Some Youthful Christmas Memories

A cat belonging to David Pinder

Below is a piece of writing my father wrote regarding his early memories of Christmas:-

Being not quite five years old when the Second World War commenced, food rationing and the consequences of, namely with regard to confectionery, i.e. sweets and chocolate, provided me with one of my enduring memories of Christmas.  Specifically, that is, of the measures taken to ensure an adequate supply of sweets and chocolate for the festive period.  The weekly ration for one varied from three to four ounces of sweets or chocolate: choice was narrowed down to a bag of toffees or boiled sweets or a bar of chocolate.  Ultimately it involved self discipline by deprivation for a number of weeks before Christmas.  On this subject, one shadowy memory, shrouded in the dim mist of pre-rationing time, involved me inserting a coin into a slot machine that was situated on a railway station’s platform, extracting from the machine a slim bar of a Nestle’s milk chocolate, and then promptly devouring the the aforesaid morsel with great relish.

Another notable memory was of one Christmas I spent with my parents and brother at my uncle and aunt’s house in Mundesley, a village on the Norfolk coast.  The semi-detached house faced onto a minor road, which led to Cromer.  The rear led directly through unkempt paths and scrub to the cliff and what my Uncle David called the German Ocean.  Resident in the house was a large black tom cat named “General”, who seemed to be possessed of remarkable tracking skills.  On my way to the beech or cliff tops he would, without warning, reveal his feline presence behind the next bush or shrub, preening his silky coat with pride.

General was not the only cat in the home.  There were three Siamese as well.  They were graceful animals, with their smooth coats and slim-line physiques.  Also cheekily confident, as one Siamese cat demonstrated by leaping on to the dining table when we were about to start the Christmas dinner, and helping herself from the dish to a potato by spearing it with a dainty paw.

Christmas card from Les Mollekin

On Christmas Day morning, my memory fails me to recall any gifts I may or may not have received.  There was just one gift I can remember. That was a young cat or kitten, given by my uncle and aunt, who came in a cat box.  I was absolutely delighted.  I was thirteen and never had a cat before.  We named her “Striggles” and kept her for four years, before finding her in the gutter in the neighbouring street to home.  We suspected poison, but nothing came from it.  Curiously, the daughter of the next cat we had thirty years after, met with a similar end.  I found her lifeless body next to our car on the house drive, murdered by car thieves.  Again – not proven.

Another memory was Boxing Day in the family home in Listerdale.  I was aged nine or ten; all were sitting at the dining table in the front room, tucking into the ample Christmas fare.  Taking centre stage was my father’s half-brother Leslie, resplendent in his naval uniform, fresh from the ship, the destroyer H.M.S Dido.

Arrival At The Guards Depot

James B. Mollekin – 1953

Below is a piece of writing my father wrote regarding his first day of joining the Army:-

I got off the bus, opposite to my intended destination.  If I had any lingering doubts that it was right, the notice on the roadside, quickly dispelled them, as it was painted in bold black letters, “The Guards Depot, Caterham.”

I walked in to the entrance to the Depot, which was a stone built building of turn of the 19th century origin, and stopped at a wire gate.

A tall sergeant appeared from the office, and came to a halt in front of me.  I gave him my identification papers from the recruiting office in Sheffield, which he accepted without comment.  Then I was startled to hear him bellow in the recesses of the office, “orderly, take this man to the waiting block.”  A long lean guardsman emerged from the guard house, at a run.  He came to a shuddering halt in front of the sergeant and stood erect with his arms at his sides.  Then the sergeant commanded “double march left right,” and I was running behind the orderly, with my suitcase in my hand.  I was to find that this mode of motion was the norm for all recruits at the depot.

No communication took place with the orderly and I, and I pursued him, at a frantic pace to the company stores.  There I was issued with: bedding, four blankets, two sheets, a mug and knife, fork and spoon.

From there the orderly guided me to the waiting room, not at the same demented pace, but a slower one, as a concession to my new found burden from the company stores.

There were a few other recruits in the waiting block, so called because the new recruits were based, before they were assigned to their first squad.

There wasn’t much time left in the day, travelling down from Rotherham, meant it was afternoon before I got there.  My memories of the first day are vague for some of the detailed happenings, but after tea in the cookhouse, it seemed to be quickly time for bed.

