The Avenue E-Book

Samuel W Herbert

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

This is a hard-hitting account of growing up in Newcastle's West End during the uncertain years of the First World War and the Depression. Samuel Herbert had to grow up fast when his mother moved the family to a cockroach-infested tenement in Elswick while his Dad — a miner — was away fighting on the front line. Along with the shared 'netties' and the terrible living conditions, Samuel learned how to deal with the bullies and the gangs until he grew as tough as they were. His fight to get out of this poverty-stricken existence was always hindered by something and he continuously ended up back in that same sorrowful place called The Avenue. Along with the tragedy, however, came lots of laughs, and Samuel's unique account demonstrates the humour, courage and indomitable spirit of the local population. Prepare to be amused and entertained, surprised and moved by these stories, which vividly capture the heart and heritage of this former mining community.

Leseprobe

There are many to whom I would wish to dedicate this humble biography, but in my heart there is only one; a man none of you have ever met. He was kind and gentle, firm but fair; a reserved and quiet man, but a very brave one. A man who gave me a gentle smile only hours before the Lord took him away.

I am dedicating this book to my dear father.

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Passing Thoughts

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Epilogue

Copyright

Passing Thoughts

If the road you tread is stony

Long and often lonely

Should you think you are forsaken

Spurned and feel that fate has taken

All your hopes and dreams that mattered

Cast them down to lie there shattered

Should misfortune strike you often

Without the means the blows to soften

Lift your head and cry aloud

To him who dwells above the cloud

He will listen from up there

And give you courage your ills to bear.

As life’s milestones pass you by

Lighten your step but do not sigh

Or think about the pain and sorrow

Of yesterday, there’s still tomorrow

To come and go and thus unfold

The pleasures, joys and love untold

But when your journey’s end is nigh

Count your blessings ere they fly

Then look back with gladness say

Thank you Lord for this sweet day.

Samuel W. Herbert

Acknowledgements

To my dear wife, who must have grown tired of gazing at the top of my head for three years as I scribbled for dear life.

To my children, who, by their keen interest in my activities as a youngster, inspired me to have a go at compiling this book.

To my daughter-in-law, who gave up a great deal of her leisure time to decipher my atrocious writing and put it into type.

To all my friends of bygone days.

Samuel W. Herbert

Introduction

Come on now, own up! How many of you thought I had lost my marbles when you first learned of my intention to embark upon what may, after all, prove to be an insuperable task? How many of you laughed at the idea of ‘The Old Man’ writing his autobiography? (Well, I had a damned good laugh myself – it seemed at first a ridiculous and over-ambitious venture!)

But why an autobiography? Why not a simple fictional story?

The answer, dear readers, is very simple; there is no need to resort to fiction to provide you with a story – my own life can assure an almost never-ending source of material. It can furnish stories which by no stretch of the imagination could I have manufactured.

That there will be problems I know and appreciate only too well, and the fact that I have never kept a diary will present especial difficulties, because not being able to refer back means I will have to rely solely on my memory. (How much easier it would have been to flick over the written pages of memory and find therein all the basic ingredients, and how convenient to find them in chronological order, thus needing only elaboration.) But there is no point in dwelling on what might have been, is there?

I was always an avid reader and I know that it is possible to become so absorbed in a story that one can imagine oneself actually taking part in it. That’s how I would like you all to feel whilst you digest this humble effort.

I would like to say at once that whatever is lacking in the sensational will be more than balanced by variety. There are numerous amusing, even farcical episodes to recount, but conversely there is much tragedy and sorrow.

It may surprise you to learn that my decision to attempt a literary effort such as this could be the fulfilment of a dream, one that was implanted in my mind as I listened to the parting words of a man I hated and despised: ‘Providing you study hard on your way through college, there is no reason why you should not do well in the field of literature.’ Thus spoke my Headmaster, Mr Cook, a brilliant teacher but a tyrant of the old school!

I often wondered whether his prediction would have borne fruit, and what his reaction would have been if his number one target for the cane had proved him to be right!

You may well ask why I have waited until I was seventy years old before tackling something which, after all, may be beyond my ability to complete.

To be truthful, the circumstances of my life have denied me the opportunity of making an earlier start; but now, having enjoyed the exuberance of youth, accepted and discharged the responsibilities of manhood and marriage, and savoured with some relief the less hectic years of middle age, I am now, in the evening of my life, compelled to live a much more peaceful one.

Surely then, with so much time on my hands, here is the opportunity, now is the time to fulfil that dream.

I did say there would be problems and sure enough I have found one I cannot overcome. ‘Geordie’ born and bred though I am, I find it impossible to write in our dialect, which is unique in expression but soul-shattering when attempting to portray in prose.

