-off air-raid shelter. Some kids went in there, but I was always scared by dark spaces after living in our spooky house, so I didn’t venture in.

  * * *

  Me, jean, Brenda, Marian and Helen went to the Majestic dance hall every Saturday afternoon, dancing to all the latest hits on record, and the resident band, Rue and the Rockets, played. We liked their songs, but they were a bit old-fashioned for us now as they wore gold lamé suits and had quiffs in their hair. Sometimes there were other live bands on and we went along: The Small Faces, Herman’s Hermits, The Pretty Things… We thought we were so cool, we used phrases such as ‘That’s fab’ and ‘It’s groovy’. We picked up the Jackie magazine, which gave step-by-step instructions for new dance crazes, and danced around our handbags.

  One Saturday, while hanging about outside Reggie’s, someone had a bright idea that we should all go camping. There was no mention of tents or sleeping bags, only that we would say we were sleeping at a friend’s house for that night. I told my folks that I would be staying at Marian’s, Jean and Brenda said they would be staying at mine. Around twelve of us hooked up to travel to our destination. I wasn’t listening to where that would be until we eventually arrived in a field – we could have been in Aberdeen for all I knew – but it was actually only a couple of miles away in Lemington. It was the middle of November and freezing cold, pitch-black and lord knows why I agreed to go. Two lasses who weren’t from Benwell, but had tagged along with a couple of local lads for the camping trip, decided to go for a walk.

  Next thing we knew, police were swarming the field, rounding us up. These lasses had a candle and sought shelter inside a stone bus shelter in the village. They were sitting around the flame when a police car turned up. Of course, they told where the rest of us were. We were taken in vans to the station. The five of us and these two numpties were questioned by a female officer. She didn’t believe us when we said that we were just hanging around with mates.

  ‘I know what your sort of girls are. I can have you all medically examined, you know. Tell me why you were there.’

  At this I flew off and was shouting she couldn’t say that to us, I was going to bring my dad down to see her, how dare she say that! I couldn’t speak for any of the others, who were telling me to shut up.

  ‘I hope you realise you all have a police record now,’ she snapped, but she didn’t carry out her threat of an examination. Not that it mattered to me as I hadn’t been up to anything, but I often wonder if that was the reason for the attempts to gag me.

  Because us five lived within walking distance of each other we were taken home in the same car. It was about three in the morning and Brenda was first to be dropped off. We sat in the car while the policeman knocked on her door. The light came on and shone through the fanlight, her mother opened the door, took one look at the officer and brayed Brenda up against the wall. The policeman was totally shocked.

  ‘No, Missus, she hasn’t done anything wrong, she… Please don’t hit her…’

  ‘Never mind you, get out of my way!’

  Brenda was pulled indoors and we heard the screams from behind her door. It took the policeman a few minutes to adjust to what he had just witnessed before he finally drove off.

  ‘Where to next?’

  He set Jean down at the top of her street and waited until she went in. I knew that Marian would probably get the same treatment as Brenda so I said, ‘She’s staying at my house tonight.’

  When we got to my place I walked up the stone steps and pretended to knock at the door, thinking he would drive off and we could sit in the outside toilet until daytime. But, no, he waited until he saw me actually knock and the light went on in the hallway. Mam was her usual bedraggled, half-baked self at this time in the morning.

  ‘There’s a party at Marian’s house,’ I said, ‘and we couldn’t get any sleep so we’ve come here.’

  No questions asked, the policeman drove off, doubtless relieved to see that no action was taken. Poor Brenda was kept in for a fortnight and us three got away with it.

  * * *

  We began going to a boys’ club called Grainger Park in Elswick. The building had been an old pub called The Vulcan, which stood on the corner of Scotswood Road. Two older lads, Ernie and Ronnie, ran it. There was a tuck shop, snooker tables, music and a basement hall, with a boxing ring, where local fighters such as Paddy Power trained. No space for dancing, but lots of comfy old chairs, where we just hung out, chatting. The place was closed on Sundays, so it was a surprise to me and Jean to see all of the lights on and the front doors wide open.

  One day, we went inside and at the top of the stairs Ernie jumped out, wielding a knife. We nearly jumped out of our skins. What the hell was he doing? Breathlessly, he explained that they had been sorting some camping gear out for a forthcoming trip, only the two of them in the building. When they turned the lights off, they heard footsteps coming up the back stairs from the lower hall. As all the rooms were checked and secured, they imagined someone must have broken in as they were leaving, so they opened the inner doors and ran downstairs, but there was nobody there. This was repeated half a doz
en times with the same results.

  ‘Really?’ we said.

  ‘OK, well, you’ll see… Come on downstairs to check the place with us.’

  ‘There must be someone there, surely?’

  The four of us checked every lock, searched every corner and cupboard, then went back upstairs. Me and Jean stood behind the counter in the tuck shop while Ernie and Ronnie negotiated their way through the snooker tables towards the back of the room and switched off the lights. I could see why Ernie freaked out with his knife. Once more the thump of footsteps slowly ascended, then suddenly stopped at the other side of the door. We didn’t hang about for this to happen again!

  The club was soon to be moved to Scotswood and the old building pulled down. We went along to see the bulldozers move in. Ernie and Ronnie were climbing on the remains afterwards – a huge pile of bricks, all that was left of our beloved meeting place.

  * * *

  More changes were looming. My parents applied to a private landlord and secured a two-bedroom downstairs flat on Hampstead Road. Mam’s friend Irene made viewing properties her hobby so she was there to pass judgement at the first viewing, much to Dad’s annoyance. Not one to be put off by his mutting and tutting, she strode through each room commenting on where furniture should be placed. It was practice at this time for families to arrange an ‘exchange’ with another family. If they lived in a three-bed place and wanted to downsize, they more or less arranged it between themselves. One of the officers once explained to me that in a time before computers, when an area was marked for demolition, a map was put up on the Housing Office wall. It showed all the streets and each house was categorised by colours. Pink was for rented properties owned by landlords and unfit for habitation, white was owned by the council and grey was an owner-occupier.