First Visit To Millmoor

Rotherham United

Below is a piece of writing my father wrote regarding his first visit to Millmoor, Rotherham:-

It was one morning, in the depths of winter, in 1944.  On a Saturday morning to be precise, when there was no school to interfere with my leisure pursuits.  After partaking of my usual sumptuous breakfast repast, i.e. Kellogg’s Shredded Wheat followed by tomato drip on fried bread, I turned my attention to creative matters, specifically to read ‘Kidnapped’ by Robert Louis Stevenson.

While I was engaged in this pleasurable task, my attention was momentarily distracted to a bowl of apples, freshly gathered from the local orchard.  Not bothering to obtain my mother’s permission, I greedily detached the largest, reddest orb from the pile.  Eagerly crunching the delicious fruit, my attention was once again distracted by the thought of a niggling chore, which I needed to complete for nature study at school.  Grabbing a pen from the sideboard, I launched the necessary task.

After completing the list for the nature study with a sigh of relief I turned back to my book, only to be interrupted by my dad, brandishing a gigantic read and white scarf, previously owned by my granddad.  The colours on the scarf were of Rotherham United Football Team.

“Here you are,” my dad passed my coat and the scarf, “we are going to the match.”

George

Below is a poem my father wrote following the death of one of his favourite cricketers:-

I read today of the passing of a giant
the demise of a cricketing super giant
“George” Statham is the hero,
of the lush green sward.
A demon pace bowler with gentlemanly grace.
A competitor with steely determination and massive heart.
An athlete who did no know how to say,
that is enough.
But to keep on striving to win the day.
The man Statham,
the man who knew the rules.
The man who played hard,
but always fair.
Statham the Lancashire man,
the Icon of England’s glory days.

James B. Mollekin
Swinton
12 December 2000

The Fight

Below is a poem my father wrote regarding a fight he was involved in, in his childhood, in Wickersley:-

Meandering on my way,
From school,
On a hot summer day,
On the wood way,
Dallying under the shade of
A beech tree,
I was hailed by
A fellow scholar
Who was a boy aged 10
Like me.“I can fight you, Barrie, can’t I?”
He said on a confidential note.
Hot, bored, somnolent,
Looking forward to my tea,
What the heck,
“Yes,” I replied.Hardly got home,
Big brother John burst in the room.
“Jonny Shirtcliffe says he can fight you,”
John accused me with
Wondering perplexed stare.
“Did he?” I said
On a quavering note.
John fixed me with a hard perplexed stare.
“Can he?” John said,
“No,” I stammered.“Get on the back of
My bike,” John said.
In a trice, peddling furiously,
Arrived near to schoolmate’s house.
The unheeding hidden menace
In the tension-laden atmosphere, asked the
Fateful question once again,
“I can fight you
Barrie, can’t I?”
“No,” I said, between clenched teeth.
“Fight it out,” brother John said,
On the grass verge.

Not wanting to fight,
But alarmed and shocked
By crass stupidity of
My schoolmate’s perceived
Triumph over me,
And confiding this knowledge
To my big brother,
I had no proper choice,
I was fully committed.

With pounding heart,
And sickly stomach,
I launched my quivering body
Into that of my opponent,
Grasping him in a vice-like grip,
With the wrestlers’ hold called
The bear hug.

Fearing his counter attack
With pounding fists
On my person,
I held on and
Forced him down;
Then, I heard his
Shrieking cry,
“Get off me.”
I did so, and found that
My poor little, stupid opponent
Had sustained a broken arm.

Uncle Les

Below is a poem my father wrote regarding the death of my great uncle, Les Burton, in 2001:-

Jean’s uncle died today.
Her mother’s younger brother.
A cocky, ebullient little man,
Tough as nails and rumbustious in manner,
Rollicking humour, meant never dull.
Fiercely loyal to his wife and family,
Ready friendliness to others.
Worked hard and served as a young sailor.
Invested wisely, from redundancy pay.
Luck ran out at 53,
When diagnosis showed Parkinson’s disease
Had taken its malign hold.
Gradual decline, futile struggles, gestures of
Defiance and looking for answers,
Succumbed to his fate at 78.
As his epitaph, his son and daughter,
Chose,
Leslie Burton
“He did it his way.”
James B. Mollekin
Swinton
8 March 2001

Schooling In The War Years

Dalton & Listerdale Infant & Junior School

Below is a piece of writing my father wrote regarding his early schooling years in Wickersley, South Yorkshire:-

My early years of life were spent in growing up in a semi- rural, private housing estate, about three miles east of Rotherham, an industrial town in the bottom of a valley.

The whole of my formative education took place at Dalton and Listerdale School, in the period of time which is closely parallel to the duration of the Second World War.

