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

by Yvonne Young

  ‘I was chatting to Mr Smith and I mentioned that the cleaner where I worked knew him. He said, “Oh, Mrs Black, yes, I know her.”’

  Mrs Black was furious with Susan.

  ‘You didn’t tell him I was a CLEANER! I don’t clean, I supervise them.’

  The solicitors recorded their voices onto tapes and their secretaries took the tapes to be played back on Grundig Stenorette T machines. After Susan left for a different job, a new secretary was employed. She was a hard worker, very fashionable and liked to wear bright blue eyeshadow, which covered her eyelids and continued up into the eyebrows. I went down to the basement with the dishes one day and nearly jumped out of my skin: she was washing her face, but hadn’t removed the eyeshadow first. She turned around as I entered and her whole face was blue!

  The poor lass had a distressing experience in her first week there: she dropped the tape reel on the floor as she was coming back from Johnson’s office and it bounced around, unravelling as it went. I can still see her sitting on the floor in floods of tears, attempting to roll it up as it just became more tangled.

  * * *

  During our breaks we looked out of the window towards Mosley Street. There were many banks, which also stretched to the other side on Collingwood Street, all of them pubs now. It was sad to see the meths drinkers stagger along, hoping for a handout from passing workers. One poor soul used to pull a piece of rope with a branch from a tree behind him and occasionally stopped to talk to it as if it was a pet dog. Another took an age to negotiate the smallest stretch of pathway, as every time someone passed him he stood to attention against the wall. It was a scary sight to see another, who always balanced by his heels on the path facing the busy traffic, rocking to and fro – we had to look away for fear that he would fall into the path of a passing car. They were all making their way to the Salvation Army Men’s Palace for a place to stay for the night – an invaluable service which has since closed down.

  We can’t know of the suffering these individuals endured but I guess some of them would have returned from service during the war and couldn’t come to terms with what they had witnessed. Many couldn’t adapt to family life as they considered everyday concerns to be minor compared to what they had been through and had been expected to kill others who had done no personal harm to them. And what if they suspected all of this was done in the name of arms deals or gold to line the pockets of the already super-rich, what then? How do you come to terms with that?

  A regular street man called Matty called into the Grainger Market to beg for money. The traders looked after him by sending him for change or messages and in return gave him food or cash. Matty had many nicknames – ‘The Count’, ‘The Penguin’, ‘The Toff’ – all because of his gait. He walked at ten to two, full of importance, and strode out swinging a cane, wearing his trilby hat and waistcoat, his hand in the pocket. At first, he wandered about seeking the odd coin and sometimes sang ‘Champagne Charlie’ as he danced, doffing his cap if a customer passed on a little change. He brought a jam jar filled with tea and occasionally took a drink and put the cap back on. Over time this practice changed and he began filling the jar with whisky. His story was that his brother had killed their mother and Matty took it so badly, he dropped out of conventional society. Inspectors in the market on occasion were forced to remove him onto the street after he became unreasonable. As the market has fourteen entrances this proved futile as they would pick him up, holding him against their chests, as he kicked out in front, drop him out of one door and he would simply saunter back in through another one.

  * * *

  There were some improvements to the solicitors’ office before I left to start work in a new job. A huge glass was installed between the waiting room and one client, while absentmindedly proceeding to Reception, banged smack into it while smoking his pipe. The whole stem was forced down his throat with a smash. I wondered if John might make the same mistake.

  For a short time, I worked as a junior at the Church Board of Finance on the corner of Grainger Park Road and the West Road. It was a huge rambling old house, which I think had previously been a vicarage. A lass called Anne was the typist and we shared a large room overlooking the back garden. The staff were very gentile, all church-goers and very reserved – all except Commander Vermeyden, who brought his little sausage dog called Captain Vermeyden to work with him. It sat on his desk and he fed it pieces of chicken. He always had a friendly word to say and drank his tea in his room in order to look after the dog.

