Anyone come from Grimesthorpe? (Part 2)

[ivandarrell 10]

hello huchinson

my mam and grandparents lived at 52 as well then moved up to the corner of bothem st and peter st my uncle lived at no50 his name was tommy gould he passed away this january bye

[rf2690 10]

hi im sherryl hutchinson my dad is alan hutchinson my mum is eileen we lived at 52 botham street,along with the rest of our hutchy clan annie henry mary margaret kath jean joan.we left there in 1977 to move to firth park...

i can remember grimesthorpe quite well and it was a fantastic place to live...

hi sherryl hope your mum/dad are well.last time i saw them was at grandma's funeral.auntie mags is my old school mate from start to finish of school years.we're still in touch by phone and at grimesthorpe reunions.give my love to mum/dad hopefully might see you all at the next reunion which will most likely be in march.keep your eye on the grimesthorpe thread and you'll find out the date.if you've any memories of grimesthorpe put them on.

by the way welcome to the thread.sheila (hepplestone).

[rf2690 10]

is there another brother older than terry or is it he same one that used to walk up and down bevercotes road

hi awoollen,joan said tommy clarke straight away.her brothers were

john

robert

david

terry

lawrence

then joan and mary.

[mazda5 10]

hi im sherryl hutchinson my dad is alan hutchinson my mum is eileen we lived at 52 botham street,along with the rest of our hutchy clan annie henry mary margaret kath jean joan.we left there in 1977 to move to firth park...

i can remember grimesthorpe quite well and it was a fantastic place to live...

 

hi sherryl

i also remember your mum and dad i was friends with your aunt mags and mary also your dad used to scare us when i used to sleep over at your grans i lived at 53 botham st my name is ann johnson i also am in toush with mags hope to see you at the reunion if you tell your dad les beal goes to these reunions he might come those 2 were great pals

[pigeon 11]

hi im sherryl hutchinson my dad is alan hutchinson my mum is eileen we lived at 52 botham street,along with the rest of our hutchy clan annie henry mary margaret kath jean joan.we left there in 1977 to move to firth park...

i can remember grimesthorpe quite well and it was a fantastic place to live...

WE ended up at firth park aswell two doors down from you on stubbin lane:hihi:

[Hawksheadboy 10]

Bonfire Night 1961 Episode 4 (of 5)

The week seemed endless. In school all the talk was about fireworks and bonfires, bangers and bonfire toffee. This year, for the first time , Keith’s Mum had decided she’d make some toffee. At her son’s insistence, she asked her mother for a recipe and the same day arrived from a shopping expedition with sugar, black treacle and other ingredients as specified.

“Yer gointer make some bonfire toffee?” gasped Keith, his face lighting up with expectation. In his mind he pictured the old lady at the Victory sweetshop shattering the toffee in the metal tray with a small silver hammer.

“When? Tonight? Go on Mother. S’only two days ter go..”

“After ‘tea's been cleared away,” replied his mother, reclaiming the treacle from her eager son. It was in a red and black tin marked in gold letters ‘Jamaican Black Treacle’. Keith licked his lips imagining the sweet sticky syrup inside.

“Would you like a spoonful?”

Keith half expected her to follow up with, “better not it’ll spoil your tea” but for once his luck held . He levered open the tin and quickly plunged in a spoon rather larger than the teaspoon his mother had envisaged.

“There’ll be none for the toffee if you pig yourself now.”

Reluctantly Keith allowed some of the goo to slide off and then wound the syrup threads watching them get thinner and thinner until the spoon was like a black ball on a stick . It reminded him of the tar bombs they used to make on red-hot summer days by poking a lolly-stick into the melting tarmac and winding it into a black ball,

 

That evening his Mum mixed, boiled and stirred the mixture in their largest saucepan, her son popping into the kitchen every few minutes to check on progress in between final scrounges for anything combustible to add to the bonfire pile. Next morning he was up first and rushed eagerly to unbolt the door to the coal cellar and the shelves that they called the pantry. He lifted out the baking tray and set it down on the table then poked it with a wary finger: not set. He scowled then tried to smooth out the fingerprint with a knife. The “toffee” clung to the knife so Keith hastily pulled it away and returned the tray to the pantry shelf. He came home from Grimesthorpe School as fast as possible, abandoning his usual companion, Shirley (Gill) in his haste. But the mixture showed no more sign of solidifying than it had earlier.

