Dorothy and Alex, Potted Meat and Picnics

     Dorothy was one of a kind. She was always aspiring to be the lady, always seeking to better herself, always the airs and graces. On first leaving school, like almost everyone else, Dorothy worked in some factory or other. It occurs that it might have been Harvey’s Potted Meat factory, and that could have been where she first met Alex, whom she would eventually marry. But she didn’t stay there long. She soon graduated to public transport, as a clippie, on the buses.

The Clippie

     Tickets in various bundles, all spring-clipped onto a little wooden holder gave her various lengths of journey to sell to you. So you asked for Flat street, say, she pulled off a 3d ticket, mayhap, put it in the jaws of the machine hanging round her neck, and gave the handle a whack. This punched a hole in your ticket, to signify that it had been purchased, not stolen. She then dropped your money in her satchel, giving change as and when necessary, and with a cheery cry of ‘Hold on tight, now!’ or ‘Move down the bus please!’ she gave the bell a couple of prods, which was the signal to the driver (in splendid isolation in his cab, up front) that he was now free to propel the whole shebang on their merry way. I don’t know how long this job lasted either, but the next one was very different.
     Taylors were a bakery/ catering company, who, amongst other things, did catering for big ‘dos’ at the Cutlers’ Hall, Lord Mayors’ banquets in the Town Hall, and all to that effect. Evelyn, her youngest sister, once told me, somewhat waspishly, that it was at Taylors that Dorothy first started putting on the swank, and talking as though she’d cut her mouth on a bottle. Perhaps seeing the high and the mighty in their finery and at their frolics made Dorothy think ‘I wouldn’t mind some of this’, and why shouldn’t she? Good luck to her I say, and sod the begrudgers.
     Then another piece of happenstance helped to raise her opinion of herself, while raising her value to the family. At these banquets and such, the catering was lavish, plentiful and paid for. More importantly, it didn’t all get eaten, and what didn’t get eaten got shared out, officially or otherwise. Dorothy worked these bunfights regularly, in what capacity I don’t know- I did hear the rank of manageress bandied about; seems a bit steep to me for an ex clippie but she was an accomplished cook, to my knowledge. She had a good, light hand with pastry- more of which later, and she certainly had a strong enough character to manage, so maybe its not so unlikely.
     She certainly had enough clout to come home regularly burdened with such treats as half a salmon, a ham bone still half loaded, chicken portions, lamb cutlets, game pie, pate, pockets full of buns, bread rolls, cakes, pasties, pastries, fruit, cheeses, and heaven knows what. All was well received at home, and it all pushed up Dorothy’s share value.
   
     Dorothy and Alex were married before the war, and come 1939, Alex was soon in battle dress and off to the Middle East, where he spent some considerable time. From the beginning, Alex was keen to start a family, and Dorothy wasn’t. Lack of opportunity during the war had helped Dorothy to maintain the status on an even quo (pardon me) and it could have been argued that during the war wasn’t a good time for her to manage at home, alone, with a child.
     However, in March 1944, when Alex had been recalled to England, to become involved in the build-up for Normandy, he came home on leave with strange news. He said that large numbers of married men had been given leave, on the understanding that, on their return to duty, the population would be assured of an increase. Betty related this tale to me, in Dorothy’s presence, when I was in my 20s. Both had always accepted it as true, obviously, as I did, at that time. I have to say that on the rare occasions when I have tried it out on fresh ears, it has almost invariably been rejected as preposterous nonsense. Of course, I was never tempted to disillusion Betty or Dorothy.
     Be that as it may, in Dec.1944, Dorothy was delivered of a baby girl- Tanya. Dorothy did not enjoy her pregnancy. It was an affliction to be born- nothing more. However, after the birth, Dorothy announced, portentously ‘My daughter will grow up to be a Lady’. It is both ironic and sad to record how history repeated itself with the next generation. Martin wanted a family; Tanya didn’t. Finally she caved in, and from Day One she was ill. She seemed to be into maternity gear in weeks, stumping about like both legs were in plaster. She had a truly horrific delivery, but at least it gave gravity to her battle cry- ‘Never again!’