I have therefore decided that plain English will be the only medium. So please remember when you are reading about the exploits of some raggy-arsed hooligans (with affection!) that almost all of them spoke little else but down-to-earth ‘Geordie’ (yenaawarramean?)!

Now I have a decision to make – should I or should I not write my story in a clean and prissy manner? If I do, then all the stories concerning those aforementioned ruffians will sound empty and insipid. It would be impossible to describe adequately their antics and expressions in language and intonation more befitting public schoolboys.

On the other hand, if I get down to basics, then there has to be a frankness, which you may find distasteful. But I cannot forget the years I spent in a hell-hole with its accompaniment of brutality, obscenity and other soul-destroying indignities.

How then can I write a true story if I have to make liberal use of tinsel when relating certain incidents? I cannot compromise; therefore the realities of some situations in which I was involved – or witnessed – will be described in the actual language used at the time, which, dear readers, means an occasional use of four-letter words. My decision to be frank will be endorsed by the knowledge that you would prefer a true story rather than a fairytale.

Now that I am about to begin, I have opened one small door of my memory bank and there is, gushing forth, a veritable avalanche which almost overwhelms me, and such a gigantic hotchpotch of nostalgic incidents has to be thoroughly sorted out, which makes me appreciate to the full the magnitude of the task I have undertaken.

Finally, in order that continuity be preserved, I have taken advantage of many stories concerning my young life as told me by my brother Fred and sometimes by my parents.

So now, here it is, the story of my life as a boy and a young man.

I hope you enjoy it.

Samuel W. Herbert (1908–1983)

Newcastle, 1983

Chapter One

It was 1913 and spring was in the air, birds were twittering, flowers were beginning to bloom and new-born lambs were gambolling. ‘Hey nonny nonny and tra-la-la!’

That’s how it was on the day this chronicle begins; but I certainly had no interest in those miracles of nature, because I was perched precariously on top of the garden railings that fronted my home. The trouble was I couldn’t move because one of those fiendishly sharp spikes was firmly embedded in my bum! I had disobeyed my parents’ order not to climb and was now paying the penalty. It felt like I had been there for ages. But crikey, did I yell!

A passer-by came to the rescue and attempted to lift me off, but unfortunately for me, the man didn’t lift me high enough and the damned spike ripped my back-side open. The shriek I gave brought Mother racing out of the house and she almost threw a fit when she saw the blood pouring down my leg. There followed a frantic dash to a doctor, who promptly ordered me to the Royal Victoria Infirmary, where I had several stitches inserted in my rear end.

Mother really went to town with me as we made our way home. ‘You are just an awkward young sod,’ she snapped, ‘and don’t think I am going to carry you all the way home; you can walk, sore arse or no sore arse!’

That was bad enough, but after a few yards she stopped in her tracks. ‘Oh my God, I’ve left your Dad’s dinner in the oven,’ she wailed. I maintained a discreet silence as she flew along Percy Street with me hoping, skipping and jumping behind her. She was muttering dire threats as we boarded a tram. ‘If that dinner is ruined you will have a sore arse!’

I wish I could have written that there was a happy ending to that gallop back home, but it was not to be. Mother dashed into the scullery, flung open the oven door and made a hasty grab at the dish inside. I swear that flames were coming down her nostrils when she withdrew the pathetic remains of Dad’s favourite meal. ‘Look at that,’ she said with a sob. ‘Burnt to a bloody cinder!’

Of course, Dad would have to enter the scullery at that moment to see Mother standing there with the blackened remains of a bunny in her hands. He gave it a curious look. ‘What the hell’s that?’ he asked. ‘It’s your dinner – rabbit pie,’ she moaned. ‘Funny bloody rabbit pie that is!’ he snorted. He removed his jacket and then said, ‘How did you come to burn it, been gossiping have you?’

Mother’s face went all colours and for a moment I thought she was about to christen me with the smouldering pie.

‘No, I haven’t been gossiping! I have been to the Infirmary to have your son’s arse stitched!’

All that happened sixty-seven years ago, on a spot not fifty yards from where I live now.

Shortly after I returned to this area I watched, with not a little sadness, the demolition of the house where I spent my early childhood, to make way for a new housing estate.

As I watched, I remembered my brother, Fred, racing along the street in his knickerbockers (which he hated) and my first boyhood friend – Geordie Royle – sporting the finest brace of green candles on his upper lip one would never wish to see! Looking through my window today I can see many familiar landmarks from the old days, the most important being St James’s Church, my first Sunday school.

