Betty was a delicate child, in fact a nervous breakdown robbed her of over a year’s schooling. It occurs to me this may have been related to the death of the infant, Nellie.
On leaving school she worked first at Harvey’s potted meat factory, but soon joined her father in the employ of Mr James Bernard Holland, cutler, in premises on John McClory’s old firm, in Milton Street. Imagine a factory, say 25 yds square, with a courtyard in the centre, with vehicular access via a covered archway, the whole situated prominently on a street corner. A three storey development, it was built by one John McClory, manufacturing engineer, who kept roughly a third of the space for his own business, then split the rest into rooms say 12ft wide by any length from 12 to 50ft. You can rent one, or several, but you work under the McClory banner, because along the topmost parapet, in letters 6ft high and 2” proud, his name is cast in cement- John McClory & Sons Ltd.
The unifying feature of all the separate, various sized lets, the main attraction for potential tenants was power. Just like those old water wheels, each driving its row of separately rented cells, but in this case the power comes not from water but electricity. Wherever it is required, the power is delivered via a high speed, rotating spindle, or axle, which comes through one end wall, and is bracketed down the whole length of the workshop, before passing through the other end wall to deliver more power elsewhere. Now build a workbench over the path of this spindle, and by means of a belt drive, you can power any machine you care to mount on that bench, and as many as you can fit in. As for fitting in people, I reckon McClory’s old firm could have fitted in up to 500 workers- maybe more.
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| McClory’s Old Firm |
By the 1930s, McClory, his glory and his business had all passed away. Even the power source had been fragmented, so that each tenant switched on his own motor, and paid the rising electricity bills direct, instead of the few pence included in the original rent when the young electricity companies were happy to give the electricity away, so long as you bought their equipment. But the factory building with all its little workshops, the stone banner on the parapet, and the epithet ‘McClory’s Old Firm’ still endured. It was split into even more little lets, all occupied by little mesters, all specialising in their own trades to serve the little mester cutlers, like J. B. Holland.
A street door opened onto a lobby, with a door on each hand, and a staircase straight ahead. Through the left door lay an office, overlooking the street corner,12ft square, the domain of J. B’s daughter, Pansy. Secretary, book keeper, invoicing and purchasing clerk, wages clerk and general office staff- all worked here- all were Pansy. The right hand door lead to a room devoted to warehousing- packing finished work, nearly all pocket knives, but such variety. Stainless steel, bone or stag handles for hunters, ladies knives in mother of pearl, with blades opened by twisting a ring instead of breaking one’s finger nails in the blade grip, smokers’ knives with a hammer end to tamp down the tobacco, and a spike for clearing the pipe stem, gardeners’ knives with pruning hook blades, army (jack) knives for soldiers under every flag around the globe, presentation knives for foreign dignitaries, freebies for ‘MacNish Whiskies’ to give away to values customers (I’ve got that one), every one a jewel, a masterpiece, a work of art.
Between the two rooms, the stairs paused on a first floor landing to give access to the main factory floor, called the machine shop, for the two machines housed there, one a drill, the other a die punch, though they were only in use for a small percentage of time. Down at the furthest end, and facing the window, was Charlie’s station. Always in his trilby, always with his pipe in his mouth. Nearest the door were the dollies, not girls but two machines, with wheels not of emery but of stitched cloth, calico or felt, for polishing and finishing. This was auntie Edna’s domain. In the days when one’s parents’ friends were always aunties and uncles, these were purely honorary titles, but necessary, to give respect.
Edna had a workmate, Edith, who lodged with Edna and her husband, Lol, and had done for a number of years. Some years previous, Edith had surprised everyone by announcing her engagement to be married. Edna and Lol met the fiancé, approved, and offered to host the reception, as Edith had no family. The day dawned, the marriage took place, and the party withdrew to Edna and Lol’s house. A good time was had by all, until it was time for the happy couple to go off to their new home. Everyone cheered them off, the last guests eventually departed, and Edna and Lol went off to bed.
