Here's a memory from the mid 1950s.
On Saturdays, Mum shopped at
Bailey’s the butchers for our Sunday roast, then she went to the Home and
Colonial Grocery Shop for general household needs, and finally, Boase’s for
fruit and vegetables. Food was cheaper, though not as fresh, at the Cooperative
Society, a small but busy shop at the bottom end of Market Jew Street. If money
was short and Mum couldn’t wait until Dad got his Friday pay packet, she’d shop
at the Co-op.
Sometimes, after school, Mum would
ask me to go and pick up groceries from the Home and Colonial. I liked going
there because sometimes the shopkeeper would give me a free Penguin chocolate
bar. Going shopping on my own was an adventure, too, and I would run as fast as
I could across Morrab Terrace, down the Arcade steps, and onto Market Jew
Street. The Home and Colonial was a beautiful shop. Its big brass-plated window
was set in a wall of green and black tiles. Mr. Wakfer, the manager, a small
man with thinning hair, black moustache, and long white apron tied at the back,
would take my mum’s shopping list, gather what she wanted from the shelves,
lick his yellow pencil, then cross off each item, one by one as he placed
everything in my big leather shopping bag.
“Mum’ll pay you Friday, ok?”
With a knowing smile, he would
always pack in an extra penguin biscuit. “You’re a good boy, Johnny Paull.
Eat this penguin on the way home.”
“Oh, and say ‘Hello’ to your mum for
me. Alright, is she?” “’Ow’s Arthur doin’? Still driving buses?”
After giving Mr. Wakfer a kid’s shy
smile back, I’d say, “Thank you, Mr. Wakfer. Mum and Dad
are fine, really fine.”
Then, holding the bag under my arm,
I’d run up the thirty two granite Arcade steps at the side of Simpson’s the
Tailors, two, sometimes stretching my legs to three, steps at a time, to Bread
Street, up to Morrab Place, and back home to Gwavas Street. I’d empty the
shopping bag, then share my chocolate Penguin bar with Charles. Well,
sometimes.
We didn’t buy bread from the Home
and Colonial, though. It was too expensive. Bread came either from the Co-op
down by the station or from Gendalls, the bread man. But, there was a
difference, not only in the price, but also in the quality. The Co-op sold Wonderloaf
Bread. Wonderloaf Bread came in a plastic wrapping. It was white,
sliced, thin, and tasteless. It wasn’t good for making a sandwich or for
spreading with marge and strawberry jam. Wonderloaf Bread was at its
best when fried in bacon grease and added to the bacon and egg breakfast we had
at the weekends.
Really good tasty bread was baked
and sold by Mr. Gendall. His bread was always fresh, warm and crusty. It was a
teatime treat, especially when Mum cut a thick slice and covered it with yellow
butter, not the tasteless yellowy-white margarine, and topped it with a
spoonful of thick yellow treacle. Yummy! Washing down a mouthful of bread,
butter, and treacle with a hot cup of Brooke Bond tea, sitting in front of the
fireplace, listening to the wireless, holding a wishing rock, was really special.
Even more special, though, were
Saturdays when we had strawberry jam and Cornish cream on our Gendall’s bread.
Mr. Gendall delivered his freshly
baked bread in our street three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday.
As his black and yellow bread van would pull up in the middle of Gwavas Street,
he’d toot his horn, and the front doors would fly open as the mothers came out
of their houses to buy a loaf or two. And, perhaps, to buy half a dozen saffron
buns.
One particular Saturday. when I was
playing cricket in the street with Brian and Titch Thomas, and Scocher Rowe, I
saw Mr. Gendall’s striped van turn at the top of the road. Knowing he’d soon
park by the street lamppost outside Ma Smith’s house, we ran indoors to tell
our mums that the bread man was in the street.
My mum came out right away. She went
over to the back of the van where Mr. Gendall, wearing his long brown dust
jacket over his white shirt and tie, hair slicked with Brylcreme, was wrapping
a couple of loaves for Mrs. Donnisthorne, our neighbor across the street.
When he’d finished serving Mrs.
Donnisthorne, Mr. Gendall turned and looked at my mum.
His face tightened and his smile
disappeared. “Hazel,” he said,
grouchily, “you owe me from last time – and the time before. Pay that off,
please, now, otherwise no bread. Sorry. I have a business to run.”
Mum turned away, upset and
embarrassed. The neighbours stared at her. They’d heard what Mr. Gendall had
said. I could see her lips trembling. Starting to cry, she sobbed: “Johnny, go in. NOW!”
I followed my mum inside the house
and, as she slumped down on the kitchen chair, she wiped her eyes with her
sleeve. I asked her what was wrong.
“Your dad’s going to be mad,”
she said. “There’s only Co-op bread for tea.” “Can’t have any Gendall’s
bread.”
She was right. At teatime that night
you could cut the atmosphere with a knife. Dad pushed his white plate to one
side, refusing to eat his bread, jam and Cornish cream.
“It’s Co-op bread.” he said.
“You know I don’t like Co-op bread. It’s like cardboard. It ruins the cream.
You know that.”
My mum looked at the floor and
didn’t answer. She was ashamed and her eyes were full of guilt. She didn’t want
to tell him why we didn’t have fresh bread for tea. Without another word, he left the table and sat on his
chair, opening his library Western book. Mum quickly cleared away the table.
Mum and Dad didn’t speak or look at
each other all evening. I couldn’t sleep when I went to bed and kept my brother
awake, telling him about Mum crying in the street.
“Shut up, Johnny,” I was told,
“and go to sleep.” “There’s nothing we can do about it.”
