Chapter one
An Interim
Just because a person has a viewpoint does not mean it is the objective truth
LDM Noble 2015
For the first time in history, in the May elections of May, 1979, a woman - Margaret Thatcher - was elected Prime Minister in the UK. On arriving at 10 Downing Street she uttered the Make Me an Instrument of Peace pronouncement that we came to remember her by:
`Where there is discord, may we bring harmony. Where there is error, may we bring truth. Where there is doubt, may we bring faith. And where there is despair, may we bring hope.’
The words she delivered were devoid of any real emotion or intention and once the election victory was secured she made it clear that she would be cutting public services and benefits.
Amongst those who were worst hit were the pensioners, with the proportion living below the poverty-line rising from 13% to 43%. And child poverty more than doubled in that time too. An observation by former Tory Minister, Sir Ian Gilmour went like this:
`The sacrifice imposed on the poor produced nothing miraculous except for the rich.’
Superimposed upon this period of draconian policies was the fear inculcated into society by the continued IRA bombing in England, along with the assassination of Lord Mountbatten and others. Any hope that I had borne of bringing my child up in a safe and peaceful society was but fleeting.
It is July 2015 and George Osborne, Conservative Chancellor of the Exchequer, has just delivered his Budget speech. The Budget included:
On Friday 10th July 1915, the headlines of the `i’ - National Newspaper of the Year – screamed:
‘Poorest homes will lose £800 a year.
‘Tax and benefit changes will hit UK households.’
Gavin Kelly, head of the Resolution Foundation `think tank’ - on whose thinking George Osborne’s move was based – stated
‘Many working families will be significantly worse off.’
However, it should perhaps be left to Paul Johnson, Director of the Institute of Fiscal Studies to highlight the damaging changes which will ultimately affect the more vulnerable in society.
Mr Johnson remarked:
“Given the array of benefit cuts it is not surprising that the changes overall are regressive – taking much more from poorer households than richer ones. Looking over the period of consolidation as a whole, poorer households have done worse than those in the middle and upper middle parts of the income distribution though it remains the case that some of the biggest losers have been those right at the very top of the income distribution”
My two eldest were seven and six years old in 1979 with the youngest born in the savage winter of that year. This memorable `Winter of Discontent’ started in the autumn of 1978 and continued into the spring, with the country blasted by blizzards and extreme cold weather during the intervening New Year. The severe cold of mid-February was memorable for the snow storm which brought most of the country to its knees. The two eldest still had to attend their local school, about half a mile away, and - as mother of a newly born baby – I had no choice but to accompany them there, with my tiny son well wrapped up against the elements. Before we could even begin our journey, we had to dig ourselves out, for the snow had drifted and was four feet high around the crescent which led off the main road. The main road, strewn with abandoned cars, was void of any activity as though some alien race had silently abducted any form of life. Even the clickety-click of the milk van and the clinking of the milk bottles were strangely conspicuous by their absence. The snow was a great leveller, for the only way of getting about was via Shank’s pony.
The children excitedly shovelled snow to one side as they carved a narrow passageway through the soft snow to reach the crescent. The intensity of the white out was blinding and the cold was breath-taking. Even the task of drawing air into the lungs was painful, as though razor sharp slivers of ice had been inhaled. Neither did two layers of thick socks in our wellies cushion us from the icy and unrelenting fingers of Jack Frost, who drew his frozen digits across our toes almost as soon as we had taken up our shovels.
Momentarily, the awe of the savage beauty of the landscape anaesthetised the pain. Dark tendrils escaped from the furry hat my daughter was wearing, framing her pink cheeks as she purposefully and determinedly dug her way out to freedom.
When the Winter of Discontent had begun, I had bought Dylan - my older son - a snorkel to insulate him from the severe cold. Many children had them and I had searched and searched for a good one which I could afford and which would last him for a couple of years. I had also found my daughter a furry brown coat which she looked delightful in. Most of the money I had put to one side for emergencies had been taken up by these purchases but they were worth every penny: my children were warm, dry and looked just as well dressed as any of the other children they went to school with.
Some months later, my daughter’s coat was scorched when it was placed too near the coke stove to dry. The dark brown fur turned mustard yellow in patches and I felt strangely hurt and worried that my daughter’s new coat would just look shabby. What was I to do? Eventually, I hit on the idea of stroking dark brown shoe polish gently over the scorched areas and this did the trick. The coat looked as good as new again and only ever needed retouching after it had been washed.
With the children off to school, I still had to go shopping. The local shops were too expensive, so, regardless of the inconvenience caused by the weather, I made my way to the town centre to do my shopping. My youngest son was wrapped up very well, tucked into the pushchair and carried over the drifting snow to the main road, from where I was at least able to push it along -albeit with some difficulty – towards the endless series of main roads that led to town. By now a thin stream of people wearing brightly coloured attire had appeared, and they were tramping purposely through the snow in the direction I was taking, making my journey just that little bit easier. I was determined to reach the centre not just because I needed to buy food but because I needed to have my baby’s photograph taken at the booth in town so that I could send it to his dad and grandma in Dundee. So it was that on the 22th January 1979, at the tender age of 12 days and just eight days after his dad had left, my baby son had his first outing.
Shopping proved to be difficult because the closure many of the shops due to the appalling weather limited my choice. Nevertheless, I managed to undertake a credible shop, although most of the fresh items were frozen by the time that I had walked back home – as were my toes and fingers!
I always provided a hot meal with plenty of vegetables and fruit on my children’s return home from school, even though they stayed for what appeared to me to be nutritionally sound school meals.
School meals were introduced around 1900 after concern had been expressed about the fact that the physical state of children had not improved despite advances in public health and housing. It appeared that children’s health at the beginning of the twentieth century was no better than it had been in the mid 1800’s.
