The life stories I write, cover from childhood to present day, or that person’s passing. I also write special memories books, which cover a specific period in someone’s life. The extract below is one such. Sheila, of South Tyneside, wanted a book written about her late paternal grandfather, Matthew. He died in 1963 but Sheila cherishes fond memories of him. In the 1940s and 50s, several generations of the family lived in a big old house. Meal-times were important occasions.
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Keeping a household of several people fed was no short order. During refurbishment, the pantry was removed. The family was probably one of the first in the village to have a fridge installed. (Though there was no freezer.) When Sheila got married, her mum, who was getting a new fridge, gave her the old one. Extensive work undertaken on the big old house included having a gas cooker installed.
There was always food on the go. “Everyone ate well,” Sheila remembers. “My grandparents had several meals a day: Breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner, supper. When he was growing up, Matthew’s family had a sort of motto: ‘Those who eat the most Yorkshire puddings have more meat.’ I remember, Granddad ate his Yorkshire puddings first. Matt and Ann’s supper, before going to bed at about nine o’clock, was cheese and biscuits. Oh, and after Sunday dinner we always had apple pie. “
The dining table was laid out at meal times. This was considered important, everything had to be just so. This was a communal occasion when all the family came together. Matthew was always on hand to help. First the table cloth – it was green – was laid. Then out came the serviettes and casters for sugar, salt and pepper.
Everyone all had our own serviette rings, Sheila’s mum’s gold coloured, beautiful. The serviettes were all kept in a dresser and Matthew took these out as he helped ready the table. A lot more effort went into the preparing and cooking of meals. There was little by way of convenience foods.
Sheila says, “I would say that the kitchen was the busiest room in the house. There always seemed to be a mountain of dishes to wash and dry. There were the smells and sounds too, of meat being cooked, of fruit and veg being chopped and boiled. There’d be Mum talking to Nanna or Granddad, the near constant murmur of conversations amidst the clatter of plates and cutlery.”
The finished book. Matthew is pictured on the front cover. Wife Ann can be seen looking out of the window.
I recently finished a rather unusual life story. Sheila, who lives on South Tyneside, wanted a biography about her late paternal grandfather, Matthew, written. Sheila, 80, has many fond memories of her grandad and wanted these recorded. The book, dedicated to Matthew, will be kept in the family as an heirloom.
This is an extract from Grandad Matthew: A Life Remembered. During the 1930s and 40s, the family, all living in the Sunderland area, owned a shop. Sheila always looked forward to her visits there, with her grandfather.
MATTHEW managed the off-licence and Stokeld and his wife Bessie looked after the grocery store. On their visits there, Matthew and Sheila were sometimes joined by Ann who enjoyed the opportunity for a good chat with Bessie.
Sheila, aged about two.
Customers were served front of shop, shelves and shelves of glass-topped tins with all manner of things for sale. Particularly popular, especially with children, were the mixtures of broken biscuits, all sorts jumbled up together.
The customer would point out which jar they wanted and Stokeld weighed out the required amount. Behind the counter, a large space was used for storage and there was also a back room. This was where Bessie cooked dinner and provided brew-ups for everyone.
Sheila remembers, “Whenever Granddad asked if I’d like to go to Greenhill with him, I said yes, had me coat on straight away. Matthew travelled from home in Grindon to our house in Herrington, collected me and off we went. Probably took an hour to get to Greenhill House. It was a massive building. The area was quite rural. From the upstairs window I could look out onto allotments and fields. A couple of years ago I drove over to Murton, to try and find the shop but couldn’t. I must have another try; I’d love to see the place again.
“The rear area of the shop was for storage, packed with barrels full of raisins, currants, sultanas and white and brown sugar. Uncle Stokeld showed me the ropes as it were.
“Firstly, I lifted the lid of the barrel then peeled back the paper which covered the contents. I used a scoop to pour whatever this was, sugar, raisins and so on, into a packet. I remember they were blue and brown. I turned over the tops, turning and twisting their sides into, they were like little ears. I weighed the packets before they went onto the shelves and on sale. The shop’s shelves were lined with bottles and jars and there was a big solid cash till. Not like today at all!
“I was allowed to come into the front of store if there was a customer. Uncle Stokeld would ask me to cut a pound of butter or half a pound, depending on what was wanted. I was only knee-high to a grasshopper, I’d be about 4-years-old and obviously not very strong. It was quite hard work for me but I loved it. I enjoyed watching my uncle work. He could cut a pound of butter with this great big knife, exactly a pound, using only his expert eye.
“Aunty Bessie was usually in the big back room, making soup and dumplings or something like that. She and Nanna sat in there and chatted. When the shop was closed for lunch-time everybody settled down in the back room, to dinner. Bessie brewed up tea in a big black kettle, which gave off a shrill whistle when it boiled.
“After lunch, we all got back to work. The day flew over. Aunty Bessie would shout, ‘ Don’t forget, the bus leaves in half-an-hour!’I loved it in the shop, it was just a very cosy atmosphere.”
The life story of Steve “WheelchairSteve” Wilkinson
(Chapter from one of the biographies, this one completed in 2019, that I’ve written.)
A project Steve is proud to have started is International Wheelchair Day (IWD).
“One day in late February 2008 I Googled ‘International Wheelchair Day.’ I thought it would be appropriate to have a special day to celebrate the freedom a wheelchair gives me and others, to get out and about. My Google search didn’t bring up anything like that, so I decided to launch the idea myself.”
The first IWD was held on the 1 March 2008. It has been marked, on that same date every year, since. Steve chose the date in memory of his late mother, Joyce. It was her birthday.
“It has become a dedication to Mam, for the great support she gave me as a child. I had no idea, back then in 2008, that International Wheelchair Day would turn into an annual event. It is celebrated by people all over the world. That first year, a simple blog on Ecademy, a popular social media platform at the time, announced the launch. The first three IWDs had minimal public response but from 2011, it began to attract more attention and to grow.
“International Wheelchair Day is a celebration of the freedom a wheelchair gives, whilst reflecting on the challenges it creates. It is also a day to highlight the contribution people make in supporting and caring for wheelchair users. This is bearing in mind, there are millions of people in the world who need a wheelchair or other mobility aids.
“People mark the event in their own ways. Individuals write blogs, poems, produce artwork. Organisations hold events such as parades, dances and wheelchair races. Towns and cities worldwide think up ideas to celebrate the wheelchair.”
The turning point for IWD was 2011. Wheelchair user and accomplished cartoonist, Hannah Ensor from Oxford, designed a logo. She has produced the official logo every year since.
In 2012 Steve was on holiday in Australia. He organised an event there in association with the Disability Information and Resource Centre (DIRC) in Adelaide. Also involved was Gail Miller, author of What We’re Wheelie Like, a book about life in a wheelchair.
“I’d first met Letizia Gentile, Director of DIRC, when I visited Adelaide in 2010. On my return to the UK, we kept in touch. DIRC was the obvious potential partner to hold the first (or so I thought) truly International Wheelchair Day. This was to be when I was next in Adelaide, on holiday, during February/March 2012.”
About 40 people attended, including several wheelchair users. Influential politicians in the South Australian Parliament were also there: Ian Hunter MSP (Disability Minister) and wheelchair user Kelly Vincent MSP, representing the Dignity for Disability party.
Gail’s contacts in the media world proved their worth. Steve was a guest on three radio shows in South Australia: Peter Goers on ABC, Amanda Blair on 5AA and Peter Greco of RPH. He also spoke live to the Alfie and Charlie Breakfast Show, BBC Radio Newcastle. Whilst in Adelaide during 2012, Steve also met up with Helen Edwards. He had been in touch with her since they connected on Twitter in 2010.
