Bringing coals to Walthamstow (From East London and West Essex Guardian Series)

Bringing coals to Walthamstow

10:50am Thursday 17th November 2005 in

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Myra Barklem, whose experiences as a Walthamstow child in the Second World War entertained readers a few months ago, now tells of her memories triggered by a mention of coal.

A FRIEND of mine was telling me recently that she was giving a talk to some children and, apparently, they didn't know what coal was.

It set my memory going.

I remember how I was instructed by my mother to stand by our side gate and wait for the coal man.

Some days, waiting in the often very cold weather, it would seem to me ages before the old horse and cart came trundling along Hamilton Road.

I would then have to call my mother who would say how many sacks she needed. The winters were cold in those days.

The coal man would carry the coal in one hundredweight (51 kilo) sacks through the garden to the coal bunker.

I can see him now in my mind's eye, depositing the coal and then neatly folding the black waxy-looking sack in half against himself before neatly stacking it onto others already on the cart. His clothes, face and hands were always black with coal dust.

I guess we were blessed in having a side entrance to Hamilton Road as, for a lot of my friends, the coal had to be taken through the front door, down the passage (no one ever called it the hall or hallway) and into the dining room where it was loaded into the cupboard under the stairs.

After this a big clean up had to be made because of the black dust. Of course, when it came to filling up the coal scuttle these folk were then better off than we were as we had to go outside into the cold garden to fill ours.

The coal man would also, for a small fee, kill any chickens from our gardens if our fathers couldn't face killing what had often become a family pet. This was usually around Christmas time and one couldn't be sentimental about a chicken. It was either that, or no Christmas dinner for the family.

Once my memory started along the line of deliveries and door callers, I was reminded of the cockle man.

He came around the area every Sunday afternoon just in time for tea, with his bicycle and panniers carrying cockles, winkles, mussels, shrimps and the like. A real treat if we could go and get some.

They were measured into quarter, half and one pint metal mugs. I thought the winkles seemed too much like hard work, sitting poking into their shells with a pin in order to retrieve each one. I much preferred the cockles.

Another cycling vendor was the ice cream man on his tricycle with a large cold box on the front. The wheels were arranged with two either side of the box at the front, and the one driving wheel at the back like a normal bicycle.

The box was kept cold by salt and ice blocks, I believe.

We could stop him and buy a cornet if we had a few coins. The ice cream in those days was cylindrical to fit the cornet and came in vanilla or strawberry flavours. Strawberry was my favourite.

Once we had decided (not much of a choice for us children to make up our minds from, but as it was a rare treat it took us some time) he would lift the lid on the box, take out what we wanted and unroll the ice cream from its wrapper, having first popped it part way into the cornet.

Another caller was the insurance man. Our one had the first Biro ball pen I ever saw, and how we marvelled at it: a pen that one didn't have to put into an ink bottle or fill up.

He called round weekly, fortnightly or monthly, depending on how much one could afford to pay.

It was essential to have insurance in case somebody died. Seemingly not to cover the mortgage, but to make sure that our loved one could be properly buried, and that everyone could pay their respects by having a black outfit.

If one was made a widow, this would be worn for a whole year and so needed to be new at the start. Of course not everybody could be rigged out in new black clothes and this was where the dry cleaners came in. They could dye clothes black. At the very least one wore a black ribbon armband.

The insurance man would also try to entice you into purchasing an endowment policy, which were great if they could be kept going for 15 or 20 years.

A lot of people found this money hard to find, even if it was only a small amount per week.

When someone died, then there would be a street collection among the neighbours. Somebody would take upon themselves to draw up a piece of paper listing everybody in columns who contributed, thus going from house to house collecting threepence, sixpence or even a shilling here and there, from which a wreath was bought.

Any surplus was given to the needy family.

Lots of folk had a 'tally man' call. This was the way people could buy clothes or shoes and then pay through the year for them; a bit like catalogues nowadays.

In the case of the tally man, I think one received vouchers that could then be spent at certain shops.

My mother worked on the principle that if we couldn't afford it then we didn't buy it. In any case, she preferred to shop where she wanted to shop, rather than be limited in choice, however good it may seem.

One of my mother's favourite sayings, which she seemed to say every week, as she put the milk money away was "If I die tomorrow, I won't owe anyone anything." How things have changed.

The milk man came round every morning with his horse and cart, delivering the milk as ordered and collecting the empty bottles. The bottles had cardboard tops.

The milk appeared on your doorstep and then once a week he would call for his money. As children, we liked to stroke his horse and, if we had one, give him an apple core - the horse, that is.

The ragman was another one who came round with his horse and cart. He would ring a hand bell and call out "Any old iron, rags or bones."

The bones were used in the making of wood glue, I believe, although I can never remember anyone saving old bones to give him.

We had two Scottie dogs anyway, which accounted for our bones.

Rags and old clothes were kept for him. One separated any woollens. They were worth more per pound. The ragman would weigh these on his spring hand balances, catching them on to the hook at the end.

A pointer went down a scale to show how much the stuff weighed. Many folk kept their rags back in order to make rag rugs, but my mother was of the opinion that they were dust traps, so the rags went.

So there we have it. So many memories triggered by the mention of coal.