The Liberal government, attempted to deal with this problem, introducing, for example, School Medical Examinations, and under the 1906 Education (Provision of Meals) Act and as part of the government’s commitment to reform, schools were then permitted to offer meals to pupils. However, the provision of free meals did not come about until 1921 when the 1921 Education Act (Free School Meals to Eligible Children) set out the criteria for eligibility for free school meals. Nevertheless, the effectiveness of the Act was placed in jeopardy when the miners’ strike placed many more children in line for free meals, so that the resultant cost to central government almost tripled. In a move to reduce this hitherto unforeseen cost, the Board of Education implemented a rationing system which ironically appeared to affect the very poor more adversely. In Whitehaven, for example, only 55 of the 400 eligible children actually received meals (Webster 1985:216). That apart, during 1921, the 1906 Education (Provision of Meals) Act was extended to provide free school milk.
My children, like many others, benefitted from these Acts through the provision of school dinners and milk, but I found cooking therapeutic and, in addition, I liked to sit down at the table with the children and listen to them recounting what they had learned at school. Liver was a popular meat which was very cheap and, if minced up and cooked with onions before being topped with potatoes, made a very popular and passable shepherd’s pie. This dish was nearly always followed by a fruit crumble with the fruit being obtained free from the nearest hedgerow. No self-respecting housewife would fail to keep her freezer well stocked with nature’s bounty to tide her over the winter and, I was no different. I was also very grateful that the house had a small larder within the kitchen, which did away with the need for a refrigerator as well as the expense of running one. Nevertheless, I did have a small freezer, absolutely necessary if I was to store food for the winter.
The snow showers and blizzards which engulfed the UK had been unforeseen, especially since the preceding autumn had been characterised by mild, dry weather up until about the 24th November. It had been good weather for gathering blackberries, and whilst there wasn’t any extra money to fill the freezer up with food from the shops, I had been able to stock up on food from the hedgerow as well as food that I had been able to grow. Therefore, we were not short of rhubarb, courgettes and tomatoes, amongst other produce, that thrived in the heavy clay and mineral rich soil of our garden.
It was also far cheaper to buy bottles of sterilised milk from the town centre than anywhere else and so I had taken to buying eight pints for the week, equating to one pint a day to be used and one to be stored for emergencies. If funds allowed - and if baked beans happened to be on offer at the time - I would also buy an extra tin to be placed in the store cupboard for emergencies. I also stored a selection of pulses to thicken stews and to add extra protein, and I became adept at creating vegetarian shepherd’s pies and lentil bakes, which the children and I enjoyed.
I loved the baking days, feeling a pang of regret when my children went to school and were unable to share all the excitement of planning meals, weighing out of ingredients, mixing and baking and finally – with a flourish - taking the finished product out of the oven.
I baked my own bread, producing sturdy plaits, wholesome loaves and floury baps. Oatmeal- and ginger-biscuits likewise emerged from the oven to cool and take on the characteristic crunch. Fairy buns would be piled onto the cooling rack before being filled with vanilla butter cream, with the delicate ‘wings’ then gently steadied in the thick ‘cream’ to form butterfly buns. Should I have some flavouring or colouring to hand then variations on a theme would appear, all designed to delight! I gained a great deal of maternal satisfaction and pleasure when watching my children choosing their favourite bun before sinking their teeth into their delightful softness. I would also make a tray of parkin and ginger bread at the beginning of the week, since these two bakes needed three days in which to `mature’ before the moistness developed, signalling that the tray bakes were now ready to be eaten. Finally, a fruited tea bread -which would eventually be spread with butter or hedgerow preserve - would be withdrawn from the oven to sit proudly alongside the efforts of my hard day’s work. There was a complexity in planning that I enjoyed when baking. All the baking required different oven temperatures, so in order to keep bills down, I had to plan for the baking which required similar temperatures to go into the oven along with the items which required slightly higher temperatures, these being placed on the upper shelves. When being proved, the bread was always placed near the oven, with a damp cloth covering it.
The arrival of my youngest son in one of the bleakest winters ever known meant that I kept the heating on all the time in one room of the house. This was generally the kitchen, because the heat from the oven would warm the room and it was only after the two older children had returned home from school and had eaten that the room became unacceptably cool. And it was easier and cheaper to draw the curtains in the smaller front room, and turn on the electric heater, although we could only afford to keep one bar on. The children played with their toys on the rug in front of the fire and when it was time to watch television they would flop down on the settee and cover themselves with a blanket to keep warm. I simply could not afford to heat the bedrooms, so hot water bottles and bed socks were a must for the older two. William, my youngest, slept with me for the few weeks until the cold weather slunk back reluctantly in the face of the advancing spring, at which point he was introduced to his new cot. My son never did take to his cot and repeatedly and rhythmically banged his feet against the end of it until it fell to pieces, beyond repair.
In the winter, I would more often than not follow the children to bed, since I would never keep the fire on unless they were up and about. It was too cold to stay up without any form of heat, so, like many single parents on a limited income, I would go to bed early and slip between the covers with a hot water bottle, a good book and a pair of mittens to keep my hands warm whilst I held the book.
A vague sense of unease pervaded society at the time and hung heavily, silently and slowly suffocating the frail fabric of society and leaving me as a young mother feeling very vulnerable. Prime Minister James Callaghan had tried to impose pay caps of 5% on the public sector so as to control inflation, and this had led to widespread strikes. The first strike of 1979 occurred on the 3rd January when an unofficial strike by TGWU lorry drivers began. Petrol distribution was held up and one of the consequences was that petrol stations closed all across the country; and furthermore, the main ports were picketed by the strikers. The strike by the TGWU was made official on the 11th January and on the 12th January the United Road Transport Union also agreed an official strike. Over three quarters of the nation’s goods – including basic essentials - were transported by road and of those firms that did not strike, many were picketed.
Nearer home – and to add to the feeling of general unease - a young man called Dave, who lived down the road, had died. I had only just become acquainted with the family when he had contracted flu and had taken more paracetamol than he should have done to control his muscle aches and sore throat. Very shortly after being hospitalized he died from acute liver failure. He simply wasn’t aware of the dangers of taking too much paracetamol. One of his brothers had knocked frantically at my door when they had heard the news about his death, as though I was able to do something about it. Of course, I could not. But they needed to inform Sue - Dave’s girlfriend - right now, and would I go with them?
