Pennies In The Grass

By Doreen Holt

Pennies in the Grass - the title refers to those occasional, unexpected joys which sometimes come along to make a hard life seem worthwhile - is the story of a Liverpudlian woman who reluctantly followed her husband to Vancouver, Canada, in the 1960s in pursuit of a better life. The book deals with the author’s experiences as a child in England growing up in the Great Depression of the 1930s and World War II, the many challenges to her health after she sailed to Canada, the sadness, stresses and terrible struggles of a homesick immigrant and her eventual achievement of peace, stability and even romance. Anyone interested in the social history of Great Britain in the mid-twentieth century and the difficulties and hardships of immigrants will find much that is familiar, inspiring and valuable in this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mereo Books
• Release date: Jul 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781861512321

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

When I was a little girl, many years ago, every story book began with the words ONCE UPON A TIME. Then followed the adventure or the fairy story, which usually ended with... THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER. Although my life has not exactly been a fairy story, it has provided me with many challenges and adventures, both happy and sad.

My story begins when I was just a young child growing up in England in the Great Depression of the 1930s, living through World War II, many years of food shortages, air-raid sirens and the awful sound of bombs whistling downwards to their targets, and finally to peace. It also portrays the joys of Christmas, the games we played and the frightening experience of that first day at school, which should have been a happy experience, but wasn't. It covers the teenage years, the discovery of boys causing both joy and tears before finally finding the right one to marry. Then the sadness and stresses of being a very reluctant immigrant to Canada in the 1960s, the struggle to survive in a new environment, the path to eventual financial and family stability, and of course the various magical and unexpected experiences in my long life - the 'pennies in the grass' of the title.

It also delves into the social history of Great Britain in the mid-twentieth century, the difficulties of being an immigrant and the medical systems of Canada and England, and takes an unsparing look at the evolution of marriage over a period of 50 years and the massive changes in so many areas of life, which I hope the reader will find interesting, familiar, inspiring and valuable in this book of memories.

CHAPTER ONE

BEGINNINGS

My birthplace was Liverpool, a large city on the north-west coast of England. It is a port city with a waterfront we called the Pier Head, where the buses and tramcars terminated their journeys before returning to the particular district they served in the suburbs.

There are several impressive buildings lining the waterfront. The Liver Building with its mythical bird on the top of the high tower is familiar to most residents next to the Cunard Building and Mersey Docks and Harbour Offices, known as the Three Graces. Another easy-to-spot building is the Roman Catholic Cathedral, sometimes referred to affectionately as 'Paddy's Wigwam' because of its resemblance to one. No one seems to take offence at this unseemly name and the reference is usually accompanied with a humorous smile, for it is a very unusual piece of architecture.

Another interesting building on the waterfront is the tall red- and-white-striped home of the White Star Shipping Line, which commissioned the Titanic, the ship which was built in Belfast and declared 'unsinkable'. This huge and magnificent liner, on her maiden voyage from Southampton to NewYork hit a huge iceberg and tragically sank, taking the lives of many, many people. That was over one hundred years ago, but it has not been forgotten and probably never will be. Liverpool Port used to be a bustling one. Across the River Mersey in Birkenhead there was a large shipbuilding company called Cammell Lairds, which went into decline after World War II.

Nowadays the port has recovered somewhat and the waterfront restored to a great extent, attracting visitors year round, and hopefully is now back to being a thriving part of the City. There are ferries which cross the short span of the Mersey toWallasey and New Brighton which many people use, both for pleasure and for transportation purposes.

This important city has a very mixed population. It is home to the very rich, the very poor and everything in between. It is of course, now well-known because of the Beatles, who monopolised the airways and the headlines, and millions of teenagers' hearts, from 1962 onwards. They performed in the Cavern right in the City - it is still there and now has a place in Liverpool's history books. Their thick accents were familiar to me and I can still spot a 'Scouser' when I hear one!

