Jenny Ridsdale's Family History
Jenny Ridsdale (nee Thompson)
Dad was a farm labourer and we lived on site in one of the houses provided for employees. It was large, cold and draughty, having four walls exposed to the elements. There were open fireplaces in each room, including the bedrooms. My parents gathered logs from nearby woods to fuel the fires, coal was beyond their means. We had an outside toilet at the end of the garden path. It was housed in a brick shed full of cobwebs and spiders that I developed an irrational fear of. I can remember balancing perilously on the toilet seat, my feet off the floor, and screaming until someone arrived to rescue me from the biggest spider I had ever seen.
Our immediate neighbour was an elderly woman by the name of Mrs Bickerdike. She was aptly named, finding any excuse to complain about our behaviour to our parents. If our ball landed in her garden, our game was over, for she never returned it. We thought she was a witch. The only sound she did not complain about was Dad’s piano. He was a talented musician, and the sound of his music to the backdrop of the north Yorkshire moors was one of the most joyous memories of my childhood.
The surrounding countryside was breathtakingly beautiful. In summer, lush green meadows of wild flowers bordered shimmering gold cornfields. Trees blossomed and a lilac/blue haze arose from moorland heather in the distance. Winter sun gave brilliance to the snow when it came, fading to howling winds and snowstorms so heavy they completely obliterated the landscape.
We rarely left the farm. This was all we knew. We were naïve and without television or other means of communication with life outside the farm, we thought that everyone lived this way.
We had only lived at Hazlewood for a few months, when Mum contracted TB. As a result, our family were separated for over a year. Mum went into a sanatorium to begin treatment, Dad remained at his job and I went to live with my maternal grandparents in the village of Barwick-in Elmet, along with one of my sisters. Our youngest sister, only three months old, lived on the same street with an aunt. Although we missed our parents very much, we soon adapted to our new surroundings. There were shops on the Main Street, other children to play with and a school that I was enrolled at just before I reached my fifth birthday. The village offered new experiences for us to savour, a welcome distraction from the sadness of emotional upheaval.
Just as children from inner cities would anticipate a ride out to the countryside with sheer excitement, we sisters would be awake early Saturday morning waiting for dad to arrive. He had bought a motorbike and sidecar combination so that he could make the journey from Hazelwood to Barwick-in-Elmet every evening after his work was finished. Each Saturday we would spend the day with him. Our first port of call was the home of our paternal grandparents in Seacroft.
The Seacroft housing estate was the largest of its kind in England; building began in 1950 and continued for over a decade. As we turned from York Road into Foundry Lane, then Ironwood Approach, I marvelled at how Dad found his way through a maze of streets and houses that appeared almost identical. The perimeter of the estate was only a short drive from Barwick-in-Elmet, yet through the perception of childhood it was another world, a vast urban jungle in the heart of the countryside.
The house our Seacroft grandparents lived in was a rented corporation house, a replica of the house next door, and the one next to that, and so on. We found this most unusual, coming from farming communities where homes were a huddle of old stone cottages or isolated brick farmhouses, four walls to the wind. The Seacroft house had an indoor toilet that flushed with a chain, and a neat box on the wall stocked with Izal toilet paper. It was such a novelty that we spent as much time as we possibly could in there. Eventually, Dad escorted us back and forth to prevent us from lingering and playing. We found that the Izal toilet paper had at least two other uses. One was to put the folded edge over the comb that was by the mirror and blow with varying degrees to produce a harmonica. It also made very good tracing paper.
From the large garden at the rear of the house, we had an elevated view of the estate. I can clearly remember looking out over Seacroft and trying to count the streets and houses to give Mum an accurate account of the area when she came home from hospital. Children were not allowed to visit sanatoriums. The closest we got to her in over a year was when we stood in the grounds of the hospital (by special arrangement with the matron) and waved at her on her birthday.
Seacroft Nana, as we affectionately named our Grandma, was always in the kitchen. I never saw her relax, or do anything remotely recreational. All weekend she shopped, cooked, baked, mended and cleaned. Even when she sat down in the evening after the day’s chores were done, she began threading needles in preparation for her job at Montague Burtons tailoring factory in Burmantofts. She was employed as a ‘piece worker’ (paid for as much as she could produce) and saved valuable time by threading needles and waxing the threads at home so that she could earn her bonus payment.
Granddad, on the other hand (in keeping with the patriarchal culture of the 1950’s) was free to do as he pleased at weekends. He played the accordion in a band, and every Saturday gave a rendition of the band’s signature tune ‘Lady of Spain’ whether we requested it or not. He looked quite comical with his smart trousers topped off with a pair of braces and a string vest.