It was nearly midnight. The neon lights glowed eerily, revealing relentless drizzle falling on already rain-soaked roads. No one went out late at night. Once darkness fell, the doors were locked and remained so until dawn. I was aware that I had my pyjamas, bed socks and a woolly scarf on. I knew I must have looked an incongruous sight, standing between hesitation and need. The latter won!
A relative sat with my children whilst I was crammed into the car along with three grieving relatives, who pinned me in. It was now nearly midnight, very cold and very wet, and the raindrops had already dripped down my face, making my nose itch uncontrollably. The more I rubbed my nose with my wet, cold hands, the more it itched. I had nothing dry with which to stop this. We sat in uncomfortable silence, as we headed off to an estate that you wouldn’t normally venture into during the day, unless you had to.
‘What am I doing here?’ I wondered.’ Here I am sitting with people that I hardly know, careering around in an old banger at midnight.’ It was a question I had often asked myself but one which I hadn’t been able to answer satisfactorily.
We eventually pulled into some run-down estate, with only the occasional bathroom light illuminating the silhouette of a stretch of imposing homes. The oldest brother tumbled out of the car, standing on a drain which was regurgitating the contents of the day’s dismal mood. The filthy water swept over his shoe. He cursed before stumbling up the narrow concrete path that led to Sue’s house. We heard him banging on the door but it seemed an age before a light went on in the bedroom and then the hallway. The external door was opened slightly and the yellowing light seeped out onto the steps, illuminating the scene. Like myself, Sue was dressed in pyjamas, but it was obvious that they did not insulate her from the cold, for she was but a thin, slight figure, shivering in the winter’s air.
We could see that a discussion was taking place, but the voices were muffled and, from the relative safety of the car, we couldn’t hear what was being said. Eventually, the door closed briefly before reopening. Sue had got dressed and the two figures, huddled together against the elements, made their way to the car. Dave’s girlfriend climbed in, bidding a cheery ‘Hi’ to everyone. But there was a question in her voice which I didn’t quite understand as we travelled back to Almondbury in respectful and reflective silence.
Clambering out of the car at the other end, we all trooped back to Dave’s house in crocodile fashion. By now it was well past midnight. There was an unmistakeable stench of stale urine and pungent bodies mingling with the faint, sweet, distinctive odour of rotting wood. Dave’s mother sat rigid and unmoving in her armchair, and her brown eyes - ringed with arcus senilis - gazed unseeingly. Her gnarled fingers gripped the armchair, the knuckles showing white with the effort.
Sue bounced into the room. ‘Hello everyone,’ she said brightly.
A stunned silence followed.
Then Alec lifted his head. ‘Didn’t you tell her, you sod?’ he directed to his oldest brother.
‘Tell me what?’ Sue enquired.
‘Dave’s dead’.
Slowly all heads turned towards Sue, waiting for her reaction. Someone coughed nervously before wheezing – testimony to a lifetime of Woodbines. A curl of smoke escaped from Alec’s mouth before he inhaled deeply on a reedy rollup. Then a slurp punctuated the air following a gulp of lager from a glass borrowed from the local pub. Even Dave’s mother’s unflinching gaze appeared to have shifted position, although her knuckles still grasped the chair’s edge. I was aware that a thousand responses were running through my head, overwhelming me with indecision. The clock on the wall ticked very loudly, slowly and relentlessly.
I could not have envisaged what happened next though, for Sue stood up from her chair’s arm perch, positioning herself in the centre of the room. She turned her palms upwards and opened them in a gesture of surprise.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sue asked, as though enquiring after the weather, “I wondered why you had asked me to come out to your house at this time of night?”
Whatever crisis I had been anticipating had not occurred. After an initial silence, normality – whatever it was here - returned, and it was with some relief that I said, ‘Goodnight!’ and scurried the few yards back up the road to my own house. I was thankful for the safety and normality of my own space. I did not want to own the night where death stalked or pale yellow rays from lonely light bulbs faintly lit the rain-spattered window like a scene from Victorian times. Neither did I choose to breathe in the thin, acrid smoke that choked my lungs and heated my flesh in the process. But, mostly, I did not want to own the starkness of what I had seen. The night had laboured heavily not just because of the death of a young man, but because I had witnessed the rehearsal of a script which was devoid of any real feeling - and by those to whom it should have evoked feeling. The connectedness of one human being to another – always in a state of fragility at any point in time – was missing entirely. I resolved not to go there again – it was worlds away from what I knew or understood.
The funeral was held on a cold and dismal December morning, where mist clung like a shroud and froze our bones mercilessly. Hymns that held no meaning for the attendees were sung dutifully and tunelessly before they returned to their cars in sombre silence. I had been offered a lift in a car which was littered with cigarette packets and nicotine stained butts. On being driven slowly down the lengthy drive from the crematorium, I noticed Johnny Boylan - hunched over with head down - walking slowly and solitarily along the grassy verge. Johnny was in his seventies, a frail man whose life had been marked with tragedy, and whose only respite from the pain of it all was the anaesthesia which came from alcohol. Sometimes it was hard to be around him, for his pain was tangible and contagious and could weave itself into my own soul, unbidden. It could create a sense of helplessness and frustration at my limitations when it came to helping ease his anguish.
I would often listen to the stories that made up the fabric of Johnny’s life and, now and again, he would stop and gaze at me steadily, his fading blue eyes dimmed with the pain of living. ‘You’re good lass,’ he would say, ‘thank you for listening.’
Today, though, was not the time for listening, today was meant for action. ‘Stop!’ I cried to the driver. The vehicle juddered to a halt, even before I had finished speaking; everyone respected Johnny. The car was already packed with damp and unfamiliar bodies and Johnny was standing, aged and alone, with the rain dripping off the end of his nose. There was, in truth, only one space remaining, in the boot of the car, and I was by far the slightest figure. I didn’t hesitate before clambering nimbly into the boot of the car, to make space for Johnny in the passenger seat. The car creaked and groaned a little as Johnny climbed in, shaking droplets of rain over the seat as he did so.
`Thank you,’ he said quietly, turning around and gazing steadily at me, ‘I will never forget what you have just done for me.’
