My Home

My childhood home,
Was a two up two down terraced house in Tonge Moor.
Cobbled streets lined with copy cat houses;
Row upon row a regiment on parade,
Doors numbered 1 to 100.
We faced the railway arches.
Gateway to green fields and space to run
Free from restrictions of the street.
My Grandparents lived next door, Aunty Sissy two doors down,
Aunty Nelly and Aunty Annie, always in and out
My dad was the youngest of seven sisters
We had cousins galore.

Our house had running hot water, a full sized bath in the kitchen,
A flushing lavatory too, where most had tipplers and cold water taps.
We had a flagged floor until dad covered it with Asphalt,
A rich ruby red, polished to perfection by mother.
Front windows and vestibule leaded with fancy glaze
And a solid shiny brass door knocker at the front
Dad was a journeyman plumber,
Could turn his hand to anything.

It was fascinating to watch him work
Scraps of lead melted by blowtorch
Poured out in strips on the kitchen step
To set into solid shiny silver sticks of solder.
Many backyards contained concrete air raid shelters
By 1942, dark and smelly.
Our backyard had a timber and glass roof
It was dad`s workshop.
Neat and tidy with a swing for us kids
Hung from an overhead beam.

The sounds and smells that came out of my home where unique.
Monday was wash day, boiler bubbling, mother possing away.
And a huge wooden mangle, the clatter deafening
Until we got electric wringers with super silent rubber rollers .
Line after line of snow white sheets filled the back street
Blowing in the wind like an Armada in full sail .
Then Mother sleeves rolled, pink cheeks,
Elbow deep in Dolly Tub, scrubbing and rubbing.
Intent on collars and cuffs white and bright.
Sunlight soap, the smell often haunts me, as does
Mum baking bread, cakes and custards every Friday.

Most families including mine, had an allotment.
Digging for Britain in the 1940s .
Grandad loved it down there by the river
On his precious patch of rich brown earth.
He worked hard and we ate well.
Within ration book restrictions
Fruits, vegetables, chickens and lots of eggs.

I can visualise Mum and Dad sat by a blazing fire,
Listening to the radio,
Dick Barton`s signature tune fading into the distance.
Front door ajar, step donkey stoned to classic proportions.
Warm inviting smells coming from the kitchen.
I can hear our grandfather clock chiming,
The fire crackling.

The house is still there
Facing the railway arches.
But the fields have gone
Replaced by an Industrial Estate.
A sign of the times.


© Valerie Cook August 2007