This city is jokingly referred to as the 'capital of Ireland' because of the large influx of Irish folks who crossed the sea to swell the ranks of the unemployed. They are largely of the Roman Catholic faith and had many children to support, since birth control is forbidden in their religion, something the later generation seems to have ignored to some extent - and who can blame them. Like many immigrants, they left Ireland for better things but I imagine that few would achieve them in Liverpool.

Its citizens are called Liverpudlians and are affectionately referred to as 'Scousers', which I think originated from the fact that the poor population fed their hungry broods with a diet of cheap cuts of beef, cut into small cubes and simmered for several hours in Oxo, or if you could afford it, Bovril, a much richer version, cooked in one pot on the stove-top. Any kind of vegetables, and lots of potatoes, lentils, barley and split peas were all added to the mix to make a rich stew,which for some reason or other was called Scouse. It is nourishing and delicious and it was always enjoyed in our house, from when I was a child right up to the present time.

The only thing I disliked about it was the barley my mother insisted on including in the ingredients. I hated the feel of it in my mouth and would pick it out and place it around the edge of my plate. It would look like a cheap string of pearls by the time I'd finished my dinner. I was often scolded for doing this, but I never would eat it.

There is a variation of this dish called hotpot, which uses the same ingredients but is layered into a large dish, finishing up with several layers of thinly-sliced potatoes, cooked slowly for several hours in the oven. The potatoes on top turn brown and crispy and this is often my choice of dinner. Once everything is prepared, there is nothing more to do other than wait for it cook. During the war when beef and all meat was severely rationed, these dishes would still be made minus the meat, when they earned the name of Blind Scouse, still substantial and nourishing but less expensive to make.

The city dwellers are well known for their rich sense of humour. Many have quipped that you have to possess one to survive in Liverpool! It actually has spawned many comedians who have risen to fame, including Ken Dodd and Jimmy Tarbuck, to name just two, but there are many others who have made their names in show business. Theirs is a special kind of topical humour which often only the locals understand or relate to, but something I can still chuckle about. They see the funny side of life in their own poverty-stricken and often harsh lives and make jokes about themselves. They are usually generous, goodhearted people who welcome you into their homes and share whatever they have with you. The first thing they do is put the kettle on the stove, because a cup of tea is the solution to every problem under the sun, according to them! They are the real salt of the earth and would give you the shirt off their back if you needed it.

They speak a dialect uniquely their own and difficult, even impossible, for strangers to understand. The thick nasal tone in their voices is said to be caused by the large amount of salt and pollution in the sea air. The poorest people used to live clustered in rows of tiny brick terraced houses, fairly close to the docks and waterfront. They often shared a toilet and washing facilities with several other families, and strung their washing from the bedroom windows to dry, across the grimy street below. Along with the label of Scouse, they are sometimes called Whacker - another term of endearment, believe it or not. I've no idea what it means in Liverpudlian terms, but it sounds a bit ominous to me! The dictionary states that it may be alteration of the word 'Thwack' which means a sharp blow. I told you it was ominous!

I used to feel uncomfortable and embarrassed to admit I was born in Liverpool, even though we, as a family, were regarded as middle-class and lived in a quiet area of the city, very law abiding and respectable. I no longer feel ashamed of my birthplace because no one has control over that, only their parents before them.

The tragedy of losing both parents forced my mother in her early teens to leave her beautiful pristine Isle of Man, where she was born and raised, to seek work on the mainland, where she eventually met and married my father, who was a Liverpudlian. Such earth-shaking events change lives and destinies and certainly changed my mother's life completely. She was a reluctant immigrant to England and loved the Isle of Man until she died, her roots still in the place of her birth.

I was born into the Strevens family on Sunday, December 9, 1928, the third child and third daughter. Sadly, their firstborn child died during the birth, an unnecessary death caused by the midwife attending my mother, who had left her alone, remarking she still had a long way to go before the birth. During that absence the baby girl arrived and strangled on the umbilical cord. I can only imagine how painful it must have been for my parents. Mum never liked to talk about it.