     After the war, Alex came back to his job at Harvey’s potted meat factory. A born mechanic, he oversaw all transport, and as a trusted and valued employee, he was responsible for collecting fresh meat from the abattoir. Harvey’s used only the best- fillet, sirloin and rump- no wiggly bits, toenails or bum elastic, and they were particular in labelling their product ‘potted beef’ which it was, not just meat.
     Alex had the freedom of the cold store. I remember going in there with him, once, and him cutting thin slivers of fillet for Tanya and me to eat, raw.
     Alex would occasionally take a joint of meat to his in-laws. After one particularly generous delivery (remember, though post war, this was during rationing, still) Jane’s gas man came up from reading the meter, in the cellar. As he approached the top of the steps, his eyes drew level with the magnificent joint of meat, on the shelf at the cellar head. He burst through the door with a heartfelt cry-
     “By ‘eck, Missis! Yo’ve gorra bloody good butcher!” Alex had to be dissuaded from such consideration, until times became less austere. When Alex died in 1958, Jane had to take Dorothy to town and teach her how to buy meat.

     Dorothy and Alex eventually left their old terrace house in Pearl Street (one up, one down, cellar, attic, shared loo up the yard) and moved into a more commodious house, terrace still, but two beds plus attic, dining room, lounge, out-shot kitchen, bathroom, small back garden, just off Ecclesall Road, almost opposite Harvey’s. In fact I have a feeling it was part of a property portfolio owned by the Harvey family, and it was provided as part of Alex’ remuneration in kind.
     Ecclesall Road was so called because it lead on a few miles further out of the city, to the district of Ecclesall, once a small separate and remote village, but now a well established enclave of very superior residences, all built on very serious money. So, if Dorothy was asked where her new home was, the reply wasn’t ‘opposite the potted meat factory where Alex works’ but simply an airy ‘oh, up Ecclesall’, and anyone in the know could tell by her beatific smile that, to her mind, the intervening few miles had quite ceased to exist.
     Being an accomplished mechanic and driver, Alex was the proud possessor of a little ford car- reg. COA 159. His care of it was such that it came off the road every winter, to be completely stripped down, overhauled and serviced, all at his own hands, of course. In summer, it took us all out for Sunday picnics, in Derbyshire. With Alex driving, Charlie in the front passenger seat, with me on his lap, Jane, Dorothy and Betty in the back, with Tanya free range, on their knees. In the days when we were still waiting for the signposts to be replaced, them having been removed to thwart would be invaders, Alex seemed to have a map of England engraved on the inside of his skull. He could find his way anywhere, without a moment’s hesitation. I recall how, whenever he was describing how to get anywhere, he always seemed to navigate by cold meat shops- ‘..down the hill and left at the cold meat shop..’ or-‘..across the junction, past the cold meat shop and first right..’ I used to think ‘there’s a lot of cold meat shops but I never see them. I don’t know how long it took me to cotton on. To Alex, a cold meat shop was a cemetery.
     We would arrive on a heather-strewn moor, or an outcrop of Derbyshire limestone, in a meadow, by a stream, or in sun-dappled woodland. First we would spend an hour or so investigating the surroundings, climbing rocks, come down before you break your neck, paddling in a stream, don’t get them new trousers mucky, observing wild life, and not so wild, them cows look vicious to me, you can say what you like. Perhaps we would pick bluebells, moonpennies, blackberries, bilberries, or whatever seasonal offering might be available.  

Cold Meat Shop

     Then we would go back to the car, where Dorothy had ensconced herself in the front seat. She was bracing herself against the inevitable draught, when Alex opened the back door, to pull out the long seat swab, for Charlie and Jane to sit on. Even though he closed the door again, immediately, she would still feel the draught until she went to bed. Meanwhile, back in the car, she would keep making feeble, fluttering movements with her fingers, over her shoulder, reassuring herself that there was a draught, and it wasn’t just a figment of her imagination, as everyone seemed to think.
     Next, Alex would open the boot, and out would come a large biscuit tin, which housed the primus stove. He would also produce tea pot, kettle, and a stone jug bearing the legend ‘Homes Herbal Brewery, Hanover St., 1912’, containing not the ginger beer or sarsaparilla it had originally been intended for, nearly 40 yrs previously, but water for brewing up.