Helen flew from Perth to meet Steve, to further develop a project they had discussed called 24902 + A Million. The aim of this (as with International Wheelchair Day) was to provide wheelchairs for those who could not acquire one. Or, importantly, a wheelchair that suited their needs.
Helen had researched shortage of suitable wheelchairs in Papua New Guinea. Steve and Helen’s project was to put together people’s loyalty points, such as Air Miles, to acquire appropriate mobility equipment. 24902 + A Million was a partial success. Equipment was provided for a young girl, paid for by some American Express points. However, the project did not reach the numbers of people hoped for.
The first truly International Wheelchair Day was that year Steve was in Adelaide, on 1 March 2012. The Australian rally was followed by another, in Kathmandu, Nepal. This was organised by the Spinal Injuries Rehabilitation Centre (SIRC). 80 wheelchairs attended. Their events and parades have, in the following years, come to symbolise International Wheelchair Day. In excess of 300 wheelchair users participate each year.
In 2016 Steve produced a book called The History of International Wheelchair Day. This highlighted what had happened around the World up to 2015. A number of copies were sold, raising money for SIRC in Nepal. There was a greater demand on their resources following the tragic earthquake that hit the country earlier that year.
Numerous celebrations took place on the 10th anniversary year, 2018. This included a big event organised by Steve, at Gildacre Fields Residential Complex in Sunderland. Many residents there use a wheelchair and they took part, as did the staff and children from nearby Southwick Community Primary School. The Lord Mayor of Sunderland, Councillor Doris McKnight, also attended. Housing and Care 21, who run Gildacre Fields, were very supportive. They hope to expand their celebrations for International Wheelchair Day to their other housing complexes, throughout the Country, in future years.
Darlington Video Makers Club, interested in supporting good causes, got involved. One of their members, Arthur Best, is also a resident at Gildacre Fields. He worked with Steve and some of his fellow club members, to produce a very professional promotional video.
This is the second chapter of I Created Myself, the biography of Anandavardhan Anand. A GP in Gosforth for over 30 years and known to all as Doc, he has led quite a life. I like to cover some of a client’s family history in the life story. The first two chapters of this book are about Anandavardhan’s parents, Rajdeva and Sushila. Here, we follow the fortunes of Rajdeva, up to when he meets Sushila. You can read about her in a previous blog post: I Created Myself. Mullika, who features in this chapter, is Anandavardhan’s sister.
SHRIRajdeva Narayan was born, on24 February 1922, in Gaya.His parents were Dharmdeva Narayan Sinha and Surja Kunvar. Rajdeva had six brothers and one sister. They were: Kapildev Narayan Sinha; Basudev Narain Sinha; Sukhdev; Nimala {Babni}; Phooldeva; Ramdev; Shyamdev.
Sushila and Rajdeva celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary in 2005
Dharmdeva, secretary to the minister of the local council, had a good job and salary. He was also chairman of the Siwan Cricket Club, so he was a man of status and influence. His personal life seems to have been complicated. Both his wife, Surja Kunwar and another lady, lived with Dharmdeva in the big house. As to how the other woman came to be there is a story in itself. Looking for work, she was told to speak to Dharmdeva Narayan, he needed a maid. She became a bit more to him than that. She sang (she was gifted in this) to Dharmdeva every night. The way she treated Dharmdeva; it was as if he was a king.
Dharmdeva was strongly pro-British. He could not imagine an India without the British, they had ruled for so long. And Dharmdeva did well out of them. As Secretary to a minister, he was part of the Raj. If you wanted a good job in the civil service or other part of government, that meant dealing with the British. And as captain of the local cricket team … was there anything more English? Tragically, Dharmdeva died at 45, on 22 June 1927. (He had been battling alcoholism for years and had developed diabetes and a carbuncle.)
Politically, Rajdeva was the opposite of his father, joining the Quit India Movement, in his teens. They campaigned tirelessly. One day in 1942, Rajdeva, with two Muslim friends, one named Ola, walked into the Gaya police station. The three lads were carrying a flag declaring Inquilab Zindabad. This means ‘long live the revolution.’ The British were likely to take a dim view of this.
As Anandavardhan says, “It’s like going to the police station and saying, ‘To hell with you!’
Rajdeva and his ‘co-conspirators’ were duly arrested. They were sent to Hazaribagh prison, used for political prisoners, for two years. Rajdeva found himself sharing a cell with a group of older men. He did not know what an important ensemble they were. Rajendra Prasad (3 December 1884 – 28 February 1963) would go on to serve as India’s first president. He was a key figure in the Indian National Congress and had been imprisoned for being a member of the Quit India movement. K B Sahay would serve as Chief Minister of Bihar. And there was Jadunath and Bajrang Sahay, Rajdeva’s future father-in-law.
Rajdeva was the youngest of the prisoners. At 5ft 5in he was also the shortest, so his cellmates nicknamed him ‘Chhotay’, meaning small one. Rajdeva had what today would be called people skills. Easy to get on with, he was engaging, warm-hearted. He was much liked by his fellow prisoners. They were not mistreated by the guards, beaten up, or starved. (Though the cells were bare, spartan affairs.) The food was regular if not particularly appetising, peanuts and hot tea inclusive. The prisoners had plenty of time to talk, especially about politics. About an independent India. The only way of keeping in touch with the outside world were newspapers, which the men managed to get hold of. But Bajrang had broken his spectacles. The British guards (with typical red-tape pettiness) would not let him out, either to get his glasses repaired, or replaced. So, Rajdeva read the newspapers to Bajrang and K B Sahay. It became a daily routine. Rajdeva’s English, reading and writing, were not so good. He had sacrificed four years of education for the Freedom Movement. The older men helped him when he stumbled over words.
In 1944 the prisoners were released. When Bajrang and K B said goodbye to Chhotay it was an emotional moment. They had grown fond of the young man.
Rajdeva’s spell ‘inside caused a family scandal. The eldest brother, he worked for the British Gaya Cotton Mills, feared losing his job because Rajdeva had gone ‘anti-British.’ Most of the brothers had a lot to lose too. One way or another they were employed or relied on the British establishment. The second brother was Head of Department for Education at a school; the third brother an insurance agent, another worked for the railways as a ticket collector.
Anandavardhan says of his father, “Dad went to jail for no good reason, except he wanted his country to be free of the Brits… Takes some courage, you know.”
Rajdeva dreamt of becoming a cinematographer. He very much admired the work of Madan Sinha, the famous cinematographer of Mughal e Azam. He wished to learn from the best in the land. Bombay was the place to go for that. He, Ola and another friend named Chitragupta, set off with high hopes. Sadly, they soon learnt that the streets of Bombay were not paved with gold. Jobs were difficult to get, competition fierce. Chitragupta did secure employment. Rajdeva and Ola were not so fortunate. In no time, they had run out of money and returned, dispirited, to Gaya.
Rajdeva’s second passion was photography. He secured an apprenticeship at the Trivedi Studio in Patna, (established and run by two brothers). The job meant moving away from home but Rajdeva did not mind. He learnt his trade. He became proficient in the use of cameras and developing film. He learnt a lot about the art of taking a good photograph. Being personable and warm-hearted, he knew how to put clients at ease.
Early in 1945 Rajdeva was sent to Hazaribagh, 150 miles away, on an assignment. A family were desirous of having a photograph, professionally taken, of their daughter. The picture would be sent to good families, of a suitable caste, with an eligible son.