They waited two years before having my sister Brenda. Four years later I arrived and then two sons, Roy and Raymond, completed the family. The last arrival was a big surprise, certainly not planned at all, in fact, my parents had got rid of the baby carriage and all other items connected to raising babies, and bought bicycles to enjoy the local countryside on Sundays when Dad was free to do so. That and a half-day on Wednesday were his time off work. They had barely started this new lovely routine before they found there was another baby on the way to upset their plans. Raymond, the last of the children, is eight years younger than I. The best laid plans certainly went awry for them but I'm sure he was a welcome addition to the family.

I recall Raymond's arrival and the weeks which followed for several memorable reasons. Mum's younger sister Marjorie, who had always had health problems, died of pneumonia two days after his birth. She was only thirty-two years old and left a daughter Jean, who was about eleven years old at the time and living with her father. Mum, of course, was confined to bed for two weeks, which was normal in those days. Father arranged for a Home Help to come in and look after the rest of us children. Mrs King was a buxom 'no nonsense' type of woman and Brenda and I took an immediate dislike to her. We didn't like her cooking from the first meal she put on the table. The gravy was revolting to look at, like something the cat had thrown up, white and lumpy, not at all like the rich brown sauce Mum made. We looked at the pallid liquid and Brenda immediately piped up Don't give me any gravy, I don't care for it, then she went on Give Doreen plenty, she really loves gravy. It was the very opposite of the truth. I couldn't eat my dinner because it was swamped in the awful gravy and received a telling off from the harassed Mrs King, whom we hated more as the days went by. She certainly couldn't cook and I was usually on the receiving end of her wrath, really my sister's fault. She constantly got me into trouble with Mrs King. She played some awful pranks on her with Brenda as the ringleader and me as the reluctant follower, too scared to do anything about it. She put salt in her coffee and again I got the blame for it!

Poor woman, she was very relieved when her time was up and we no longer had to tolerate her awful meals. We were also thankful she hadn't told Father how badly we had behaved. I just kept my mouth shut and hoped it would all go away. If Father had found out we had misbehaved, he would have been terribly angry with us both, even though I was the innocent party. Luckily he was too preoccupied with having to go to work and still take care of Mum, the new arrival and the rest of us in the evening when Mrs King departed.

Of course,thankfully,everything eventually returned to normal at 13 Kelso Road. Another new baby-carriage was soon standing in the hallway, a dark green streamlined model, much higher than the low burgundy one which had been around for years. I could barely reach the handle, but I was dying to wheel the new baby. Mum promised I could do so when he was a few months older.

We were a close family growing up in a Liverpool suburb in the 1930s and Sunday was my favourite day. It had a different feel to it from any other day of the week, a silence and a stillness broken only by the church bells ringing and the twittering of birds. The roads were empty of traffic - not that there was much during the week, the shops were all closed with the exception of the newsagents', which would be open for a couple of hours in the morning for the sale of newspapers. Dressed in our best clothes worn only on Sundays, my sister and I would walk to Sunday School, compulsory for the eldest children in the household. I don't recall my parents attending church, except for christening the new baby or functions requiring their presence.

When Sunday School was over we would hurry home and run up the back entry. As soon as we got inside, we could smell the lovely aroma of Sunday dinner. It was usually roast beef, cooked in dripping, withYorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, brown and crispy also cooked in dripping, mashed carrots and turnips, and a jug of rich brown gravy made from the meat drippings, dark and gooey at the bottom, from the roasting pan, kept in a basin on the cold larder slab. It was absolutely delicious! Mum liked to eat it spread on a piece of toast late on Sunday evening, though she didn't share it with us. I imagine it wasn't a very healthy thing to eat, but no one cared about that in those days.