“I can’t think what I did wrong,” puzzled his mum, “I put in the best ingredients and followed the recipe.”

“Don’t you think it’ll set Mother?”

“I don’t think it will now.”

“Well can we try some now? It smells alright to me.”

“Yer can try some if yer like,” she laughed, “but I don’t know how on earth yer goin’ to chop it out.”

“Thass easy, “ he replied confidently, extracting a butter knife from the cutlery drawer. However, it did not prove easy at all. The knife sliced through the sticky gunge which then closed up behind, just like the Red Sea after the jews in the story Mr Minnis had brought to life for him at St Thomas’ Sunday School. His Mum fetched a spoon and took over. Using the spoon as a gouge she scooped up the mixture using the knife to cut an scrape and pulled out a sizeable lump which she handed to her son. She watched his face as he pushed in the spoon, chewed and sucked like the victim of a strangling for some time until finally he was able to speak.

“Mmm it’s nice.” His jaws continued to work energetically.

“It should be with all that butter an’ treacle,” insisted his Mum.

She watched as he tried inexpertly to lever out another serving and then wedged it into his mouth. She did not mind him eating. Always she had encouraged him to eat, her one condition being that it should be “good for you”. Her son had absorbed this message at an earl age and needed no encouragement now. He would even cram down the tasteless boiled carrots at Sunday lunch because his mother insisted they were “good for you”. However much he ate, however, he remained a skinny youth, probably because he only sat still at mealtimes if then.

 

Needless to say the toffee never set and became a standing joke in the family. (Would you like to taste Kath’s toffee? Pass me that glass.”) However to Keith and his mates this was no problem and they would make pilgrimages to the pantry shelf for a spoonful each whenever they remembered until, three days later, it was scraped clean. Oddly enough no-one in the family had a cough or cold that winter and Kath duly took the credit, convinced it had done her family a lot of good.

 

‘Anity came home from school swinging his duffle bag over one shoulder. It had been PT that day and he loved the exercise being tall and athletic, towering over his shorter classmates. He whistled to himself as he strode down Chambers Lane leaving the blackened stone buildings of the school behind for another day. You might be forgiven for thinking that Kevin (as his parents had christened him) had forgotten that it was November 5th but this was not so. He was merely relaxed and unruffled because it was his nature but his mind was pleasurably focussed on the night ahead. Converging from the opposite direction, Mal and Gurner were returning from Brightside School a few yards behind Tom and Foxy, the latter shrieking with laughter from time to time. Some strange council policy had drawn the catchment area to slice the area in two and Tom’s gang were pretty evenly shared out, probably to the relief of the local teachers.

“I ope me Ma’s got tea ready, “ said Gurner. He was not in a happy mood. He would not be going to the bonfire and neither would Mal in spite of the weeks of contributing to the common purpose. Two years earlier he had suffered an accident when two careless youths had set off a rocket in a milk bottle, managed to knock it over and send it lethally towards a group of boys. Gurner had lost an eye as a result and the tragedy reverberated round the community. The consequence was that he and Mal would be making Airfix kits indoors. True they would be spoiled with treats and sweets but they would not reap the benefit of their wood-collecting labours.

 

In the rough centre of the Back Hollows was a circle of yellow clayey mud that seemed unable to support any plant life and trampled by countless small feet. On this area stood the proud tepee shape of the bonfire soon to become a blazing beacon. Planks and poles and branches leaned inwards supporting each other. A motorcar tyre had been perched artistically at the apex. Dusk crept in. Necklaces of gaslights glowed from the surrounding streets and an orange glow from Holywell Road (the “Main road”). The “back ‘ollers” was permanently lit just as the city with its forges and furnaces was permanently working day and night. The sounds of drop forges and shunt engines plus a steady drone of machinery had long ago faded into background noise for those living here and were only noticed when Christmas holidays or factory shutdown week silenced them for a short while. From this spot in the daytime you could see a panorama of factories, railway lines and chimneys and beyond them the ridge which led into Lincolnshire with its rolling downs, colliery towns and cultivated fields.

