TALES OF OLD RADFORD

Harry and Lisa (Lilo) Richards, 20 Pine Street, Radford, 1950s

In this modern world of digital TV, cellphones, email, MP3, pop videos, DVD, all -night shopping and high crime rates, the gaslit coal-powered post-war world of Pine Street, Radford is now no more, erased by the merciless clearance programme of 1965. This also claimed Schooner Street, Old Duke Street, Prince Street, St Peter's Avenue, Baron Street, Charter Street, Hamilton Terrace, and many others just like them, all over Nottingham and indeed, all major UK cities.

Here a few gems from the days of Pine Street, Forster Street and life just after WW2, when factory wages meant that life was fun again after years of rationing. There was full employment at Raleigh and Players, and Saturday night pubs were a noisy melee of smoke-filled piano sing-songs up until the ten o clock chucking-out time. Like chrome hubcaps on cars, locally brewed beer, mangles, peg-rugs, black and white TV, and the vandal-free society, these days are long gone.

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Winter 1956 - and after a few halves in the White Horse and a few hours tucked up in bed, Mum decided to take a midnight trip to the outside lavatory. Pulling up her nightdress in this spider-infested brick enclosure, she backed onto the freezing cold toilet seat, straight onto the knee of a sleeping tramp who had bedded down there for the night. As her screams pierced the cold Radford air, the disheveled tramp made a quick exit as my Dad chased him all the way down Pine Street with wooden copperstick in hand, clad only in underpants and vest, his feet slapping on the wet cobblestones as sash windows clattered open and weary heads looked out to see what the commotion was all about!.

In the early 60s, it was the age of 'keep your house clean with Persil 62 - Washes Whiter Than Ever', Lifebuoy soap, Vim and New Blue Omo. Lux Flakes were used for washing clothes, which were pegged out to dry iin the terraced backyard, Monday being the traditional washday. The housewife was very much the 'stay at home' type, washing, ironing, cooking and cleaning, while the husband earned the daily crust in factory or mill. Mum had a Ewbank carpet sweeper, and the Hoover salesman that called at the door was not made very welcome by my Dad that Saturday morning. 'Your wife will love this new Hoover Sir' said Mr Saleman, stepping out of his wood-trimmed maroon Cortina estate. 'Ask her' Dad spat. And Mum replied 'When we can afford it we'll have it, but for now I'll use the Ewbank'. Despite all the mod cons of today, I can remember those 60s houses, despite the damp, blackclocks, and dodgy brickwork, being cleaner than todays ever will be, with spotless crystal ornaments in the sacred parlour, used only for Christmas, weddings and funerals.

1964 - a youth on Pine Street had a very loud motorbike which he would rev up to scare the young Chris Richards. With a Ted haircut and fists like hams, it was claimed that young Dougie the Ted had broken a youths jaw with one punch after he had shoved fish and chips in his face after a fracas one Saturday night.

It was claimed that a miner who drank in the Rose in St Peters Street had an eye tattooed on each arse cheek. 'Just to see yer through the week like'. he would shout as he dropped his keks in the bar, to reveal his prize tattoos after a customer had doubted his claim. They were probably done after some drunken Army bet in some other country, during World War Two. Colourful characters like that just don't exist anymore, wiped out as quickly as the Radford houses during the clearance programmes of the 60s and 70s..

1965 - and at 3 years old I can just remember the glorious mid 60s. Being lifted up into the air by Mums friends, ladies with giant beehives and pale lipstick, gorgeous green eyes and black panda eye make up, just like Dusty Springfield, with those coats with the giant round buttons on and fur collars, their hair lacquer stiff like varnish, their breath smelling of the last Park Drive or Senior Service they had smoked in the factory tea-break. Her stiletto shoes tapped along to Dusty Springfield, Wayne Fontana or the Supremes on the Bush valve radio as she mouthed the words and tea mashed in the scullery. She was probably about 19 but to a 3 year old she seemed 50. At 3 I looked at my young reflection in cobbled street car hubcap, making faces at my metallic reflection, and smelled the rubberised smell in the cycle shop on Ilkeston Road, with what seemed like a thousand tyres hung from hooks on the ceiling. Those gorgeous green eyes of 'Dusty' now probably gaze at the Post Office cashier as she draws her pension!!

In the parlour at Pine Street was a walnut-veneered piano which had been french-polished by Dad, from its former blackened pre-war state. Bottles of spirits would be bought weekly and placed on top of it during the run-up to Christmas, so that alcohol would be freely available when the time arrived. One Saturday night Harry and Lilo decided, after a drinking session at the 'Rose' - to crack the bottle of Navy Rum with Ted and Margrit Greenhalgh, who had lodged with them at 104 Forster Street just after the war. However the evening in the smoke-filled room ended with piano-sing songs and both ladies passed out on the floor of the back room, with almost every bottle of spirit opened and consumed!! Dad had passed out and fallen forwards into a bowl of cockles in vinegar, into which he was blowing bubbles. When the drunken quartet tried to get upstairs, they were a pathetic jumble of drunken giggling bodies. Mum later said that the worst bit was basting the Sunday joint the next day, which made her heave every time she bent down to spoon the fat over the beef. A trip to the Rose soon cured that, with a few light ales (Shippos India Pale of course) to get the 'hair of the dog' into her system, wrecked by rum, whisky and ale the previous night.

With his skill at woodwork, in the 50s Dad was in huge demand to fix fishing rods, snooker cues, etc in his spare time. Once a Raleigh workmate had a bent snooker cue which needed straightening. Dad had suggested holding it over a low gas flame to heat it up. 'What, ah gerra bennin' gun and bend it straight like?' Dad laughed and replied. 'How can you bend summat straight?' But when the workmate brought the cue in to show him he creased up with laughter. It had been heated up with a blowlamp so much it was like a giant piece of charcoal. Dad snapped it into several pieces and made him another one!

'Marilyn' MHT 758, Brian and Betty Dudley, 'Big Harry' Richards, 1960

RALEIGH FORTNIGHT

When Raleigh Industries closed its doors in August for 'Raleigh fortnight', almost the whole workforce went on holiday. Harry Richards checked the petrol, oil and water in his 1954 black Triumph Standard Vanguard MHT 758. Dads trusty car 'Marilyn' was named after the famous film star, and was often seen parked on the cobbles of Pine Street. Cynical Harry would switch round the words of the Tremeloes hits and walk round the house singing 'Even the Good Times are Bad'.

Harry and Lilo forced bags and suitcases into the boot the night before, as a salmon sunset dipped down over Pine Street, ready for a quick getaway in the morning. Getting up at 4am, sleep was wiped from weary eyes as the tea-mash whistle went off and the terraced streets of Radford were left behind for 2 weeks. Stopping at Wilton Road to pick up Eileen and Bill Stokes, and again at 96 Denman Street for Brian and Betty Dudley, pressed trousers slid across leather bench seats for the trip to Norfolk, as Dad drove with a cigar in his mouth down Triumph Road with the great factory now silent.The long journey was broken up by drinks at Lincolnshire pubs along the way, beer drunk from' jars' with handles, rather the slim glass pint pots of today. Settling into the riverside chalet called 'Earlscroft' at Wroxham, Mum would substitute a rolling pin for a milk bottle, rolling out pastry, and lazy Radford accents would mingle with the Norfolk local-yokel speak at the Swan Inn at Horning, without the stifling confines of dimly-lit factory, terraced backyard or two-up-two down housing to tie them down.

1960s - and one workmate of my Dads, who was called Harold, had such a skinny physique, he was often ridiculed by other workers. 'Someone genn him a lifeguards vest, but by the time his missus took it in on sewing machine, to gerris skinny body in it, all it said on the front wer 'LARD'. Once he was walking somewhere down Rifle Street and asked Dad where 'Radford Rec' was. Knowing Harold meant the recreation ground, he smiled and put his hand on his shoulder, which had the property of a stripped chicken carcass, and said 'Ah thought yo' WERE Radford Wreck'

Jim Jones' mens hairdressers was situated at 316 Denman Street. This barbers shop was famous for its well-worn burgundy leather chairs and the picture of the 1959 Nottingham Forest FA Cup winning team in the window. White-haired Jim would chat about the First World War with the pipe smoking veterans who came to have a haircut, and such services as a singe, crew-cut or shave would be offered, even in the late 1970's, with the open razor being sharpened on a strap in the corner. Jims son was severely handicapped, and was confined to the back room, where various unintelligable moans and attempts at speech could be heard in the shop. Jim's wife would bring a cup of tea for him, with a few biscuits on a plate balanced on top. 3-year old Chris Richards would be propped up on the red leather bolster cushion, and the neck finished off with the scrape of the open razor and a puff of powder from Jim's talcum dispenser. Like nearby Cheethams Stores, Kirbys Wood and Coalyard, and the Forster Street School, Jones' Barbershop fell forever under the mighty demolition hammer in 1981.

It was claimed that Ted was so fat his clothes had to be specially made. When he walked in the 'White Horse' one night with his custom made pants, held up with black braces, Gordon Morley took one look at the waistband, which was halfway up his torso, and said to Dad 'Ay, look Harry, Teds wearing his Eggcup trousers!'

Not 1957, but 1963. A new pop star had emerged, Heinz, with a twangy ditty called 'Just Like Eddie' which launched the bleach-haired adolescent into the world of mainstream pop. Harry Richards, with his grey quiff, looked a bit like a taller version of Heinz, and was taunted by some Teds and their girlfriends on Ilkeston Road. 'Ayup Heinz, look its Heinz!!'. Harry replied with this - 'Yo' like Elvis don't yer? He sings that 'Wooden Head, that's abaat right fer yo' lot'

My paternal grandfather Harold Richards died in 1964, so I never really got to know this old wheel truer, who had served in WW1 and could play honky-tonk piano well enough to make you weep. Born at 3 Pine Street in 1894 and one of 10 children, he never moved more than a few streets in 70 years. Not the cleanest of men, during the last decades of his life Harold and Grandma Lucy lived in separate bedrooms and living rooms at 22 Pine Street, and Harold spoke neither to his wife, nor my father. Occasionally limping from the leg wound acquired at the Somme, and wearing the same filthy collarless shirt for weeks, he would spend most of his time at his brother Bill Richards' house at the end house at 30 Pine Street. Harold never made it to the hi-rise flat at 31 Byron Court, Sneinton, where Lucy was relocated in 1965.

John Mugridge

My Grandad's house (no.99) was just down on the left where that school is. The houses on the right had their front doors opening directly onto the street, but the section my Grandad lived in had a small bricked area at the front and a very low wall separating this from the pavement!. The wall originally had iron railings but these were removed during one of the World Wars (WW1 I think) in a drive for scrap metal for the war industry. You could see where the stumps of these railings were after they had been sawn off. When I was a kid we used to sit astride these very low walls and pretend they were horses. Low down to the right of his front door and below the front window was a grate to the cellar where the coal man would tip sacks of coal. I remember my grandad (who was a mean old bugger anyway) counting off the bags as they were delivered. Apparently it was quite common to order, say, 12 bags of coal but the shifty coal man would only deliver 11 (but charge for 12!). These was before the days when coke was popular and coal dust used to get everywhere. It also meant people had to have periodic visits from the chimney sweep. I remember the street lights were gas because I can remember that they used to give off a faint hissing sound. Next to my Granddad's house there was an archway which led to the backs of the houses in that section.

John Mugridge

Mentioning Dad, a fond memory of him was the time he threw away the Sunday roast just after we moved into 8 Highurst Court. We had moved from a typical council house on the Highbury Vale Estate. Heating there was a coal fire in the front room and the rest of the house was freezing in winter. I remember waking up in the winter after particularly cold nights and watching my breath like vapour, then scratching the frost off the INSIDE of the window to see outside. Suddenly we were the first occupants of a spanking brand new, centrally heated and modern maisonette with all mod cons. On each landing there was a drying room, to hang up the washing, and a smaller room which had a hatch into the rubbish chute, down which all the trash went into enormous dustbins on the ground floor, housed in a large locked chamber. Of course, when people on the top floor put rubbish down the chute, it made quite a din when it hit the bottom - so people were asked not to use the chutes during the night or very early in the morning. It was nice not having a dustbin, you just needed a "kitchen tidy". So my mother had been to the butchers in Alfreton Road and came home with a leg of lamb to roast for Sunday dinner. She left it on the kitchen table still wrapped in the white butchers paper they used in those days. She then went round to a neighbour for a chat and a cup of tea. My Dad, who was very fussy about tidying up, came home from work, thought it was a bundle of rubbish wrapped and ready to throw out so trotted off to the rubbish room and put it down the chute where it was lost forever! You can imagine how popular he was!

Does anybody know why the Bugle Horn on Schooner Street was called 'The Nick'? A famous story has been told where a traveller comes walking down Ilkeston Road and asks where the Bugle Horn pub is. People shake their heads and he keeps asking further up the road. Eventually a chap says to him - 'Theres nowhere here called the 'Bugle Horn like, but thats the 'Nick' up there look'. Located at 48 Schooner Street, this tiny pub was where, in the 1950s, the egg man came round and young drinkers cracked raw eggs into their jars of mild, to 'give it body' 'like drinking an oyster down'. Egg and sherry was another good mixture, this time taken 'for nerves'. One lady took her young child in, and breast fed it in the pub, while necking copious amounts of milk stout with the other hand. Her husband would bang on the pub wall from the house next door, when it was time for her to return and cook his supper. Most of the Schooner Street houses had only one downstairs room, with one bedroom upstairs and a tiny loft room above that An open courtyard at the back had a row of cold water taps and a few primitive toilets. .

Tony Hogg

I started work at Willbonds in 1972 & the lunchtime queues at Theos went right down Faraday Road with Raleigh employees the mainstay. We used to ring our orders through before the Raleigh turned out otherwise we would never have got served. I also remember going in the chip shop & finding Theodosi in tears on the day that Cyprus was invaded in the early 70s. I also remember my first day at Willbonds & looking out the window at 4pm & seeing a tidal wave of people running hell for leather down Faraday Road. I was quite alarmed & thought there must be a fire or something but my new colleagues assured me that it was 'just the Raleigh turning out'. It is very sad to see what has become of the Raleigh.

Paul Saxton

I lived on Harold Road (off Hartley Road) from 1967 (when I was born) to January 1979. I went to the Bentinck School. Fryma Fabrics - which we called 'Farmer Faggots' - was a regular haunt, where we were often chased by the security guards. I used to go boxing at the Grundy Athletic Club (although I didn't know until a few minutes ago that it was called that). Beckenham Road was where I first learned to ride a bike without stabilisers at the age of five. And we used to nick sweets from the Barnips factory.

Eric Stevenson

I was born at 13 Gamble St. off Alfreton Rd in 1923, and my parents rented rooms at various places in Radford., finally settled in a Corporation rented house at 10 Chesil Cottages, which is still there, between Canterbury Rd. and Kennington Rd, just past St.Pauls St. Went to Wollaton Rd. Infants School from the age of five to seven. I even have a photo of the all the kids at the school, taken in the playground at the back of the school, taken in 1929. I rememrber the "cut"(canal) at the back of the school. Next to the school, over the wall, where Players Bond factory is now, used to be the Gas Sports Football ground. I believe the school finally closed in the late 40's (I'm not sure on this) and the Gas people took it over. Now I hear it has been demolished. How I still have visions of the old clock tower on top of the roof. You will be late for school Eric! From there to Forster Junior School, then on to Radford Boulevard Senior School finishing at the ripe old age of fourteen! Speaking of football, I remember how we kids used to play football and cricket in the narrow streets, and got in to many a yelling at by irrate neighbours. One old lady shouted at us from the upstairs bedroom window that she would throw the contents of the bleddy piss pot on us if we didn't bogger off !!! Happy Days. There was a young bloke who lived close by in Chesil Ave who worked at Raleigh, and every morning around a about 7.25 am precisely he would barge out the front door and set off at a gallop for his daily grind! We called him The Runner!

A common trick at the Players cigarette factory was for the ladies to go and buy a large bloomer loaf of bread at dinnertime and hollow out the middle, after cutting a hinged flap of crust on one side of it. This hollow shell could then be brought back into the building in its paper bag and packed full of Navy Cut cigarettes, to be smuggled out later.

