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

by Yvonne Young

  ‘My chickens have escaped, they are running all over the place!’

  ‘This is not an emergency, can you please hang up.’

  ‘It is to me, I want you to send someone to round them up.’

  A gentleman from Blyth regularly rang up from a coin box, saying there were armed men firing guns on the cliffs or that flying saucers had landed on the beach. We kept him talking until the police got there, then another voice could be heard:

  ‘Thank you, pet. It’s OK, we’ve got him. C’mon, son, let’s go.’

  So sad. Some people only rang up just to talk to someone. But the memory of one call never left me. A publican rang to say that he had fallen down the stairs with a tray full of glasses. His groin was spiked with glass and he was about to faint. I managed to get the address and the ambulance were called out. We always came off the line as soon as the ambulance service had taken details and we were never informed of the outcome. I often wondered what happened to the hundreds of people in distress every day who asked for assistance, but we had to put them through and let the services take over.

  There were also some cool customers. One day, a very calm subscriber rang 999:

  ‘Emergency, which service?’

  ‘Ambulance.’

  I put him through.

  ‘Can you send an ambulance, please. My wife has fallen down the stairs and I think she’s dead.’

  A man asked for a transfer charge call to North Shields. I rang the number and a lady answered.

  ‘I have a call from Edmund Byers, will you accept the charge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I put him through and she said, ‘Hello, Edmund.’

  He immediately went off on one.

  ‘That’s the village I’m calling from, you silly cow! Anyway, why would you accept the charge for a man you didn’t know?’

  I became so used to repeating the same phrases hundreds of times a day, I once boarded a bus, plonked the money on the tray and said, ‘Number, please.’

  The driver gave me a strange look.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Oh, I mean two bob, please!’

  * * *

  The operators had some great nights out. Some of the girls might be leaving to get married and they received a gift – collections for presents were passed around. We went to hen parties at the Eldon Grill on Grey Street, The Mayfair and many other pubs in town. Hofbrauhaus was a favourite: they served beer in huge steins, which you needed two hands to hold. We stood on the tables and wassailed into the night. They also held daft competitions for free drinks, which seemed like fun at the time. For example, the first person on stage waving a pair of knickers or a bra.

  In the cloakroom of the Exchange there were little dressing tables with mirrors, where we could put our make-up on and do our hair. There were cork message boards too and I remember one amusing note pinned to an umbrella case: ‘To the person who nicked my umbrella. You might as well have the case!’ It stayed there for weeks.

  We all felt really sorry for one of the lasses, who had only been married for a couple of months. As we were getting dolled up for a night out, someone had a local magazine advertising a new restaurant in town, which boasted romantic candles in bottles on the tables. Everyone took turns in looking at the photos of diners and this girl spotted her new husband dining with another woman. In contrast, I was in the staffroom making a cuppa and a lass was sat at the table making a list. When I asked if it was her shopping, she said, ‘Oh, no! It’s a prenuptial agreement.’

  June, who was also in the room, took her to task, but she maintained important things had to be ironed out before entering into such an important arrangement. There was quite a heated exchange and June said, ‘Well, if I was going to get married and he asked me to sign a prenup, I would run a mile! That’s before you even get started.’

  * * *

  Telegram workers were being laid off and strikes were endemic in lots of industries on Tyneside: miners, boilermakers, the shipyard workers and we telephonists came out for six weeks. I never went on picket duty but some of the girls were pictured in the Evening Chronicle on the march with banners. It soon became volatile with cries of ‘Blacklegs!’ to those who didn’t take strike action. I felt sorry for some of them who had young children and were the only waged person in the home as many men were being laid off in professions around the country. It was a time of enormous strike action, and the bin men were ‘out’, which left huge mountains of rotting rubbish in the streets. I felt sorry for the proud miners who lined up alongside the Quayside market on Sundays with boxes to collect donations to help the poor families in the pit villages. I remember one man indignantly striding past without contributing and a miner shouted after him, ‘It’ll be you next, mate.’

  One woman who was the loveliest person was frowned on when everyone returned to work. She went to her job during the strike and her husband was charged and jailed as part of the T. Dan Smith council corruption affair in Newcastle City Council in 1974, where some councillors had been taking backhanders. Smith was later convicted of fraud and sent to prison for five years, and took others with him. John Poulson, an architect and politician, was at the heart of the deals. T. Dan Smith had two nicknames and one of those was ‘Mr Newcastle’ as he had a vision to turn the city into ‘The Brasilia of the North’. Some said that he had destroyed many beautiful buildings but he was also responsible for regenerating the area by clearing the slums. Also known as ‘One-coat Smith’, he used to run a painting and decorating firm reputed to be economical with its use of materials. Despite this, his firm was used in decorating many council houses.

  T. Dan had been brought up in Wallsend (the first defence line of the Emperor Hadrian). He witnessed the dilapidated housing problems first-hand – damp and rat-infested properties which hadn’t been updated since the Industrial Revolution. His father was a miner and his mother religious and a socialist so he grew up listening to debates in the home on the conditions of the working classes. After becoming a Conscientious Objector during World War Two, he became a member of the Independent Labour Party, who gained a reputation as agitators. He then became a Trotskyist and eventually gained a seat on the council.