At the time this story begins, I was living with my parents and brother Fred in Gill Street, Benwell, a working class suburb of Newcastle. Fred was then seven years old and I was almost five, and Dad was a miner employed at a local colliery.

I suppose everyone has come to accept miners as rough, tough and not impartial to a belly of beer, but nothing could be further from the truth as far as Dad was concerned. He was quiet and reserved, indeed almost an introvert, but he lived only for his home and family.

Yet there was something about him, something indefinable that suggested he was not of true mining stock; he was also very intelligent, well read and spoke clear English without any trace of the Northumbrian ‘burr’. Fred and I were not allowed to use the Geordie dialect – at least not in his presence. He had a fetish for personal cleanliness and he was always meticulously dressed. His pride and joy was his moustache, which he groomed almost reverently. It would have been difficult to visualise any man looking less like a miner than he. We two kids adored him.

Mother was a very handsome woman and with her copper coloured hair and fashionably slim waist she made the perfect partner for Dad.

Brother Fred? Well, he was a sturdy lad with an infectious grin; he was also stubbornly independent. He did very well at the local school. He had one pet anathema – his knickerbockers. In those days they were not uncommon, but they were worn mostly by boys whose fathers were a little higher in the social scale than ours! Certainly in our part of the world, miners’ sons did not wear trousers that were fastened under the knee by a piece of fancy ribbon! Poor Fred had to endure a lot of leg-pulling before he was allowed to discard what had become known as his ‘cacky catchers’ – much to his relief.

Trying to describe myself isn’t easy, but of one thing I am sure; I was very often the despair of my parents. I didn’t have to look for trouble, it was usually just around the corner, and if there was a hole anywhere, I would fall into it. In fact my father often shook his head in wonderment at my unhappy propensity for incurring cuts and bruises.

Poor dear Dad, he was never to hear the half of it, but between the four of us there was a bond of affection that was never to wane.

In those far off, peaceful days in Benwell, very little out of the ordinary ever happened (unless you count the punctured backside incident) but there was one aspect of our lives we two lads found puzzling.

At the time we lived in Gill Street. Father’s family lived in Condercum Road, not more than a hundred yards away, but never once did he visit them, nor they us. Fred and I knew where they lived – we had often seen them standing at their front door – but we had never spoken to them because we had been given explicit orders not to. Of course we wondered why.

There was also some sort of mystery about my Mother’s family; her father visited us regularly, but neither Fred nor I had ever seen our maternal grandmother. There wasn’t even a photograph of her, which was most odd in those days when every household had a family album. So where was she? What did she look like? Whenever we asked those questions, we were told to ‘shut up’ and even Mother, throughout her long life, never talked about her. Obviously there must have been very strong reasons for the extraordinary secrecy concerning her and it never seemed worth the effort to try and solve the mystery.

However, my father’s photograph albums provided a wealth of information about his side of the family; when Fred and I were old enough to understand, Dad used them to explain his ancestry – way back into the eighteenth century. Sadly though, those albums mysteriously disappeared.

Chapter Two

In 1868 a certain Mr Herbert died at the cruelly early age of thirty-three, leaving a widow and two sons aged four and two. He had been a college lecturer, and by all accounts he had a great future before him. He had been a fairly wealthy man and left his family well provided for. The elder son followed in his father’s footsteps and became a lecturer and the younger went to live with relatives in Australia.

In 1887 the elder son, who was then twenty-seven years old, married a girl named Martha Simpson. He went against the wishes of his mother, who showed her displeasure by changing her will and leaving everything to the younger son.

Tragedy struck again in 1900 when the eldest son died aged just forty, leaving a widow, three sons and a daughter. The names of the four children were Samuel (the oldest), James, John and Martha. Unfortunately, he left them, if not exactly in poverty, with little money to throw about.

Trying to rear four children on such limited resources proved too much for Martha. After only a few months she found herself in difficulties and asked her mother-in-law for some assistance. The mother-in-law refused. Then Martha suddenly declared her intention to re-marry.

Samuel was then thirteen years old and he reacted violently against the proposed marriage. He had apparently met his future stepfather and the feeling for each other had been mutual – instant dislike! Despite his strong protests his mother married the man – a cobbler by the name of Joseph Lambert.

Sam’s dislike of his stepfather continued to fester, then it erupted into open hostility. It hadn’t made him feel any less resentful when he realised that his brothers and sister had accepted the ‘usurper’ without demur, so he made his feelings known in no uncertain manner.

Because of his antagonism towards his stepfather, coupled with the strained relations between him and the rest of the family, it became obvious that drastic measures would have to be taken. Family relations became increasingly strained.