Bajrang Sahay was the client. The daughter’s name was Sushila. Rajdeva made a good impression. He introduced himself in an easy and friendly manner and was very charming. Two stools had been put out, one for Sushila, the other for her father, Bajrang. He was not being photographed, he just wanted to look on and watch the proceedings, help his daughter relax.
Also there, that day, was K B Sahay.
Bajrang was so impressed when the photographer wiped the seat ‘What a thoughtful fellow,’ he thought. He noted too that the buttons were broken on Rajdeva’s kurta. He had used a safety pin instead. Bajrang thought, ‘What a simple fellow, a decent fellow.’
Rajdeva had in fact recognised Bajrang, from his time in prison, though he did not get a chance to say so. Bajrang and KB Sahay watched Rajdeva work. He would ask Sushila to sit this way or could she move just a little here, turn her face. “Just slightly please, yes that’s it, perfect.” He was so meticulous in taking his photographs. Sushila quickly relaxed, the photographer had such a nice way about him, a pleasant smile.
“What do you think of that boy?” K B Sahay asked his friend. “He is poor but very talented.”
Bajrang nodded. “He has a gift with the camera.”
K B leant towards his old friend and said, “Do you not recognise him?”
“Um? What?”
“Surely you recognise who it is, he was with us in Hazaribagh prison. He used to read the newspapers to us. It is Chhotay!”
“What? You must be mistaken,” Bajrang said. He looked more closely at the photographer. KB was right, it wasChhotay! Bajrang nearly jumped up, he was so surprised. But he did not wish to interrupt Rajdeva, who was concentrating so hard on his task in hand.
When Rajdeva had finished, Bajrang thanked the young man for having travelled all those miles, to take his daughter’s photograph. There were broad smiles and handshakes as the three men renewed their acquaintance. And so Rajdeva packed away his photographic equipment, bid Sushila farewell and wished everyone a very fine day.
Bajrang was still amazed at their meeting again like this. “Well well well,” he kept saying. “ Fate works in mysterious ways.”
Sushila already had a suitor, though not a very successful one. With regard to Sushila’s writing, he said, “Likhta toh mein bhi hoon [I also write]. When it is published, it becomes nothing, it’s like fish and chips paper, it is rubbish.” This was not likely to encourage an aspiring female writer, which is probably why he said it. He added, “Once married, we are going to Guwahati.” The suitor had over- reached himself. Sushila replied with, “Ham ko padhhnaa hai.” This means, “I have to study.” It proved an effective put-down. Sushila’s would-be suitor went away with tail between his legs.
Sushila’s put-down became a catchphrase in the Sinha family. Anandavardhan explains, “Ham ko padhhnaa hai – for putting idiots away. It’s a Sinha way of saying ‘Go away, get lost!’
Rajdeva had made such a good impact that Bajrang and Parvati considered him potential husband material for Sushila. The truth of it is, Sushila was in no hurry to marry. She had plans. She was educated and wished to study further. She enjoyed her situation in life. The last thing she wanted to be was a wife whose main duty was having babies. Her encounter with the suitor from Guwahati had been a lesson in male attitudes. Not all men of course, not Bajrang, not K B Sahay. But what of Rajdeva? What sort of man was he? Sushila was attracted to him, it was true. She thought she might love him greatly.
A letter was sent to Rajdeva’s family. Would they consider his marriage to Sushila? The lady of the house replied, explaining the death of her husband some years ago, hence the letter from herself. The inter-family negotiations proceeded apace. These concluded with an agreement that the marriage should go ahead.
It did not go all smoothly though. Caste differences were soon the topic of heated debate in Rajdeva’s family. Caste has been part of Indian life for centuries. (This is discussed in greater depth in Part 2.) It is certainly a hot topic for Anandavardhan.
“Both my parents were Kayastha, as indeed am I. The Kayastha are literary, they read and write, they work in the professions. But – and only the British could do ‘better’ at dividing people – there are categories within the Kayastha caste. My mother was Ambashthha Kayastha and father a Shrivastava Kayastha. Mother was one microscopic degree below. As a result, three of Father’s brothers did not come to the wedding. To this day, I am annoyed with them, though they got their daughters married to Ambashthas. My parents were in love – what more do you want?”
One tale which has been handed down through the family relates to Rajdeva and Sushila’s courting days. Mullika explains, “When Maa used to go out with Daddy, my paternal grandmother – Surja Kunwar -told her to wear a shawl over her coat. (Very few people could afford a coat in the 1940s.) Daddy would get angry and say, ‘Who on earth wears a shawl over a coat?’ Maa would quietly wear the shawl until she left home with Daddy, then fold the shawl up and put it in her bag.”
On 12 July 1946, Rajdeva and Sushila got married in Hazaribagh. Traditionally, a bride wears two different saris during her wedding. The first, known as the panetar sari, made of silk, is provided by the bride’s family. This is worn for the opening rites. The gharcholu sari is worn for the main part of the wedding. Provided by the family of the husband-to-be, it is a fine thing, made of cotton, with gold trim.
Rajdeva very likely wore a sherwani. This is a jacket with round collar, worn with a kurta and paijama, loose-fitting pants. And on his head would have been a mauri – a turban.
Anandavardhan and his mum Sushila
Mullika explains, “Typically, the hand of the bride is put on the cupped palm of the groom. The ceremony is called Paani Grahan. Both Maa and Daddy wore Khadi for their wedding. Daddy wore a Dhoti Kurta, the Dhoti was dyed in yellow, as white was considered inauspicious. Maa’s sari was hand printed with silver edgings. She was given a lot of gold jewelry for her wedding. As per the rule in our family, no gold is worn below the waist. So Maa wore a silver belt, payal, and toe rings. The gold jewellry came from PC Sircar in Calcutta. Typically, a couple are married under a ‘mandap’, a symbol of a new and separate home. In all Hindu, Indian upper-class marriages, astrologers are involved. But my Grandfather did not believe in it, neither did my parents.”
Like all Hindu homes, the Chhapra house had a temple, with statues of Hanumanji and the other Gods. The temple is the soul of a Hindu home. This holy place is dedicated to Brahma, the Creator; Vishnu, the Preserver; Shiva, the Destroyer; Ganapati, the Remover of Obstacles; Agni, the fire God. Appropriately, the temple fire plays a central role in Hindu marriages. A traditional Hindu ceremony is called Vivaah Sanskar in Northern India. It is conducted in Sanskrit, considered the language of the sacred.
Rajdeva and Sushila wedding would have been heavy in ritual and symbol. First there was Kanyadaan, in which Bajrang gave his daughter away; then Panigrahana, with Rajdeva and Sushila holding hands near the ceremonial fire, this signifying their union; Saptapadi, the couple taking seven steps around the fire and with each, making pledges to one another. After the ceremony, games were played with cowrie, the winner getting the gift put in by the mother-in-law. (Rajdeva won a heavy necklace.)
Family and friends witnessed the union, which took place before the elders and the sacred fire. We can imagine a beaming Bajrang and K B Sahay looking on. And with a little imagination, we see K B, standing next to his old friend, murmuring, “I knew the moment we met Chhotay, in prison, I thought, ‘Now there is a special fellow.’ And Bajrang smiling and replying, ‘The British say of their God, ‘He works in mysterious ways.’ Here we can say, ‘Freedom works in wondrous ways’.
THIS is an extract from a biography I have just finished called I Created Myself. It is the story of Anandavardhan Anand, born in 1946, in Patna, India. He came to the UK in 1978 and worked in the NHS for nearly 40 years. For 30 of those he was a GP in Gosforth, known to all as Doc Anand.