COA 159

     Soon there would be cups of tea for all, except Dorothy who only ever drank cocoa, mixed with a little cold milk, and made up with hot water. My tea always came in the Bakelite cup from one of the two thermos flasks used to convey the fresh, cold milk. One cup was red, the other, green, and the tea always tasted of Bakelite. In my mind, it does still. We would picnic on sandwiches- potted meat, egg, cheese salad, Spam, followed by Jane’s home made apple pie. She used only lard in the pastry, so it was heavy and greasy. The pie was cooked on an old, crazed dinner plate, and the full depth of the plate’s broad rim was given over to providing a good seal to the two layers of pastry, which meant this area had no apple in it. Because of the structural instability of the juice soaked lower crust, the central, apple filled area had to be eaten first, leaving the apple free, double thickness, reinforced, security zone as a dry, greasy anti-climax. I would have loved to do it the other way round- get rid of the greasy hard tack first, then settle down to savour the sweet, juicy, apple filled centre, but it just wasn’t practical. You just had to retain the concrete kerb to help support the broad end of your slice of pie. To have attempted otherwise would have been to invite disaster, in the form of disintegrating apple pie kaffolloping through ones fingers and self-destructing on the grass, or even worse, on one’s Sunday clothes.  

The Mashin’

     Dorothy was good at pastry. At Christmas, her mince pies were a treat. As sweet and light as angels’ crumps. For our picnics, she would sometimes make jam tarts and lemon tarts. Charlie could always be relied upon to disgrace himself with his old joke about lemon tarts. He would reach for one, and murmur, almost to himself-
     “I’ll just ‘ave a sore earoyle”. Jane would tell him to shut up, Dorothy and Betty would tut and scowl, Alex would smile sympathetically at Charlie, Tanya would be oblivious, and I would roll about in hysterics because I thought it was VERY FUNNY. I still do. And I work it in at every opportunity, just to pull Charlie’s chair a bit closer to the fire, so to speak. There are some jokes that just have to be preserved, like family heirlooms, or national treasures, even. I realised that when I heard about Max Miller’s ‘Give us a touch on the brushes- not too much. I might like it’ Mr. Miller left that one for Bob Monkhouse to look after. After Mr. Miller died, Mr. Monkhouse always worked it into his cabaret act. Now he’s gone, I don’t know who’s got it. I make a point of airing it when I get the opportunity, while trying not to seem presumptuous.
    On the return from the picnic, if it was a warm, sunny evening we might stop off at a pub. Alex would fetch three milk stouts for the ladies, half of bitter for Charlie, a glass of still orange for himself (even back then, Alex separated drinking from driving) and pop and crisps for Tanya and me. Continuing our journey home, I would doze on Charlie’s knee, and Tanya would get fractious in the back, until Dorothy lost her rag. She would start to snap-
     “If you don’t shut up, I’ll put you in a home!” Then she would point out some imposing building- big house, golf club, water tower, sewage works, whatever, and-
     “Look! There’s the Home! I’ll put you in there! I’ll put you in that Home!” I used to sit there, eyes screwed shut, silently appalled. This was the anvil on which were forged the bonds of love between mother and daughter.
     Yet when I took a tumble on my trike, flying head first over the handlebars, knocked myself out, and replaced the skin down the whole of the right side of my face with a mixture of cinders, grit, shredded flesh, blood and mud, it was to Dorothy I turned, not Betty, in the weeks of patient bathing, wiping and cleansing necessary for complete recovery. She happened to be at the house when the accident occurred. Two other kids had carried me home, unconscious, from a couple of streets away. I came to, just as my rescuers were depositing me on the back step, and two more were dropping my trike off in the garden. I stumbled into Dorothy’s arms and wouldn’t let go. I wouldn’t let anyone else touch my face, and she had to make extra visits until I was well on the way to recovery.

*

     In the Winter of Discontent, with its miners’ strikes, three-day weeks, and power cuts, Dorothy gave me the primus and the stone jug, to help me cope in my all-electric flat. I have them still. The jug is cracked, and leaks very slowly, and the primus, though it valiantly saw me through the electricity cuts, is now seized up beyond relief, but my wife, Valerie finds the primus ideal for standing dough to rise, on the warm hearth. They are both kept clean, and permanently displayed, with affection.