And I thought long into the night about that – about what had happened to these people that such an inconsequential action as mine meant so much to them. Their vulnerability was raw, intense and penetrating. It was hard to be around sometimes, to be drawn into the pain of others and to feel helpless and naked in doing so. We are all really just frail human flesh. I loved these people with their fragility and frangible humanity, transparent for all to see - the human spirit is broken all too easily - yet I hated the estate they inhabited, with its greyness and its rubbish-strewn streets where the blackbird never sings.
Mrs Clarkson had been the first neighbour to speak to me on my arrival in Almondbury, making a point of stopping me on my way back from the corner shop. “Rhubarb’s really good for constipation,” she advised me.
I stood uncertainly, wondering what to make of this unexpected and unwarranted conversation. It was certainly unlike any conversation-opener that I had come across before.
“I gather it is,” I replied.
Mrs Clarkson nodded and went on her way.
Mary, the cat lady, lived further down from Mrs Clarkson. Mary generally had a line of assorted cats following her - crocodile style -as she went about her daily life. These cats gathered at Mary’s house because she had two secret weapons – one was the fresh salmon she bought for them and the other was the freshly cooked minced chicken, laid out on delicate saucers outside her back door. As a struggling single parent, it crossed my mind more than once that the cats were far better fed than I was.
The children and I were blessed in having two neighbours in the houses to the right of us that – to my mind at least – appeared normal. Mr Wilkinson was an elderly gentleman whose wife died in her twenties, leaving him to bring up a very young family on his own. He was a gentle, gracious soul, and my children always took him a piece of their birthday cake at the appropriate time, as well as clearing the snow from his path during the winter.
Gwen lived to the right of Mr Wilkinson and I could not have wished for a happier or more contented neighbour. Gwen exuded happiness and good humour - for nothing appeared to faze her - and she never had a bad word to say about anybody.
The length of stay of families living on the estate was characterised by its fluidity. When Mrs Clarkson died, other families quickly moved in and, equally quickly, moved out. Tempers appeared to fray quickly amongst many of the tenants, so that the grassed area in front of our houses became the weekly scene of attempts by the local lads to settle perceived slights. This was especially so when the local club had closed its doors at night. A young couple with a small child had briefly occupied Mrs Clarkson’s former house, and whatever had happened one night resulted in the young man holding his wife and child captive in the bedroom before he turned all the gas taps on. The police were duly called - and the neighbours evacuated to a safer distance - before a police dog was sent in and the status quo restored. I didn’t see the family again after that. Another family, with a young Down’s syndrome child, moved in. My neighbour to the left of me told the mother to keep the child inside as it was upsetting her to look at ‘it.’ I was bewildered and angry at the sheer insensitivity of such a remark. The pain, hopelessness and despair which characterised the estate were almost tangible.
My youngest, at the age of two months, was due to have his first vaccination against whooping cough, tetanus and diphtheria. My Granddad Noble had contracted diphtheria during the Great War and he had nearly died from it after a grey patch - which had developed due to the highly contagious bacterium - nearly blocked his airway. He was only saved when a young nurse pushed the blockage to one side with her fingers, apologising profusely as she did so, since, apparently, this life-saving procedure was not allowed. My granddad was in no doubt that had she not done so, he would not have lived.
Nowadays, diphtheria would be treated with antibiotics but the discovery of the first antibiotic, penicillin, did not occur until 1928 and it was not introduced into general medicine until ten years later, in 1938. This was approximately twenty years after my Granddad Noble had contracted the disease.
These vaccinations are essential if children are to be protected, and offer the potential for the eradication of devastating diseases. Such was the case with smallpox, for although it was routine for children of my era to be vaccinated against smallpox, by 1980 the World Health Organisation declared that smallpox had been eradicated. Nevertheless, even knowing these facts, it was still hard for me to subject my tiny baby to the pain – however temporary – of his diphtheria jab. Fortunately, it passed off without incident.
Of equal importance was the Measles, Mumps and Rubella [MMR] vaccine which contained live, attenuated viruses in one single vaccine. This was given in two stages, with the initial jab given just prior to the baby’s first birthday and the second dose administered prior to the child starting school.
Although considered as mere ‘childhood diseases’, measles, mumps and rubella – the latter also known as German Measles - are capable of triggering devastating complications. Measles may result in meningitis, intellectual disability and even death. Mumps may lead to bilateral orchitis, which may lead to sterility. Rubella, if contracted by pregnant women in the first trimester, may result in serious birth defects.
I had contracted all three viruses when a child and I vividly recalled when I and my two siblings had all been confined to bed with measles. The doctor had arrived and drawn the curtains to keep daylight out, which was customary. My brother and sister were sleeping deeply and I was more than a little bored at having no-one to play with, so I made tents out of the bed covers for a while, before bouncing up and down on the bed with a great deal of abandon. The only highlight of my lengthy and tedious bed-confinement was the glass of Lucozade given at that time as the standard medicine for all childish ailments. This would often be supplemented with Buttercup Syrup if there was a chesty cough involved. And in the winter, most children would also be dosed with Rose Hip Syrup, which contained lots of vitamin C. This replaced the vitamin C that would normally have been supplied by oranges, but they came to be in very short supply during the Second World War.
My youngest was due to have his MMR just before his first birthday and since his previous jabs had been administered without anything untoward happening, I did not expect that things would be any different. Except that, as it turned out, they were. The morning following his vaccination, my baby son’s temperature had risen to just over 1010F. He lay on the floor unable to move despite my attempts to coax him. His olive skin was flushed - hot and dry - so I gathered him up quickly and ran to the doctor’s surgery as fast as I could. On examination, his temperature was found to have risen to 1040F and an ambulance was quickly called. Once in the hospital he was given paracetamol whilst a huge fan directed cooling currents of air over him. It was hard to leave him, but by the following morning the crisis was over and I bundled him up, took him home and held him closely for a long, long time.
Following my youngest son's vaccination against MMR, he developed autistic traits and his speech was limited after that. He developed digestive complaints that weren't apparent before this vaccination.