I like to cover some family history in the life stories: The first couple of chapters of I Created Myself are about Anandavardhan’s parents Rajdeva and Sushila.
Rajdeva & Sushila in 1945
The Author & the Photographer
SUSHILA Sahay was born on 19 December 1925 to Bajrang Sahay (1899 – 1969) and Parvati Devi, born in 1909. Sushila’s brother, Uma Shankar Sahay, arrived on 11 July 1927 and her sister, Urmila Panchalar, on 6 June 1929.The family home was Pachamba, then in Hazaribagh District, Bihar, India.
Parvati did not have an easy childhood. She was one of her mother’s three surviving children. (Several others died very young. Child mortality was high.) Their father died at a young age too. Parvati’s mother was told,” If you get your daughter married quickly, she becomes some other family’s responsibility.” So, Parvati was ‘married off’ at the age of three. (She found her gold jewelry itchy and kept taking it off during the ‘marriage’ ceremony.) It was simply a technical thing, to all intents and purposes the child had been adopted. The elder sister, aged eight, was also ‘married off’ to Bajrang’s elder brother, Jadunath Sahay.
It was clearly a traumatic event for Parvati. She kept running away, back home to her own mother, with her elder sister, only to be returned to her new family.
In around 1921 Bajrang disappeared. When, after some weeks, he had not returned, Parvati could only presume he was dead. She was, as far as everyone knew, a widow. But when money orders started arriving from Bajrang, she knew he was alive, somewhere and working towards a goal. (He had taken the extra precaution of tipping the postman, to ensure that the money orders were safely delivered.)
Bajrang had gone to study law at Banaras Hindu University. To this day we do not really know why he chose to disappear like that. But he knew that his wife would be looked after by family and friends.
When Bajrang returned home three years later, it was with a degree and some great stories to-boot. It had all started when he had been invited to attend an interview with the Vice Chancellor, for a place on the course. If Bajrang was nervous he did not show it. In fact, quite the opposite! He strode into the Vice Chancellor’s office, shook the man’s hand and said, ‘I am brilliant, I’ll pass.’ The Vice Chancellor, Mr Madan Mohan Malviya, suitably impressed by the young man’s demeanour, did not doubt it. He offered Bajrang a place on the course. Not only that, the university would not charge course fees. All that had to be paid for were books and food. Bajrang did as he had forecast, passing the exams with flying colours.
No doubt Parvati was just pleased to have her husband safely back. He had changed the family’s fortunes. The couple could look forward to a greatly improved standard of living. Their children would enjoy great expectations of life. It was not long before a job offer came along at Hazaribagh’s main court. Bajrang immediately accepted. The Sahays moved into a nice house and the children attended Hazaribagh Purdah School. It must have been something of a culture shock, adapting to city life.
Bajrang quickly established himself as an excellent advocate. He was given a car, an Oldsmobile, by one client for winning his case. (He happened to be the richest Mica merchant in the world.) To this day Bajrang’s grandson, Anandavardhan Anand, remembers the registration number: BRM2945.
Bajrang was charismatic, principled, a great lover of life. He struck an imposing figure. He was always immaculately turned out, wearing only Khadi, hand-woven woollen suits. Following the edicts of the National leader M K Gandhi, Bajrang never touched anything machine made. He became a rich man but material wealth meant little. His attitude was that an unhealthy obsession with money corrupted. He took his responsibilities to his family very seriously, paying for the education of his elder brother’s children.
Stories about Bajrang’s generosity abound.
One family story recalls how on one occasion he went into a shop. He waited patiently to be served. Minutes ticked on. The shop-worker was trying to write a receipt for another customer but not having much luck. His pen was running out of ink! Ever attentive, Bajrang stepped forward, saying, “My dear fellow.” He took a Parker pen from his jacket pocket. “Please. Use this one.” The man behind the counter accepted with relief. He wrote out the receipt, giving it to the customer. But when the shop-worker tried to hand back the pen, Bajrang said, “No you keep it.” The store-keeper’s eyes nearly popped out. “But sir. This is a fine pen, expensive.”
“Yes. And now it is yours.”
Bajrang, pictured in the mid-1950s
Sushila had a happy childhood. Her daughter Mullika says, “Regular treats for the whole family included going to the Cinema Hall in Giridih, every week. Films were very popular.”
Bajrang’s best friend was Krishna Ballabh Sahay. The two men met, during the 1930s, in the Gandhian movement. They took part in many demonstrations and attended speeches by leaders of the Freedom Movement. Bajrang and Krishna were committed to independence from Britain. In fact, this got them into trouble. In July 1942, as members of the Quit India Movement, they were sent to Hazaribagh prison for two years. We do not know the reason for their incarceration. Safe to say, the British were ready to lock up anyone on the flimsiest of pretexts. Bajrang and Krishna Ballabh had sacrificed everything, good jobs and salaries. Their families must have been frantic with worry. But the two men were political prisoners. They were heroes and the community rallied round.
Sushila and her siblings missed their father greatly. It must have been difficult. Parvati told Bajrang,” The next time you get yourself arrested take the children with you. How am I supposed to feed them?”
Sushila was a bright child with a creativity that revealed itself in writing. She especially enjoyed penning short stories. Her favourite author was Mahadevi Verma. When in her teens, Sushila wrote – longhand, in an exercise book – an anthology of stories for which she used the assumed name of Sushila Verma. Sushila’s writing was so good, not even the smallest edition or amendment was requested. The stories were published, in magazines, at the four major Hindi venues Benaras, Allahabad, Gaya and Lucknow.
Sushila’s stories, published many years later as a book. (Sushila is pictured on the cover.)
As an interesting aside: India’s main language is Hindi, the second being English. But numerous other languages are spoken across this vast sub-continent. They have included Kannada, Tamil, Telugu, Bengali, Marathi and Urdu. When Sushila was growing up, even within individual states, there could be a multiplicity of languages. Sushila spoke Magahi (as did Buddha). Sushila’s husband came from Chhapra, speaking a slightly different language called Bhojpuri.
In 1945 Bajrang returned home to a hero’s welcome. Parvati was shocked at how much weight he had lost (thanks to British prison cuisine). He was looking forward to taking up his life again and was soon back to work in the court.
Bajrang always resisted pressure to go into politics. He was concerned about the pressures of political office on family life. Politics could be a rough game. Power and money corrupted, Bajrang had seen it so many times, especially the offspring of politicians turning out as ruffians. In any case, he already had influence, as the Bihar State Public Prosecutor. He played a key role in passing legislation – the Bihar Land Revenue Act – which effectively abolished serfdom. Bajrang and his friend, Mr Bhim Rao Ambedkar, were part of the team that drafted the Indian Constitution.
Sushila was strong-willed, a woman of principle. Sometimes she felt like a caged bird, trapped in such a conservative society. But she knew she was fortunate. Bajrang wanted the best for his daughter. If anyone understood the importance of hopes and aspirations, it was him!
(Extract from a client’s life story, recalling his childhood in India during the 1950s)
Anand remembers various visits, with his dad, to the family home in Chhapra. Rajdeva’s three younger brothers lived there. The ferry service across the River Ganges was courtesy of a grand old paddle steamer. Anand loved it. “The tickets were flimsy pieces of paper but little passports to this world of a steamboat. Dad, demonstrating his enterprising nature, often arranged with the skipper, to take me on a tour. The engine room was wondrous, with pistons and the steam and the rhythmic boom boom of the engines. It was a hot place to work and air was piped in for the crew. I loved it on the bridge. The captain let me stand at the great wooden wheel. The river was dotted with islands, so no doubt the skipper kept a keen eye on me! There was plenty of wildlife. There were crocodiles and fish and if I was very lucky, I’d see river dolphins. And I’d point and say, ‘Dad look!’ The sky and the shore teemed with birds. And of course, the river itself, this lifeblood of India. It seemed to me that the Ganges was a magical living thing and I was fascinated by it; by the colours, shady and calm under the trees and sparkling and swift under the sun. It was a most amazing scene.
