KEEP IT CLEAN

KEEP IT CLEAN

‘Got any gum, Chum?’

This, uttered brightly by a cheery four-year-old in 1944, to working class parents with aspirations, was guaranteed to shock; and it did!

After an in-depth investigation by my ‘Methodist’ Mother I was never again to be allowed to go to the park with the ‘Strangeways ‘ girls. My Mother’s sleuthing would have put Dick Barton to shame. Having discovered that there were recovering American Servicemen at Park Hospital who kindly gave chocolate and gum to children who asked nicely, She encouraged my Father to write to the ‘War Office’ or Churchill or ‘whoever’ to get them banned from the park’.

‘Go on, Neville. It wants stopping,’ my Mother insisted.

My Father, a religious man in most senses of the word and burdened with guilt, having failed his medical for the Navy and, as a toolmaker was working on some sort of weaponry and fire-watching in Trafford Park at night, had great sympathy with the soldiers but even more with his Wife and Daughter. He liked nothing better than to pen an epistle on any fairly interesting subject to any appropriate authority be it about swearing, smoking on Sunday, dangerous driving by the newly rich, restrictions on the Lancashire Whit Walks and bad behaviour of football crowds, although himself a Manchester City supporter.

We heard nothing further about the ‘Yanks’ in the park and I am not sure that my Father actually posted a complaint.. My Mother, however, did speak sternly to the ‘Strangeways’ girls. I was not particularly upset by the termination of the park visits, although I had enjoyed learning and delivering the speeches, I got hardly any of the spoils of war; they went to the much older girls who had organised the manoeuvres on the pretext of ‘baby-sitting the little ones’. They assured me I could not chew gum because if I swallowed it my intestines would stick together and I would die.

My caring Parents, conscious of my ‘only child’ status with restricted adventures, invited my male cousin to stay. He was six years older than me –‘a lovely boy; his father a Naval Officer’ He was a lovely boy whom I adored. We played board games and listened to Paul Robeson on the wind-up gramophone. Then, one wet afternoon, in the sitting room, he introduced me to ‘doctors and nurses’! My Mother, coming in at a crucial moment when P. was showing me an appendage the like of which I had not seen in my picture books, shouted, ‘You wicked little boy’. This shocked and startled me more than the event itself. When he was swiftly sent home and I learned that his Father, home on leave, had beaten him, I cried bitterly, and said it was my fault, although unsure of the nature of any transgression. My Mother did not believe me and had no idea of my disappointment at not being fully equipped like my cousin.

In 1944 there were munitions factories in Trafford Park and my Mother had workers billeted in the house. We had only one spare double bedroom so two girls, working on ‘secret equipment’, came to stay, sharing the room. It had twin beds ,one wardrobe and a chest of drawers between them.

One evening I overheard my Mother talking to the girls; telling them to be careful when they went out. ‘ Your Parents will be worried about you and I feel responsible for you while you are here.’

Gloria re-assured her, ‘Don’t you worry, Mrs. C. We see those G.I’s coming. They won’t fool us. We’re women of the world, aren’t we, Emily?’ Emily just smiled. They rarely seemed to go out together. Emily came from Kingston and Gloria from Notting Hill and sounded completely different. They seemed to get on alright, however, and teased me in a lovely, friendly way. Emily was less flamboyant than Gloria and seemed to have plenty of money to spend on clothes. They seemed to enjoy my Mother’s cooking and were amazed by her meals made with such limited rations. When Emily asked what was in the delicious sandwiches Mum gave them for lunch at work and she said, ‘pig’s head brawn, Love’. Both girls looked aghast but, after short consideration, decided the taste was more important than the content.

Each week my Mother would change all the bed linen and the washing was done in a large boiler in the outhouse. She filled the copper with cold water and, after lighting a fire underneath, waited for the water to reach boiling point. Soap flakes and soda were put in and stirred around. The sheets and pillow cases were immersed and jostled around vigorously using a stick with a large rubber flange at the end. The rinsing was done in a large pot sink. The lifting of the linen was accomplished by long wooden grippers like an enormous clothes peg. Everything was rinsed twice then squeezed through a mangle outside the kitchen door with the water running away down the path to the grass.

My Mother’s fulfilment and joy would come when, after pegging the sheets on the long washing line, she would seize the bottom edges, give them a flick and stand back to watch the white sails billowing in the wind.

Linda Dalzell