This excerpt from Chapter one of Where the Blackbird Never Sings is copyrighted as is all my work that is produced here. This book is available on Amazon.
continued tomorrow
An Interim
Just because a person has a viewpoint does not mean it is the objective truth
LDM Noble 2015
For the first time in history, in the May elections of May, 1979, a woman - Margaret Thatcher - was elected Prime Minister in the UK. On arriving at 10 Downing Street she uttered the Make Me an Instrument of Peace pronouncement that we came to remember her by:
`Where there is discord, may we bring harmony. Where there is error, may we bring truth. Where there is doubt, may we bring faith. And where there is despair, may we bring hope.’
The words she delivered were devoid of any real emotion or intention and once the election victory was secured she made it clear that she would be cutting public services and benefits.
Amongst those who were worst hit were the pensioners, with the proportion living below the poverty-line rising from 13% to 43%. And child poverty more than doubled in that time too. An observation by former Tory Minister, Sir Ian Gilmour went like this:
`The sacrifice imposed on the poor produced nothing miraculous except for the rich.’
Superimposed upon this period of draconian policies was the fear inculcated into society by the continued IRA bombing in England, along with the assassination of Lord Mountbatten and others. Any hope that I had borne of bringing my child up in a safe and peaceful society was but fleeting.
It is July 2015 and George Osborne, Conservative Chancellor of the Exchequer, has just delivered his Budget speech. The Budget included:
- the abolition of automatic entitlement to housing benefit for those aged 18-22 years;
- limiting support for children through tax credits and universal credits to two children if they are born after April 2017; and
- a package of welfare reforms, including a four year freeze for working-age benefits, which will cut £12bn from the system.
On Friday 10th July 1915, the headlines of the `i’ - National Newspaper of the Year – screamed:
‘Poorest homes will lose £800 a year.
‘Tax and benefit changes will hit UK households.’
Gavin Kelly, head of the Resolution Foundation `think tank’ - on whose thinking George Osborne’s move was based – stated
‘Many working families will be significantly worse off.’
However, it should perhaps be left to Paul Johnson, Director of the Institute of Fiscal Studies to highlight the damaging changes which will ultimately affect the more vulnerable in society.
Mr Johnson remarked:
“Given the array of benefit cuts it is not surprising that the changes overall are regressive – taking much more from poorer households than richer ones. Looking over the period of consolidation as a whole, poorer households have done worse than those in the middle and upper middle parts of the income distribution though it remains the case that some of the biggest losers have been those right at the very top of the income distribution”
My two eldest were seven and six years old in 1979 with the youngest born in the savage winter of that year. This memorable `Winter of Discontent’ started in the autumn of 1978 and continued into the spring, with the country blasted by blizzards and extreme cold weather during the intervening New Year. The severe cold of mid-February was memorable for the snow storm which brought most of the country to its knees. The two eldest still had to attend their local school, about half a mile away, and - as mother of a newly born baby – I had no choice but to accompany them there, with my tiny son well wrapped up against the elements. Before we could even begin our journey, we had to dig ourselves out, for the snow had drifted and was four feet high around the crescent which led off the main road. The main road, strewn with abandoned cars, was void of any activity as though some alien race had silently abducted any form of life. Even the clickety-click of the milk van and the clinking of the milk bottles were strangely conspicuous by their absence. The snow was a great leveller, for the only way of getting about was via Shank’s pony.
The children excitedly shovelled snow to one side as they carved a narrow passageway through the soft snow to reach the crescent. The intensity of the white out was blinding and the cold was breath-taking. Even the task of drawing air into the lungs was painful, as though razor sharp slivers of ice had been inhaled. Neither did two layers of thick socks in our wellies cushion us from the icy and unrelenting fingers of Jack Frost, who drew his frozen digits across our toes almost as soon as we had taken up our shovels.
Momentarily, the awe of the savage beauty of the landscape anaesthetised the pain. Dark tendrils escaped from the furry hat my daughter was wearing, framing her pink cheeks as she purposefully and determinedly dug her way out to freedom.
When the Winter of Discontent had begun, I had bought Dylan - my older son - a snorkel to insulate him from the severe cold. Many children had them and I had searched and searched for a good one which I could afford and which would last him for a couple of years. I had also found my daughter a furry brown coat which she looked delightful in. Most of the money I had put to one side for emergencies had been taken up by these purchases but they were worth every penny: my children were warm, dry and looked just as well dressed as any of the other children they went to school with.
Some months later, my daughter’s coat was scorched when it was placed too near the coke stove to dry. The dark brown fur turned mustard yellow in patches and I felt strangely hurt and worried that my daughter’s new coat would just look shabby. What was I to do? Eventually, I hit on the idea of stroking dark brown shoe polish gently over the scorched areas and this did the trick. The coat looked as good as new again and only ever needed retouching after it had been washed.
With the children off to school, I still had to go shopping. The local shops were too expensive, so, regardless of the inconvenience caused by the weather, I made my way to the town centre to do my shopping. My youngest son was wrapped up very well, tucked into the pushchair and carried over the drifting snow to the main road, from where I was at least able to push it along -albeit with some difficulty – towards the endless series of main roads that led to town. By now a thin stream of people wearing brightly coloured attire had appeared, and they were tramping purposely through the snow in the direction I was taking, making my journey just that little bit easier. I was determined to reach the centre not just because I needed to buy food but because I needed to have my baby’s photograph taken at the booth in town so that I could send it to his dad and grandma in Dundee. So it was that on the 22th January 1979, at the tender age of 12 days and just eight days after his dad had left, my baby son had his first outing.
Shopping proved to be difficult because the closure many of the shops due to the appalling weather limited my choice. Nevertheless, I managed to undertake a credible shop, although most of the fresh items were frozen by the time that I had walked back home – as were my toes and fingers!
I always provided a hot meal with plenty of vegetables and fruit on my children’s return home from school, even though they stayed for what appeared to me to be nutritionally sound school meals.
School meals were introduced around 1900 after concern had been expressed about the fact that the physical state of children had not improved despite advances in public health and housing. It appeared that children’s health at the beginning of the twentieth century was no better than it had been in the mid 1800’s.