  The battle was to demolish Scotswood Road, the vein of the area leading to Armstrong’s works. In those days the corner of each street had a pub or a corner shop, chip shop or Co-op: all this was to be torn down and huge concrete flats erected in their place. Cruddas Park was his idea of a ‘Brasilia of the North’. He had good intentions and genuinely wanted to improve the lot of the masses, but split communities in the process. Young mothers couldn’t allow their children out to play, lifts continually broke down and the stench of rotting food from the rubbish chutes was unbearable.

  Further new housing was erected: Noble Street flats, which were worse than the old Victorian slums, and became a no-go area. In the past the rows of terraced housing had gone down towards the river, but in their wisdom the council decided to construct rows of flats and houses across the way. Whenever there was a deluge of rain, it flooded into the homes; they only lasted about fifteen years before they too were demolished. The whole city seemed to be in disarray, with families moving house, building sites and strike breakers.

  On return to work most of the strike breakers at the GPO resigned as they were given the cold shoulder. The strike didn’t serve any purpose and we sensed the end of the service. We now had Subscriber Trunk Dialling (unfortunately abbreviated to STD!). Customers could dial their own calls and we were needed less and less. I did cover on some new switchboards, but they were changing to more modern versions without the cords and plugs. I still had happy memories, so I moved on to BT offices on the clerical side.

  I saw Ding a few years ago in WH Smith on Northumberland Street. Well into her eighties, she was as sprightly as ever. I approached her and said, ‘Are you Miss Bell?’

  We got chatting and she invited me to her home, where we shared some good memories. A formidable character, she used to come to
work on a motorbike and sidecar. Before the GPO, she had served in the army in Malta and been a seamstress, making wedding gowns for John Lewis. This had led her to set up a theatre group from the telephonists for whom she made all of the costumes. On one occasion the lasses were unloading outfits outside a venue. In the boot was a full-sized mannequin dressed as the Duke of Edinburgh, with gold epaulettes, hat, uniform, the lot. The car was stolen and Ding rang the police.

  ‘When you find the car, please don’t get a shock if you look in the boot. It’s not a dead body, it’s a model we are using for a sketch.’ She hoped the robber would take one look and flee.

  I was to work in a few more excellent places and even up until I am making my Last Will and Testament, there will never be an environment that I loved so much as while working for the GPO.

  * * *

  My cousin Kathleen called to say that her mam Beattie had died. This was in 1977, the same year my first son was born. I immediately thought of how tirelessly this woman had looked after her family, always with a smile, and how she made us smile too, like the time she asked after Kath:

  ‘Is your friend Imodium coming here today?’

  ‘Imogen, Mam, her name’s Imogen.’

  Beattie had been the most selfless person I knew and I was so sad to hear of her passing. I rushed down to the flat to tell Dad. He answered the door with wet feet, carrying a towel. I followed him back into the sitting room, where he put his feet back in a dish of hot soapy water, the soap and towel strategically placed. I asked where Mam was and at the same time, wondered how to tell him of this terrible news.

  ‘She’s gone up to Beattie’s house, she died. I was going to go, but it was the last episode of Get Some In,’ he replied.

  Ever wanted to pin someone up against the wall with your bare hands? That was how I felt, but at the same time I knew that he couldn’t help the way he was.

  Didn’t help, though.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Purple Haze and the Caravan at Amble

  When Jess went away to university at Hull, I wondered if I should go to the West End club on my own. I was at a loose end and missing her so I decided to pop in one Saturday as The Junco Partners were playing. In the cloakroom, a lass called Jacky began chatting to me. She was an ex-pupil of Benwell Comprehensive and her mates were Lena, Catherine and Joan. They were into wearing Sta pressed trousers and Ben Sherman shirts. Catherine often loaned her trousers out to her boyfriend, Mick. I couldn’t afford any of these clothes but I tagged on with them that night and we became firm friends. Luckily, they were also into dressmaking, and being around the same height and build, paper patterns were handed round five times. Attempts were made to create some form of originality by adjusting the necklines, ranging from round, scoop, V and square to slash. We used seersucker as it was the cheapest fabric, 2/11d (two shillings, eleven pence) per yard. Smaller Newcastle businesses and markets continued to deal in ‘old money’ long after decimalisation and even today, you can ask for a quarter or a half pound of this and that and they will know what you mean and don’t put folks right.

  I was still cutting corners in sewing stuff up and using giant stitches when the club invested in disco lights, which were luminous. The club management hadn’t quite cracked the intensity levels so all of my massive dodgy hemline stitches showed up through the material! It was quite comical at first until the lights were adjusted to be less glaring. As tights were still in their infancy, lasses often paired up an old stocking with a new one. This gave the result of one white leg (the stocking which had been washed often) and one brown leg. Lazy lasses who had only washed the feet of their stockings resembled a Shire horse as the feet glowed due to washing powder remains. Bras could be seen through thin dresses, also streaks in make-up and talcum powder sprinkled on hair for those who couldn’t be arsed to wash it. It all glowed like we were in some kind of nuclear power plant.