 

As the darkness deepened, figures were silhouetted above the walls which formed two sides of the natural arena, The third side was the undulating hummocks of the Humpty Dumpty waste ground and the fourth Brathay and Holywell Road.

“’Ow do Foxy,” yelled Tom to his friend raising an arm so he might be seen.

“There y’are, “ said Foxy, peering into the gloom. Tom was sitting among the piles of wood with which they would feed the fire’s hunger. The piles included several clapped-out armchairs and settees and it was on one of these that Tom was enthroned.

“Where’s the rest of ‘em?” asked Foxy critically,

“Dunno. Not seen anybody yet,” There was a pause as Foxy made himself comfortable.

“Me dad sez he’ll light it at ‘alf six.” This from Tom.

“’As ‘e got plenty o’ paraffin?”

“Loads. A reckon two gallon should do it. Ey look. In’t that Keith comin’ down our garden wi’t guy?” Tom had sharp eyes and you would have been amazed that he could disentangle this misshapen blob for his friend and the guy. However, this was what Tom had been watching out for for the past ten minutes.

 

The guy was taller than Keith. Its legs trailed behind, shoeless, its trouser bottoms crudely sewn together and stuffed with newspapers, creating a unique muscle structure reminiscent of the cowboys on the Mexican frontier. He was also rather paunchy but hid this unglamorous defect underneath a large brown casual jacket with leather patches at the elbow. He was looking forward to a first-class view of the proceedings and this expectation was not to be disappointed. However, it was apparent that Guy had left home in a violent hurry for, in his haste, he had covered his head with a large, low-brimmed and distinctly feminine red hat with a cluster of glass cherries sprouting from its pink ribbon band. If Mr Fawkes’ lookalike had been aware of his hermaphrodite appearance he did not show it. Nor was he aware that his female attributes were designed to represent the various ageing females who the boys regularly clashed with in pursuing their nefarious activities.

“It’s not threebad is it?” said Keith perching the guy on a chair then collapsing into a settee beside Foxy. The Guy leaned uncomfortably against the chair, his paunch preventing him from bending at the waist. As Keith flopped down the boys noticed something odd in his appearance. All of them tended to wear their scruffiest clothes throughout this season and naturally kept these on for bonfire night. Keith however was wearing a brown leather flying jerkin, many sizes too big with two button-down breast pockets and arms suitable for an average gorilla. His hands did not even stick out from the sleeve ends.

“Where d’you get that from?” asked Foxy.

“I allus wear it on Bonfire Night. Me uncle used ter wear it when ‘e ‘ad ‘is motorbike. Then ‘e giv it me lass year”

“’Sa bit big innit?” said Foxy, a trifle enviously.

“’S all right. Plenty of growin’ room.” They both laughed. This is what you always said if you had to wear something handed down which was too big. They talked on cheerfully, greeting others as they arrived and seated themselves as comfortably as they could. Some younger kids had appeared and were demanding sparklers.

“You’ll have to wait until the fire’s lit.”

“Can’t we juss have one. Juss one little one.”

“Stop mythering. Here you can hold one an’ I’ll light it soon as it's lit.”

 

At last Tom’s dad arrived in his shirtsleeves. In his left hand was a large metal jerrycan of paraffin which he was taking care to hold well away from his trousers. The boys gathered round eager to be part of the historic moment.

“Stand back will you,” he ordered sternly and began to splash the liquid onto the newspapers and rags that the boys had pushed between planks at the base of the pyramid. The first match thrown died in the air but the second found its mark. He moved round the pile starting more small blazes until there were four points of light all trying, like the pegs in a game of Chinese checkers, to reach the centre first. Heat could already be felt as the flames caught and the boys retired to their seats to admire the blaze in comfort

 

In final episode: Fun round the fire and a few old scores paid off with the aid of bangers. Thank God ASBOs hadn’t been invented then.