“There was gleaming brass everywhere, on the paddle steamer’s bridge. When the skipper wished to increase or decrease speed, he spoke down a brass pipe and the crew used the great brass lever, half-speed, quarter-speed and so on. The crossing took, typically, an hour. The boat may have originated from the USA and I think it was called Mississippi.
“Having crossed the river, we took a metre-gauge train, chickety-chick, chickety-chick, it went. We got to Chhapra then travelled on a tanga, drawn by a horse and then a rickshaw, reaching the house at three in the morning. But the brothers always came and warmly greeted us. Nothing was too much trouble. They would light a wood-fire, make Chapati and chat and be happy. They were very, very gracious people.”
Carrying on with Steve & Linda’s story. It takes up again in 1967, on Teesside, North-East England. And love is in the air …
BY 1967 the Winnifriths were living at in Whitby Crescent, Redcar.
In the autumn, Constantine College rugby team attended the wedding of their skipper, Ray. (His bride’s name was Dorothea.) That is how Steve met Linda (she knew the bride’s sister). The two got chatting and decided to meet for a date.
Steve & Linda in 1967
“We went out for a drink in Redcar,” Steve recalls. “That went fine and we met again. And that’s how we began courting. I was never one for the cinema very much. We usually met for a drink, maybe a meal, that sort of thing. Having a car, I could drive across to Middlesbrough, collect Linda and then return her home, no problem.”
Linda remembers one date, in January 1968, vividly. “We’d been seeing each other for three months. On this night we went to a nightclub in Redcar. Steve was having problems with his car, it was a pale blue Cortina, lovely to drive. The radiator had packed in. When I say that, what actually happened was, I crashed the car!
“Steve had injured his knee playing rugby, he damaged all the ligaments, so I was doing the driving. I borrowed his Cortina, to go to work, in Darlington. As I came out of Whitby Crescent, I turned the car, put it into first gear, put my foot on the brake and didn’t see the black ice …. The car skidded and hit a lamppost. The guy who lived at the house, near where the lamppost was, always parked his car there! Luckily, 10 minutes before, he’d gone to work … So, you imagine the damage I could have done.
“It was the first time I had driven the car! I felt that really, since I had pranged it, I should fix the problem. So, Dad got Steve a new radiator. I took it with me to our next date, a big black car radiator, on two buses to Redcar. Fellow passengers were amazed. There were comments like, ‘Is it heavy?’ ‘Where are you taking that?’ The radiator did weigh a ton, but I thought that much of Steve, you see. The bus arrived, I got off, and carried the radiator down the street. People were stopping and looking, as I hurried along. The barman got quite a surprise when I came into his pub carrying a car radiator! He very kindly put it under the counter.
“Mind, that wasn’t the only mishap. Once, we were going out for a pub meal, Saltburn way, and the gear lever snapped, right from the floor. In those days, the gear was on a big stick, not like they are now. I said to Steve, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take the gear stick to work and get the engineers in the workshop to re-weld the gear lever back on. I had to drive that car all the way to Darlington with a box spanner as the gear lever!
“On another occasion we went to Teesside Airport for a meal. Steve had to push the car, with me at the wheel, out of my street because there was no starter motor … And this bloke says, ‘Do you want a hand, son?’ And Steve told him, ‘Yes, I think I’m running out of petrol.’ When we got the car going, I turned to Steve and said, ‘You great big hairy fibber!’ Steve replied, ‘Yeah but I couldn’t tell the guy we had no starter motor.’ When he took me home, and I got out of the car, we had to leave the engine running the whole time. Mam came out of the house and said to me, ‘Tell him to go home, he’s waking up the whole street!’
“Anyway, back to the night I arrived at the pub, carrying the car radiator. With it safely put away behind the bar, Steve and I enjoyed our meal. And that was the night Steve proposed to me. I was thrilled and said yes. Steve walked me to bus station, for the last one to Middlesbrough. I think we were both so pleased, about the decision to marry, that I quite forgot all about pranging the car!
“The following week, Steve drove over to our home. This was for an especially important reason: To ask my parents’ permission for us to marry. Mam and Dad both said yes. I think it was a bit of a shock to Mam because she hadn’t known Steve very long. But my parents got on with him very well after that, very, very well. Steve always called my parents Mam and Dad and I did likewise with his. So yes, it was nice.
“Steve already had an engagement ring in mind. He’d seen it in the window of Paragon Jewellers during his lunch hour. He went into the shop and asked to see the ring and knew immediately that it was the right one. I loved the description he gave: A diamond solitaire. I really liked the idea of a diamond cluster, really fancied that.
“Steve and I went to the shop together. I loved the ring from the first second I saw it. We bought it, there and then, for £25, a lot of money in 1968. The ring was a bit big; I’ve got small hands. And we didn’t manage to get the ring altered in time for the wedding. So, I had to wear what they called a clip. Well, one day the clip broke and I thought I’d lost the ring, we searched everywhere, total panic! And then after all that, it was in the tip of my glove! As I had taken my gloves off, the ring had come off as well. The relief at finding it!
“We each chose a wedding ring a little later, also from Paragon Jewellers. I knew which one I wanted. My ring was just a narrow band but with chamfered sides. But plain, I didn’t want anything with a pattern on, just a plain gold band. And that’s what I got and it looked lovely.
“There’s wasn’t a party as such, to celebrate the engagement, we had a family gathering. Not like they do now, huge parties, just a few friends, that was it, at my mam’s house. Steve’s mam and dad were really pleased at the engagement and everyone got on well. So, it all worked together very nicely. Oh, I remember, the first time I heard Len speak, I said afterwards to Steve, ‘Your dad’s a proper cockney, isn’t he!’
“Planning the wedding started from my house. I made my own dress. It was an Yves Saint Laurent pattern, long sleeved, a fitted bodice. It had, it was like an exceptionally fine, delicate, almost quilted white satin. It came with a long cape and fur-lined hood. I made the veil of exceptionally soft netting, trimmed with fine lace. I had two veils, a short one and then the long one. I stitched on all the lace, by hand, took forever. But it was lovely when finished, I was proud of my wedding dress. I made the bridesmaids’ dresses too. They had big-puffed sleeves with all the fancy lace. I was immensely proud of all the dresses. The bridesmaids were my cousin Marylin, friend Christine, and Steve’s niece Julie, who was seven.
“Christine loved her dress so much she wanted to wear it again. I had to literally follow the pattern and redo the whole thing but I didn’t mind. I also made my own travelling away suit, a dress and jacket. That was very pretty, with a cream background and embossed pattern. Imitation crocodile shoes and bag to match, completed a nice outfit.
“We held a dress rehearsal, one week before the wedding, at my place. Proper dress rehearsal, it was: Who stands where, and when, and all that sort of thing. But not all the gear was ready, it wasn’t all finished. I was just hoping that when the dresses were finished, they fitted! They did, so that went well too. Everyone looked lovely.”
Not long before the wedding, Steve had been given a promotion at work, to inspector. The job, based in Sheffield, Derbyshire, came with a car, it was a Mini. (Linda recalls, “It was fabulous. Loved that car.”)