Music was not Granddad’s only talent. He could take apart defunct radios and build perfect working models from all the parts that he amassed from this practice. He had worked on submarines during the war and during quiet periods while lying on his bunk, he drew up ideas for gadgetry and inventions. When the war ended, people from all over the Seacroft estate would bring items to him for repair. His expertise in this field became legendary.
However, his masterpiece was a homemade television set! The year I was born was also the year our Queen Elizabeth was crowned. Apparently, Granddad made a television from an old radar tube and screen that he had salvaged from his wartime duties on submarines. It worked sufficiently to produce a hazy grey/green image of the ceremony. The family viewed the day’s events in utter amazement (in a bedroom to obtain the maximum signal) while the Yorkshire puddings burned to death downstairs.
One of Granddads other talents, to our delight, was story telling. Each weekend he would relate one or more of his many escapades or adventures to his young audience. One such weekend, he told us the following story.
He often took the Scarborough bus to the Fox and Grapes pub about three miles from Seacroft, along the old York Road. Surrounded by the fields and woodland that bordered outlying villages, it was one of his favourite haunts. On a gloriously sunny Saturday Granddad waited by the Melbourne Pub for the bus, with his border-collie dog, Rover. When the bus arrived it was almost full to capacity, and the conductor allowed only the first two people in the queue to board. This did not include Granddad and Rover. Unseen by Granddad, or anyone else it seems, Rover leaped onto the bus platform as it pulled away.
Granddad only realized when he turned to go home (for the buses were hourly) that his faithful friend had disappeared.
He was frantic, and desperate to get to Scarborough to begin searching for Rover. I am not quite sure what mode of transport granddad used when he set off for Scarborough the second time, possibly motorbike and sidecar, but I know that he decided to called in at the Fox and Grapes pub en route. He wanted to let his pals know why he would not be joining them for the customary Saturday drinking session. When he arrived, and to his utter astonishment there was Rover sitting by the main bar. Looking extremely apologetic, he hung his head in shame and his gratuitous refreshments, a bowl of best bitter and a packet of ready salted crisps, remained untouched.
One could only assume that Rover’s sixth sense had prompted him to leap off the bus by the Fox and Grapes pub. The story circulated locally and he gained a reputation as the cleverest dog in Seacroft. Granddad beamed with pride when we suggested that Rover had most likely inherited the genius of his master.
Dad was a farm labourer and we lived on site in one of the houses provided for employees. It was large, cold and draughty, having four walls exposed to the elements. There were open fireplaces in each room, including the bedrooms. My parents gathered logs from nearby woods to fuel the fires, coal was beyond their means. We had an outside toilet at the end of the garden path. It was housed in a brick shed full of cobwebs and spiders that I developed an irrational fear of. I can remember balancing perilously on the toilet seat, my feet off the floor, and screaming until someone arrived to rescue me from the biggest spider I had ever seen.
Our immediate neighbour was an elderly woman by the name of Mrs Bickerdike. She was aptly named, finding any excuse to complain about our behaviour to our parents. If our ball landed in her garden, our game was over, for she never returned it. We thought she was a witch. The only sound she did not complain about was Dad’s piano. He was a talented musician, and the sound of his music to the backdrop of the north Yorkshire moors was one of the most joyous memories of my childhood.
The surrounding countryside was breathtakingly beautiful. In summer, lush green meadows of wild flowers bordered shimmering gold cornfields. Trees blossomed and a lilac/blue haze arose from moorland heather in the distance. Winter sun gave brilliance to the snow when it came, fading to howling winds and snowstorms so heavy they completely obliterated the landscape.
We rarely left the farm. This was all we knew. We were naïve and without television or other means of communication with life outside the farm, we thought that everyone lived this way.
We had only lived at Hazlewood for a few months, when Mum contracted TB. As a result, our family were separated for over a year. Mum went into a sanatorium to begin treatment, Dad remained at his job and I went to live with my maternal grandparents in the village of Barwick-in Elmet, along with one of my sisters. Our youngest sister, only three months old, lived on the same street with an aunt. Although we missed our parents very much, we soon adapted to our new surroundings. There were shops on the Main Street, other children to play with and a school that I was enrolled at just before I reached my fifth birthday. The village offered new experiences for us to savour, a welcome distraction from the sadness of emotional upheaval.
Just as children from inner cities would anticipate a ride out to the countryside with sheer excitement, we sisters would be awake early Saturday morning waiting for dad to arrive. He had bought a motorbike and sidecar combination so that he could make the journey from Hazelwood to Barwick-in-Elmet every evening after his work was finished. Each Saturday we would spend the day with him. Our first port of call was the home of our paternal grandparents in Seacroft.