They were aroused from their sleep by a ferocious hammering on the door. Lol went down to open up, and in swept Edith, alone, with a face like thunder. She strode through to the living room and sat down by the dying embers of the fire. Lol followed her in time to hear her say-
“If that’s marriage, I want none of it!” as she pulled off her wedding ring, and threw it into the fire. Then she went off to bed, in her old room.
The next morning, she went off to work as usual; not one word was heard on the subject of this brief marriage. It was as if it had never happened. Edith remained Edna’s spinster lodger to the end of her days.
So Auntie Edna and Uncle Lol came with the territory. Between Charlie at the far end, and Edna by the door, there were maybe 5 or 6 work stations. They weren’t all constantly occupied, though each was haunt of a particular hand. Lol had a chair here but, as often as not, he was to be found in the ‘little’ shop (because it was down two steps?) at the forge, hardening and tempering springs.
The door through to the little shop, which was parallel to the machine shop, and looked down into the courtyard, incorporated a masterpiece of rustic engineering. The door needed to be shut at all times, because of the noise, but most people passed through it, negotiating the two steps, with their hands full. So someone had invented the self acting, gravitational door closer. The door was hung to flap back and forth, in the little shop, in its frame, without any catch or restraint. Then from its outer corner, a length of sash cord ran back to the frame, through a hole in it, and down the machine shop side of the frame to where a small weight, a pulley, or a lump hammer head was tied to hang on its loose end. So this weight would hold the door shut. That is until you or I barged through, when the door would open, hauling up the weight. Then when we cleared the door and released it, the weight would obey gravity by descending, closing the door in the process.
I used to think it was a brilliant arrangement, and it played such a merry tune, too! The squeak of the door hinges back and forth, slow low out, quick high back, and the rumble of the weight as it scotched its way up and down the door jamb. I don’t recall what the noise was that the door was supposed to keep out, or which way it was keeping it, but this must have drowned it out anyway. I suppose sash cord is a lost commodity, now. Unlike ordinary, twisted rope, it was of a woven nature, a little on the stiff side, so could be relied upon to run smooth and straight in its normal working life, all unseen, enclosed in the jamb of a sliding sash window, travelling back and forth over the pulley, tied between the window sash and the counterweight. This same quality made it the ideal choice for the self-activating, gravitational door closer.
Immediately through this door, with her back to it, sat Betty, usually assembling pocket knives. If you look at a pocket knife, a good one, it appears to have three metal studs showing through, on each side. These studs are the remnants of a long steel or brass wire. The components of the knife are threaded in order, onto this wire, then the end of the wire is flattened, slightly, on a little, bench-mounted anvil, or stiddy, using a peculiar little hammer with an off-set, lop-sided head. The components are all then run back against the flattened end, the wire is cut close at the other side, and again it is hammered over, slightly. So the short stub of wire is acting like a rivet, holding the components tight together. This process is repeated twice more to complete the assembly. Look again at the knife. You will see that one rivet at each end forms the pivot for the blades, and the middle one holds the spring in place, for the ‘heel’ of each blade to act against.
I say you need to look at a good knife because, sadly, there are others available. Just after the war, some genius in the Sheffield Planning Authority (maybe he was just bought off) allowed a German cutlery firm, by the name of Fleischmann, to build a large factory, on Bishop Street, in Sheffield. The firm anglicised its name to Flashman, and began to produce very inferior ‘Sheffield cutlery’ in astonishing quantities, under the ‘Latchkey’ trademark. By the early 50s, every seaside resort had its souvenir shop windows full of Latchkey brand cutlery, made in Sheffield, selling at prices appropriate to the quality- dirt cheap. There were a few knee jerk, Kamikaze operations, like Vymers having their Sheffield cutlery made in Korea (or was it Korean cutlery made in Sheffield?) to keep prices down, but the outcome was inevitable. Within a few short years, Herr Fleischmann, employing Sheffield people, had done, almost single-handedly, to the Sheffield cutlery trade, what his compatriot, Herr Hitler couldn’t do, even with the help of the Luftwaffe. The Sheffield cutlery trade is no more. Neither is Fleischmann’s factory, but that is no comfort.
