WHEN Mrs Joan Foster, of Jubilee house, Moor Lane, Bolton, received some old snaps from her late husband's cousin, one was of her austere wedding group taken in Prince Street in 1949.
"I was delighted to see my old home and my two dear brothers, mother and husband, all sadly deceased, along with my Matron of Honour whose late husband was best man and must have taken the group," she says.
The picture brought back so many memories to her, that she decided to write them down.
The pictures are treasures to me now, because I had never seen them. They recalled so many incidents of my time in Prince Street.
My mother worked at Barlow and Jones mill as a reeler; we moved there from Poplar Street which was the next street.
I remember being told we were going up in the world - we did, with steps front and rear, and a cellar. This was invaluable, as we kept our perishable goods there in a box-like container with mesh on the front.
The flitting took place in the dark, on a fruiterer's handcart. We all carried zinc baths and clothes baskets full of utensils etc, and our arms ached. I remember the big iron key so well I wonder if the whole row had the same, because if my mother was late home we just borrowed our neighbour's!
In the war we sheltered in the damp cellar along with a couple of neighbours for company. It was almost pitch dark with only candles and a paraffin lamp. I got into trouble the first night by asking in a loud voice where was the chamber pot? My mother was mortified . . . but nature called, and after that a facility was provided.
Then we started going to Holdsworth's Mill in China Lane, which was a lot better, because people sang and took food in case the raids were too long.
When Christmas came, my poor widowed mother was resourceful. A cake was made with carrot and turnip dyed in gravy browning to pose as fruit, and liquid paraffin for the fat content. She also won a rabbit in a draw, so it was stuffed and made tasty by roasting in the fire oven.
I longed for a pencil case that I had seen in a paper shop on Bridge Street. Dennis Ince, a classmate at St Mary's, lived there. He always seemed to have sweets and was very popular. When I received the pencil case, with a real pen and pencils and a ruler, as my big present, I was overjoyed.
I made mother a fruit bowl out of a heated gramophone record that could be shaped in a wavy pattern, but I smelled the house out.
My mother decided to forgive my uncle, who had brought some of his poultry along to hang in the cellar until Christmas Eve. When he came to collect the birds they were green and the smell was dreadful.
I remember being rushed into Hulton Lane with diptheria; it was said to have been passed on to me by my younger brother who had suffered from a sore throat, and my mother had cured him by wrapping fat bacon in red flannel on his neck until it fried with his high temperature. Sadly it did not work for me. I would have died, but for the immunisation jab at school previously.
Another event was when my mother heard that my brother's regiment was returning from Burma. We would not know
which Saturday, but soon, so for two weekends she made a potato pie and a cake called a "cut-and-come-again-cake" which was his special favourite. He never arrived so we gave up wearily, having polished off the treats.
The third week we sat there with curlers in our hair, and just as we were going to dine our hero knocked loudly on the door. What joy! We loved his bush hat, and his tan-enhanced looks, although he was slimmer by far.
He bought me "Evening in Paris" make-up from the NAAFI, and my young brother got a fearsome knife from a Japanese soldier.
George, after going through the jungle warfare, nearly ended up with a broken neck at home. He needed the toilet which was in the yard; he was so happy to be reunited that he decided to do the can-can from the kitchen. We didn't
think of the back steps in the excitement, and it was so dark due to restrictions that he danced off the top just missing the cellar flight by inches.
He was at home on leave later and he was taken ill with malaria. He was taken in the infirmary on the Saturday of the Burnden disaster, and as we had no idea what had happened, we wondered why they were so busy. My younger brother was at the match, and had been handed to safety over the shoulders of older men.
When he was demobbed, my older brother went to work for a Jewish shop owner on Bridge Street, called Jonas Shaffer, who dealt in HP for furniture. His sister Stella had a gown shop next to Jonas,
The couple were very kind. I got my new-look wedding outfit and hat from Stella, at a reduced rate.
When I saw the old home on the photograph, and the steps I used to donkey stone, I was transported back through the years.
No money, but lots of pride in those days.
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