  Joan’s family were of Irish descent and on visits to her home, The Dubliners would be playing, except on Thursdays when Top of the Pops was on TV. As nothing could be recorded back then, we all sat glued to the screen so as not to miss anything. Joan was working for a solicitor’s but went for an interview on Friday, got the job and began work as a trainee punch card operator at the Ministry of Social Security that following Monday. The wages were twice what I was getting, with luncheon vouchers every day. Lena and Catherine also worked there. Catherine used to save up her vouchers and even paid for the drinks at her sister’s wedding with them. To this day I still don’t know why I didn’t apply for work there as the wages and conditions were so good and I missed out on all the chats too.

  Under-eighteens were given day release on Mondays when they went to Bath Lane College for Maths and English and took up country dancing and sewing at the YMCA building on the corner of Blackett Street. There were even special buses to take them to work. Catherine had trained as a shorthand typist at school so this would put her in good stead to become an operator at the Ministry in Block A, the only modern building at the time as everyone else worked from prefabricated huts.

  The Ministry was responsible for family allowance details, tax deductions, transfers, change of addresses, finances, etc. In an age before computers, workers flicked through stacks of cards. Mistakes were made of course as lasses ‘flicked one, missed one, chatted through one’, but they were picked up by checkers so no stress there. They punched holes into the cards, the codes were read and fed through a printer. The lasses told me that they were trained by a blind man of around thirty years of age. Paper was placed over the keys of their Olivetti typewriters so they could touch type and if anyone was tempted to look underneath, somehow he knew and would comment.

  I smile when I remember Catherine’s stories of her family. Her great aunts and uncle all lived together on Mill Lane and thought that TV presenters could see them through the screen. They never passed each other a sandwich without a plate – ‘What would the man think of them?’ They waited for the Test Card to appear, then said ‘Good night’. They always gave Christmas presents to Catherine and her siblings in June: five shiny pennies, an apple, orange, sweets and a hand-me-down dress for Catherine and her sister, a size 14! One of the aunts made up salmon paste sandwiches and biscuits and brought them every Tuesday. Her Uncle Tommy sold newspapers on the corner of the street, calling out ‘News of the World, Sunday Sun!’

  It was round about this time that I met Ron. He had two very popular older brothers who were dressed in the top fashions, with hairstyles like the Small Faces band. It was usually the lasses who got up on the dance floor, but Ron loved dancing too. He seemed a tad effeminate, but we got on really well and began meeting up at the club. One Saturday night, a new band came to play and Ron and I began bopping. The rock ’n’ roll craze had resurfaced, but instead of the old style, we whizzed round in circles while the leader simply hopped from one foot to the other, spinning their partner around.

  ‘C’mon, let’s move towards the stage,’ he said, ‘I want the band to see how beautiful you are.’

  Of course, I was soon to realise that it was himself he wanted the band to see! But he was really just another girlfriend to me: he came along when I went pattern and clothes hunting, commenting on styles and fashion, which he was excellent at, and now and again we went to the Sunrise Restaurant on Blackett Street. I always asked for Chicken Maryland, but Ron tried all sorts. He was a waiter at a Newcastle Hotel. One night, he was working a late shift and asked me if I would wait in the kitchen for him to finish. The staff were really friendly; the chef and dishwashers gathered round the table where I was waiting and chatted on. The chef asked if I would like some melba toast. I had never heard of such a thing, but it was lovely, very thin and crusty. Meanwhile, Ron placed a towel across his arm, held a plate aloft on his fingers and swung out between the swing doors.

  I was enjoying my snack when the double doors burst open from the dining room and Ron, flushed of face, came raging through. He slammed a steak meal down on the table in
front of the chef and announced: ‘I have just been humiliated in front of everyone out there by a horrible man, who shouted at me because his steak isn’t cooked enough!’

  Chef took care of the problem and gave Ron another plate of food. He stood for a second to compose himself, plate in the air and head held high, then lifted the steak and spat underneath before he flourished out to the customer. He loved the work, but hadn’t quite cracked the idea that the customer is always right yet.

  We hung around together for about ten months, off and on, but one night after we no longer went out, I wasn’t at the club and a friend told me that Ron had arrived at the door wearing a dress and make-up. He was turned away. Folks wouldn’t have batted an eyelid today, but he was born too soon. He was a lovely lad, I do hope that he eventually found a partner who was just right for him.

  * * *

  I spent a lot of time at Lena’s house. Her mother was German and there were always lovely sausages of all kinds and different types of food, so many flavours. I sometimes stayed over and slept in a bed with Lena and her sister Fran. There wasn’t much space so we adopted a position of what they used to call ‘Spoons in a drawer’. We all faced the same direction with our knees underneath the one in front’s knees. Lena was tidy and kept all of her underwear and clothes ready for that night’s outing, while Fran raided the stash of tights and knickers as she never made sure that hers were clean. They were expected to do chores in the home and if they slept too long, their dad shouted up the stairs. It was a regular routine of call and response: