GROWING UP
IN GROVETOWN
PONTEFRACT
PART ONE
by KEN FOX
Following the recent request in the Pontefract Digest by Virginia Asquith about
what it was like to live in Grovetown in years past, the following
recollections may be of interest to her. Hopefully, they will also be of
interest to others who might perhaps have heard of this long gone
village but have no knowledge of it’s somewhat unique position and
character. It’s a small world we live in for an Asquith family were
our immediate neighbours who lived at number 11 Oak Street. It would be
nice to think that they were actually Virginia’s in-laws but there was
also another Asquith family who lived for a time in Elm Street.
Sadly, I possess no photographs of the village and it’s environs but with the
aid of a few drawings and maps I may be able to conjure up a general
picture as I journey down the proverbial memory lane. I choose to use a
terminology contemporary with my recollections in order to maintain the
atmosphere so please ask the old folk for an interpretation if deemed
necessary.
My grandparents, James Fox, a miner who originated from the Dewsbury area,
and Mary Jane, originally from Kent, married in 1886 at Dewsbury Moor. A
few years later they were lodging with in-laws at 11 Elm Street,
Grovetown but by 1901 were at 14 Ash Street. My Granddad died in 1942
and grandma in 1946 when living at 27 Oak Street.
My dad, Fred Fox, was born in Ash Street in 1907 but mother Marjorie (Madge)
hailed from Rotherham. After their marriage they first lived in
Huddersfield before moving to 13 Oak Street in 1939 along with my
brother Roy and my sister Eileen. I was born in 1940 followed a short
time later by another brother, Alan. The maternity home in Banks Avenue
was evidently full up at the time I was due so I was born at home in 13
Oak Street. It’s a good job I’m not superstitious!
Grovetown Village, submitted by Ken Fox
Grovetown originally consisted of 55 terrace houses and was built in the 1870’s
as, I understand, accommodation for the workforce who were employed in
building the railway line which ran alongside. The railway was opened
for traffic on 1st July 1879 after which the village was sold off and
the houses rented out up to the demolition of the entire village over
the winter of c.1962/3.
The streets were named Oak, Elm, Ash and Beech. Oak Street ran parallel to
the railway and included a general grocers and off-licence. When built
Grovetown was indeed surrounded by fields and the nearest properties
would have been on Mayor’s Walk and Friarwood Lane with ‘The Grove’,
the Pease family home, just a short walk away over towards the
Chequerfields. This rural isolation was maintained until the 1930’s
when the present semi-detached properties were built on Churchbalk Lane
including two blocks of identical houses on Beech Street – our posh
neighbours!
Most of the houses were of the usual Victorian style basically of two up and
two down and had a small enclosed brick floored back yard - ours was
devoid of sunshine - with a coal house and adjoining toilet. This
toilet, although a flush one, had no heating or light other than the
candle taken with you but always had an ample supply of ‘Daily Heralds’
neatly torn into squares and hung on a piece of string within easy
reach. There was none of your new fangled Andrex rolls and it was
certainly not the place to linger on a winter’s night. There was a
full-length solid gate in the yard wall, usually a discarded house door,
giving access to a series of ginnels linking the backyards of all the
houses. A pleasant feature of these ginnels was that even the gate
doorsteps were neatly scoured in smart yellow edgings to match the
doorsteps and windowsills of each house. We may have been poor but we
were certainly proud.
The front door of the houses opened directly into the living room where once
over the mat well with its coconut mat you were always welcomed by a
roaring coal fire with an equally warm invitation to sit in front of it
for a ‘cuppa. It was comfortable for a while but then the front of
your legs would turn an odd shade of red through a degree of burning. At
the same time the backs of your legs and torso would be turning blue due
to the permanent draught as the cold outside air whistled in through ill
fitting windows and doors to replace the hot air shooting wastefully up
the chimney. They would call it chill factor now.
Polite conversation was impossible due to the noise made by rattling spoons on
cups and saucers as you shivered in your chairs and the coughing from
smoke frequently billowing out into the room from the range. We really
appreciated a saucer for spillage but not the black blobs of soot that
floated around in the air and left a sulphurous taste as they landed in
your cups of tea.
The fire, however welcoming in cold seasons, was quite another thing on a
hot, sultry summer afternoon but was entirely necessary as it provided
the main source of hot water. The range always looked smart in a fresh
coating of black leading; its handles and hinges gleamed like silver
through constant use and polishing while a kettle simmered patiently on
the fireside forever eager to top up those spillages. The oven was
heated by sliding out a damper which drew heat from the fire. This could
also be used as extra drawing power to enliven a newly banked up fire.