Edited November 21, 2009 by Hawksheadboy

[lady C 10]

WHEN WE MOVED HOUSE I KEPT FROGS AND TOADS IN THE OLD TIN BATH:hihi:USED TO CATCH THEM AT CRABTREE POND HAPPY MEMORIES.

 

the things we let you do, what abut pigeon you kept in outhouse

[Bantambuddy 10]

Can't wait for the next episode Oh how simple things were so enjoyable.

Just goes to show how other people see you in life, but you have got me Keith still in a world of my own smiling to myself

Episode 3 of Bonfire Night 1961

The boys left the road and strode along the winding track, past their fire-wood, up the grassy hillock known as the ‘back hollows’ that separated by some two-hundred yards their site from Curly’s wood-pile. As he reached the brow of the summit that separated the rival camps, Tom round to face his friends.

“Shh! We don’t want them to ‘ear a sound.”

They crept forward in single file to the pile of assorted planks, old furniture and brushwood that made such a threatening outline against the red industrial sky. Each of them felt that someone might be hidden amongst the wood, lurking in ambush but, as they got closer, it became obvious that the site was deserted. Tom stopped and the others closed up.

“Wi’ll ‘ave to find them doors,” he instructed and the group fanned out, taking care not to trip up or to make any noise.

“’Ere’s one,” said ‘Anity (Bantambuddy). They gathered round.

“Yeh. I reckonize that ‘un.”

This was a bit of an overstatement since it was nearly pitch dark and impossible to see the colour or any detail beyond the fact that it was a door of sorts. Keith was sceptical:

“But where’s t’other one, there should be two on ‘em,” he inquired.

A further search produced no more doors.

“W’ill just have ter take this an’ what wood wi can carry,” said Tom, not for a moment acknowledging what was becoming ever more obvious: their two missing doors were nowhere to be seen and, if this was so, they were raiding the wrong woodpile.

“A reckon them planks were ours an’ all,” said Mal, and the boys seemed fairly sure of this, more sure than they were about the doors anyway. It was certainly quite possible, given the amount of stuff that changed hands during the season, that some of the wood had in fact originated from their own pile. In the daylight they would have been able to tell, since they could recognise the sofas, armchairs and so on that they had laboriously dragged home and at least some of the larger lumps of wood too. In this light, however, there was no chance and finger-like shapes against the sky turned out to be hefty planks when you tried to lift them. But they knew that indecision might be risky and so settled for more manageable items. Four carried the door with a few trophies piled on top and the rest straggled behind along the twisting path which also went up and down and which they called the “Humpty-dumpty”.When the had been younger they had raced down this path and felt a sensation not unlike the big dipper at the fair, where the earth rushes towards your face and then suddenly falls away from under you. They reached their pile and dumped the loot in a heap. Then, perhaps mindful of the questionable ownership of some items, took time to bury them under the starlit pile. With some relief they split up with the usual, “See yer,,,so long…see you temorrer,” and went their different ways ready for a hot drink and that sleep of oblivion that bommie-wood collecting guaranteed.

 

And so the busy days hastened by, October handing over the reins to a frosty November and the children of the district celebrated the march of time which brought them closer to Christmas, winter snows, the rich food, the dazzling shop-windows and for the younger element, notes up the chimney and Santa’s grotto. That was all they could recall for Chrismas had been an age ago, way back in time, months even before the six-weeks holiday and so a phantom which might or might not visit them again. Now it was Halloween, time of witches and black cats. The boys had their own views on witches: didn’t they know at least half a dozen? One lived in the same yard as Keith and was always ready to rush out and lecture or, worse, to try and grab the football they liked to kick against the wall. This scrawny enchantress was affectionately known as “the Nag of the Crag” after the witch in a Playhouse pantomime (I think Walt will remember this). All they remembered was a character who like the Duchesses baby in “Alice in Wonderland” kept threatening to turn into a rabbit every few minutes unless the audience shouted “lettuce!” loud enough. They had responded by shouting “Rhubarb!” and even the actors seemed to enjoy the joke and had started to miss their cues. Apart from the name for his local nemesis all Keith could now recall was the name “Patch and Mr Simpkins”, the rest had fallen into memory’s bottomless pit to join the eyeless fish in the Speedwell Cavern.