The Liberal government, attempted to deal with this problem, introducing, for example, School Medical Examinations, and under the 1906 Education (Provision of Meals) Act and as part of the government’s commitment to reform, schools were then permitted to offer meals to pupils. However, the provision of free meals did not come about until 1921 when the 1921 Education Act (Free School Meals to Eligible Children) set out the criteria for eligibility for free school meals. Nevertheless, the effectiveness of the Act was placed in jeopardy when the miners’ strike placed many more children in line for free meals, so that the resultant cost to central government almost tripled. In a move to reduce this hitherto unforeseen cost, the Board of Education implemented a rationing system which ironically appeared to affect the very poor more adversely. In Whitehaven, for example, only 55 of the 400 eligible children actually received meals (Webster 1985:216). That apart, during 1921, the 1906 Education (Provision of Meals) Act was extended to provide free school milk.
My children, like many others, benefitted from these Acts through the provision of school dinners and milk, but I found cooking therapeutic and, in addition, I liked to sit down at the table with the children and listen to them recounting what they had learned at school. Liver was a popular meat which was very cheap and, if minced up and cooked with onions before being topped with potatoes, made a very popular and passable shepherd’s pie. This dish was nearly always followed by a fruit crumble with the fruit being obtained free from the nearest hedgerow. No self-respecting housewife would fail to keep her freezer well stocked with nature’s bounty to tide her over the winter and, I was no different. I was also very grateful that the house had a small larder within the kitchen, which did away with the need for a refrigerator as well as the expense of running one. Nevertheless, I did have a small freezer, absolutely necessary if I was to store food for the winter.
The snow showers and blizzards which engulfed the UK had been unforeseen, especially since the preceding autumn had been characterised by mild, dry weather up until about the 24th November. It had been good weather for gathering blackberries, and whilst there wasn’t any extra money to fill the freezer up with food from the shops, I had been able to stock up on food from the hedgerow as well as food that I had been able to grow. Therefore, we were not short of rhubarb, courgettes and tomatoes, amongst other produce, that thrived in the heavy clay and mineral rich soil of our garden.
It was also far cheaper to buy bottles of sterilised milk from the town centre than anywhere else and so I had taken to buying eight pints for the week, equating to one pint a day to be used and one to be stored for emergencies. If funds allowed - and if baked beans happened to be on offer at the time - I would also buy an extra tin to be placed in the store cupboard for emergencies. I also stored a selection of pulses to thicken stews and to add extra protein, and I became adept at creating vegetarian shepherd’s pies and lentil bakes, which the children and I enjoyed.
I loved the baking days, feeling a pang of regret when my children went to school and were unable to share all the excitement of planning meals, weighing out of ingredients, mixing and baking and finally – with a flourish - taking the finished product out of the oven.
I baked my own bread, producing sturdy plaits, wholesome loaves and floury baps. Oatmeal- and ginger-biscuits likewise emerged from the oven to cool and take on the characteristic crunch. Fairy buns would be piled onto the cooling rack before being filled with vanilla butter cream, with the delicate ‘wings’ then gently steadied in the thick ‘cream’ to form butterfly buns. Should I have some flavouring or colouring to hand then variations on a theme would appear, all designed to delight! I gained a great deal of maternal satisfaction and pleasure when watching my children choosing their favourite bun before sinking their teeth into their delightful softness. I would also make a tray of parkin and ginger bread at the beginning of the week, since these two bakes needed three days in which to `mature’ before the moistness developed, signalling that the tray bakes were now ready to be eaten. Finally, a fruited tea bread -which would eventually be spread with butter or hedgerow preserve - would be withdrawn from the oven to sit proudly alongside the efforts of my hard day’s work. There was a complexity in planning that I enjoyed when baking. All the baking required different oven temperatures, so in order to keep bills down, I had to plan for the baking which required similar temperatures to go into the oven along with the items which required slightly higher temperatures, these being placed on the upper shelves. When being proved, the bread was always placed near the oven, with a damp cloth covering it.
The arrival of my youngest son in one of the bleakest winters ever known meant that I kept the heating on all the time in one room of the house. This was generally the kitchen, because the heat from the oven would warm the room and it was only after the two older children had returned home from school and had eaten that the room became unacceptably cool. And it was easier and cheaper to draw the curtains in the smaller front room, and turn on the electric heater, although we could only afford to keep one bar on. The children played with their toys on the rug in front of the fire and when it was time to watch television they would flop down on the settee and cover themselves with a blanket to keep warm. I simply could not afford to heat the bedrooms, so hot water bottles and bed socks were a must for the older two. William, my youngest, slept with me for the few weeks until the cold weather slunk back reluctantly in the face of the advancing spring, at which point he was introduced to his new cot. My son never did take to his cot and repeatedly and rhythmically banged his feet against the end of it until it fell to pieces, beyond repair.
In the winter, I would more often than not follow the children to bed, since I would never keep the fire on unless they were up and about. It was too cold to stay up without any form of heat, so, like many single parents on a limited income, I would go to bed early and slip between the covers with a hot water bottle, a good book and a pair of mittens to keep my hands warm whilst I held the book.
A vague sense of unease pervaded society at the time and hung heavily, silently and slowly suffocating the frail fabric of society and leaving me as a young mother feeling very vulnerable. Prime Minister James Callaghan had tried to impose pay caps of 5% on the public sector so as to control inflation, and this had led to widespread strikes. The first strike of 1979 occurred on the 3rd January when an unofficial strike by TGWU lorry drivers began. Petrol distribution was held up and one of the consequences was that petrol stations closed all across the country; and furthermore, the main ports were picketed by the strikers. The strike by the TGWU was made official on the 11th January and on the 12th January the United Road Transport Union also agreed an official strike. Over three quarters of the nation’s goods – including basic essentials - were transported by road and of those firms that did not strike, many were picketed.
Nearer home – and to add to the feeling of general unease - a young man called Dave, who lived down the road, had died. I had only just become acquainted with the family when he had contracted flu and had taken more paracetamol than he should have done to control his muscle aches and sore throat. Very shortly after being hospitalized he died from acute liver failure. He simply wasn’t aware of the dangers of taking too much paracetamol. One of his brothers had knocked frantically at my door when they had heard the news about his death, as though I was able to do something about it. Of course, I could not. But they needed to inform Sue - Dave’s girlfriend - right now, and would I go with them?