Steve’s promotion also came with a company mortgage. So, with the wedding plans well underway, Steve spent a lot of time travelling to and fro, looking for a house. During the week he stayed in digs with a Mrs Cullen in Dronfield, near Coal Aston, and travelled back to his parents at weekends. Steve was ably assisted, in the house-hunting, by a work colleague who knew the area. Together, they found 6 Meadow Close, Coal Aston. (The previous owner, who was in the RAF, had been posted to Hong Kong.)
Situated in a cul-de-sac, the property was a three bedroomed, semi-detached. It had a shared drive and large front garden (top half made into a rockery and the bottom half kept as a lawn.)
The asking price was £3,500. Steve thought the house ideal.
Steve and Linda’s wedding was held on 19th October 1968. Cannon Wareham, resplendent in gold tunic, took the service at St Barnabas Church, Linthorpe, Middlesbrough. It was a bright sunny day but very cold. (As can be seen in the wedding photos. Some of the people look frozen!) A local taxi firm provided a white Hillman, as selected by the couple. Linda loved the car. “All red leather inside. I arrived at the church a bit early, so we had to go around the block.
“When Dad walked me down the aisle, he beamed with pride, was chuffed to bits. But he was apprehensive about making a speech at the reception. Dad was a quiet, private person, you see. I said to him, ‘If you don’t want to make a speech that’s fine by me, don’t worry about it.”
The best man was Tony Crocker, a friend of Steve’s. They had been to Sir William Turners together and played rugby in the same team. Other friends there on the day included Ken Bernard and Dave Little. The Winnifriths are still in touch with Dave, who now lives in Austria.
“The big day went very well except for one thing. A ribbon on my bouquet, a ball of red and white roses, snapped, just as we got into the church. I had to quickly do a turn and grab one of the bridesmaid’s bouquets. The first of the two hymns was All Things Bright and Beautiful.”
The newly married couple signed the marriage register and everyone set off for the reception. This was held in the adjoining church hall, reached by a big, oak, wooden door.
The speeches all went well and a ham salad was much enjoyed. Linda’s mam had made the wedding cake. It was a beautiful creation: Three tiers, crowned by roses. Linda has never forgotten that cake.
“It was stunning, really was. Because it was fruit, and Mam had put brandy and rum and all sorts in it, she had to make the cake weeks in advance. Let it settle, let the fire out.” Four toast racks were amongst the wedding presents. There were several Pyrex bowls, white ones with a blue pattern around the rims and towels and bedding. Straight after the wedding, Steve drove his bride to Harrogate, for their honeymoon. After an idyllic couple of days, they travelled on down to Derbyshire. Along with the wedding presents, stored in the back of the car, was an electric kettle and sewing machine. Linda knew she would have a busy time making all the curtains for the new house!
LINDA was born on 28th December 1944 and her brother Joseph on 9th November 1951. Linda suffered from Whooping Cough and when she was 18 months old, Joseph and Mary decided that life in fresher air would help matters greatly. So, the family moved to 54 Kildare Street on the outskirts of town. It was a typical two-up, two-down terraced house. There was a front and back room, small kitchen, an outside loo. There was a bath in the kitchen, which doubled as workbench for Mary, thanks to Joseph building a removable top for it.
Linda, aged about eight
There was no television. A big, cumbersome wireless set provided the family’s entertainment and news. Linda has fond memories of listening to Norman Evans and Educating Archie. Mary never missed the Archers and Dan and Doris were her favourite characters. Linda remembers one occasion; her mam was gripped by an episode in which the Kenton twins were born. Joseph was busily decorating, the drama of the Archers rather lost on him. He never listened to the radio, as long as he had his newspaper, that was fine. The Evening Gazette had been on the go for something like 100 years. Joseph may well have walked, each morning, to the newsagent to buy the Gazette. If he was not perusing the paper, he could be found tinkering in his shed. It was his pride and joy. He had every nut, bolt and screw imaginable. They were all graded, as were all the tools.
Joseph had, by now, sold his motorbike and bought a little Austin. (He exchanged this for a Ford.) Linda remembers the two letters of the registration being P and O. The car was black. (One is reminded of the famous utterance by Henry Ford (1863-1947) in 1909: ‘You can have any colour you like, as long it’s black.’)
“It was a nice home, comfortable,” Linda says. “Me mam had a budgie, which was always chirruping away. We had some fabulous Christmases in that house, me dad really went to town on everything. It was brilliant. It was a real wonderland when me dad finished. Beautiful. Because it was a terraced house, it still had picture rails all the way around. And me dad put these tiny little nails, every so many inches, all the way around, and he hung fairy lights in every room downstairs. They were all up the passage, they were in the vestibule, they were in the sitting room, and the dining room. And we used to cut tissue paper and make a lantern. We spent hours doing that. And me mam and me saved different coloured bottle tops, red, green, gold, washed and stamped them flat. Then we’d press them over a thimble and make bells. And we’d hang them underneath all the lights round the sitting room. Spent hours doing that too. Christmas dinner was the whole works. Turkey, far too much really but me mam always, always made sure we had a proper, proper, proper, Christmas dinner. We always had our own apple and orange because you never had fruit bowls or anything like that. Presents, well, sometimes this was a sore point because certain Aunties used to buy me one big present for Christmas and my birthday. I got upset because I had one for the two. I thought it was unfair, you should get a present for your birthday and one for Christmas too!”
Linda attended Archibald School for infants, juniors, and seniors, only a short walk from home. On reaching 10, she was confirmed by the Bishop of Whitby, at St Barnabas Church in Linthorpe, Middlesbrough. Church played an important role, with regular attendance at Mass and Sunday Schools being an integral part of life. Lessons were with Canon Wareham. The good reverend was to play an important role in Linda’s life, (she remembers the kindly priest as a lovely man) not least of all in marrying her to Steve!
Mary played an influential role in Linda’s education. She wanted her daughter to have every opportunity to better herself. Linda did not pass her 11+ but Mary was determined this would not hold her daughter back. When Linda was 15, Mary enrolled her at Miss Pickering’s Girls’ School, near Middlesbrough bus station and the Royal Exchange. The school was based in a Victorian building, with bare wooden floors and a great staircase, big windows. And it was freezing!
Classes, held on Saturday mornings, covered shorthand, typing and deportment. This final subject seems rather incongruous. As Linda says, “How to sit for ages with a book on your head – goodness knows why!” Learning touch-typing was a more practical skill. The keys were all blank, meaning that students had to memorise the location of each letter and number.
The tutor, Miss Pickering, was memorable: “She was a right funny old biddy, in a tweed suit and thick stockings and a bit odd really.”
On the home front, Linda was taught knitting and dressmaking by her mother. This became a life-long love. (The first thing Linda knitted, at the age of 10, was a yellow cardigan. She also made clothes for her dolls.) The war years were an era of make-do and mend. An aunty of Linda’s made her own underwear from empty flour bags. It was not unusual for a bride to make her wedding dress from parachute material.
A typical evening in the Watson household sees Linda sitting at the Singer sewing machine, the noise of the machine purring through the house. Linda’s bedroom is cluttered with assorted garments and fabrics for use.
“And we always got little jobs, round the house, to do. We weren’t allowed to sit back and do nothing. Mam was pushy but in a nice way. She taught me everything I know when it comes to knitting, sewing. And she arranged for me to have piano lessons, which I enjoyed. Unfortunately, the tutor married a lad in the RAF and they went off to Hong Kong, so that was the end of my piano lessons.
“You couldn’t waste anything, certainly not food. People were resourceful, they grew vegetables, baked their own bread. Granny made cheese. Rationing could have an unexpectedly positive side-effect. Mam told me that was how Dad gave up sugar, he gave his ration to me. Well things were rationed, so you’d give it to your children, wouldn’t you.”