 

Down to Crookes’ greengrocer went Tom and ‘Anity to see if they had any decent-sized turnips left. Mal and Gurner (Newslad) were already busy hollowing out two fine specimens in Mick’s shed.

“Thi’ve got plenty o’ big uns, “ Mal had reported, “’ Course we got ‘ biggest two but there’s plenty left. Tom and ‘Anity quietly resolved to go further afield if needs be, down to the bottom of Birdwell Road to Belks’ or even up to Fir Vale if Crookes had only medium-sized specimens. These fears were to prove groundless. Crookes’ was a green shop in every sense: on the left were mounds of late cauliflower and cabbage and a mountain of sprouts. The shelves which extended on two sides, were filled with all varieties of tinned fruit, vegetables, soup and condiments, the red tins standing out against the jungle of vegetables and the olive-green shelves. And, more to the point, in a compartment next to the red and white potato stacks was a good assortment of Swedes of mighty proportions suggesting some monstrous plant from a Grimm’s Fairy Tale. They might of course have been giant radishes swollen by a witch’s potion and, like such articles, might shrink back again at any moment

-or so you might have imagined as you watched the two lads attempt to squeeze ahead of the queue, their eager fingers itching to start gouging.

“Now Melvyn, what do you want love?” asked the gypsy-ish Mrs Crookes.

“A want a big turnip please.”

She laughed not particularly surprised at the eagerness shown by a lad of eleven in purchasing a tasteless vegetable so often left by the sides of plates at school dinner. No it was no coincidence that there were plenty of large Swedes to be had on October 31st, Mrs Crookes was jovial but also shrewd and well aware of seasonal customs. A strong wiry lady, her daily routine began at 5.30 with a trip to the wholesale market and the boys had a lot of respect for a lady hardier than they were.

 

Pillaging knives from Tom’s Mum’s kitchen on the way, they returned to Gurner’s hut where two sinister heads, two beardless Rasputins with triangular mouths and square noses now grinned at one another on the shelf, diabolically plotting some clandestine deed. Mal and Mick sat back contentedly in the two garden chairs, Mal leaning one bony elbow on the heap of turnip chippings and turnings that lay on the newspaper Mick’s mother had wisely spread over the table.

“Yer managed ter get some then?”

“No thi’d sold out,” said Tom sarcastically, “she said could we come back a week on Tuesday…does it look like we gorrem?”

“’Sun’s in me eyes,” said Mal squinting, though what had become of the sun was nobody’s business: it had certainly failed to put in an appearance so far this bitter day: presumably it had more sense of occasion than to intrude upon Hallowe’en. The boys laughed and Tom and ‘Anity, who was silent as usual happily in his own world, moved up to the table and began to scoop and plane at the monster Swedes with such ferocity that one might have wondered if the boys had substituted in their minds eyes sworn enemies such as parkies (park-keepers) or loathed teachers for the innocent vegetables.

 

Night fell at last. For once it was not the curtain on the day’s adventures, nor even the beginning of the end. October 31st was no special day but the night was a different kettle of fish. Carrying the inane heads, some on poles and all lit from inside with candles the group made their way down Hawkshead Road where they collected Keith. It was cold and everyone wore overcoats and gloves. ‘Anity wore his brown balaclava, Tom a woollen bobcap, Foxy’s bare head peering over the red and white United scarf which was coiled round and round his neck. The smell of singed turnip and gusts of warm air from the candles created a cocoon which enveloped the boys as they carried life into the preternatural blackness full, no doubt, of hovering bats, sailing witches and demons ready to pounce. From the end of the gaslit street, all that could be seen of the gaberdined crew was a cluster of heads of varying heights, suggesting a range of creatures from leprechauns to pole giants all sharing the same malevolent and strangely triangular grin.

“Less go inter’ churchyard,” suggested ‘Anity, “I aren’t scared o’ no graves.

“I’m not goin’ there. ‘S’ too far.”

“Yer scared yer mean.”

“All right Malcolm Hobson, I’ll show you who’s scared. Come on, lets go to ‘ graveyard an’ wi’ll soon see ‘oo chickens out.”