Invariably, as with most modern technology, this damper usually
malfunctioned by leakage due to warping so it was not always necessary
to actually open it. It was always accepted that a coal-fired oven
produced the tastiest cooking, especially Yorkshire puddings.
Underfoot, to insulate your feet from the cold quarry-tiled floor would be the most
comfortable clipping hearth rug which had been handmade by all the
family from cut up cast off clothes as they sat together by the fireside
on those long winter evenings listening to the wireless set. Every now
and then a live cinder would shoot out of the fire and singe the rug
giving off that unique pungent smell that only burning rags can make. We
took it in turn to quickly pick up the cinder and toss it back into the
fire without burning our fingers.
The wireless would be tuned into the Light programme of the B.B.C.
entertaining us with Tommy Handley’s ‘Itma’, Ted Ray’s ‘Raise
a laugh’ and the Donald Peers show. Sunday dinner time would include
‘Billy Cotton’s Band Show’ and ‘Educating Archie’ featuring,
would you believe -- a ventriloquist on the radio - don’t watch my
lips move! ‘Forces Favourites’ - a record request programme to cater
for servicemen stationed abroad always went down well with Sunday
dinner.
The wireless set was a curiosity in itself because there was no mains
electricity and it relied on battery power. This took the form of an
accumulator, a series of wet cells in an open box of acid, positioned
under the wireless set - very hazardous by today’s standards - and
this was collected by a company called Ryan’s of Castleford every
couple of weeks to be recharged. Their pickup vehicle was a
three-wheeled one. Depledges of Willow Park also serviced these
accumulators.
A central gaslight with mantles provided the only illumination in the
front room. The table was directly underneath and proved convenient, for
at dusk we kids insisted on igniting the mantle with a lighted spill and
could reach it only by kneeling on the table. I hate to think how many
mantles we broke in this operation but the corner shop was wise to this
and always kept a large stock of them. Of course, the gas burned was the
highly toxic town gas manufactured from coal at Pontefract gas works in
Back Northgate as natural gas was not introduced until 1971. Gas
supplies were pay as you go through a shilling meter.
The other downstairs room was a combined kitchen and washing room. Under the
window nestled two red earthenware sinks, one shallow the other deeper,
with a short draining board and a single mantled wall mounted gaslight
above. There was a gas ring with flexible hose on an adjoining shelf and
a freestanding hand operated wringing machine further along. Tucked away
in a dark corner hid a brick enclosed coal fired copper boiler which
sprang to life on washdays to provide a constant supply of boiling water
for this purpose. On dry days the washing could be strewn across the
street to dry as there was minimal traffic in those days but on wet days
all the drying had to be done indoors, usually hung high up over the
living room fire, another reason for a roaring fire in summer time. All
ironing was done on the table using flat irons heated in turn on the
fire. The rear room was also used for odd-jobbing on rainy days. Just
off this kitchen a pantry comprising of a waist high stone shelf and
bare walls was all you had to store perishable foodstuffs.
Upstairs was reached by a staircase directly from the kitchen - no hallway - and
just a small, square landing. As there was no upstairs lighting, we were
shepherded to bed by candlelight, having been got ready for bed in the
light and warmth of downstairs. A comforting night-light was left by our
bedside. No bathroom, toilet or, indeed, running water were to be found
upstairs. There was a small fireplace in each bedroom but these were
only used in times of illness and generally regarded as an unnecessary
extravagance. On bath nights a metal bathtub or, when we were very
small, the deeper of the two red sinks was brought into use but either
of the two options had to be filled manually from the range or from a
kettle heated on the gas ring. I must admit that the thought of a
bathtub in front of a roaring coal fire seems like the height of luxury
even in these days assuming, of course, someone else carries out the
task of filling and emptying it for you.
From the front bedroom, where I was actually born, there was a lovely view
over Bally’s field and across the railway towards Oxclose Farm with
Swanhill behind it. There was a row of tall Poplar trees near Mayors
Walk, the orchards of Friar Wood and the elevated Ponte townscape with,
of course, the lofty crowned tower of St. Giles overseeing all - always
regarded as a landmark symbolising homeland to me even in these days.
Ken Fox
Further articles from Ken Fox:
Growing up in Grovetown Part Two
Growing up in Grovetown Part Three
Growing up in Grovetown Part Four
Growing up in Grovetown Part Five
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