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Knowing how much can be lost between the generations, I've decided that I should leave my descendants with some idea of how
things were in (and I quote their words) The Olden Days. Most of them were born in Australia, and those who came here with
me from England were mostly too young to remember much about the place, not to mention things that happened before they were
born.
Not that anything was kept secret from them, but because we don't think with an eye to the future, we tend not to realise
that if we don't tell the kids about Uncle Bill Barton dressing up as a woman and turning up to let the New Year in, (a practice
known as Mumming, at least in my part of Yorkshire) then such a rich moment in our family history sinks into obscurity. Not
only a rich moment in our family, but a custom that has now almost died out would be forgotten in the mists of time.
I should say that with his blue chin, my Uncle Bill made the most horrible looking woman it's possible to imagine, but
he was my mother's brother, and we loved him dearly. He was from Barnsley, a coal mining town in Yorkshire, a few miles from
Bradford, and spoke with a wonderful old Yorkshire accent, and his cheery cry of "Hey up!" signified a "Hello",
an "Excuse me", or even a "What the hell do you think you're doing?" You could always tell what he meant
by the way that his pet phrase was delivered. Another of his pet phrases was a belligerent "Sithee?" short for
"See thee?" or "Do you understand?" Because I used to talk a lot (still do), he would tell me I was gobby!
So many of those old phrases have all but died out, and the world is sadder for their passing.
I cannot vouch for the strict truth of the following, but I can certainly vouch for the fact that it could easily have
happened. It happened because of the Yorkshire way of saying "while" instead of "until". A mother would
tell her kids "You just wait while your father gets home!", and they knew they were in for it. The problem arose
when a sign was erected on a level crossing, directing cars and other traffic "Do not cross while the light is red".
This had to have been erected by a southerner, who did not know that Yorkshire drivers would understand this to mean "until
the light is red". A couple of accidents resulted in the sign being re-written to read "Do not cross when the light
is red".
Along with this rich language, also lost in the mists of time (almost) is my birth on 25th November 1941. When the news
got through to the Japanese, they showed their disapproval of it by bombing Pearl Harbour, though why they blamed the Yanks
is anybody's guess. Their reaction in no way affected my father Wilfred's faith in my mother Eva, though, as I am told I
resemble him, his faith was probably justified. It must be put down to one of those monumental cock-ups that occur in even
the best run countries, and the Japanese entry into the war may tenuously be laid at my door, though I take no pride in reflecting
that my birth was one of the prime causes leading to the detonation of the atom bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. If it's
not too late, sorry guys!
The next occurrence of note is that I was removed from the cosy surrounds of St Luke's Hospital maternity ward and taken
to the doubtful luxury of a 1-down-2-up back-to-back very small house at number 5 South Street in Little Horton. This was
a suburb of Bradford, a city then replete with smoking mill chimneys from the abundant woollen mills. Bradford is a city
that dates back to pre-Doomsday Book times, and was originally known as Broadford, as the town straddled a stream at a wide
ford, as the name suggests. Another item supposedly lost in the mists of time is the original name of this stream, though
it was eventually to become known to one and all as the Mucky Beck, flowing beneath the town. Although I lived there for
most of my life until moving to Australia in 1976, I certainly never set eyes on the stream, and enquiries among family and
friends, plus a good search of the Internet elicited only the information that the stream is a minor tributary of the River
Aire. It took a recent email to Mike Priestley at the local newspaper, the Telegraph & Argus, to discover that its real
name was the Bradford Beck.
The city of Bradford nestles in the bottom of a valley, with the suburbs occupying the rising ground on all sides, thus
giving rise to the only thing of beauty I found in my youth to exist in the town. Sometimes in the morning, waiting for the
bus to school, and later in life, for the bus to take me to work, I'd stand in the clear air of Wibsey, high on a hill, and
look at the morning mist shrouding the town in the valley below. The sun shining on this layer of mist dazzled the eyes with
its pristine beauty, yet, as the bus descended into this magical misty fairyland, the mists became fogs, dull and dreary,
pea soupers such as the modern day world of Australia cannot comprehend.
On re-reading this, I note that I referred to the clear air of Wibsey, and must point out that "clear" was a
relative term when describing the atmosphere blanketing Bradford, where legend has it that the sparrows fly backwards to keep
the soot out of their eyes! I get a giggle out of the alarmists who look out on a gentle haze over Perth in Western Australia,
and scream "Smog!" and demand CALM's (Conservation And Land Management) collective heads on X number of platters.
Folks, you ain't seen nuthin' yet! I hasten to add that, since the closure of the mills with their attendant chimneys, the
atmosphere over Bradford has improved tremendously in the passing years, probably little comfort to the many out of work mill-hands,
though obviously a God-send to housewives who can at last rest assured that their washing will be as clean when they take
it off the lines as it was when it went on!
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