  Anne typed on large sheets of carbon-like paper with little holes at the top. I hooked them onto a Gestetner machine, which had a huge drum. It was thick of ink and constantly had to be re-inked as there were hundreds of documents to go out to all the churches in the diocese. I tried each copy first to check there were no creases by turning the drum once with a handle at the side. When all was correct, I could set the machine away to run them off mechanically. We used every spare space on cabinets, floor, fireplace, etc. to spread out each pile of numbered pages and stapled them together.

  At lunchtimes we walked over the other side of the West Road to Carricks Bakery to buy pasties or cakes. Sometimes we called in to the Fish and Chippy on the corner of Wingrove Road but ate them outside as the smell wouldn’t have pleased some of the secretaries. At breaks, which were two each day, one at ten and the other at three, we all stood very uncomfortably inside the kitchen in a circle to drink tea from cups and saucers (I remembered not to pour it into the saucer!). There was no conversation, and if anyone tried to introduce a subject, usually about the weather, it was over within two sentences. I once bought a fake biscuit from a joke shop with the intention of improving the atmosphere. Peals of false laughter rang out, but nothing more was said. It wasn’t as successful when I placed a plastic dog poo in the centre of the room as they all accused the Commander’s little dog.

  I gave up on humour after that.

  * * *

  As I was earning a decent wage, I bought myself a new acrylic blue coat. It was fitted with a Peter Pan collar and I loved it. One cold morning, instead of hanging the coat on the stand, I placed it round the back of a chair, near a block storage heater. It must have been too close as it burned a hole in the fabric. I was really annoyed at myself for doing this, but Anne suggested that I could take the coat to Jackson the Tailor on Clayton Street and they would make another to measure, and they accepted tick (weekly payments). So, off I went after work and it was no problem, my measurements were taken, a date was made to pick it up and I was given a little card to log each payment.

  When I picked the coat up and tried it on, it could never be the same as my lovely original as the fabric was in suit material – they couldn’t make it in acrylic. I wore it just the same and came to love it, even though it took the best part of two years to pay for it.

  * * *

  People say that in the sixties, you could walk out of one job and into another on the same day and it was true, so I was off again in search of pastures new. My lack of focus and commitment was disturbing to me and I wished dearly that I had continued with my education to gain some qualifications. My new employment at a travel agent only lasted a month. As junior, I sorted the brochures out into blocks of maybe twenty to thirty and took them on foot right across town to any agent who had run out. They were really heavy, so I quickly tired of this.

  Next, I tried an architects’ firm. There were two of us juniors. Our job was to print copies of the plans, which were folded, then sent out to clients. We took armfuls of these plans to the Post Office and if it was closed, forced them into the box. We collected sandwiches from Fenwick for fifteen architects plus office staff for their lunches. The fillings were luxurious – prawns, chicken and beef in sauces. I learned how to take a little from each sandwich to make our own. It was a nightmare, taking fifteen mugs of tea upstairs to the third floor, three times a day.

  One day, I was summoned by a secretary at the other office to pick up some silverskins for her. I
walked along the road, into the building and straight into her office.

  ‘Knock when you enter my room!’ she growled.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Well, get out and come in properly!’

  She absolutely loved it when I asked what silverskins were.

  ‘My dear! A kind of small pickled onion, people serve them at soirées.’

  I didn’t know what one of those was either but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of asking. Then again, she knew that.

  The postman delivered the usual letters and there was a package which looked like an LP (album). Lisa rolled it over in her hands and took it into the back room. I was shocked to see her open it.

  ‘It might be The Beatles,’ she said.

  It turned out to be opera and so she threw it in the bin. She was taking a chance, I reasoned, what about the cleaner? She would see it and enquire if it had been put there by mistake and questions would be asked. But Lisa was none too bothered and sure enough, a couple of weeks went by and nothing was said, so maybe the cleaner did take it home.

  * * *

  On a night out at my favourite dance hall an old school pal told me that she was a telephonist with GPO Telephones and they were advertising for new recruits. This was the best news I had heard in ages.

