Friday Night - Bath Night

Friday night was Bath Night. If it were cold we had the tin bath in front of the kitchen range. Otherwise it would be out in the outhouse.

There must have been some form of pecking order in the bathing routine for it started off with the water hot and clean, if you were lucky enough you were one of the first. If the water was too hot it did not make any difference to complain. We were told in no uncertain terms to:"shut up and get in". The rest of us in the queue could see their turn getting colder and colder. The water did occasionally get topped up but it would take a long time for any more water to be heated on top of the stove. The old black smoke-encrusted kettle had about an inch of fur inside.

Often there would be an Arctic gale blowing under the front door. The threshold was so worn that the cat could walk in and out without the door being opened. We would have a quick bath before being rubbed down and I do mean rubbed. We didn't have the luxury of a towel to wrap round us. If you were one of the first in you were dunked into nearly boiling water, whisked out brilliant red, stood in front of the white-hot stove, rubbed down with a towel that felt like a cement sack. No "Comfort" in those days to make the towels soft to the touch. Our legs were taking on the familiar pattern of roasting, they would appear to have been wrapped in red-hot wire netting, with a mottled effect. Quite pretty really.

All this took place in a matter of minutes amid shouts of "Next" and when that shout went up we had to move sharpish or we were pushed in. I always suspected that if anyone had a score to settle with the next in line, he would secretly urinate in the water.

Hair Care

Next came the hair inspection. We had to kneel in front of, or alongside, Mum and she would go through your hair with a nit comb. This was a device for making furrows across your scalp. They were usually double edged and made of stainless steel (apart from the blood on the teeth). The total measurement of this instrument of torture was approximately 4" x 3". Just writing it down makes me wince. To this day whenever I see a nature programme where chimps are grooming each other, looking for salt secretions in the scalp, I think of mum sorting through our hair. I loathed this necessary toiletry and dreaded that she would find anything.

Haircuts were Dad's department. He was no barber but, like all the chores around the house and family, he had to do them the best way he could and the kids had to cringe and bear it. The scissors were never all that sharp and yet they were the day before when I used them to cut up some old tin plate. As he used the scissors, it would sound so professional. Click, click, nick. "Shut up moaning, it's only a little nick. No, the blood won't stain your shirt. If you pull your cap down that side, it won't even notice". Then the blades of the scissors would close, trapping the hair not cutting it. There would be Dad pulling like mad to release his tortuous implement, a sharp clout around the ear accompanied by, "It's all your own fault, you should keep your head still". First this side, snip, snip, snip then with no warning my head was snapped back to the other side, snip snip. Then he would get all paternal and kind and say, "Stop your snivelling, wipe your nose on the sheet around your neck and shut up. Next".

Iif Mum had found anything in our hair that cracked when she squeezed it between her thumbnails, then we were for it. Not only the infected one had his hair shaved off but all the boys were treated the same. All the hair was cut off leaving only a tuft at the front. Then Dad would go over the head with his hand clippers, (all modern tools), still leaving the tuft at the front. When we ran this tuft would stand up like the back-turned peak of a cap and if you were second in the race you could see the sun's rays shining through the splayed out hair of the one in front, catching all the highlights. Of course the kids at school would chase us round the playground chanting, "You've got nits".

Home Cures

Then would come the Liquorice Parade. No matter how we felt; we could be suffering from a raging dose of dysentery, but we still had our spoonful of liquorice powder dissolved in water. It was pale, yellowy powder, kept in a screw-topped jar the glass of which would become slightly opaque with powder so that we were never sure how much was in the square jar, and I used to pray it would run out before my turn came round. Len was the only one I knew who liked the horrible stuff. He used to sneak it, just like the modern "Secret Lemonade Drinker".

Dad was also a qualified St. John's Ambulance man so he had a fully equipped medicine cabinet. This included Galloway's cough mixture; Golden Eye ointment; Zinc ointment; Condis crystals for sore throats; Tincture of Iodine for cuts and abrasions and a collection of strips of sheet used as bandages which were used time and time again; washed and put back next to cut-off fingers from gloves for use as finger stalls. We could see Dad was ready for any eventuality.

My highlight of medical attention was watching Mum's treatment of some poor soul suffering with a whitlow. A whitlow is an infection of the nail alongside the quick or thereabouts. These, and boils, were Mum's speciality.

Whitlows first. Everywhere was made sterile. The table wiped off with the floor-cloth, clean newspaper laid (we knew it was clean for the day before it was wrapped around the fish and chips), a bowl set in the centre and a square of pink lint - always pink lint - and a kettle of boiling water. The patient would be seated looking around at the spectators, with wide eyes full of fear, silently pleading for mercy and a means of escape. There was none, for the spectators were standing around in a semi-circle, an unholy glee in their eyes. Mum would advance, pour out the nearly boiling water, grasp the offending finger and plunge it in. After a few seconds out it would come brilliant red and purple with a white edge of pus around the nail. It would look the size of a football and fit to burst. I could almost hear the throbbing above the silent awe of the assembled company. Then, she would take a bone-handled knife and start banging it with the handle. Something always gave way.

Boils received much the same treatment. First came hot poultices, usually Boracic Lint plunged into boiling water. Before your very eyes, this was carefully and very, very slowly extracted with the points of the scissors, for it was far too hot to handle with fingers, and slapped straight onto the tender area. We could almost hear it sizzle, almost the same noise you get when you put chips into hot fat. This would be repeated for approximately three days, intermingled with remarks like, "Oh, yes, it's coming along nicely", you would think Mum was cooking a cake or watering a pot plant. Then one day the piece of lint would show telltale signs of dark blood edging a stain of yellow pus. This was what Mum had been waiting for. Let battle commence. All the usual paraphernalia, boiling water, pink lint and, this time, a towel on the table. This was the real thing. A few minutes bathing it with the boiling water, squeezing the lint and trying to get the water to go straight into the little crater of the boil then Mum would start to squeeze the thing this way, that way, dabbing away the evil fluid coming out. You could tell how things were progressing by the colour of the water, once it started to become a nice pink you knew you were coming to the end of your torment.

