Lemon Sherbet and Dolly Blue (7 page)

Some of Betsy's customers accomplished their near-impossible feats of hard household labour while living in part-houses, their landlord having divided the property into two. Other households comprised several generations, widows (or, less often, widowers) sharing their home with married daughters or sons. With this shifting mix of family, lodgers and shared houses, plus neighbours moving to find new employment, better accommodation or cheaper rent, as my great-grandparents had done until now, the population of Wheeldon Mill was, in part, itinerant. There were frequent comings and goings, all of which Betsy had to be aware of, along with people's names: corner-shopkeepers needed to know their customers (and who might be tempted to do a moonlight flit).

Not everyone in the vicinity used the corner shop. The little knot of houses comprising Wheeldon Mill was its mainstay; those living higher up Station Road had grocers of their own, though many of them called in occasionally. There were Sunday strollers too, rounding off canalside walks with a drink in the Great Central Hotel and some cigarettes from the shop; plus passing trade from those using the railway station, or cutting along the towpath from Newbridge Lane. Larger properties in the neighbourhood, further up the social scale as well as higher up the hill, moved in a different sphere and had their groceries delivered, though the Brimington House slavey was partial to an ounce of pear drops on her half day.

The room behind the shop was known as the house, an appropriately all-encompassing word, as everything bar sleep went on there. Its black-leaded range provided all heat and hot water – there was no hot tap in the house: water for cooking or the weekly bath came from the one cold tap and was heated in a saucepan or kettle.
Clothes were boiled in a gas-fired copper concealed beneath a cloth when not in use. Gas mantles cast a subdued light across all rooms (and shop); Wee-Willie-Winkie candlesticks or candles on saucers were on hand for trips to the privy. Rugs overlaid the floors, several overlapping rag rugs made from oddments and cast-off clothing. As the years went by and fashions changed, these became more colourful, but when Betsy made her first rugs for the house, their fronds were mostly brown or black.

Though separated by a different class of rug (older versus new), kitchen sink and sofa were merely yards apart. The sink had plates and tea cups on shelves rising above it, whereas framed photographs hung from the picture rail above the horsehair sofa, emphasising their distinct roles. The pictures were a veritable family gallery: Betsy's father looking stern and decidedly Victorian, Dick and Betsy's own head-and-shoulder portraits, blown up in size, and a hand-tinted photograph of Annie looking like a young Lady of Shallot, her long, loose tresses tumbling on to a rose-coloured gown.

The house lacked a scullery or larder, but the area at the top of the cellar steps was roomy enough for the shelves housing Betsy's home-made jam, bottled fruit and pickled eggs, plus the pancheon where she kept her loaves, teacakes, baps and balm cakes. I can't imagine where Betsy found the time for baking or preserving. The room held one armchair (albeit a stiff-backed Windsor) – not surprisingly, this was Dick's.

Though the furnishings were plain, my great-grandma loved strong colour and introduced a vibrant note wherever she could. One of her passions was cranberry glass – the ruby world glimpsed through it always gave her pleasure. Brass ornaments were also prized and polished to a ruddy sheen; a Staffordshire boy and girl
clutched matching pottery tulips at either end of the mantel shelf. Brasses, china, treadle machine; heavy cast-iron saucepans – the house held the usual mix of function and decoration in a room required to provide almost all things. It was a comfortable space nonetheless, its many purposes blending, and its surfaces, wherever possible, overlaid with lace – thanks, yet again, to Betsy: scalloped runners in drawn thread-work, cobweb-fine doilies, broderie anglaise mats. It was incredible what could be achieved with a willing pair of hands and a ready supply of Dolly Blue.

The focal point of the house (room and dwelling both) was the table. Baking, eating, reading, family chat and, shortly, Annie's homework: practically everything was accomplished here. A door to the right led into the shared yard with its coal houses and privies; to the table's immediate left was the door opening into the shop, the rattle of its curtain signifying the beginning and end of each day. The door itself was generally kept closed, but it was a small
matter to serve someone late into the evening, summoned to the counter by the shop bell. This connecting door also confirmed Betsy as queen of her territory, making an entrance, stepping from the wings on to the stage.

She was always Mrs Nash to her customers. That never changed; to the majority of her customers, my great-grandma was Mrs Nash until she died, though she learned most of their first names soon enough – some on her first day. Several on that first morning just wanted to be neighbourly, others wished to ingratiate themselves in the hope of obtaining tick on favourable terms; some, like Florrie Stokes, fell into both categories.

For the first few months of the tenancy, Betsy and her customers exchanged little more than general greetings and replies to requests for a box of Atora Suet or a ha'porth of cheese. In addition to being a novice shopkeeper, with suppliers to establish and deliveries to arrange, my great-grandma was on trial herself. Was she mean or generous with her portions? Did she lean against the scales when weighing out? Did she tittle-tattle or have favourites?

