Jennifer - my first girlfriend. First posted: October 20, 2013.
My paternal grandmother died giving birth to my father, William. My grandfather, John Kilcommons, remarried and started a new family. He was a miner and took William along to the pit in Normanton when he was 15 but, after one day below ground, William refused to go back. He went, instead, to live with Aunt Agnes at The Chemic pub in Woodhouse, Leeds. As alternatives go, this must have been like winning the lottery.
Aunt Agnes was his mother's sister and had a soft spot for him. The pub, named after a chemical works that was once located in the district, was successful. William's sister, Eileen, lived just round the corner with her husband, a big handsome bloke called Ernest Clarke. Their house had an inside loo with two seats side by side and a long drop.
I remember Uncle Ernie. He served in the war and was on the beaches at Dunkirk when the small boats came in to take off the remnants of the British Army. Because he was big, he stayed in the water up to his chest for hours helping smaller blokes. He was one of countless quiet heroes. After the war he got cancer and died. I remember him bed-ridden, still cheerful. He left my Auntie Eileen to bring up four kids.
My mother's best friend was Nellie, another sister of William Kilcommons. She married Frankie Britton, who was in the Water Department at Wakefield. My mother and father met because of this friendship, and married before the war. As he lived in a pub and wore flash clothes and she came from poverty, she must have thought the marriage was like winning the lottery.
Aunt Agnes helped my father get a job at the Yorkshire Post as a printer. He was also a semi professional runner in the days before TV when athletic meetings attracted big crowds and on course bookmakers. He was so good that he was eventually banned from some events. On one occasion, Uncle Frank took his place, with my father as his pacemaker, and won.
Uncle Frank was only small but, when the war started, was playing rugby league for Wakefield Trinity. He ignored his call up papers until he could no longer avoid the pull of patriotism. Particularly when two MPs turned up at the rugby ground and he was hauled off at half time to go and serve king and country.
My father served in the RAF during the war, mainly as groundcrew in Lincolnshire.
At the end of the war, Aunt Agnes gave him the deposit for a house in Albany Terrace, Wortley, Leeds. It was a nice terrace at the posh end of the poor up Whingate Road, with little gardens at front and rear. My first girlfriends were Jennifer White, who lived next door, and Valerie Norman, who lived two doors up.
At the top of the road were open fields and a main railway line. Times were hard and in the winter my father would go across the fields and walk the railway line collecting pieces of coal that had fallen from passing steam trains and put them in a shopping bag. He was chased more than once by railway police but was never caught. He was still too quick.
There was a state school at the top of the road but, being Catholic, I was sent to Holy Family Primary School which was a tram ride away in nearby Armley. It was cheek by jowl with Armley Goal, another place with a long drop. I recall morning prayers on more than one occasion being dedicated to the bloke on the scaffold being hanged. If my memory is correct, we waited for the gaol clock to strike nine. Happy days.
It was at this school as a nine year old that I confided to my teacher that when I grew up I wanted to be a priest. I didn't; but I knew she would be pleased. She told the local priest who was a frequent visitor and he often patted me encouragingly on the head. Fortunately, the encouragement went no further, considering the bad Press the priesthood has had in recent years. I dropped the pretence that I had a calling when I passed my 11 plus and went to St Michael's College in Leeds.
I spent maybe seven years living in Wortley but, as I was a child, they were long years when summers were endless and snow never turned to slush and the rhubarb field at the top of the road held strange delights (in the right company). The most striking memory is of the sense of community. At that time, the street was at the end of urbanisation. The back of the houses faced, in an L shape, onto an open space we called The Hollow. A windowless chapel wall enclosed one side, and two ruined cottages and a low wall the fourth, Beyond that was a mill where my mother worked part time.
Everybody knew everybody. A man came twice daily with a long stick to light the gas lamps each night and turn them off again in the morning. No one was well off. No one had a car. But there was a sense of shared hardship that meant everyone was ready to do a good turn and I never experienced any spite in that small space.
It particularly came alive on Bonfire Night when the kids of The Hollow went chumping and we kept guard over our haul of wood, broken furniture, pallets and bits of trees. It was a natural working class amphitheatre and the night itself was always wonderful. The adults took charge and rows of tea chests and card tables were set up and pie and peas, parkin and toffee apples were dispensed in the glow of the flames and sparks and the fun and fire lasted all night and was burnt into the memory.
