I hadn't seen it on a Tuesday, for a
while, though. On a Tuesday, it looked quite different, unhappy and
neglected. I had an hour before I met my Mum, and one of the things I
wanted to do was go to the knitting shop where I'd often bought wool.
The lady that used to run this shop was ancient, and had swollen,
blue-veined legs, so she didn't look for stuff or tidy up much. It
was like a jumble sale, and an uncareful tug could cause a cascade of
wool to tumble onto your head. It was nonetheless an excellent shop,
and very well used. I knew the lady that ran it was old: she was
actually 90 when she died, last month. The shop is closing in June.
It'd been there all my life: I remember it being there when the
single-screen cinema was still open, almost opposite. I think that
closed in 1976.
There are a few other businesses still
open that were there when I was a child. One is the sewing shop. The
off-licence – a proper one that sold obscure things like bottles of
Shrub and five kinds of sherry – lasted until two years ago. It's a
café now. Everything is a café now. I don't know how
they'll all survive – I suppose on the Saturday traffic, since it
seemed pretty quiet on a Tuesday.
There's pretty much two parts of town,
now, which there wasn't when I was a kid. There's kind of a square of
main streets, and it's like someone drew a line diagonally between
two corners. Below that line, there's Poundland where Woolies used to
be, and a Brighthouse, Weatherspoons, and a dirty kebab shop in what
I think used to be a chemist. It still has beautiful curved windows
and a wood frontage, so maybe it was a dress shop, once. There's
plenty of empty shops, too.
In the upper, posher quadrant, there's
health food shops and extortionately priced vintage, a bookshop and
organic café and the acupuncturist. Boutique clothes, and
gifts. The art shop. There's a fabric shop too, but I heard her
talking about closing. Greggs made a mistake, and landed accidentally
in the posh quarter. I remember the shop that used to be Greggs: it
was a haberdashers, and everything was stored in beautiful polished
wood shelves. The whole place was lined with wood and brass, and
gleamed. There was a mechanical dumb waiter, for bringing goods up
and down stairs. I think they ripped it all out in about 1981.
I know humans are adaptable. That's how
they survive. But when I think about some of the things I remember,
growing up, I wonder if someone even ten years younger would believe
me, or think I dreamt it or made it up. We lived on a road about two
miles out of town. We called it the 'main road'. I think there was
about one car per minute. It wasn't a rural idyll: there was a
factory opposite, it made diesel engines for boats. It was thanks to
this that I first encountered the other side of the 70s – 'Daaad,
what's a picket?' They were always very friendly, mind. It was a bit
like the pub, except with tea in flasks. Just a bunch of blokes,
hanging out. If you did go to the pub, down the road, there was beer
and cider, and peanuts to eat. The peanuts were in packets attached
to a cardboard picture of a lady, and as the barman pulled off the
packets, her tits would be exposed.
There was a bus into town every twenty
minutes, except at some point they changed it to every thirty
minutes. My Mum was majorly brassed off about this, I remember her
whinging that now she'd actually have to check the times, instead of
just going out to get the next one, which was her normal habit.
If you went across the road, and down
the path, past the factory, you'd get to the railway. Before
Beeching, there'd been a halt there, and the signs had gone, but the
platforms remained, overgrown with weeds and cracking. Sometimes the
old guys that worked on the trains would apologise, when they found
out where we lived, for the hassle of us having to get off in town
and catch a bus home. Once, one said: never mind, we're on time, and
we never get speed up on that hill, I'll tell 'im to stop and let you
off. And he did. He stopped the train, and we got out, onto the empty
nameless platform, where the grass cheerfully waved from the cracks.
I felt like the bloody Queen. They weren't ticket collectors then,
they were Guards, and they ruled the train. They were all old, they
were were all men, and they all wore an array of enamel union badges,
shiny against their navy British Rail uniforms. Sometimes, they would
wax lyrical about GWR.
Not everyone who worked on the
transport was male. When I was very little, we lived at my
Grandmother's, on the other side of town, in an old house surrounded
by trees. The same regular buses – double-deckers – would lurch
round the corners of the steep, twisty road. The bus conductor – it
was the 70s so she was a Conductress – was called Eve. Eve was in
her 50's, I think, so maybe she started her job in the war, when
women were recruited for that kind of thing. Eve wore a navy blue
uniform suit, with a knee-length, A-line skirt; thick brown American
Tan stockings with a seam up the back; and sensible lace-up shoes.