It was Sam himself who solved the problem. Greatly daring, he visited his father’s mother – she who had refused financial help – and poured out his troubles. To his surprise (and delight) she not only listened to him but asked him to go and live with her.

Everything went smoothly for him during the following year, but on the one occasion when he visited his family, he realised that no one was very much interested in him. In fact, the reception they gave him was so cool he decided there was no point in going back. Four years were to elapse before he stood in their house again.

Shortly before his fourteenth birthday, his grandmother staggered him with the news that she had made arrangements for him to attend a grammar school; no doubt she had visions of him following in the footsteps of his father and grandfather. Sam, however, had other ideas and gently but firmly told her he had no wish to attend another school.

Naturally she was very angry, but she was horrified when he told her that when he was fourteen years old he was going to be a miner!

Why would an intelligent young man decide to follow an occupation that was not only dirty and dangerous, but at that time decidedly non-lucrative? When his grandmother asked him the reason for such an outrageous decision, he replied, ‘Ever since I can remember, school books have dominated my life, and I want no more of them.’

But was that really true? There was no doubt that he had a chip on his shoulder as big as an oak tree because of the loss of his father and the advent of a stepfather, but it doesn’t explain his decision.

Whatever the reason, he refused to reconsider what his grandmother referred to as ‘the decision of an ungrateful young idiot’. She gave him an ultimatum – either go to grammar school or return home to his mother.

He had no intention of doing either, and his grandmother, sensing his determination, relented slightly and allowed him to stay with her until she asked a distant aunt of his to give him lodging.

One week after his fourteenth birthday Sam began his career as a miner in a local colliery, and he continued living with his aunt for the next four years.

He originally intended to start with a trial period of about six months, but before the time was up he confessed to his aunt that he was having doubts; the working conditions below ground were appalling and the fatality rate was distressingly high. Nevertheless, at the end of six months he decided to make mining his permanent career.

He was aware that more efficient methods of coal production were to be introduced, that new coalfields were being explored and new shafts were to be sunk. He therefore reasoned that there would be plenty of opportunities to make the grade in the managerial side of mining – if he was prepared to study.

So with some considerable practical help from his aunt – to whom he had become very attached – he worked hard and studied diligently. After three years it became apparent to his bosses that he was destined to reach the top.

Meanwhile, his family had moved into a house in Condercum Road, Benwell, and he discovered that he now had a half-brother and sister. He was highly amused when he learned how appalled they had been at his decision to be a mine-worker. He simply dismissed them as ‘pompous sods’!

Shortly after his seventeenth birthday, Samuel met and began to court a girl called Ethel Henderson. She was not greatly enamoured of his occupation and tried many times to persuade him to give it up. (Her father was not too happy at the prospect of having a miner as a son-in-law either.) But Sam was adamant – mining was his career.

Their courtship continued strongly but too ardently, because in the autumn of 1905 Ethel told him she was pregnant.

He sought the advice of his aunt. ‘You will have to visit your parents, and explain everything to them,’ she told him.

He hadn’t visited his family for almost four years, so it is easy to imagine their astonishment when he calmly walked in on them. They were shattered when he told them that he was going to have to get married, and piously condemned his ‘lecherous conduct’. Because he was still a minor, their written consent to the marriage was necessary by law – and they spitefully refused to give it.

However, his aunt interceded on his behalf and some very strong words from her made them change their minds.

So, in July 1906, Mr and Mrs S.W. Herbert became the parents of a son, who was duly named John Frederick George – the names of his grandfather and great-grandfather.

Another son followed in September of 1908; he was named after his father, Samuel William. You’ve probably guessed who those two boys were – my brother Fred and myself.

Chapter Three

As the summer of 1913 drifted by it seemed that Fred and I had all the time in the world to indulge in boyhood pleasures. One very enjoyable feature of our lives was the regular Sunday outing to the beautiful Tyne Valley. Dad would hire a pony trap and it was a joy to be hauled along by a trotting pony while breathing in God’s fresh air.

Dad had been a miner for almost eleven years and he was beginning to reap the fruits of his hard work and study. Besides holding a deputy-overman certificate, he was also an explosives expert. Sadly there was many a bitter quarrel between him and Mother. Despite his good progress and the years he had spent working towards such a high position, she was still trying to persuade him to give it up. I suppose it was her concern for his safety underground that drove her to make so many ineffectual attempts to get him to pack it in. She somehow lacked the philosophical stoicism possessed by many miners and their wives.