My paternal grandmother died giving birth to my father, William. My grandfather, John Kilcommons, remarried and started a new family. He was a miner and took William along to the pit in Normanton when he was 15 but, after one day below ground, William refused to go back. He went, instead, to live with Aunt Agnes at The Chemic pub in Woodhouse, Leeds. As alternatives go, this must have been like winning the lottery.
Aunt Agnes was his mother's sister and had a soft spot for him. The pub, named after a chemical works that was once located in the district, was successful. William's sister, Eileen, lived just round the corner with her husband, a big handsome bloke called Ernest Clarke. Their house had an inside loo with two seats side by side and a long drop.
I remember Uncle Ernie. He served in the war and was on the beaches at Dunkirk when the small boats came in to take off the remnants of the British Army. Because he was big, he stayed in the water up to his chest for hours helping smaller blokes. He was one of countless quiet heroes. After the war he got cancer and died. I remember him bed-ridden, still cheerful. He left my Auntie Eileen to bring up four kids.
My mother's best friend was Nellie, another sister of William Kilcommons. She married Frankie Britton, who was in the Water Department at Wakefield. My mother and father met because of this friendship, and married before the war. As he lived in a pub and wore flash clothes and she came from poverty, she must have thought the marriage was like winning the lottery.
Aunt Agnes helped my father get a job at the Yorkshire Post as a printer. He was also a semi professional runner in the days before TV when athletic meetings attracted big crowds and on course bookmakers. He was so good that he was eventually banned from some events. On one occasion, Uncle Frank took his place, with my father as his pacemaker, and won.
Uncle Frank was only small but, when the war started, was playing rugby league for Wakefield Trinity. He ignored his call up papers until he could no longer avoid the pull of patriotism. Particularly when two MPs turned up at the rugby ground and he was hauled off at half time to go and serve king and country.
My father served in the RAF during the war, mainly as groundcrew in Lincolnshire.
At the end of the war, Aunt Agnes gave him the deposit for a house in Albany Terrace, Wortley, Leeds. It was a nice terrace at the posh end of the poor up Whingate Road, with little gardens at front and rear. My first girlfriends were Jennifer White, who lived next door, and Valerie Norman, who lived two doors up.
At the top of the road were open fields and a main railway line. Times were hard and in the winter my father would go across the fields and walk the railway line collecting pieces of coal that had fallen from passing steam trains and put them in a shopping bag. He was chased more than once by railway police but was never caught. He was still too quick.
There was a state school at the top of the road but, being Catholic, I was sent to Holy Family Primary School which was a tram ride away in nearby Armley. It was cheek by jowl with Armley Goal, another place with a long drop. I recall morning prayers on more than one occasion being dedicated to the bloke on the scaffold being hanged. If my memory is correct, we waited for the gaol clock to strike nine. Happy days.
It was at this school as a nine year old that I confided to my teacher that when I grew up I wanted to be a priest. I didn't; but I knew she would be pleased. She told the local priest who was a frequent visitor and he often patted me encouragingly on the head. Fortunately, the encouragement went no further, considering the bad Press the priesthood has had in recent years. I dropped the pretence that I had a calling when I passed my 11 plus and went to St Michael's College in Leeds.
I spent maybe seven years living in Wortley but, as I was a child, they were long years when summers were endless and snow never turned to slush and the rhubarb field at the top of the road held strange delights (in the right company). The most striking memory is of the sense of community. At that time, the street was at the end of urbanisation. The back of the houses faced, in an L shape, onto an open space we called The Hollow. A windowless chapel wall enclosed one side, and two ruined cottages and a low wall the fourth, Beyond that was a mill where my mother worked part time.
Everybody knew everybody. A man came twice daily with a long stick to light the gas lamps each night and turn them off again in the morning. No one was well off. No one had a car. But there was a sense of shared hardship that meant everyone was ready to do a good turn and I never experienced any spite in that small space.
It particularly came alive on Bonfire Night when the kids of The Hollow went chumping and we kept guard over our haul of wood, broken furniture, pallets and bits of trees. It was a natural working class amphitheatre and the night itself was always wonderful. The adults took charge and rows of tea chests and card tables were set up and pie and peas, parkin and toffee apples were dispensed in the glow of the flames and sparks and the fun and fire lasted all night and was burnt into the memory.
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