She also had a dyed blonde curly perm, immaculately sprayed into
place, and a peaked bus company cap, on top. To complete this
ensemble she had the usual union and bus company badges, and the
tools of her trade slung crosswise across her, like a Mexican
gunslinger with pistols. One leather strap held a pouch with the
money, and the other had the machine which issued the tickets. She'd
set the amount on a little dial, like a combination lock, whirl the
handle on the side, and with a little noise of dials, the machine
would spit forth tickets. I was completely transfixed by this, and I
adored Eve, who, as well as issuing tickets, would also issue
instructions to the driver, carry shopping bags, calm wayward
children, and dismiss anyone who was thruppence short with an
instruction to make it up next time (I think this happened a lot: old
people were still having trouble with decimalisation). She seemed
ready for anything, with her mastery of the ticket machine, and
mysterious knowledge of fares. My hippie mother always looked a
little ragged, bothered and run-down (later I would work out that
this was to do with being married to my father, but I hadn't got to
that yet) but Eve was serene, gracious, and utterly in charge of her
lurching, diesel-scented domain. I worshipped her, and I was
absolutely gutted when, at some point, she vanished, presumably to
retire.
Eve wasn't the only working woman I
remember. There was Mrs Guy, who ran the shop behind our house, a
hefty lady who was the local rolling-pin throwing champion. (Yes,
that really is a thing. Presumably it deterred shoplifters.) There
was also Mrs Harris, who ran the shop in my Grandmother's village.
Often, I would be sent to this shop. You would go in, the door would
trigger a bell, and Mrs Harris would appear, anything from 1 to 5
minutes later, from the house opposite. I don't remember what it
sold, but I do remember the shelves of cans. There were three boxes
of crisps, and for years I thought crisps came in three flavours:
red, blue, and green. I do remember the food my grandmother liked.
Later, when my grandmother was too frail to go to the shop, Mrs
Harris used to bring her shopping down to the house. There'd be brown
bread, unsalted butter, and ham, which was sliced off a real, huge
ham, with one of those slicing machines. Also tomatoes and cucumber,
and a round sponge cake with jam and buttercream in the middle, and
thin crunchy white icing with half glacé cherries spaced
around the edge. My mother despised this stuff. 'Junk-food', she'd
say, and shudder, fastidiously. My mother proudly did 1970s
vegetarian cooking, full of beans and grains, and she judged
everything according to how brown it was.
Mrs Harris was also a fount of local
information. The village at that time was largely populated by old
ladies, a sort of mafia of old women who kept everything in order, as
well as knitting, gardening, and gossiping. Some of them still had
menfolk attached, but they didn't really matter very much. I remember
my mother referring to Mrs So-and-so once, with the caveat, 'of
course, she's a widow.' I must have a been a bit older then, because
I asked, since when? Oh, since the war. What, the second world war?
No, said my mother. The previous one. That meant Mrs so-and-so had
been widowed at least 60 years.
Weirdly, the shadow of this conflict
hung over the village in the way that the more recent one didn't.
There was a lord of the manor, a perfectly pleasant chap who was a
country solicitor in town, and who'd open the house, annually, to the
masses. My grandmother thought he was a bit of a usurper. 'Of
course', she'd say, 'His father never expected to get that place –
if only the elder brother hadn't died in the war. He was the real
heir.' The elder brother was buried, in the churchyard, along with
various other members of the family who'd died, dutifully, in various
colonial conflicts. They're still there, by the way, almost the only
ones who are - the live as well as the dead. A while back, he bumped
into my mother in town. 'D'you know, we've still got that watercolour
you painted of our house,' he said. 'D'you need it back?' My mother
had completely forgotten the existence of this painting she'd painted
40 years previously, so she declined, and said he was free to keep
it. Six weeks later, unasked, he sent her a cheque for £200.
Because, you know, that's the sort of chap he was.
That village is full of people who
moved from London, now. There's no shop, no buses, no pub. My mother
sold the house, when her mother died, and they sold it again. All the
trees around it have been cut down, so now you can see straight in.
Many of the people that live in
villages like it now come from London. They get on the train, and go
back to work there. There's an enormous amount of money kicking
around – too much, maybe. The village pub near my parents is now a
gastro pub, and when I texted a friend from school, to ask if he was
going there for new year, he texted back to say he'd gone, but had to
leave – 'too full of trustafarians, sadly'.
Of course there was always rich and
poor in the town. But it wasn't split down the middle, and it didn't
look away, like a place that didn't own itself. It rotated, sometimes
tediously, sometimes claustrophobically, around its own axis. What I
find most startling when I remember it – other than my parents
complaining that too much of the town was taken up by building
societies – is how it was ruled, by the rule of people in it, in
their own tiny little circuses. The old guys, who ruled the running
of trains. The conductress, ruling the bus. The Lord of the Manor,
who ruled in name, while the old ladies ruled in practice. The town
council, and the shenanigans thereof. And the pickets, with their
flasks of tea, running the hours of the factory. They were arbitrary,
and sometimes outdated, unreasonable or odd, but if you wanted to
deal with them, you always dealt with a human. How can you
arbitrarily stop a train? Wouldn't there be alarms, reports,
sackings? But I guess not, because everybody knew so-and-so, and how
long he'd worked there, and if you're going to deal with him, you
have to deal with the rest of us, boss. Or maybe, you know, somebody
just threw a rolling pin at your head.
