Fred Mellor

My (hi)story. Fred Ellis Mellor

Between 1921 and 1924, Winifred, Olive And Fred were born to John and Florence, in our first family home, The High Street, Grimethorpe, Barnsley, a few doors away from Grandad and Grandma Smith’s. Across the road from our long terrace of brick ‘through’ houses were various shops and dwellings, and the road led from the village right up to the pit gates of Grimethorpe Colliery. As we had moved from there about my first birthday I cannot remember the house, but as we children returned often to our Grandparents house which was a replica, I can describe it. The front door led from the pavement into the front room, which was out of bounds to us children except when dressed in our Sunday best to receive guests, (weddings and funerals). Between the front room and the kitchen/living room was the central staircase which allowed for a clothes and storage cubby hole underneath. We spent most of our time in the ‘living’ room which had the usual furniture and a grand Yorkist type kichen cooking range, shining with black-lead, a large coal fire with oven at one side and hot water tank at the other and various frets and grids. Under the large sash window which overlooked the back yard was a brown earthenware sink with a coldwater tap and a large clay basin with a yellowish smooth inner surface.

All lighting to the house was by gas-mantles, which buzzed merrily when lit. As coal was plentiful and very cheap to miners the fire was seldom allowed to go out,

especially in cold weather, and would be banked up with ‘sleck’ before going to bed,then raked out and ‘blown’ up the next morning. Some would use the back of the coal

shovel and a newspaper to increase the draught but this could lead to the paper catching fire, billowoing up the chimney and either causing the soot-lined chimney to catch alight or an unwelcome fall of soot. We had a ‘drawtin‘ with a central handle specially made by my Dad to suit the opening. Other fire equipment, poker, rake, tongs and brush were held in a neat container, some homes used a brass war time shell case, but ours was a design job, and most of the tools again made by Dad, which stood on the tiled hearth

surrounded by brass fender and a fireguard. Some homes had fancier tools known as a “fireside companion set“ but they were not as robust. Fixed to the ceiling by pulleys

and cords, adjacent to the fireplace was an oblong railed ‘creddle’ lowered and raised as required for drying clothes off or airing loaves of bread on baking day. The floor was of red quarry-tiles, 6"x6”, shining from vigorously applied red Cardinal polish and mostly covered by list rugs.

When the miners came home there would be a plentiful supply of hot water, ladled with a ‘pigging’ can, almost filling the large sink basin. I would watch Grandad intently

as he stripped to the waist, imagining my Dad similarly when he worked in the pit, and proceeded to wash and rinse then wash and rinse again until every nook and cranny was

cleared of black grime. After towelling down he would empty the bowl, such strength in those muscular arms, and without spilling a drop fill the basin again with fresh hot water. He’d say “Nah, go and play while I wash me legs”, I’d wonder why he didn’t want me to see his legs, but I’d go out or upstairs thinking, I bet he doesn’t want me to know that perhaps Grandma washes them for him, she washes me all over each night while I stand up in the sink, and I know she washes his back when he sits in that long zinc bath that hangs on the wall near the back door, and to empty that he drags it to the back door and tips it to run down the herring-boned brick path and my sisters follow it scrubbing with brooms to leave the pathway bright and shiny.

The brick-on-cant bordered path led alongside the high (to children) walls which encompassed the back garden down to the solid wood gate seperating our property

from the alley. An ash path led across the bottom of the garden to the two doors in a brick lean-to containing the ash and rubbish tip, and the ‘nessy’, or privvy, (a dry

lavatory) where a board scrubbed white, had a hole in it over a night-soil tub. These tubs were pulled out through wicket doors into the back alley for disposal via the

Council muck-cart.

I remember once calling the alley a ginnel but was corrected in that a ginnel is much narrower than an alley, whereas an alley is wide enough for one cart and about

half the width of a lane. The paved alley behind the High Street houses sloped slightly to a channel in the middle. It was our cricket or football pitch, a race course, or a

battleground where we defended our territory against a neighbouring gang. There was a playground near the school but it was controlled by a bigger boys gang, and we only

ventured there in strength or at quiet times. I was once caught there when I was 6 or 7 years old by a couple of big louts who tied my hands to a steel loop on a single plank

swingboat and proceeded to ‘work’ the swing up to its maximum to bang my head on a top cross-bar if I didn’t duck low enough, but as I didn’t show fear and pretended to

enjoy it they soon tired and ran off when an adult walked through the park towards us and untied me. They were mostly happy days though, either sliding down slag heaps on

a tin sheet, or walking across the common with Grandad, or more often riding on his shoulders, and round via Cudworth to call in at my Uncle Jack’s, or an outing to

Barnsley market for some brandy-snap.