If this period of strife and conflict was indicative of this particular time, it was mirrored by my battles and skirmishes with some of my fellow school mates and authority in the persona of the Head Teacher.

With the onset of war came rationing of clothes, food, and associated wants and unfulfilled needs and desires.

Some of my earliest memories were of school. I must have been an early reader, as I can remember helping other children to read.

A sturdy climbing frame, built into the wall in the infants playground, was a particular favourite. As I made my solitary progress around the labyrinth of steps, ladders and tunnels, my imagination conjured up images of heroic deeds accomplished by past, long dead warriors. For a brief time, I was in heaven!

The teachers were quite a diverse collection of individuals. Some time served professionals, some of uncertain age and qualification, brought back into service by war demand. Some not loath to use ruler or fist, when their patience ran out.

One teacher, a choleric Welshman with the predictable name of Morgan was a truly alarming figure. At best a genial, kind hearted man, able to instill learning into his charges, at worst, violent and subjected to rage. I recall him beating a friend of mine, a mild mannered boy, around the classroom, because the culprit, had the temerity to draw a line without a ruler.

Miss Hiscock, a gentle, a self effacing, late middle aged lady, left no enduring memories.

Miss Ward, 35ish, suave and efficient poise, commanded whole hearted respect from the toughest of boys.

And Miss Bracegirdle, quite young, with sturdy build and eager manner. Nothing girlish, with her and her “jolly hockey sticks” approach.

But the memory invoked by the Headmaster remains permanently engraved on my conscious. With his misplaced humour and malicious sarcasm, meant his teaching methods were fatally flawed. For years the recital of multiplication tables gave me problems, as a result of his teaching methods.

Ironically, later, when we took our two eldest children to Dalton and Listerdale for their education, Mr. Lake was still incumbent at the school, and they left at the age of eleven, with no noticeable adverse, effect on their psyche!

For my cousin Dorothy, who was in the same class, conditions were more pleasant.

In one lesson where I failed to give a satisfactory rendition of the nine times table, Mr. Lake, with fiendish relish, seized the chance to compare my abject failure to my cousin’s obvious, intellectual superiority.

Needless to say, cousin Dorothy passed the intelligence quotient at eleven and I failed.

The daily routine started in the school’s main hall. Proceedings got underway with a prayer, followed by Miss Ward accompanying the pupils, on the piano. Traditional songs were sung, some with rousing air such as, “The British Grenadiers” and the “Men of Harlech” then to the lifting refrain of the “Lincolnshire Poacher” and “John Peel” to the hauntingly score of the “Ash Grove”.

Then the Head Teacher addressed us on points of order and interest, such as, allowing the girl whose father was a sailor, to show us a bunch of bananas, or naming pupils who had transgressed the school’s good conduct reputation by their obnoxious behaviour to some one or something, usually out of the school’s bounds.

The assembly was brought to a close by the singing of hymns and the saying of the Lord’s Prayer.

The mid-day meal was brought from outside kitchens and was served in the main hall. The cost of the meal was half a crown, or 12.5p, a week.

Prunes and custard was a regular feature, and flat sponge puddings in a large tins, tasted of salt on the underneath.

There was infrequent dance lessons which I enjoyed. I learnt the “Saint Bernard” Waltz, from that.

There were no excursions, educational or otherwise, but with the school being juxtaposed with the wood, there were occasional forays with the class on nature walks.

There was plenty of recreational space at the front and back, most of it grass covered. In the warmer weather most of the children played on the grass, often involving the boys wrestling. There was one incident, where boys wrestling on the grass started to fight. I was involved. I cannot remember the reason for the dispute, just that I was very angry. The boy I was fighting was, older, bigger and enormously tall! I mounted a ferocious assault, throwing my punches in a frenzy of hate, all of which he blocked, with his massive arms. Finally I stopped, exhausted. My opponent, then, disdainfully, threw me down, sat on my chest and spat in my face!

Popular games were marbles and, in season, conker playing. Horse chestnuts were in abundance in the adjacent woods. Of course, collecting of the great tree’s nuts was great fun.

Most food was rationed. Even so, we never went hungry. Cereals: Weetabix, Corn Flakes and Shredded Wheat were usually available sometimes depending on supply or the number of food coupons in the ration books. A favourite for breakfast was tomato dunk. My granny fried canned tomatoes, and passed slice after slice to me and my brother.

For tea, we had, sometimes, a boiled egg and slice after slice of bread and margarine, thinly spread with jam.