  The interview was held in a building just off Grey Street. I was asked to speak clearly into a telephone, reading from a sheet, to look up some phone numbers. Then there was a spelling test and I had to place some names in alphabetical order. She asked me how tall I was and at 4’ 10”, I just scraped through. I was told there and then that I would probably be given a start date by letter as I had completed the tests accurately. When I left the room, I was floating on air. I was particularly excited about this job as there would be extensive training in a classroom situation as well as training on an actual switchboard. I would be part of a huge team and it seemed like a true profession to me.

  I began work with around twelve other girls. We completed four weeks’ training, which included practising dealing with scenarios, fictitious towns and numbers, awkward customers and building up our speed. Remember, this was an age before computers so we learned how to fill in a card for each call, which resembled a lottery ticket, stating if it was a transfer charge call, coin box or regular subscriber, and this was how Clerical calculated bills. Everything was recorded in code, so Newcastle became ‘NT’, Gateshead was ‘GD’, Humshaugh was ‘HH’, a transfer charge call was ‘XFR’ and so on. Tickets were placed in a box at the back of the swivel chair and a couple of runners picked them out to take to the clerical desks in the middle of the room, where they were sorted for the Finance department. The headsets were black plastic, trumpet-style, with a flex and plug. Yellow electrician’s tape was stuck around the plug. We were the ‘yellow banders’, which meant we were rookies. I went home every night elated: there were about three hundred operators and the place was buzzing with friendly lasses.

  On my first week ‘on the board’, I plugged my yellow band into a green bander’s position. ‘Green’ meant seasoned operator and I was to work alongside one called Carol – blonde hair, with around two inches of dark roots, thick heavy glasses and quick as blink. She watched me pick up a few calls.

  ‘Number, please, and what is your number, please?’

  ‘Have you had difficulty dialling the number?’

  ‘Trying to connect you.’

  Carol unplugged her headset and answered some calls on an adjoining free board and for my next call, I answered with the stock phrase and a male caller told me how long his appendage was. I was totally shocked, this was not mentioned in training. I gasped. Carol asked what was wrong and when I told her, without batting an eyelid she plugged into my board and said, ‘Is that all? I’ve left a longer one at home!’

  The phone slammed down.

  ‘These men get a kick from shocking us, so don’t be shocked,’ she told me.

  In time I was soon to adopt the same tone when they asked what colour my knickers were. I was tempted to say, ‘I’m not wearing any’, but I stuck to ‘Not your business, sad sacks!’

  Girls had to put their hands up to go to the toilet – if there weren’t more than three colleagues missing from their position, you might be allowed. Then you had to place a yellow card on your seat to let folks know where you were. If it was busy, you couldn’t leave until a runner came to replace you and even then, you were not to take your plug from the board until they had plugged in.

  Supervisors were behind each twenty or so girls and when busy, would run up and down, shouting, ‘Pick up another call, double-book!’

  Customers could only dial local places and would go through the operator for locations as little as five miles away. Any international calls were very expensive and were connected through special operators. One girl was sacked for connecting her boyfriend through free of charge on a long-distance call. However, some girls took the risk. One lass sat next to me and said she was selling a hairdryer and would I like to buy it? I tried to beat her down on price and she called her mother from the board to negotiate. She was very posh and the family had once lived in Mozambique, so she held the conversation in Swahili. I got the impression that I was going to be ‘done’ so I declined the sale. Personal calls were also taboo unless you waited for your break and used one of the three coin boxes in the hall.

  As in most big companies you came across the odd deal here and there. One lass made bracelets and necklaces from wooden beads and those who couldn’t be bothered to make their own provided her with a lucrative little business. Another lass used a wholesale warehouse to buy polo-neck jumpers, which she sold at £1 each – we all had every colour under the sun and they became a kind of uniform. I remember a tall beefy-looking lass with dyed blonde hair, whose boyfriend visited the odd department store after closing time. The best-quality jumpers were sold in the locker room at knockdown prices; she also had a sideline in pans and household goods – popular with lasses about to be married.