The strained atmosphere after these quarrels usually lasted for a few days, so we two kids were not unduly perturbed when, following one particular row shortly after my fifth birthday, there was the usual unpleasant silence. We soon realised that the latest row was much more intense than any of the others we had witnessed, because, even though the air cleared as it normally did, Dad began to display a brusqueness that was not only alien to his nature but most disconcerting to we two lads.

As the days passed without any appreciable difference in his manner, we began to wonder whether he was ill, or maybe extremely worried. But our questions to Mother simply evoked such answers as ‘No, he is not ill’ or ‘Don’t bother your father just now.’ Certainly it was all very mysterious.

Weeks passed before his natural good nature reasserted itself (much to our relief) but within a few days there began a sequence of events that was to culminate in a complete upheaval in our lives.

It all began one day early in November. Due to some reorganisation at the colliery, Dad had been asked to work a twelve-hour shift beginning at 4 a.m., which meant he would arrive back home about 4 p.m.

I had been attending school for six weeks and on the day in question, Fred and I were preparing to return to school after the dinner break. As we approached the yard door we were shocked to see it flung open violently. Dad entered in a raging temper. He savagely flung his bike into the shed and stormed into the scullery. ‘Get my bath ready,’ he snarled at our astonished Mother. I don’t think he noticed us!

‘Off to school you two,’ snapped Mother, and mystified though we were, we knew better than to ask questions. When we returned from school, Dad was not at home and Mother was looking extremely upset – but she remained tight-lipped.

Just after tea there was a knock on the door. Mother opened it and in came the vicar of our church. A short time later Dad returned and he immediately retired to the front room, accompanied by the vicar. A visit from the vicar was unusual to say the least, but when he and Dad were in deep conversation for almost two hours it meant only one thing – trouble! That was confirmed later when Mother joined them in the front room and returned crying.

More surprises were in store for us the following morning. Dad was sitting in the kitchen and told us in a quiet voice that he would not be returning to the colliery. He also said quite firmly that there were to be no more questions from us.

Enlightenment began to dawn on us when we reached school. After the usual prayers in the Assembly Hall, the Head asked us all to say a prayer for two of our fellow pupils, whose father had been killed in an accident in the colliery where Dad worked. Of course we then realised why he had returned home early on the day of the accident, but what still puzzled us was why had he been so badly affected? There had been other fatal accidents in that colliery but the effect on Dad’s mood had just been temporary.

We mentioned the prayer to him when we were having dinner and he told us that the dead man had been one of his colleagues, but he gave no explanation for his decision not to return to the colliery.

During the following week our home was a hive of activity. Dad had left on the Monday for regions unknown to Fred and I – although Mother knew where he was – and Granddad Henderson visited us almost every evening. It was obvious, even to us, that something was about to happen; there could be no other reason for Mother’s constant tears.

The climax came on Thursday as we were preparing for bed. Dad handed Fred a letter and said, ‘Give this to the Headmaster tomorrow morning.’

‘What is it?’ asked a naturally puzzled Fred.

Dad paused for a while before answering. ‘You will not be returning to that school after tomorrow.’ We both gaped at him, then he added, ‘We are moving away from here some time next week. I am going to work in another colliery in Ashington.’ He surely must have realised that there were many questions we wanted to ask because in a very grave tone of voice he said, ‘Some day, when you are both old enough to understand, I will explain to you the reason for this sudden move.’

And with that we had to be content.

‘Fred, where is Ashington?’ I asked.

‘Hundreds of miles over there!’ he replied, pointing a finger in a vague direction.

‘Oh.’

‘Like Alice said, it gets curioser and curioser,’ quoted my brother.

‘Who is she?’

‘Who is who?’

‘Alice?’

He replied with a withering look, ‘Goodbye Benwell!’

Chapter Four

The four of us stood in the kitchen of our new home. Dad was anxiously awaiting Mother’s reaction to the strange surroundings.

‘Nice and clean,’ she said at last, but with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

Two weeks had passed since Dad informed us we were leaving Benwell – two very hectic weeks. He had spent the first week at Ashington finalising the essential details of work and accommodation. On the Thursday of the second week we bade goodbye to Benwell and all our friends.

Our new home, in common with most colliery houses, was small. What surprised Fred and me was that it had been re-painted, scrubbed out and the larder stocked with food. We kids were, of course, unaware that Mother had two married aunts living in Ashington, who had rallied round to help.

Both their husbands were employed at Ashington Colliery. We owed a debt of gratitude to those two ladies and Mother was quick to say so. She had been painfully quiet during the previous fortnight but she brightened up very soon. However, her brightness was shattered after we had our meal.

She went into the yard, presumably on a tour of inspection, and after a few minutes we heard a ‘whoop’ followed by a strangled snort.