The Seacroft housing estate was the largest of its kind in England; building began in 1950 and continued for over a decade. As we turned from York Road into Foundry Lane, then Ironwood Approach, I marvelled at how Dad found his way through a maze of streets and houses that appeared almost identical. The perimeter of the estate was only a short drive from Barwick-in-Elmet, yet through the perception of childhood it was another world, a vast urban jungle in the heart of the countryside.
The house our Seacroft grandparents lived in was a rented corporation house, a replica of the house next door, and the one next to that, and so on. We found this most unusual, coming from farming communities where homes were a huddle of old stone cottages or isolated brick farmhouses, four walls to the wind. The Seacroft house had an indoor toilet that flushed with a chain, and a neat box on the wall stocked with Izal toilet paper. It was such a novelty that we spent as much time as we possibly could in there. Eventually, Dad escorted us back and forth to prevent us from lingering and playing. We found that the Izal toilet paper had at least two other uses. One was to put the folded edge over the comb that was by the mirror and blow with varying degrees to produce a harmonica. It also made very good tracing paper.
From the large garden at the rear of the house, we had an elevated view of the estate. I can clearly remember looking out over Seacroft and trying to count the streets and houses to give Mum an accurate account of the area when she came home from hospital. Children were not allowed to visit sanatoriums. The closest we got to her in over a year was when we stood in the grounds of the hospital (by special arrangement with the matron) and waved at her on her birthday.
Seacroft Nana, as we affectionately named our Grandma, was always in the kitchen. I never saw her relax, or do anything remotely recreational. All weekend she shopped, cooked, baked, mended and cleaned. Even when she sat down in the evening after the day’s chores were done, she began threading needles in preparation for her job at Montague Burtons tailoring factory in Burmantofts. She was employed as a ‘piece worker’ (paid for as much as she could produce) and saved valuable time by threading needles and waxing the threads at home so that she could earn her bonus payment.
Granddad, on the other hand (in keeping with the patriarchal culture of the 1950’s) was free to do as he pleased at weekends. He played the accordion in a band, and every Saturday gave a rendition of the band’s signature tune ‘Lady of Spain’ whether we requested it or not. He looked quite comical with his smart trousers topped off with a pair of braces and a string vest.
Music was not Granddad’s only talent. He could take apart defunct radios and build perfect working models from all the parts that he amassed from this practice. He had worked on submarines during the war and during quiet periods while lying on his bunk, he drew up ideas for gadgetry and inventions. When the war ended, people from all over the Seacroft estate would bring items to him for repair. His expertise in this field became legendary.
However, his masterpiece was a homemade television set! The year I was born was also the year our Queen Elizabeth was crowned. Apparently, Granddad made a television from an old radar tube and screen that he had salvaged from his wartime duties on submarines. It worked sufficiently to produce a hazy grey/green image of the ceremony. The family viewed the day’s events in utter amazement (in a bedroom to obtain the maximum signal) while the Yorkshire puddings burned to death downstairs.
One of Granddads other talents, to our delight, was story telling. Each weekend he would relate one or more of his many escapades or adventures to his young audience. One such weekend, he told us the following story.
He often took the Scarborough bus to the Fox and Grapes pub about three miles from Seacroft, along the old York Road. Surrounded by the fields and woodland that bordered outlying villages, it was one of his favourite haunts. On a gloriously sunny Saturday Granddad waited by the Melbourne Pub for the bus, with his border-collie dog, Rover. When the bus arrived it was almost full to capacity, and the conductor allowed only the first two people in the queue to board. This did not include Granddad and Rover. Unseen by Granddad, or anyone else it seems, Rover leaped onto the bus platform as it pulled away.
Granddad only realized when he turned to go home (for the buses were hourly) that his faithful friend had disappeared.
He was frantic, and desperate to get to Scarborough to begin searching for Rover. I am not quite sure what mode of transport granddad used when he set off for Scarborough the second time, possibly motorbike and sidecar, but I know that he decided to called in at the Fox and Grapes pub en route. He wanted to let his pals know why he would not be joining them for the customary Saturday drinking session. When he arrived, and to his utter astonishment there was Rover sitting by the main bar. Looking extremely apologetic, he hung his head in shame and his gratuitous refreshments, a bowl of best bitter and a packet of ready salted crisps, remained untouched.
One could only assume that Rover’s sixth sense had prompted him to leap off the bus by the Fox and Grapes pub. The story circulated locally and he gained a reputation as the cleverest dog in Seacroft. Granddad beamed with pride when we suggested that Rover had most likely inherited the genius of his master.