I couldn’t help it, though. I
couldn’t get my mother’s eyes full of tears out of my head. I lay awake for
ages, holding my wishing rock,
thinking about what I could do to raise the money my mum owed the baker. What
could I do?
The next day, Sunday, after a
silent, edgy breakfast (Co-op bread, fried in bacon grease, and topped
with a fried egg), Dad stood up, put on his thick overcoat, and then took his
double-barrel shotgun from the cupboard under the stairs. We knew what that meant
– it was his day off from work and, even though it was a bitter cold day, he
was going hunting mallard duck in Bejowan Woods. He didn’t, though, say what he
usually said, “See you, soon, Hazel. I’m off to check the traps, get a
rabbit or two.” “Might even get a duck.”
Picking up a sack from the backyard
shelf, Dad opened the back door, mounted his green Raleigh pushbike, and
pedaled up the back lane.
He didn’t wave. He didn’t look
behind him as he usually did.
I knew what that meant. It meant
trouble. BIG trouble. It meant Dad wanted to be out of the house, alone, in the
woods, with his double barrel shotgun.
As Dad cycled around the corner,
Titch Thomas and Fatty Wade came to the door. As soon as they saw my face, they
knew something was wrong.
“Wos wrong with thee?” asked Fatty.
“Nothing.
And I ain’t playing out.” I said.
The next day at school I kept
thinking about my mum and the money she owed the bread man.
I couldn’t concentrate on what Mr.
Hitchens was teaching the class, and he became really angry with me when I did
my sums wrong. “Wassup, Paull? You’re not
listening to me. You on the moon?”
“What’s
going on?”
Adding pounds, shillings and pence
didn’t seem that important to me. All I could think about was the incident with
the bread man, the tension between my mum and dad. I didn’t want Mr. Hitchens to know what was
really bothering me.
What could I do?
Then, an idea came to me. I knew
what I could do.
I often ran errands after school for
the old lady next door up. She was in a wheelchair, and banged on the wall when
she needed something. Every day I fetched what she needed from the corner
shops. She always gave me a three-penny bit to buy a bag of Smith’s crisps. I
could, I thought, ask some of the other old people who lived in our street if
they needed anything doing.
Perhaps, I thought, as I rubbed my
amber and my favorite wishing rock,
they’d give me a penny or two. Or even sixpence, if I was really lucky.
As soon as school finished, I went
down to the end of Gwavas Street into Penlee Street and knocked on Mrs. Johns’s
bright blue door. I knew Mrs. Johns lived on her own and hadn’t been well
lately. I was sure she needed someone to fetch some shopping.
Mrs. Johns opened the door. A long,
tattered grey shawl covered her shoulders. She looked surprised when she saw
me.
“What do you want, Johnny Paull?”
Hands in pockets, squeezing my
amber, I looked up at her.
Well, my timing was good.
“What? You go fer me?” she said. "
She gave me a shiny half-crown. I ran
up to the shop, bought Mrs. Johns’s ciggies, a bag of crisps, and ran back to
the blue door.
“That
was quick………….thank you, Johnny.” Mrs. Johns gave me the change. Two
pence. Hey! I’d started. How many more errands did I need to buy a loaf of
bread and how many to pay off the money
Mmmm...........I thought, I’d have
to run to the corner shop a lot of times.
I was determined, though, so I
knocked on a few more doors.
By tea time, I’d been to the corner
shop about five times, the Co-op twice, and Rowe’s the Carriers once, and
raised over two shillings - enough to go to Mr. Gendall’s shop to buy a loaf
today and another for tomorrow. As Mr. Gendall wrapped the bread he told me to
tell my mum that she needed to pay him what she owed by the end of the week. If
she did, he would start delivering our bread again.
As I was giving my mum the loaf, and
telling her what I’d done, we heard Dad opening the back door.
His eyes widened when he saw the
bread on the dining table. Mum looked at me and put her fingers to her lips.
“Ah,
good, Gendall’s been then, today, hey?”
Having a couple of slices of
Gendall’s bread and three slices of fried bacon put him in a much better mood.
After school, the following day, I
went down to the Co-op and fetched a really heavy bag of potatoes for Mrs.
Sloggett.
“Oh,
thank you, Johnny. Needed the. Couldn’t get them today – them knees.” she
said, pointing at her legs, “are bad.”
She gave me a bob. I knocked on more doors,
and ran more and more errands. Helping the neighbors felt good.
By Friday, Dad’s pay-day, I’d raised
over eight shillings. That evening, dad gave mum the house money for the week. When
he had gone upstairs to change out of his uniform, Mum looked at me and,
putting her fingers to her lips, quietly said we’d go to Gendall’s first thing
in the morning and pay off the debt. Mum looked at me for a long time, and then
gave me a kiss.
Later that night, after I’d gone to
bed, she told Dad what had happened and what I’d done. Over breakfast the next
day, he smiled at me and a tear dropped on his cheek as he gave me one of his
special big, wide-eyed, ear-to-ear grins.
“Here,” he said, as he handed me an empty
Old Holborn tin, “this is for you.”
“Stack
some of your rocks in there.”
I don’t know why my mother
owed so much.
I don’t know why we couldn’t afford to buy
bread that particular week.
It was never mentioned again,
at least not in front of us three boys. But the three of us did experience how
much stress is created in a family when money is short – and how the atmosphere
in the house changed drastically when there was tension between our mum and
dad. It filled my head at school and I couldn’t concentrate on the things I had
to do.
However, it was great
clearing my mum’s debt with the bread man. With that big worry out of my head,
I began to pay more attention again to what was going on in class.
Scholarship day, after all,
was fast approaching and I knew how important that was.
I knew because Dad kept
telling me.
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