It was nearly midnight. The neon lights glowed eerily, revealing relentless drizzle falling on already rain-soaked roads. No one went out late at night. Once darkness fell, the doors were locked and remained so until dawn. I was aware that I had my pyjamas, bed socks and a woolly scarf on. I knew I must have looked an incongruous sight, standing between hesitation and need. The latter won!
A relative sat with my children whilst I was crammed into the car along with three grieving relatives, who pinned me in. It was now nearly midnight, very cold and very wet, and the raindrops had already dripped down my face, making my nose itch uncontrollably. The more I rubbed my nose with my wet, cold hands, the more it itched. I had nothing dry with which to stop this. We sat in uncomfortable silence, as we headed off to an estate that you wouldn’t normally venture into during the day, unless you had to.
‘What am I doing here?’ I wondered.’ Here I am sitting with people that I hardly know, careering around in an old banger at midnight.’ It was a question I had often asked myself but one which I hadn’t been able to answer satisfactorily.
We eventually pulled into some run-down estate, with only the occasional bathroom light illuminating the silhouette of a stretch of imposing homes. The oldest brother tumbled out of the car, standing on a drain which was regurgitating the contents of the day’s dismal mood. The filthy water swept over his shoe. He cursed before stumbling up the narrow concrete path that led to Sue’s house. We heard him banging on the door but it seemed an age before a light went on in the bedroom and then the hallway. The external door was opened slightly and the yellowing light seeped out onto the steps, illuminating the scene. Like myself, Sue was dressed in pyjamas, but it was obvious that they did not insulate her from the cold, for she was but a thin, slight figure, shivering in the winter’s air.
We could see that a discussion was taking place, but the voices were muffled and, from the relative safety of the car, we couldn’t hear what was being said. Eventually, the door closed briefly before reopening. Sue had got dressed and the two figures, huddled together against the elements, made their way to the car. Dave’s girlfriend climbed in, bidding a cheery ‘Hi’ to everyone. But there was a question in her voice which I didn’t quite understand as we travelled back to Almondbury in respectful and reflective silence.
Clambering out of the car at the other end, we all trooped back to Dave’s house in crocodile fashion. By now it was well past midnight. There was an unmistakeable stench of stale urine and pungent bodies mingling with the faint, sweet, distinctive odour of rotting wood. Dave’s mother sat rigid and unmoving in her armchair, and her brown eyes - ringed with arcus senilis - gazed unseeingly. Her gnarled fingers gripped the armchair, the knuckles showing white with the effort.
Sue bounced into the room. ‘Hello everyone,’ she said brightly.
A stunned silence followed.
Then Alec lifted his head. ‘Didn’t you tell her, you sod?’ he directed to his oldest brother.
‘Tell me what?’ Sue enquired.
‘Dave’s dead’.
Slowly all heads turned towards Sue, waiting for her reaction. Someone coughed nervously before wheezing – testimony to a lifetime of Woodbines. A curl of smoke escaped from Alec’s mouth before he inhaled deeply on a reedy rollup. Then a slurp punctuated the air following a gulp of lager from a glass borrowed from the local pub. Even Dave’s mother’s unflinching gaze appeared to have shifted position, although her knuckles still grasped the chair’s edge. I was aware that a thousand responses were running through my head, overwhelming me with indecision. The clock on the wall ticked very loudly, slowly and relentlessly.
I could not have envisaged what happened next though, for Sue stood up from her chair’s arm perch, positioning herself in the centre of the room. She turned her palms upwards and opened them in a gesture of surprise.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sue asked, as though enquiring after the weather, “I wondered why you had asked me to come out to your house at this time of night?”
Whatever crisis I had been anticipating had not occurred. After an initial silence, normality – whatever it was here - returned, and it was with some relief that I said, ‘Goodnight!’ and scurried the few yards back up the road to my own house. I was thankful for the safety and normality of my own space. I did not want to own the night where death stalked or pale yellow rays from lonely light bulbs faintly lit the rain-spattered window like a scene from Victorian times. Neither did I choose to breathe in the thin, acrid smoke that choked my lungs and heated my flesh in the process. But, mostly, I did not want to own the starkness of what I had seen. The night had laboured heavily not just because of the death of a young man, but because I had witnessed the rehearsal of a script which was devoid of any real feeling - and by those to whom it should have evoked feeling. The connectedness of one human being to another – always in a state of fragility at any point in time – was missing entirely. I resolved not to go there again – it was worlds away from what I knew or understood.
The funeral was held on a cold and dismal December morning, where mist clung like a shroud and froze our bones mercilessly. Hymns that held no meaning for the attendees were sung dutifully and tunelessly before they returned to their cars in sombre silence. I had been offered a lift in a car which was littered with cigarette packets and nicotine stained butts. On being driven slowly down the lengthy drive from the crematorium, I noticed Johnny Boylan - hunched over with head down - walking slowly and solitarily along the grassy verge. Johnny was in his seventies, a frail man whose life had been marked with tragedy, and whose only respite from the pain of it all was the anaesthesia which came from alcohol. Sometimes it was hard to be around him, for his pain was tangible and contagious and could weave itself into my own soul, unbidden. It could create a sense of helplessness and frustration at my limitations when it came to helping ease his anguish.
I would often listen to the stories that made up the fabric of Johnny’s life and, now and again, he would stop and gaze at me steadily, his fading blue eyes dimmed with the pain of living. ‘You’re good lass,’ he would say, ‘thank you for listening.’
Today, though, was not the time for listening, today was meant for action. ‘Stop!’ I cried to the driver. The vehicle juddered to a halt, even before I had finished speaking; everyone respected Johnny. The car was already packed with damp and unfamiliar bodies and Johnny was standing, aged and alone, with the rain dripping off the end of his nose. There was, in truth, only one space remaining, in the boot of the car, and I was by far the slightest figure. I didn’t hesitate before clambering nimbly into the boot of the car, to make space for Johnny in the passenger seat. The car creaked and groaned a little as Johnny climbed in, shaking droplets of rain over the seat as he did so.
`Thank you,’ he said quietly, turning around and gazing steadily at me, ‘I will never forget what you have just done for me.’