Once she was proficient with shorthand and typing, Linda sat the entrance exam for a secretarial course at Constantine College, Albert Road, Middlesbrough.
The Constantines were a well-known family with big interests in shipping. They played a key role in founding the college, which is named after them. Joseph Constantine, (three of his sons fought with the Yorkshire Regiment in World War One) donated £40,000 to build a college, to replace Middlesbrough’s old Mechanics Institute. No progress had been made by 1924 so the Constantine family doubled its donation. This gave new life to the project and construction of the college began in 1927. The official opening ceremony took place on 2nd July 1930 with the Prince of Wales (the future King Edward VIII.) Constantine Technical College became the University of Teesside in June 1992. It changed its name to Teesside University in 2009.
Linda passed the entrance exam and enrolled full time. The course was run by the Royal Society of Art. It provided a curriculum not only in shorthand and typing but English Language, Bookkeeping, and Commerce.
“I was there for two years. Loved every minute of it – really did. What made it so different from school is the fact that they asked your opinion of things. It was just very good and I really, really enjoyed it.”
In 1962 Linda signed up for a three-year evening course, at the College of Art and Design, in Middlesbrough. At the end of each year students had to design their own dress, suit, and nightwear. They then had to make the ensemble, sourcing materials themselves. (Linda even made her own buttons.) A fashion parade provided the opportunity to showcase the students’ efforts.
Linda says, “Thoroughly enjoyed my time there, it was fabulous.”
Her first job was at Federated Insurance in Middlesbrough. She then worked for an insurance broker in Eston. “But he was a bit of a bolshy boss, he wasn’t very pleasant to work for.” Linda’s last job, before getting married, was a few months at a steel company’s training centre.
“It was about another £5 a month, which was a lot of money then and we were saving up to get married. I hated working there, didn’t like it but the extra £5 was worth it.”
Duties included interviewing graduates for jobs, a couple of months each year.
“One such applicant was a young lady called Christine. It was chucking down with rain and she just came in, looking a right dishevelled mess. I said to her, ‘Just sit down and I will make you a cuppa.’ We got chatting and hit it off straightaway. I told the boss that Christine would be great and she got the job.
“Christine and I became really good friends; in fact, she was one of my bridesmaids.”
BOTH Tommy and Joyce grew up in Byker, Joyce in a downstairs flat on Commercial Road, Tommy in Walker Terrace. At the age of 14, Tommy began working as a telegraph boy for the General Post Office. He retired, some 45 years later, as Postmaster of Consett.
Steve with his mum and dad
Joyce met Tommy in the late 1940s when he was home on leave from the RAF. (He was doing his National Service.) The couple were married in 1951 at St Michael’s Church in Byker. Mr and Mrs Wilkinson settled down to married life on Sarah Street, Shieldfield. (Steve was born when they were living here.)
After a few months, the family moved to Fairless Street in Byker. It was just around the corner from Walker Terrace where Steve’s paternal grandparents, Tom and Eleanor lived. Tom worked for Reyrolle in Hebburn. Each morning, he walked down to the ferry in Walker. This was a rowboat. Several such ferry services plied their trade on the Tyne.
Facilities were Spartan, no comfy seats, or heating, or coffee machines …! When called upon, passengers had to double up as ferry crew. In the winter, for instance, commuters could find themselves breaking up ice by bashing it with their fists. (One wonders what Health and Safety would make of that now.)
Steve’s maternal grandfather was Jack Martin (16 May 1904 – 6 January 1977). Jack worked as a labourer for the Electricity Board. His wife Liza, nee Henderson, died in 2002, aged 97. She had four sisters and one brother, all of whom lived to a ripe old age.
Steve recalls, “Once, Liza said to me, ‘Make sure you get a Byker lass.’ Liza passed away suddenly in the RVI, early 2002.It was soon after I’d met Judith who became my second wife, we married in 2005. Judith was born and brought up near Welbeck Road, less than half-a-mile from the Byker flat my grandma lived in all her life. It was as if she’d hung on, waiting until I was in the safe hands of Judith, a Byker lass, like Liza and my mam.
“When I was about six or seven, Mam often took me, on Saturday afternoons, to the town (Newcastle) with my grandma and one of her sisters, aunty Betty. She was my mam’s aunt really, but I called her that too, as I had no official aunts and uncles. I used to think aunty Betty was called ‘Worzie’ because my grandma always referred to her as ‘Wor Lizzie’. However, speaking fast in her quite broad Geordie accent, it sounded like ‘Worzie’!
“The afternoon always began at about 2:30 with a cup of tea and a natter at the Co-op. Then it was onto the Grainger Market (I still love the place and go often). First stop was usually to Eadie’s wool stall for more chat. My mam was a prolific knitter and Eadie always had the wool she wanted. It was then on to Mark Toney’s next door, for an ice cream cornet, and more natter. Time flew by. Very soon it was after 4 O’clock. Time for a quick bit of shopping, before getting the number 12 bus back to Grandma’s for tea. On match days, we had to rush to get the bus before the crowds came out of St James’s Park at 4.40.
“I didn’t know it, but in just a few years, match day would become an important part of my life!”
In 1955 the Wilkinson family moved to 35 Whitecroft Road, West Moor, near Killingworth.
“It was a new estate, near the disused Killingworth railway station, on the main line between London and Edinburgh.”
Making sure Steve was provided with appropriate primary school education between the ages of five and eight offered its own challenges. Lengthy stays in hospital necessitated adapted schooling.
“As I couldn’t get to lessons at school, they came to me. Mrs Johnston ran the Sanderson Hospital school and she provided lessons each morning for the children. When not in hospital, I had home tuition, one hour, three times a week, with Mrs Hume and Mrs Cryer.
“I also went to West Moor Primary for a few afternoons. This is the school I would have attended full time if it hadn’t been for my health problems. It was a chance to mix with other kids, near home, of my age.
“I particularly remember reading the Happy Venture Readers’ books. I remember the characters well – Dick and Dora, their friend Jane, their pets Nip the Cat, and Fluff the Dog.”
When Steve came out of hospital in June 1961, Northumberland and Newcastle councils addressed his educational needs. It was arranged for Steve to attend Pendower Hall School in Fenham, about seven miles from home.
Transportation was also provided. At first, this was with Tyne Taxis. The company was noted for its little brown cars scuttling around Tyneside and surrounding areas. Then, a couple from Wideopen took over the contract. They had a yellow and cream minibus. Steve subsequently discovered that it had formerly belonged to Venture Buses. They ran their operation from Marlborough Crescent to places in North West Durham.
This proved a happy coincidence because one of Steve’s hobbies was collecting bus registration numbers! The ex-Venture bus that collected him each day was duly entered into Steve’s bus registration book. To this day, he remembers it: 744PT.
“Starting school served as an introduction to the limited expectations of achievement for disabled children, common then. Shocking now but that’s how it was. I did so well – I was very happy to prove them wrong regarding my intellectual ability! – that I was fast-tracked into the top class of junior school after only one year. Term One was with Mrs Bloor followed by two terms with Mrs Davidson. My 2nd and 3rd years were in Miss Danskin’s class.
“I think I surprised them all. I was a talented pupil. I wasn’t the only kid there with a disability who defied the odds. One of my pals was Kenneth Willets. We learnt and played chess a lot – good brain exercise. Alas, Kenneth usually got the better of me, but that probably contributed towards the ‘determined to succeed’ attitude I adopted. Like me, he passed his 11+. But because of his sight impairment, he was unable to go to grammar school.