The other thing I remember, which makes
me doubt even my own memories, is the overwhelming sense of safety.
It might have been an illusion, of course, but it must have been an
illusion shared by many. The village shop, with the open door, and
the till just there, and the shelves, just waiting to be emptied. It
didn't occur to her that people might steal, because round here
people just weren't like that. Other people might be bad, out there,
but everyone knew, we weren't. Things were safe, and you knew where
you were. The sky was empty and blue, and in the winter there was
frost-flowers on the windows. The dead were in the graveyard, the
Lord was in the manor, and the union had your back.
I'm not quite sure how the place came
to lose itself. It happened gradually, not suddenly. The old people
just died. The houses got sold. Everyone got cars, and they built a
supermarket, and then another, and then a third one. The buses went.
They built housing estates, on the fields. If you have a problem,
now, you won't be arguing with a human about it. Nobody rules their
fiefdom, their train or bus or village shop. They all have bosses,
and rules, and systems, and concerns about health and safety. The
same all-pervading anxiety, the insecurity, the sense of division
that started somewhere else turned up, got off the train, and decided
to stay there, since it'd stayed everywhere else.
I do, I think, remember when it
started. It was 1979, and Mrs Thatcher got elected as the Prime
Minister. I didn't notice, my parents were in the middle of the
divorce from hell, and all they did was cry and shout and throw
things at each other. To get away from this, my father took me up to
his sister's, in the Wirral, for a week or two. My father spent most
of it moaning to his sister about his marriage so my elder cousin
Jane took me for a walk. In the distance, across the Dee, we could
see huge industrial plants. I asked what they were, and Jane, then
13, explained to me about steelworks and unemployment and closures
and how Capitalism exploited the workers. My parents never talked
like this, so it was something of a revelation.
We came back to the house. The Buggles,
Video Killed the Radio Star was on the TV. I wondered, possibly for
the first time, whether my father might be insane, and what was going
to happen to all of us. It was the end of 1979, video killed the
radio star, and that was the end of that.
Very enjoyable to read this. I also felt this sense of safety when growing up in post WW2 Britain. I also remember cycling to school and the economic advantages for some working class kids to
ReplyDeleteleave schooling and get motor bikes earlier on than others.
Please write more on this blog, or add to it and make a book.
Tony Goddard
Gorgeously written and the stuff about the human size of everything is bang on. Some things are better now though. Eg a friend of mine brought a black friend home for tea. He, the black friend, wasn't allowed in and had his tea outside. No one thought this odd.
ReplyDeleteWhen would that have been and where? Just wondering because I grew up in the West Midlands in the 70s and everyone would have thought it incredibly odd.
DeleteAnother glorious, thoughtful and evocative piece of writing.
ReplyDeleteLovely piece of writing, its the sort of thing that often goes through my mind about where I grew up and how its changed SO much. I'd like to read more like this, thank you.
ReplyDeleteSo true! I was born in Stroud in '63, and remember the chemist with the bow windows and Bells, the shop with the drawers, all wood and beautiful clothes, I remember getting a dressing gown there with ladybird buttons and the cat collecting box outside with the pints of milk to,put your pennies in! I could,name everyone who,lived down the road in the village, in fact, nearly everyone in the village! We would catch the bus to,town on a Saturday morning to go to,the pictures, everyone on the bus knew each other, so my mother never worried. When the Wimpey came to town, it was the biggest and most modern thing to hit Stroud, with it's burgers and come floats.
ReplyDeleteI go back now and see the changes and it makes me sad, my Mum still lives there, meets her friends in the coffee shops, but wouldn't go in any of the 'art' shops, instead she goes to Sainsburys or Tesco out of town, there is nothing really to,buy in Stroud anymore for the locals.
I had forgotten the cat collecting box! Also, there was a 'crippled kid' collecting box outside the butchers further down town, right?
ReplyDeleteThat's a fascinating and interesting article. I haven't been to Stroud for many a long year, rather sad to think it sounds like it's turning into another identikit weekender town. I wonder what my father, if he was still alive, would think of Stroud now. He used to live in Cheltenham, late 40s to early 60s, and he used to visit there many times.
ReplyDelete