Version 1

Like most children, I assumed my mum and dad were right about everything. In my small world of Willow Lane all was safe and happy. Going to school and meeting people outside the family soon corrected those thoughts. 

Some families had more than us, and some had less. Mum was a shop assistant. On Saturdays, dad and I would go to watch the match, pick mum up from work, buy some fudge and ice cream and go home on the bus. I didn’t know what dad did, but it was paid well enough, he told me when I could understand, for him to get a mortgage at £4 a month to buy a semi in Waterloo. Mum made clothes, knitted pullovers and darned socks. Dad stuck new soles on my shoes, cut my hair and built wood wardrobes. We went away to Scarborough one week every summer and lived in a caravan. There were bottles of sherry and egg flip at Christmas and a beer or two.

Dad may have been poorly while we lived in Newtown, but I don’t remember. He was poorly when we were at Waterloo. Sometimes he had to go to bed. I have spent a lot of time over the years, with help, thinking about those days. He came home from the war after five years in India. Just imagine that. While the dads were away mum, Granny Addy and auntie Mary brought up together older brother Steve and cousin Colin. Steve would have been five and Colin a bit older. Then your grandad came along, born in 1947. Wow. Greatgrandad had a lot on his plate. Earning money and being an outsider in his own family. It wouldn’t have been easy for older brother either. Mum would be the peace-maker. We have kept my dad’s paperwork from when he left the army. A job reference from his commanding officer and a disability pension for stomach problems. His job, I found out later, was bookkeeping. In the Royal Army Pay Corps for then for the local electricity board. He’d been to Hillhouse, a school for learning about jobs and left at 14 years of age. It was known as The Redcaps, I wonder why? He liked his numbers, but his love was wood. Before the war, after leaving Hillhouse, he worked for Ellis but the job was not there when he came back from India. 

He was all smiles on photographs up until then. Stomach pains and depression and anger. He stopped smoking and got fat. So did mum but much later. Then all the hassles of dieting. So few smiles and sadly handy with a smack or two and some serious tellings off. I do remember feeling stupid and not up to much. Older brother Steve didn’t help.

Steve went to grammar school in 1953 when I was 6 years old. He was pals with other grammar school boys. He was in the rapid stream, for clever boys who were going to go to good universities, like Oxford and Cambridge. He was a clever dick, unfortunately, and soon became known in the family as big head. He and dad were rivals and it ended in tears. Steve wouldn’t shut up and dad was both proud and jealous. God knows what I was doing but it wasn’t helpful. Mum trying to calm things down and ended in tears herself. Steve left to go to Liverpool around 1957/8. He came home in the holidays and carried on rowing with greatgrandad, once stating, “I don’t know how our David puts up with you.” It was normal for me. I did know other families from friends at school, but not well enough to make a comparison. When Steve stopped coming home quite so much, my rows with your greatgrandad were about my lack of wanting to do schoolwork. Greatgranny joined in so I was in a lonely place for a while. After ‘o’ levels and getting ready to go off to university myself, we got along well enough. I got 6 ‘o’ levels. Greatgrandad said “Is that all?” I’d let him down again. My ‘a’ levels were fine.

There were other things which I had to fight for. Like getting a proper haircut. Greatgranny usually helped me out. Despite all this grief, greatgrandad took me to the match every Saturday and cricket in summer. He bowled millions of overs at me. We travelled to see Yorkshire and the test matches at Old Trafford in Manchester. I fell out with playing cricket at school. Greatgrandad had nothing to do with it. 

There are plenty of other things to say. His strange statements like fat congeals in your stomach. His support for labour and dislike of people who were well off. But this gives you enough to think about. When you get to have a family and build a career at the same time you will realise just how hard it is. You will simply love your children. Like granny’s mum and dad. Don’t take out your problems on them. That small confused boy that was me back in the 1950s has stayed odd and confused ever since, but like greatgrandad, granny and I tried our best for your mum and she will do the same for you.

My mum, your greatgranny, was the peacemaker. Her most common saying was “Oh, Reg.” A plea for greatgrandad to shut up. Maybe also a plea for him to change his viewpoint. That was never going to happen. As a child, she lived in Hillhouse proper and went to Longley Hall School. Like greatgrandad she learned practical shorthand and typing and got a job and left school at 14 years of age. One end of year report said she was a good pupil but her mind wandered. She worked for Brian Tunstall at Hopkinson’s, a big engineering works in in Birkby. She met greatgrandad there and they were married before the Second World War. She then became a shop assistant and I don’t know why. First in a sweet shop and then in my aunt’s photographic shop, both in Huddersfield town centre.

My mum and dad must have had a plan. To have more money and stuff each year. But also for older brother and myself to be better off than they were. They were both bright people who succeeded in technical lowish paid work and their plan also succeeded. It was what so-called working class people did. We have come full-circle and your mum and dad are having to rent and don’t have a lot of money. But you have never gone without.

Version 2

There are many stories about mum and dad in this book. Here I have contined from my early memories.