And I thought long into the night about that – about what had happened to these people that such an inconsequential action as mine meant so much to them. Their vulnerability was raw, intense and penetrating. It was hard to be around sometimes, to be drawn into the pain of others and to feel helpless and naked in doing so. We are all really just frail human flesh. I loved these people with their fragility and frangible humanity, transparent for all to see - the human spirit is broken all too easily - yet I hated the estate they inhabited, with its greyness and its rubbish-strewn streets where the blackbird never sings.
Mrs Clarkson had been the first neighbour to speak to me on my arrival in Almondbury, making a point of stopping me on my way back from the corner shop. “Rhubarb’s really good for constipation,” she advised me.
I stood uncertainly, wondering what to make of this unexpected and unwarranted conversation. It was certainly unlike any conversation-opener that I had come across before.
“I gather it is,” I replied.
Mrs Clarkson nodded and went on her way.
Mary, the cat lady, lived further down from Mrs Clarkson. Mary generally had a line of assorted cats following her - crocodile style -as she went about her daily life. These cats gathered at Mary’s house because she had two secret weapons – one was the fresh salmon she bought for them and the other was the freshly cooked minced chicken, laid out on delicate saucers outside her back door. As a struggling single parent, it crossed my mind more than once that the cats were far better fed than I was.
The children and I were blessed in having two neighbours in the houses to the right of us that – to my mind at least – appeared normal. Mr Wilkinson was an elderly gentleman whose wife died in her twenties, leaving him to bring up a very young family on his own. He was a gentle, gracious soul, and my children always took him a piece of their birthday cake at the appropriate time, as well as clearing the snow from his path during the winter.
Gwen lived to the right of Mr Wilkinson and I could not have wished for a happier or more contented neighbour. Gwen exuded happiness and good humour - for nothing appeared to faze her - and she never had a bad word to say about anybody.
The length of stay of families living on the estate was characterised by its fluidity. When Mrs Clarkson died, other families quickly moved in and, equally quickly, moved out. Tempers appeared to fray quickly amongst many of the tenants, so that the grassed area in front of our houses became the weekly scene of attempts by the local lads to settle perceived slights. This was especially so when the local club had closed its doors at night. A young couple with a small child had briefly occupied Mrs Clarkson’s former house, and whatever had happened one night resulted in the young man holding his wife and child captive in the bedroom before he turned all the gas taps on. The police were duly called - and the neighbours evacuated to a safer distance - before a police dog was sent in and the status quo restored. I didn’t see the family again after that. Another family, with a young Down’s syndrome child, moved in. My neighbour to the left of me told the mother to keep the child inside as it was upsetting her to look at ‘it.’ I was bewildered and angry at the sheer insensitivity of such a remark. The pain, hopelessness and despair which characterised the estate were almost tangible.
My youngest, at the age of two months, was due to have his first vaccination against whooping cough, tetanus and diphtheria. My Granddad Noble had contracted diphtheria during the Great War and he had nearly died from it after a grey patch - which had developed due to the highly contagious bacterium - nearly blocked his airway. He was only saved when a young nurse pushed the blockage to one side with her fingers, apologising profusely as she did so, since, apparently, this life-saving procedure was not allowed. My granddad was in no doubt that had she not done so, he would not have lived.
Nowadays, diphtheria would be treated with antibiotics but the discovery of the first antibiotic, penicillin, did not occur until 1928 and it was not introduced into general medicine until ten years later, in 1938. This was approximately twenty years after my Granddad Noble had contracted the disease.
These vaccinations are essential if children are to be protected, and offer the potential for the eradication of devastating diseases. Such was the case with smallpox, for although it was routine for children of my era to be vaccinated against smallpox, by 1980 the World Health Organisation declared that smallpox had been eradicated. Nevertheless, even knowing these facts, it was still hard for me to subject my tiny baby to the pain – however temporary – of his diphtheria jab. Fortunately, it passed off without incident.
Of equal importance was the Measles, Mumps and Rubella [MMR] vaccine which contained live, attenuated viruses in one single vaccine. This was given in two stages, with the initial jab given just prior to the baby’s first birthday and the second dose administered prior to the child starting school.
Although considered as mere ‘childhood diseases’, measles, mumps and rubella – the latter also known as German Measles - are capable of triggering devastating complications. Measles may result in meningitis, intellectual disability and even death. Mumps may lead to bilateral orchitis, which may lead to sterility. Rubella, if contracted by pregnant women in the first trimester, may result in serious birth defects.
I had contracted all three viruses when a child and I vividly recalled when I and my two siblings had all been confined to bed with measles. The doctor had arrived and drawn the curtains to keep daylight out, which was customary. My brother and sister were sleeping deeply and I was more than a little bored at having no-one to play with, so I made tents out of the bed covers for a while, before bouncing up and down on the bed with a great deal of abandon. The only highlight of my lengthy and tedious bed-confinement was the glass of Lucozade given at that time as the standard medicine for all childish ailments. This would often be supplemented with Buttercup Syrup if there was a chesty cough involved. And in the winter, most children would also be dosed with Rose Hip Syrup, which contained lots of vitamin C. This replaced the vitamin C that would normally have been supplied by oranges, but they came to be in very short supply during the Second World War.
My youngest was due to have his MMR just before his first birthday and since his previous jabs had been administered without anything untoward happening, I did not expect that things would be any different. Except that, as it turned out, they were. The morning following his vaccination, my baby son’s temperature had risen to just over 1010F. He lay on the floor unable to move despite my attempts to coax him. His olive skin was flushed - hot and dry - so I gathered him up quickly and ran to the doctor’s surgery as fast as I could. On examination, his temperature was found to have risen to 1040F and an ambulance was quickly called. Once in the hospital he was given paracetamol whilst a huge fan directed cooling currents of air over him. It was hard to leave him, but by the following morning the crisis was over and I bundled him up, took him home and held him closely for a long, long time.
Following my youngest son's vaccination against MMR, he developed autistic traits and his speech was limited after that. He developed digestive complaints that weren't apparent before this vaccination.
This excerpt from Chapter one of Where the Blackbird Never Sings is copyrighted as is all my work that is produced here. This book is available on Amazon.
continued tomorrow