The glowing heads sailed along majestically as their bearers watched cautiously in case one of them threatened to topple of the poles or in case a candle gave up the ghost in the breezy air. By slow stages (since minor adjustments were constantly required to the now-singeing skulls), the moved into Rothay Road and then across the usually-busy street to where the church stood with its black spire and garden of stones. Nervously, they unlatched the iron gate and crept into the churchyard. In louder voices, voices defying and at the same time betraying their fear, the boys chattered along the path.

“I dare go in,” said Keith and walked along an offshoot path amongst the graves. The candle of his lantern shed huge circles of light on the curved stones. He felt quite at home in this churchyard having passed through it many times to and from Sunday school shepherded in his younger years by the tall, elegant and smooth-fingered Lonslow twins. Finding no-one following, his courage faltered and a shiver passed down his spine; after all it was Hallowe’en.

“Aren’t you lot comin’,” he said, trying to sound casual and then rapidly retreated as if recognising the pointlessness of a solo journey. Tom was quick to cover.

“A was juss comin’ but there’s no point now..”

“No there’s no point goin’ further. We may as well go an’ ‘aunt a few people on t’way back,” The group agreed this was a better plan and with some relief and not a few backward glances, they cheerfully and noisily made their way up Holywell Road. The moment had passed. Another Halloween was slipping away and the demons and witches losing yet another opportunity to prove their existence.

 

Wrapped up in his school scarf, Malcolm watched the eyes of the mad monk in his hand grow fiercer as the candle flared in a sudden gust of air and inhaled the delicious odour of roasting turnip. He took off the thick woollen gloves his mum had insisted upon and began to warm his hands. Taking leave of his friends at the street corner he hurried like some latter-day Wise Man bearing a shining gift towards a warmer fire and a more hospitable place of rest.

 

Still to come: non-setting treacle toffee and the world’s most deformed Guy Fawkes!

Does life get any better than this? Don’t miss episode 4 of Bonfire Night 1961

[DORIS1963 10]

hello huchinson

my mam and grandparents lived at 52 as well then moved up to the corner of bothem st and peter st my uncle lived at no50 his name was tommy gould he passed away this january bye

 

Hi Ivandarrell, I have been doing my family tree, my g grandma on my mum's side of the family, lived at no 54 Bothem Street, on the 1891 census, her name was Pheobe Gould, she was living with, it says her cousin but I think it was her brother and his wife. their name's were Charles Gould 1859 - 1911 wife Niomi Smith ( Dack ) on the 1901 census they have 3 children, Albert Gould 1891, Thomas Gould 1895, & Elizabeth Gould 1897. Still living at same address. Pheobe married a Arthur Chappell, occupation pig / cattle dealer. and moved to Kilton Hill, Pitsmoor. they had 3 children, George Chappell 1893, Doris Chappell 1897 & Annie Chappell 1900, Pheobe and Arthur separated and Arthur kept all 3 children. in 1903. My greataunt Annie told me that they never heard of Pheobe again, and remembered very little about her. I was wondering with you mentioning your uncle was called Tommy Gould and lived at 50 Bothem Street, the family might have lived there all there lives and might have been a relation to my g grandma.........because on my dads side of the family he had 3 generations living on Draper Street in the same house from about 1860 till around them pulling them down .......

[lobyloo 10]

hi pigeon do you mean paul/vicky goodwin nee walshaw if so i must know you.

remember all the wrights and stephen claypole.i lived top of hunsley st next door to hairdressers.sheila

 

i just replying back just to let u know i am one of vicky and paul goodwins daughters

[benbob 10]

Val and Jean Coulson are my dads cousin's, Their dad was Harold Coulson, lived on Draper Street..

 

I lived on corner of Adsetts/Draper Street & seem to remember Harold Coulson and family lived just over the wall-would that be at No. 21 Draper Street?

[rf2690 10]

i just replying back just to let u know i am one of vicky and paul goodwins daughters

hi lobyloo,hope your mums well does she still live on edensor rd.haven't seen her for a few years.was good friends with you're mum an dad,love to see her at our next reunion.had some good times with them and steve taffinder and the rest of em.give her my love.Sheila(Hepplestone)