There was virtually no evidence of sweets, biscuits or such. I recall one occasion when I was finishing off the remains of an apple, when a school mate said “gis your cob”. Even though they were not rationed.

“Crisps” were in short supply. Favourite place to get some, was in the local pub, if you dared to risk going in.

On rare occasions, my mother used to bring Walls ice cream, wrapped in newspaper, from town. To this day, I still prefer to eat ice cream, preferably “Walls”, nearly melted.

On Saturdays I did the week’s big shopping for the weekend. You were registered with a butcher, who took care of your coupons, and in return provided you with so much meat. My mother designated the type, and I chose the joint.

For a while I walked round to the shops. Till one day I noticed my dad’s “push-bike” in the coal place. I did not own a bike, but I learned at eight to ride. This was a highly traumatic experience. My brother purloined a dubious specimen and set me off on a steep hill. Careering wildly down the hill without much control, I crashed into a hedge at the bottom. But from that day, I could ride.

With the village being in the country, it was surrounded by woods and farmlands. In consequence, crops of of potatoes, peas, turnips, as well as the usual wheat corn and such.

When I was aged eight, I went out, one day, with my brother and two friends, and we decided to get a turnip. Of course the turnip was in a farmer’s field. We were just about to eat the turnip, after skinning it with a sharp knife, when the farmer, Mr. Burden came up to us. He said he was going to report us to the police. Which he duly did. With the result that the village “Bobbie” Mr. Baron knocked at our back door, after a few weeks, investigating the alleged crime. He came again, and again, and again. When I used to see him coming, I made a hasty retreat, to the back garden, where we kept two rabbits. Anyway, the Policeman’s visits, came to an end, when my brother received summons to attend the West Riding County Court. He was found guilty of the charge of stealing a turnip from Burden. Because of his age, eleven, he escaped more severe punishment. Later on, in life, he was in court for a minor traffic offence, and the “turnip” was on his criminal record. I did not have to attend, because of my age.

A common practice was to keep livestock, to help with the ration. We had rabbits, which were “Flemish Giants”, and were of gigantic proportions. When I lifted them out from the hutch, after biting my fingers, they often managed to escape. Their usual goal was the vegetable plot, where their voracious nibbling reduced the salad crop to a minimum.

Like most kids I loved to read comics, but they were in short supply. You were very lucky to get a “Dandy” or “Beano” at the newsagents, you had to be early. So we had to exchange old comics. It was a common experience, to answer the door to one of the friends, who wanted to “swop” his comics for yours.

There was no T.V., so the “wireless” was the major entertainment in the home. The “pictures” were favourite. The local chapel showed “silents”, two hours for 6d. Further afield, in Rotherham you had a choice of six picture houses and a theatre.

With my father working on the L.M.S. Railway, we had cheap travel on holiday. We went to relations in Crail, Scotland, travelling for about thirteen hours.

Our back garden led directly onto waste land, where a saw mill’s shavings were dumped. We used to jump from quite a height into the shavings. It was quite a risk, because sometimes, if the shavings were freshly dumped, it was red hot in the centre.

There was a company working a stone quarry, which closed down early on in my life. The stone was soft sandstone. Later we came across a number of large storage buildings with a vast number of carvings in the stone. It was wondrous behold. Of course they were carvings for graves etc.

I have no recollection of any adult taking me to school; apart from one occasion, on a half day holiday, for eating pancakes on Shrove Tuesday; when my father noticed me meandering, forgetfully, on the track, and carried me home on the crossbar of his bike.

I had two main routes to school, which was a mile away. One was the “woodway” from the bottom of the Listerdale Estate and top of the woods. The other was the “roadway”, the main road from Listerdale to the Brecks. Both routes had their attractions but the roadway gave the chance to see heavy “Churchill” tanks and other military hardware passing the school. Another attraction on this route was the ornamental pond, in the grounds of Lister’s ‘Castle’. This was full of marine, wildlife, which we, often, observed from the bank side.

Lister’s ‘Castle’ was a pseudo semi-castellated edifice; which to us looked very grand; built, in the 1930’s by housing magnate, Joe. Lister.

A mandatory piece of equipment which all school children must carry to and from school was the gas mask which was designed to protect from poisonous gases dropped in an air attack.

Special test centres were set up at school, where the efficacy of the masks were assessed by using school children in simulated gas attack conditions.

There was an air raid shelter built at school, where we had practice drill.

When the air raid warning sounded, when we were at home, it did not mean a dash for the local shelter, because my mother decreed that we were safer at home.

James B. Mollekin
Swinton
23 March 1998