Then Mum would try pulling the core out with a pair of tweezers saying, "Cor, it ain't 'arf deep-rooted". I already knew this for as she pulled my toes would curl up. At last it was all over. Every area around the boil was clean and it looked like a miniature volcano with the edge turning in on itself, all beautiful, unaffected flesh with the dark centre looking at you like the unblinking eye of a chameleon. Mum usually did a good job but sometimes couldn't remember which side of the lint, fluffy or smooth, went on the wound first but then she would say, "Oh, well, if it sticks today I'll try the other way tomorrow.

The Other Side of Mum

Then there was the other side of Mum, so tender and kind, like on that hot day when all the local bare-footed children would come alongside the canal paddling and catching tiddlers out of the cut. This was, and still is, a favourite pastime for children. One child was perhaps more adventurous than the others or was after bigger fish, and he and his chum had managed to manhandle one of the drain covers up. (As I mentioned before regarding the uncoupling of the trucks, I don't know where or how children can find the strength but they can and do. At least this lad did.) Once they had the drain cover up they would rummage around in the ooze for the rich bloodworms. I'm not sure what happened, perhaps they were putting the drain cover back when it slipped - leastways it came down so heavily that it chopped off the toes of one foot like a guillotine. He was brought into our house, cleaned up, attended to and I believe Mum even accompanied him to the hospital.

Lift Bridge always seemed a happy place to me. Mum always made everyone welcome to stay and share what little there was. Sundays and Bank Holidays were always active. I think the local lads were after courting my sisters and possibly the girls next door. Anyway, there were always plenty of lads to play cricket in front of the cottages, where the railway lines widened out to go into the tunnel and up the ‘wharfy’.

Les and Stoddard

Two lads I particularly remember were Les Allen and ‘Stoddard’. Les I remember because he helped with advice when a horse fell into the canal and, later in life, gave me tuition in scouting which enabled me to win a prize of a chopper in a leather case. ‘Stoddard’ I remember because he had his hair slicked down with thick Brilliantine making him look like an American gangster.

There was another lad with a harelip. I think his name was ‘Page’. Anyway, Sunday was always full of shouting and laughter, after Sunday school that is, even the local bobby would join in.

When things got a little hectic at cricket they would play skipping until tempers calmed down. The rope was often salvaged from the canal, or purloined from a railway truck. (Purloined sounds so much better than ‘pinched’.) Anyway, it was usually about two inches thick and weighed a ton. When it was your turn to swing the rope you would stand with your legs firmly apart, holding the rope in a firm, two handed grip, looped over your shoulder and with half a coil twisted around your body. You would, slowly at first, swish the rope back and forth across the dusty floor; gradually building up the momentum to get the rope over in an arc. From then on it would raise a miniature dust storm. Once that rope was turning full circle it required all your concentration to keep it under control. If you relaxed for a second it would lose the rhythm and become an evil, demented thing, whipping all over the place with you still hanging on like grim death. It was just as bad for those trying to get into the rope to skip, for, if you misjudged it, this thick, unyielding monster would knock your feet from under you. You would do a half somersault and end up half way down the yard.

It was on such just a day when one of the ‘Ayton’ girls jumped into the turning circle and promptly got whacked on the backside. Out showered a load of cutlery, knives forks and spoons. Evidently there were so many in their family and not enough to go around so they hid them in their knickers. Perhaps this is where the term ‘old iron knickers’ originated.

Another day, when an argument broke out between Arthur and Len, Len picked up a brick and threw it at Arthur who promptly ducked. Who wouldn’t? Trust yours truly to be standing directly behind Arthur, just asking to be struck in the middle of the forehead. What happened next I do not know. The next thing I recollect is having a big hole in the head, swathed in bandages looking like a Sikh, being pushed around in the old family push chair and treated like royalty. As to poor old Arthur, he got a belting for ducking.

Mum used to find it difficult to find volunteers for the task of wheeling me around until Ernie put up his hand. He, like a good, elder brother, would walk and push poor Kenny around Southwark Park. Off he would go with an unusual gentle pat on the head from mum with a promise that he could have the middle portion of the bloater for tea.

Herrings or bloaters were split into three portions in our house. Mum always kept the head on to make the portion look much larger. The eyes always seemed to be looking up at you. The middle piece was much sought after! Anyway, off would go Ernie to Southwark Park. I bet mum used to watch him disappearing up the ‘cut’ (side of the canal), struggling to push the cumbersome pushchair over the cobbles, and think, with a sigh, what a lovely picture. One caring brother looking after, and tending to the needs of his poor, sick sibling.

As soon as we were out of sight of mum, Ernie would belt to the park as fast as he could. Once there he would parade me around the park, charging kids a halfpenny each for a look under the bandage to see the hole in my head. I’m sure that if they had offered a penny he would have stirred my brains up with a pointed stick. I must have been in a bad way for I was given a puppy that I called Tiny.

We had him right up to the day I was called up for the airforce and had to have him put down because the bombing used to terrify him. I have never had another dog. The other things I got were jelly and baked egg custard made with egg and milk, an unheard of luxury, usually reserved for the dying.