Following the theme of the previous story, theft from employers was a really big problem, especially at Raleigh Industries, where the lining of workers' anoraks were literally slashed open with a craft knife, ready to be filled with cotter pins, ball bearings, pedals, handlebar grips etc. I often said that if my Dad had ever fallen over passing through Gate 4 on Faraday Road, he would have sounded like 'Metal Mickey' and been dragged inside for questioning by the uniformed Commissionaires. One employees rucksack was once searched at the Gate, and several rubber inner tubes pulled out. When asked 'What are these laddie?' the young fitter was quick to answer - 'How long we been mekkin' inner tubes wi' patches on?'

LOFT FULL OF WASHING POWDER

1970s - Raleigh Industries, and a workmate of Big Harry's was wondering whether to finish work at 55, or carry on to 60. He had never been in a public house, smoked a cigarette, or stood at a bookies counter. He moved into his late parents house on Cycle Road, Lenton, after their death in the 1960s, and never married. In the loft were boxes and boxes of washing powder, soap, toilet rolls, and other commodities. Frank would buy pairs of shoelaces, underpants, socks etc, and mark which brand lasted longest in copperplate script in a tiny notebook, then bulk-buy that brand, which would be stored in the loft in neatly labelled packing cases. Unfortunately, his obsessive tidiness led him to exclude all other human beings from his life, especially women, who would have cluttered his bathroom up with fancy cosmetics and his window sills with useless ornaments. At 55 he decided to carry on working till 60 'and put some more cash away to get a good pension, like'. When 60 came - he decided to carry on another 5 years to 65, 'to get a real good whack'. Eventually the presentation day arrived and all the shop-floor lined up to see 65 year old Frank get the Raleigh gold watch for 50 years service and even a few bottles of light ale were cracked for the occasion in the gaffers office, along with a Melton Mowbray pork pie and some sausage rolls - baked by his female workmates who he could neither bear to drink, smoke with or sleep with. Two weeks after he had retired, an ambulance screamed down Cycle Road to find Frank dead from a massive heart attack, his retirement cut savagely short in the spotless back room. Whether it was the lack of ale and nicotine in his system, fun in his life, love in his heart, or any other factor, the well-earned good times never came for Frank, but the next tenants of the house got their clothes laundered for free until 1985, washed in 1960s soap powder fresh from Frank's loft at Cycle Road.

Once in the late 60s, a workmate of Dad's called Ron had locked himself out of his house on Rifle Street, Radford, and so had decided to 'brick' the scullery window to gain access to the house. Returning to Raleigh the following morning, my Dad listened carefully to his story. When the bell sounded for knocking-off time at 5, Ron slipped on his coat and picked up his sandwich box, making for the nearest exit. Dad picked up a half-brick from the factory floor, tapped him on the shoulder and said; 'Ay Ron, not so fast lad, you forgot yer key!!'

Mick McManus

WRESTLING SATURDAYS

1960s Saturdays were special for the teatime wrestling sessions which normally accompanied salad with sliced beetroot and a big cream cake to follow. The Murphy black and white set would be switched on with 5 minutes to spare (warm up time) and Mum could be heard slicing tomatoes and cheese in the kitchen at 31 Ainsley Road.

Stars such as Johnny Saint, Mick McManus (above), and Les Kellet were famous for their half-nelsons, slams and pyrotechnics in the ring, and the other wrestlers would always try to get McManus in a headlock and mess his hair up. On getting up, McManus, conscious of his receding hairline, would try to brush his fringe forward vigourously with the flat of his hand. Dad always laughed at this, and another wrestler I believe used to pretend to cry when he lost a bout.

In the late 60s, Brian Sillitoe went to see his author brother Alan in London, but had chronic earache on the train going down. Alan suggested he visit his doctor on Harley Street for a check-up. Brian walked in - and the very posh doctor said 'Now then young chap - what appears to be your problem?' and Brian replied 'theres summat up wi meh tab.' The doc looked at him with a quizzical expression and said 'Excuse me?' Brian spoke again - 'Ahv gorra dead bad pain in me tab, like'. He started pointing to the side of his head and couldn't think of the proper word for his ear!!!

all text ©2001 C W Richards unless stated otherwise

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