  Like most children, I assumed my mum and dad were right about everything. In my small world of Willow Lane all was safe and happy. Going to school and meeting people outside the family soon corrected my assumptions. 

  Some families had more material wealth than us, and some had less. Mum was a shop assistant. On Saturdays, dad and I would go to watch the match, pick mum up from work, buy some fudge and ice cream and go home on the bus. I didn’t know what dad did, but it was paid well enough, he told me when I could understand, for him to get a mortgage at £4 a month to buy a semi-detached house in Waterloo. Mum made clothes, knitted pullovers and darned socks. Dad stuck new soles on my shoes, cut my hair and built wood wardrobes. We went away to Scarborough one week every summer and lived in a caravan. There were bottles of sherry and egg flip at Christmas and a beer or two.

  Dad may have been poorly while we lived in Hillhouse/Newtown, but I don’t remember. He was poorly when we were at Waterloo. Sometimes he had to go to bed. I have spent a lot of time over the years, with help, thinking about those days. He came home from the war after five years in India. Just imagine that. While the dads were away mum, Granny Addy and auntie Mary brought up together older brother Steve and cousin Colin. Steve would have been five and Colin a bit older. Then I came along, born in 1947. Wow. Greatgrandad had a lot on his plate. Earning money and being an outsider in his own family. It wouldn’t have been easy for older brother either. Mum would be the peace-maker. We have kept my dad’s paperwork from when he left the army. A job reference from his commanding officer and a disability pension for stomach problems. His job, I found out later, was bookkeeping. In the Royal Army Pay Corps and then for the local electricity board. He’d been to Hillhouse Technical, a school for learning about jobs and left at 14 years of age. It was known as The Redcaps, I wonder why? He liked his numbers, but his love was wood. Before the war, after leaving Hillhouse, he worked for Ellis Furniture but the job was not there when he came back from India. On one of the birth or marriage certificates he is described as a wood machinist.

  He was all smiles on photographs up until then when stomach pains and depression and anger seemed to dominate. He stopped smoking and got fat. So did mum but much later. Then all the hassles of dieting. So dad had few smiles and sadly handy with a smack or two and some serious tellings off. I do remember feeling stupid and not up to much. Older brother Steve didn’t help.

  Steve went to grammar school in 1953 when I was 6 years old. He was pals with other grammar school boys. He was in the rapid stream, for clever boys who were going to go to good universities, like Oxford and Cambridge. He was a clever dick, unfortunately, and soon became known in the family as big head. He and dad were rivals and it ended in tears. Steve wouldn’t shut up and dad was both proud and jealous. God knows what I was doing. Mum trying to calm things down and ended in tears herself. Steve left to go to Liverpool around 1957/8. He came home in the holidays and carried on argueing with greatgrandad, once stating, “I don’t know how our David puts up with you.” It was normal for me. I did know other families from friends at school, but not well enough to make a comparison. When Steve stopped coming home quite so much, my rows with my dad were about my aversion to schoolwork. Mum joined in so I was in a lonely place for a while. After ‘o’ levels and getting ready to go off to university myself, we got along well enough. I got 6 ‘o’ levels. Dad said “Is that all?” I’d let him down again. My ‘a’ levels were fine. There were things which I had to fight for. Like getting a proper haircut. Dad did a ‘short back and sides’ with mail-order shears which was eventually too embarrassing. He made strange statements like fat congeals in your stomach. He supported labour and disliked people who were well off.

  Despite all this grief, my dad took me to the match every Saturday and cricket in summer. He bowled millions of overs at me in the back garden and on the beach. We travelled to see Yorkshire and the test matches at Old Trafford in Manchester. I fell out with playing cricket at school. Dad had nothing to do with it. 

  My mum was the peacemaker. Her most common saying was “Oh, Reg.” A plea for dad to shut up. Maybe also a plea for him to change his viewpoint. That was never going to happen. As a child, she lived in Hillhouse and went to Longley Hall School. She learned practical shorthand and typing, got a job and left school at 14 years of age. One end of year report said she was a good pupil but her mind wandered. She worked for Brian Tunstall at Hopkinson’s, an engineering works in in Birkby, a village next to Hillhouse. She met dad there and they were married before the Second World War. She then became a shop assistant and I don’t know why. First in a sweet shop and then in my aunt’s photographic shop, both in Huddersfield town centre.

  My mum and dad must have had a plan. To have more money and stuff each year, including a house and a car. But also for older brother and myself to be better off than they’d been. They were both bright people who succeeded in technical lowish paid work. Their plan succeeded. It was what so-called working class people did. They moved into the lower middle class.

  So mum and dad had a load of stuff to deal with. Getting married, earning money mand looking after children, just like any aspirational couple. Some might say the children come out scarred. A side-effect of parents trying to do the right thing – it’s not intentional to take their problems out on the children. 

  That small confused boy that was me back in the 1950s has stayed odd and confused ever since. I’ve already said that researching our family history has helped.