  Start and finish times were really odd: 8.21 until 5.12 and 9.26 until 6.12. Woe betide you if you were a minute late. Saturdays, Christmas and Easter holidays were covered and each operator was given set dates for summer holidays, but you could easily swap with colleagues between yourselves. This was done by passing a note the full length of the suites: Can anyone work Xmas day, from 8.21 until 1.26, and I will work your New Year’s Day? If a girl had an appointment at the dentist and needed to be finished an hour early, someone could work an hour for them at the going rate. This was regularly taken up by lasses who were saving up to get married – a few extra coppers in the bank. The bosses didn’t mind so long as shifts were covered.

  When I compare how easy it is with Internet access today, it seems such a long-winded affair. I was always hopeless at Maths or anything to do with numbers at school. We were all given a radial number, which was our identity: mine was ninety. We recorded our number on each ticket we prepared and that radial number would be on a huge chart on the exchange wall. It was a kind of graph to show where operators would sit during their day: Directory Enquiries, Faults, Clerical, Emergency 999. I used to stand for ages, plotting where I should be. Half an hour on here, fifteen minutes there, it was all so confusing at first. Miss Bell – we called her ‘Ding’ – was a senior supervisor and I was terrified of her. One day, she came up behind me as I was cogitating.

  ‘Where are you supposed to be?’ she demanded.

  ‘I don’t know, Miss,’ I whined.

  She asked my number, went straight to the line on the graph and took me by the arm to the seat. The boards were very tall, so I had to stand on the bar of the swivel chair to reach the top holes to plug in.

  We were all familiar with the child callers.

  ‘Get off the line, there’s a train coming!’

  Then there were kids who asked for the telephone number of Mr B. Brush. We knew what was coming – ‘It’s Basil, actually’ – a giggle and the phone was plonked down.

/>   (Basil Brush was a fictional fox puppet on children’s TV at the time.)

  Red telephone boxes were dotted around on street corners. On one occasion a gentleman called from a pit village, complaining the GPO was robbing him of his money.

  ‘I’ve put my money in and there’s nobody in. It won’t give me my money back.’

  ‘Have you pressed button B for the return of your money, caller?’

  ‘There’s no button B in the box, only button A.’

  He went on to accuse the service of misconduct, then all went quiet.

  ‘I’m sorry, pet, I’ve hung me cap on it!’

  Some operators were sent to cover for a year at companies such as the Inland Revenue or other government set-ups. I went to the Social Security offices at Longbenton for a couple of weeks. There were six operators and a supervisor, Mrs Ewing. She was lovely – short, red-haired and very glamorous, with a twinkling smile. She regularly brought an uncooked chicken to work and put it in the oven in the staffroom for her supper back home. Another supervisor who covered for her for a week brought in her plants, which she put on the windowsill behind the board. She visited a few times a day to talk to them.

  ‘They grow better if you talk to them,’ she explained.

  The first day I was there, I was shown the workings of the switchboard. At around 4pm, I heard a rumbling sound, which built to the point where I thought there was going to be an explosion. I looked at the other lasses and none of them broke sweat.

  ‘What on earth is that?’

  ‘Oh, only around 15,000 clerical staff running for the bus,’ said Eileen.

  * * *

  Directory Enquiries held around seventy books, six for London alone. It was a case of in and out of your chair to fetch a book, then leafing through numbers. Some ex-directory numbers’ names were sad to look up because immediately you knew why that person was forced to adopt this service – Mr Titball must have had a hell of a time with naughty kids calling him. We knew how that felt because we were targets too. The 999 position was the scariest: we had to listen to calls when they were put through in case the caller hung up in a panic and we could have the call traced. There were hoax calls, mainly for the fire brigade, and it never ceased to amaze me what some folks thought of as an emergency. A Spanish lady was in hysterics, shouting for the police. I put her through after obtaining her number, then listened in: