More of Father and little bit of Gardening

Father did all he could to help the finances in various ways. He taught himself boot and shoe repairing, and he turned out quite a respectable job. His speciality was sewing on new soles to people's best footwear, instead of nailing them on. He sat in the shed on his chair, with a sort of portable anvil with knee grips. This had a square hole into which various sizes of lasts could be fitted. On a table at his side rested the boxes of tacks, and his knife, file and hammer. For sewing on the soles there were spools of thread which he coated with beeswax. The new sole was cut to size, tacked on temporarily and a knife cut scored into the sole exactly where the stitches were needed. Then there would be a shout for Mother, for he couldn't see to thread the needles. Holes were made with an awl, the waxed thread inserted and pulled tight into the knife cut. He worked a nice little sideline at this, which provided him with baccy as well as a shilling or two for Mother.

He was a remarkably happy and good‑tempered man, considering his disability. He must have felt very deeply over his inability to help Mother, either physically or materially. I never knew him to lose his temper, whatever the provocation. I remember one day, when Mother was feeling very frustrated over something or other, she turned on Father, more I think, to relieve her feelings than anything else. After a few minutes, Father still sat quietly in his chair, not apparently paying any attention to Mother's outburst. She, in desperation, said "Why don't you duzzy well say something?", to which Father replied "Ah Agnes, but you know it takes two to make a row". Whereupon Mother started to laugh, kissed his bald head, and rejoined "Oh dear, Joe, you can be the most frustrating man at times, can't you!"

In the wintertime, when it was too cold for him to work in the shed, he used to knit socks. I don't remember where it came from, but he had a knitting machine. I rather think some of his good chapel friends got it for him. It was quite a large machine on a cast iron base, and had a circular steel cylinder with the needles set around it. It was worked by turning a handle, and stood in front of the window where the light was stronger. Probably a lot of his friends ordered socks just to help him, for I'm sure some of them had enough socks to start a shop. They provided the wool, and paid Father so much a pair for knitting them. Mind you, he was very good at it, and the socks were good quality.

I used to sit by the fire reading, while the machine made its comfortable rhythmic clicking. Nothing disturbed the peace except occasional "Blarm the duzzy thing" when Father dropped a stitch. "Blarm" and "duzzy" were the nearest approximation to swearing that he would either use or allow. He might as well have said "blast it" or "bugger it", for the meaning behind the words must have been the same, but in Father's view the difference in the spoken words was enormous. Anyway he was happy, and we all respected his views regarding swearing.

It was the same with discipline in the home. Neither he nor Mother would ever dream of laying a finger on us if we stepped out of line. A serious word from either of them would quickly put us back in our places. Even when we got older, the same thing applied. I know many times when out with the 'Gang', I was sorely tempted to do something really bad, but the thought of my parents finding out and having to go 'on the carpet' before them, kept me on the right track. Good honest mischief was always tolerated, but nothing else. Their code of conduct to be observed certainly didn't do me any harm. Even in adult life, a guilty conscience to me was a glimpse of my parents' disapproving faces, and that was enough to make me reconsider any shady action.

Father's day always started with half an hour's reading from the huge old family Bible. Incidentally I still have this, a bit battered but still whole. He had his read in bed, as there wasn't much point in him getting up till Mother had got us away to school or work. Before I started school, I used to climb into bed with him while he read aloud to me. Then a prayer to start the day right, and I would scamper downstairs to dress in front of the fire. Father could dress himself, although it took him a long time as he had to do it all sitting on the edge of the bed. He could also get downstairs himself, thanks to the double handrails built in by my brothers for him. It was a slow business, as he dragged each foot in turn over the edge of the stair tread to fall with a thump on to the next one.

When he got down, he took his place on the big, heavy old high‑backed chair by the fire. He really needed that big, high back for he sat with his back to the door at the foot of the stairs. When we had an east wind it would fairly whistle down the stairs, billowing out the curtain which covered the door. We always had a good fire, but with the old‑fashioned stove more heat went up the chimney than into the room. It was handy for Father that he sat by the fireside, for he was extremely fond of red herrings. He could sit in his chair with a red herring impaled on the long toasting fork, and cook it to a nicety. Mother would stand a tin pan in the hearth to catch the falling fat, but even so some would fall into the fire with a splutter of smoke and flame. You needed to have an addiction for 'reds', as they were very salt, but Father loved them. At a penny each they were cheap enough, even for those days.

The old fishmonger, an ex‑fisherman himself, had his own smoking shed in the next village. He came round weekly, selling mostly fresh herring, bloaters and kippers. The smoked varieties were delicious. Old Ben, the merchant, used to go into Beccles to the timber merchant for his supply of oak sawdust; no other sort would do. The smoking shed was high and narrow with one door, and apertures at the top to let out the smoke. He would prepare all the herring, opening them out flat for the kippers. They were then hung on split wood rods supported on frames. The fire was lit with dry oak logs, and when it was going well, covered with the sawdust. He had to inspect the fish periodically, until each variety was 'done' to his liking. He would then draw the fire, remove the fish, and then start the process all over again. There is no more likeness between the modern dyed kippers and old Ben's specials, than there is between chalk and cheese.

Ben was a good‑natured and good‑hearted chap. When he came round with fresh herring, Mother would buy a dozen but Ben always put in one extra for the cat. I'll swear that old cat knew a fish day from any other, and would be waiting at the gate. I can see the old cat now. He used to grab a herring by the head, and walking astride it, waddled with difficulty to the wood yard where he could enjoy his meal in comfort.

Father's accident deprived him of most of his former pursuits, but there's no doubt that he missed gardening most. He was a keen and knowledgeable gardener, but being so helpless put a stop to at least the practical side. It was of course an absolute necessity to grow vegetables in those days, as there was certainly no money to buy them. My brothers, both of whom hated gardening almost as much as Father loved it, had to do it until they married and left home. It then fell on me, and I didn't particularly love it either. It wasn't so much the gardening I disliked, as the fact that it took up a lot of my leisure time when I would much rather have been out with the boys.

It was a big old garden, and I finally solved the problem by getting up about half past six in the mornings, and getting stuck into the digging or whatever it was for an hour before going off to work. Father did manage the hoeing with the help of a chair. I tied lumps of sacking round the bottom of the chair legs, to prevent them sinking into the soft ground; then using the chair as a crutch in one hand, and the hoe in the other, he could shuffle down to the garden. There he sat in the chair, and hoed as far as he could reach. He could move the chair himself and start on a fresh patch. I could have done it a lot quicker, but he enjoyed spending an hour or so outside in the sun, and no doubt it pleased him to think he was doing his bit to help. Occasionally one of the chair legs would sink into a particularly soft patch of ground, and Father almost fell out of the chair. Frantic shouts brought Mother hurrying down, and she would help him to get upright again.

The cold frame where he grew cucumbers stood on a mound of soil and horse manure. Every year this was cleared away and put on the garden, and a fresh lot got ready. This was always my job, at least when I was younger. I had to get the wheelbarrow out ‑ a heavy old devil at that ‑ a spade and broom, and go round the roads collecting horse manure. I could barely push the thing empty, for it must have weighed nearly a hundredweight, and it was really hard work. The one day whilst playing round the village dump I found an old pram. This was dragged home, where I detached one of the axles and two wheels. Next, a visit to the local shop, where I acquired an empty tea chest. A bit of scheming provided me with a nice light trolley, which made the manure‑collecting a whole lot easier. There was always a lot lying around the roads, but if for any reason I was short a visit to the blacksmiths would put that right.

When Mother took over the Post Office, my gardening got considerably easier. As well as our local part‑time postman, there was another who started from Bungay and delivered letters all the way as he cycled to Kirby. There was a set time for him to collect the outgoing mail, and he often had an hour or so to wait. A keen gardener, and a kindly one at that, he filled in his time in our garden rather than sit about doing nothing. This was 'just the job' for it gave me much more leisure, and an extra hour in bed as well.

Lionel, the postman, was one of those people who would do anything to help anybody. As well as being postman, he kept a cycle shop in a nearby village. Now my brothers, with five or six other young men from the village were inveterate supporters of Norwich City, who at that time played at the 'Nest' in Rosary Road. Every home match they would be off on their bicycles for the fifteen mile trip to Norwich. I lapped up their accounts of the game when they got back. I could ride a bike, but hadn't got one, and it was my prize ambition to see the City play.

I was about ten at the time. Then one day my brother Reg thought of the idea of asking Lionel, our postman friend, if he had an old bike in his shop he could lend me for Saturday afternoon. He said he would gladly do so, but doubted if he had one small enough for my short legs to reach the pedals. Anyway, Reg went off the Lionel's one Friday evening, and came back leading the smallest bike Lionel had. I was all agog, but alas, my feet missed the pedals by about two inches. My disappointment was short‑lived, however, as Reg got to work in the carpenters shop and fixed wooden blocks to the pedals, with tin toe clips to keep my feet in position. Friday night seemed never‑ending, but eventually Saturday morning arrived and off we went.

My longest ride prior to this had only been a mile or two, but I was far too excited to feel tired and pedalled away manfully. About half way there we stopped at a pub for a rest. Some of the lads went in for a pint, while my brothers came out with bottles of ginger pop, and a cheese sandwich each. We soon demolished these, and off we went again.

This wasn't only my first football match, but also my first visit to Norwich. We reached Trowse, where the tramlines started, and I had to be shepherded carefully up Bracondale. Great care was needed, especially when crossing the lines, for if the narrow section tyres dropped into the cavity it was oops‑a‑daisy, and no mistake. The general activity fascinated me. Cattle filled the street, being driven from the Cattle Market to Trowse station. I hadn't seen anything like it before, and I felt that I had really just begun to live.

We left our bikes at the Boar's head, paying a few coppers for the privilege. The next highlight was a fish and chip dinner at Deacons, costing one and six each, and did I enjoy that! One of our party, Fred, a merry soul, fancied his chance with one of the waitresses and pulled her leg at every opportunity ‑ not literally, of course, but a laugh and a joke. This all went over my head of course at my age, but in any case I was far too busy eating to bother. Dinner over, we walked round by the Castle, Prince of Wales Road, Riverside, and then up to Rosary Road where the early comers were beginning to gather. The idea of being early was mostly on my account so I could get on the rails and have a good view. The noise and excitement really got me and I shouted as loudly as the rest when the team came out. I can't remember too much about the match, except that it was over all too soon. As we walked back through the city in the gathering darkness to collect our bikes, I began to think of those fifteen long miles stretching between us and home, and not with much enthusiasm either. We collected our bikes, lit up the acetylene lamps and off we went.

Those fifteen miles were the longest I ever remember. It was dark now, no scenery to look at, and no excitement to look forward to. I got my head down and plugged along, but it wasn't long before my legs began to ache. It wasn't long either before Reg realised he had made one mistake when he blocked up my pedals, for he had only fixed the blocks to one side. As I got progressively more tired, my toes slipped out of the clips and the pedals promptly turned over with the one‑sided weight. There was nothing to do but stop, turn the pedals up and stick my toes back into the clips. After this had happened some five or six times, Reg exploded.

"Why don't you keep your duzzy toes in the duzzy clips, or we shall be all duzzy night getting home!"

But it was all to no avail. It was only after several more stops that someone had the brainwave of tying my boots to the blocks. After this we got along fine, especially when we reached the Hall Farm, where the road fell all the way to the village. Was I glad when we reached the street! Even then there was one more commotion for I had forgotten that my feet were tied to the pedals, and when I went to lift my leg over the saddle to get off, I rode straight into the wall and fell off, a most undignified end to the journey. Once indoors, with a good fire and a good tea, I decided it was all well worth the effort. In fact I felt a bit of a hero, with all those miles behind me. This was the first of many trips to see the City. Lionel would always lend me a bike, and this time Reg fixed blocks to both sides of the pedals to avoid a repetition of the troubles of the first trip.

It was a long time before I had a bike of my own. In fact when I did, it all happened literally by accident. I was around sixteen and playing football for a neighbouring village. I fell heavily whilst playing, and broke my collarbone. This inevitably meant some weeks without work, and to help me out the football club secretary organised a Whist Drive for my benefit; when he rolled up at my home with ten pounds I felt like Lord Rothschild. I had never seen so much money, let alone have it. We all decided now was the time for a new bike, and when I first rode into our gate with my gleaming acquisition, I decided a broken collarbone was a small price to pay for such a reward. Actually the bike cost six pounds, which left a nice bit over for Mother for my keep when I couldn't work.