These tests passed, neighbours started to linger. Brief comments across the counter grew into extended conversations and, at quiet times, customers took to sitting on the sack of potatoes by the door or perching on the long thin crate of minerals that gave on to the shady window with its sweets. The crate or ‘the box', as it became known, could accommodate a couple of people at any one time and was the best place to pause for a chat, with the sweet window a vantage point for seeing who might be coming up or down Station Road. (‘I see Polly Bly has a new hat. I wonder what she did to get that?'… ‘There goes Elsie Needham. She looks like death warmed up. A daughter of twenty and a new baby; she'd
thought she was through with that caper.') Some of these flinty women had a flinty turn of phrase.

Back-door living with a communal yard meant life lived in sight of your neighbours, whether headed for the privy or the coal house, the corner shop or train; lines of washing (theirs as well as yours) flapping in your face, and buckets of dirty water shot through open doorways. If you stood at the window with an eye on your neighbour, chances were your neighbour also had her eye on you. Very little went unobserved; some of it was passed on to Betsy. Her role was to listen, not join in.

A woman's world was entirely separate from that of her husband's with his pub and penny bets and exhaustion after a day's rigorous physical labour – not that these women weren't exhausted themselves. Men learned to shrug off bruises and aching bones, deal with the loss of workmates, and to handle themselves in all situations. Tough lives bred tough attitudes, some of them taken out on wives and children.

Whatever their status in the outside world, most men were lord and master in their own homes. Betsy saw what that sometimes came down to: thick leather belts with heavy buckles slid from trousers and wrapped around a fist. ‘You bloody well shut up. You'll damn well do as you're told.' Some who let their fists fly did not care who knew it; others surprised her. Harold Driver was one of the quietest of men, apparently. Betsy knew different. She saw Kathleen's arms when she came in search of arnica for her bruises. A thick-set woman who could dish out a few salty phrases, Mrs Driver was still no match for her husband's fists. When Harold took himself home after a Saturday-night skinful, Betsy knew Kathleen would be waiting to see which face he presented at the door. If Harold came whistling along Drake Terrace, all was well,
but if the first thing she heard was his hand upon the latch, heaven help her.

‘What would you do, Mrs Nash?' Kathleen leaned into the counter. ‘What do you think I should do?' This was a plea my great-grandma heard many times over, although rarely with other customers present. Keeping face mattered: not letting your neighbours see your desperation, even if those living in the houses either side heard the row that preceded the blow.

Requests for advice came in all kinds of situations, not just from women leading cat-and-dog lives with their husbands. Whatever the problem – be it blackclocks beneath the sink or insufficient money to pay the insurance, my great-grandma did her best to help. The only situation in which she refused to give advice was
when faced with skirmishes between neighbours. The most Betsy allowed herself on these occasions was a sympathetic, soothing, ‘Oh dear.'

Like the majority of corner shops, Betsy's was also an unofficial dispensary. Doctors cost sixpence most neighbours could not afford, and with poor diets and exhaustion undermining general health, the shop was well stocked with all kinds of laxatives, general soothers and old faithfuls: Seidlitz Powders, Blood-and-Stomach Pills, Bile Beans, Senna Pods, Scott's Emulsion, Indian Brandy – neighbour heal thyself. My great-grandma knew who was buying peppermint to stave off morning sickness and who placed their faith in the digestive properties of liver salts, but some ills could not be cured with corner-shop medicaments. Clara Tissington had lost a much-loved daughter. Nine years old, old enough to hope she might pull through but, though each year ticked off the calendar meant a greater chance of reaching adulthood, pneumonia (like diphtheria, bronchitis, scarlatina and every other multi-syllable killer of the time), made nonsense of Clara's prayers.

It is hard to think of my grandma in the push and shove of Wheeldon Mill, though it's where Annie spent many years. She was no more than twelve when the family moved there. There were new friends to make and another new school to attend. Fortunately, Annie was befriended by Florrie Stokes' daughter, Ethel. Ethel saw this new and solemn child, with her clean pinafore and shiny hair, standing at the edge of the playground, waiting to be asked to join in. ‘Come on, then,' Ethel said, and that was that.

Unlike Annie, who was more of an observer, Ethel would dive into any game, take up the skipping rope and start turning. A big supple girl whose swing of the rope described an arc as easily as
she turned a mangle, Ethel took ready pleasure in the short periods she was allowed out to play, just as she knew to grab a slice of bread before one of her brothers snatched it. She was full of fun, would do anything for a dare, and avenged any wrong with her fists. You thought twice about challenging Ethel Stokes – you and whose army?