“One option for me was a boarding school in Surrey. But my parents and I didn’t fancy this at all. We faced an inflexible attitude from the authorities. They didn’t think I could cope at a mainstream school because of my special needs, as they saw it.”
Fortunately, Steve had two indomitable characters fighting his corner: His parents.
“Mam and Dad had no qualms about taking on Northumberland County Council and eventually a compromise was agreed upon. I would attend George Stephenson Grammar for a six-month trial period, see how it went.”
So, in September 1964, it was off to grammar school for Steve, in his maroon blazer and cap!
“It went very well. I coped perfectly with accessibility issues and got exceptional first year marks.”
From the age of 10, Steve walked with sticks, but also had a manual wheelchair. His mother wheeled him to and from George Stephenson Grammar School. Steve also went home for dinner, Joyce collecting and then returning him. By the third year Steve was able to make his own way to school and back.
“Mathematics was my favourite subject and I worked hard. But I was like any other kid, homework, and then playing-out with my mates.”
After five successful years, whilst awaiting his O’ Level results, Steve got a first taste of work. To earn some money during the school holidays he took a job with Fields, the packaging company, in Killingworth.
“I was paid £5 10s 0d per week. I paid my own Stamp, so came out with £4 9s 4d. The pay was delivered – cash – in little brown envelopes.”
In July 1969 Steve learnt that he had passed six ‘O levels: (Maths, Physics, Chemistry, English Language, French and History). He stayed on for another two years, studying and passing A Levels in Maths and Physics.
Steve’s ability with Mathematics and an interest in computers guided his choice of degree. He opted for a BSc in Mathematical Sciences at Newcastle University. Whilst waiting to begin his course, he took a job at the DHSS, a huge complex in Longbenton. (It was known – indeed still is – as the Ministry.)
“Strange as it might sound, university wasn’t a massive part of my life. I mean, of course it was, setting the scene for my working life. But in many ways, things continued as before.
“I was still living at home. Commuted to university and back every day. One of my regrets is that I didn’t take part more often in the social life at uni. But the main thing is I graduated in 1974 with a 2.ii.”
Steve on his graduation day
(Chapter 2 of Playing The Cards You’re Dealt: The life story of Steve “WheelchairSteve” Wilkinson)
Interested in having a life story written? Contact me at christopher-rooney@hotmail.co.uk
PERCY Leonard Winnifrith and Jessie Pinchin were born into a Britain quite different to our own. At the beginning of the 20th Century, she was the most advanced industrial nation in the world, commanding a global empire. But the First World War killed over a million of her citizens; women did not have the vote; a rigid class system defined people’s lives; life expectancy was around 50.
Jessie on her wedding day
Percy (always known as Len) was a cockney, (date of birth 10th August 1910). Jessie Pinchin (born 21st May 1913) was a County Durham lass. Her family owned a fish and chip shop in Fence Houses. (They lived above the premises.)
When in her teens, Jessie witnessed the ceremonial baptism of an iconic Tyneside landmark: The Tyne Bridge. It was officially opened on the 10th October 1928 by King George V and Queen Mary. Jessie and her parents travelled by motorcycle and sidecar, to be there. It is difficult for us to comprehend just what an epic undertaking this journey was. There were no motorways, there were few main roads. It must have taken hours to travel from Fence Houses to Newcastle.
Jessie had a variety of jobs, including maid at a boarding school. (Or in-service, to use the parlance of the day. Domestic service was a major source of employment.) Jessie also had a job, at some stage, as a cleaner.
By the mid-1930s Jessie was engaged to be married. But then, one day ….
She was at Durham Railway Station, to see a friend off. And this is how she met Len. The exact whys and wherefores of this are not known. Len worked for the railways. As an employee, he could travel free by rail.
Somehow, there on the crowded platform, Len and Jessie met. And this brief encounter had a happy ending. They agreed to meet again. That went well, the two hit it off immediately. It cannot have been easy though, Len lived hundreds of miles away, in London. Jessie could not afford to take time off work, no paid holidays then! But she had realised that Len was her special one. She broke off her engagement, which apparently caused a bit of a fuss in the two families.
Len (using his free travel pass to good effect) visited Jessie every month. Jessie’s parents had never met anyone from ‘down south’ and certainly not a cockney. In those days, people married somebody from the same village or town. Len’s accent must have seemed very exotic!
Jessie and Len were married on 17th October 1937 in Fence Houses, County Durham. A special license was granted, so the wedding could take place on a Sunday, which was unusual at the time. (The fish shop was open on Saturday and Jessie’s family did not want to lose the trade.)
The newly married Mr and Mrs Winnifrith moved to Paddock Wood, Tunbridge Wells, Kent. Jessie gave up work, as was the tradition then. When World War Two broke out Len was not called up, as his job on the railways was a reserved occupation. Paddock Wood was very much a rural setting. The woodland and orchards covered miles. Rich farmland made it ideal for growing hops. (Paddock Wood became the centre of hop producing in the south of England.)
Kent took a pummelling from the Luftwaffe. When heading back from bombing raids on London, German aircraft often dropped any remaining bombs, probably to lighten their load and that tended to be on Kent.
Len and Jessie’s daughter, Ivy Lillian, was born on 4th August 1939. Steve arrived five years later, on 1st November. Years later, Jessie told Steve that he was the first baby to be born for about two years in Paddock Wood because all the men had gone off to fight. So, everyone fussed over baby Steve!
Jessie missed her family and very aware of this, Len made sure there was time for visits. This meant travelling into London and getting a train from King’s Cross. Many years later, Jessie recalled how London was in a bad way because of bomb damage. There was more to come … The war was drawing to its close but the Nazi’s were not finished quite yet. In 1944 the first Doodlebugs struck. This must have been of concern to the Winnifriths as they made for the capital.
After the war, the family relocated to Redcar (then part of North Yorkshire). It was a big move. It could be that Jessie was homesick and Len wanted his wife to be nearer her family. Jessie’s Uncle Joe was a farm labourer and he secured her a job, cleaning for the farmer and his wife. The position came with accommodation in a caravan. Len worked for a company dismantling planes left over from the war. Later, he took a job with ICI Wilton, as a process worker, in the polythene plant.
LINDA’S parents were Joseph and Mary Watson, nee Proud. They both lived in Middlesbrough, Joseph owning a general grocery store on Borough Road.
One day, Mary happened to go into the shop. She and Joseph got talking and they immediately liked one another. Mary had gone there to buy some fruit and veg and left having met her future husband!
It was not quite as impromptu as it seems. Mary already had her eye on Joseph! Indeed, that very day, Mary’s mam offered to go shopping with her. But Mary said no, she could manage, thank you. She was hoping for some time alone with Joseph. Mary had seen him a couple of times before, in the shop and out and about on his Royal Enfield motorbike. He looked very dashing with his Brylcreemed hair and leather jacket!
For their first date the following week, they went to the cinema. That went very well and more dates followed. But Mary and Joseph’s courting was curtailed by the outbreak of war in 1939. Mary went into the ATS and Joseph the Green Howards. But they were in love and decided to marry.
Linda picks up the story. “The ATS gave Mam a special license and Dad was granted leave. They were married in 1942. On the wedding day Mam wore a fox fur, somebody had loaned her it, she wore it around her shoulders, under a big hat. I don’t know what she did with the fox fur afterwards. It’ll be around somewhere, probably in the loft, me mam was a bit of a hoarder!”
The wedding took place on the 17th October at St Oswald’s Church, Grove Hill, Middlesbrough. The newly married couple’s first home together was on Grange Road, Middlesbrough (it may have been number 265).
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