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Recalling the early years, it's as if my life started, aged about seven, at the junction of Ashton Rd and Barker St in Oldham. Just on the corner by the Trap Inn, which is still there. Typical of the area, holding desperately on to the past; host to a multitude of stories.
It was early evening, yet quite dark and damp, if not with rain, certainly with tears, as a mother and three kids trudged slowly along the road. Mam weeping inside, Jack my brother, who never seemed to stop crying and a bundle, my sister Anne, asleep in the pram. I was still a kid, but ageing rapidly.
Walking to Grandma's wasn't easy, although I'd done it dozens of times. Along Ashton Rd, across King Street, Left at "The Stores", down Foundry St, past the slaughter house, arriving at St Patrick's, where the street starts to slope.
Number 45, a two bedroomed house, had a small flag floored kitchen, complete with slopstone sink and brick boiler. A centre light, gas mantle flickering, hung from the living room ceiling, vying for attention with the sticky, currant-effect flypaper.
Cooking was done, courtesy of smoke and soot from the chimney, on a shiny-black cast iron range, complete with oven and boiler. Hanging over the fire was the ever present, crusted-black kettle of boiling water, protected by a spade-shaped flat iron, standing to attention in the corner of the hearth.
In the yard, next to the coalshed, was the toilet, an old tippler. A gate opened onto a back lane, overlooked by the rather austere, high walled Nurses ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½. Two bins, for pigswill stood sentry duty. One guarded the approach to the Priest's house, the other St Michael's Church: neat rows of cobbles, as if on parade, linked them both.
Three people lived at number 45. Grandma, Aunt Edith, Aunt May, a cat and various mice: there may have been a cockroach or two also.

My entry into this world was via Boundry Park Hospital on the 9th March 1938. Aunt Hilda was a cook there and she told Mam that I was too beautiful to live, which pleased her no end. Live I did though and after the compulsory ten days was taken home to a two-roomed hovel, situated in a dirt yard at the end of a ginnel.
Number 1, Back Barker St, had one door, leading into a small room, attached to which was a scullery.The flagged floor, in association with the standard slopstone sink, was overlooked by a black-leaded range range; there was no boiler. Lighting was by gas, one small window supplimenting; heat from a coal fire escaped up the chimney, by-passing the one bedroom.
Across the dirt yard, in the only other house, lived Mrs Street who lodged with a cat called Bobby.She shared the toilet, a cold, brick-built affair, situated at the top of the yard. Not being connected to the sewers, the toilet was a bottom sized hole, in a bench, over a bucket. Walls, decorated with whitewash, had a wad of the latest newspaper hanging from a nail, which was usually too wet to use, let alone read. As I recall, it smelled pretty horrible most of the time, increasing in intensity whenever it was disturbed.Despite this, it was my only place of sanctuary when life proved difficult, which it very often did: mind you, the acoustics could have been better.

By 1942, the fact that we were at war was evident, even to a four year old. Everyone had a gas mask, including the baby. Mine was in the form of Mickey Mouse and I loved it, unfortunately Jack hated his. Maybe it was because he was fully enclosed in it, the air being pumped in by hand bellows: he always brought the house down and made more noise than the air raid srens.
On nights when the sky was clear over Manchester, the bombers could easily be seen for miles. Everyone new that we should be in the shelter, but the sight was just breathtaking and we couldn't resist the spectacle. Barrage balloons chaperoned searchlights, as they jitterbugged across the sky; German aircraft providing the music and fireworks. People were dying and buildings burning, but this fact didn't register with me: just as well I suppose.
By this time I must have been attending school or nursery, because I remember carrying my gas mask in its small cardboard box; marching with other kids into a small basement whenever the sirens sounded. It couldn't have saved us from a direct hit, but was all there was available.
Occasionally I was sent to live with friends of Dad's, where things must have been hard, but we survived. Four kids sleeping top to tail in a bed, was more fun than inconvenience. Even drinking out of jamjars, there were no cups, was part of the magic. Food, though never plentiful, was sufficient and because everything was rationed, somewhat of a miracle. It was said that Aunt Blanche could feed a family on one egg and I believe every word. She was certainly a magician with powdered egg and Spam fritters.: bread and jam by the cartload was always available.

Beginnings and endings, arrivals and departures, are integral parts of the same equation and it was no different in my case. My arrival at Grandma Howard's house
was, in reality, the ending of one life and the beginning of another.
Life in a small two bed-roomed terrace, with few facilities, was never easy, even at the best of times. With three adults and two children sharing, it was a nightmare and yet features among my happiest memories. Conditions were primative in comparison with today. Flag floors, no bathroom or hot water, little privacy and a toilet in the back yard. Bath nights, which were once a week, entailed sharing a tin bath, of decidedly lukewarm water, in the kitchen.
Circumstances generally were pretty hard. Food was plain, but I have no recollection of going hungry. Cornflakes, bread and jam, powdered egg and corned beef was the staple diet; Spam, taterash, sausage and mash being luxuries: on some occasions I was given the top of a boiled egg.
Eventually the war ended in Europe, resulting in national celebrations. A street part was organised; and effigy of Hitler was hanged from a tall scaffold and to load cheering, burned. Grandma was happy that uncles Jim and Fred would now be safe and coming home soon, creating another problem with accommodation. Uncle Jack was,"somewhere in Burma" and because the Japanese were still fighting, non of us new when, or if, he would ever come home. Fortunately the war with Japan finished a few months later, bringing to an end six years of conflict.

My experience of the war, I realise, counts for very little. Watching the barrage balloons, searchlights and the bombing opf Manchester. Listening to the nightly reports on the wireless; worrying about Jim, Jack and Fred and never sure where Mum and dad might be. Sitting in basements, Anderson shelters and carrying my gas mask everywhere, was about it. Apart from one very exiting incident.
Doodlebugs, heard and talked about by everyone, were rarely seen around Oldham, except for the occasion when one flew over the town. As if by magic, the street filled with curious onlookers, necks craning; stomachs churning. Things were fine, as long as you could hear them. When the engine stopped, you new they were coming straight down; this was one of those times. Everyone in the street saw it fly over, causing some pretty frightened looks when the engine cut out, even thogh it was well past by then. Within seconds there was a tremendous explosion, seemingly in the town centre, about a mile away. Actually, it had landed in Abbyhills a distance of some three miles.
A few days later I was taken to the site, for a look-see. On the side of the road, where the bomb had dropped, was a deep hole and nothing else. It was as if a dentist, with clinical precision had extracted three or four teeth. On the opposite side, stood the remains of three or four houses, blackened stumps, crubling with decay, awating removal: the product of one bomb.Appart from the damage caused by a few incendiaries, I never saw any other bomb damage, even though Manchester and surrounding areas were visited constantly by German bombers, targeting A.V. Roe and Ferranti. Other things happened during this period, which are worth amention. German prisoners of war came to Oldham, I met my first Yank; I tasted a banana and drinking chocolate for the first time.
Prisoners of war had been held in one of the local mills for ages, but I had never seen one up close. With the war ended, they began to appear in the area, on a regular basis, working locally during the day and being locked up at night. Once we realised that they didn't have two heads, we got on well with them; soon forgetting that, until recently, they had been the enemy.
Americans had been active in Lancashire for a few years, the main concentration being at Burtonwood. Unlike the British boys, they were supremely confident, available, had money, which they were prepared to spend; attracting the local girls like flies. May and her friend Teresa chased them constantly, which brings me to the subject of May's legs.
Stockings, of any description, were non-existent, so the girls were forced to compromise. Gravy browning, smeared on the legs, provided a comparable colour; eyebrow pencil a passable seam: a steady hand was essential. I was not allowed to apply the gravy browning, but became an artist with the pencil; May and Teresa both benefited from my prowess. I get to like Yank chewing gum very much after that.
Drinking chocolate, an everyday drink now, was unknown to me and most other people from Oldham. When every child of school age was given a tin, weighing over two pounds, we hardly new what to do with it. We soon relised it had to be mixed with hot water or milk, to make a very nice drink: but not before we had eaten it with finger ends or spoons. The chocolate was, I believe, a gift from the Canadian government to celebrate the end of the war.
My introduction to bananas was courtesy of the local railway goods-yard, thanks to their poor security. As kids, the local railway yard was a place of adventure. We could get close to the trains, enter some of the buildings and play on the bales off cotton, which were stored there. We had great fun jumping onto these bales, sometimes from around twenty feet high. It was pretty dangerous; I can see that now, but the only danger then, was in being caught by the watchman. On one occasion, after being chased by him, I hid in partially open goods wagon, until the coast was clear. While I was waiting, I found box upon box of bananas, liled up at the end of the wagon. How many I ate that day, I have no idea, except to say that I was pretty sick afterwards; I still love bananas to this day.

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