To Betty’s right sat Mr Holland- J.B., just another cutler, who happened to own the business. He was a gentleman and a gentle man. He always dealt fairly with his employees. He was particularly kind to Betty, especially after John died.
He always took an interest in me, and my progress at school. When I passed the Eleven Plus, he took a whole week out from running his business, to make a knife, as a present for me. It had horn facings (scales), one cutting blade, Bowie pattern, that is one long back cutting edge, and a short, fore cutting edge, and one palette knife blade , because of my over-riding interest in art. He made every component himself, by hand. It took months for me to work up the courage to use it, to get it dirty. For the past 30-odd years, I’ve used it every working day. Similarly, for my 21st, he made me an open razor (cut-throat to you) which is also in constant use, still.
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| Treasures |
There was one occasion when Mr Holland’s interest in my welfare got him into Betty’s bad books. When I was about 15 I asked him if he could find me a job for the summer holidays. Of course he could. We were talking at his bench, and when Betty came by, I couldn’t wait to tell her my good news.
“What?” she cried. “Show me your hands!” This was to me so, puzzled, I held out my hands, palms up. Then she turned on Mr. Holland with “Now show me yours!” He obediently held out his hands. Betty’s objection was staring us in the face. It didn’t need to be voiced. My hands were pink, smooth, clean, unblemished. His were oily, dirty, calloused, scabbed in some places, raw in others. We both must have looked very sheepish as she said “I don’t want to hear any more about it!”
On the wall, at their backs, by the door was the emery station. The power driven wheels on which many of the processes were performed, were surfaced in varying grades of abrasive dust, from coarse, gritty emery, to the finest white sand, and through constant use they were regularly worn smooth down to the leather, facing rim. So they had to be resurfaced. On a small work table, a little bain-marie style glue pot was kept on a constant low gas light. On the shelf, under the table were bags of various abrasives. When a wheel needed resurfacing, a pile of the appropriate grit would be spread in a tray, on the bench. The wheel’s leather rim would be liberally coated in hot glue, then it would be briskly wheeled back and forth, through the grit, until satisfactorily coated. Then it would be put on the floor to cool, set and dry. The glue smelled like burnt, yeasty toffee, and the wheels- plural because several would be done in a batch- as they lay canted on the needle-sharp spindle ends, looked like some evil and mysterious mantrap.
In the corner beyond was the forge, a quarter circle in the corner of the room. The hearth lay below, with its bed of coke the size of raisins, while the hood rose above, its brick courses receding back and up into the corner, to draw the fumes up into the flue, the whole looking like part of a medieval kitchen.
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| The Cutlers’ Shop |
Here, uncle Lol was often to be found tempering springs which had been wired into manageable blocks of a hundred, or a gross. He would have maybe 4 or 5 such blocks in the fire at a time, all at different stages of ‘cooking’. Lol would sit there like a barbecue chef, put on a new ‘steak’, give the bellows a tweak to make the fire leap up bright, look at the others in turn, move them about, and decide on one he considered ‘cooked’. Then, lifting it with his long pincers, he would plunge it into a small, rectangular tub of whale oil, to cool it, rapidly. It was the rapid cooling which hardened the springs, and whale oil was used because it was heavy enough not to ignite on contact with the hot metal. And all the time, the fumes coming off the hearth were gassy, and caramel tasting.
When J.B. died, in the mid 60s, the company was bought, by one Emil Berek, craftsman-manufacturer, whose interests lay primarily in presentation work- handsome stainless steel pocket knives for companies to hand out to visiting Chinese dignitaries, a silver trowel for Lady Koffpotts to lay the foundation stone for the new Home for Fallen Women- that sort of thing.
When Emil died, about 5 yrs later, Betty and sister Dorothy found jobs as shop assistants, at their local Co-op., and the association of Eckhardts with cutlery was over.
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