Dessert was usually a thick, creamy rice pudding, made from evaporated milk, baked slowly in a blue enamel dish kept specially for it. The skin on top formed a brown crust, coveted by each of us, including my father, and he was frequently the lucky one to scrape the dish, since quite often he would be last to finish and eat his portion straight from the container, especially if he was late arriving home from work during the week when we sometimes had rice pudding again.

The best part of Sunday was the long-awaited walk during the late afternoon in Newsham Park, where we always found pennies in the grass. Not just once in a while but every time we went! To an innocent four-year-old it was a magical place to visit. It stayed in my mind as I grew up and still I can conjure up that feeling of excitement and joy of finding those pennies. They are among the treasures which I liken to all things which have blessed my long life.

I have been so fortunate to have a family and friends who have contributed to the rich fabric of my being. Earlier this year, when I began writing this revised edition of my book, I read in the newspaper that the United Kingdom and Canada are sending the penny coin into obsolescence by the end of 2013, since it is now regarded as worthless. I know it is true of Canada, but here in England it still seems to be available. I was sad to read that news, even though I realise the tiny coin now has very little value compared to what it had during the 1930s. To me, pennies from the past will always bring back precious memories of those happy, carefree childhood days and the mystery of finding all those pennies in the grass each time we visited the park.

We never doubted for a single moment that we were finding those pennies. But years later we learned that Dad had dropped the money ahead of us and if we missed any he would help us find each of them, exclaiming I thought I saw something shining just about there!We were so naïve and trusting and never questioned our good fortune walking in the park on Sunday afternoons. Neither was I disillusioned when I found out the real reason for our wonderful luck; it just made those pennies seem even more precious to me.

On the way home we would visit the Jubilee Ice Cream Parlour in Kensington to spend our pennies. A cornet of vanilla ice-cream was topped with delicious red raspberry sauce. I always thought the topping was the very best part and licked it slowly to make it last.

I have a heart-warming memory of Dad making his own ice- cream on his half-day off on Wednesday, from the large shoe store where he was manager for many years. Shirt sleeves rolled up tightly on his white, skinny arms, showing his bulging muscles, he would patiently turn the handle of the metal container inside the brown wooden ice bucket, round and round, churning the ingredients until they finally thickened. It would take a long time for that to happen. Eventually when it was ready, all the neighbourhood kids would run up the narrow, cobbled back entry into our back-yard with their assortment of cups for a helping of his delicious ice- cream treat. He was the Pied Piper with his adoring flock of kids every Wednesday afternoon.

He had the energy of ten men in spite of his small stature, and couldn't bear to be idle. I don't recall ever seeing him just sitting down and doing nothing. Every day he cycled fifteen miles to work and back, in all weathers. In the winter, when it was exceptionally wet and very cold, and sometimes snowing, he would wrap newspaper and brown paper around his legs, tying it securely with string to protect him from the elements on his long ride from Fairfield to Walton Road, approximately five miles. Beneath all this he would be dressed in a suit, shirt and tie, as was befitting for the Manager of the Co-op Shoe Store. I never once heard him complain. He was as tough as nails!

I don't recall ever seeing my Dad actually listening to music. The only song I ever remember hearing him sing was a funny little ditty which consisted of about four repetitive lines, which always made us giggle and sing along. I don't know whether he made the song up himself or whether it really existed on the air waves. I think not. It was called When we get married we'll have sausages for tea! There was a second verse which I cannot recall. Maybe it's just as well! Apart from that very undistinguished jingle, I realise I haven't a clue about his taste in music, or whether he had any favourites at all.

Another source of music in our young lives would be a trip to the cinema, and again from a small child's perspective, it was another unforgettable experience. Not because of the movie, I never cared what was on when I was very young, but Mum would take us once in a while when my father was working late with stocktaking chores and I would look forward to it, but only to watch the man sitting at the organ, dressed in a smart black suit and white shirt, coming up through the floor in front of the stage, appearing like magic out of nowhere! That was the fascination for me.

As if that wasn't magical enough, the beautiful draped velvet curtains covering the blank screen would change colour every few minutes. I never took my eyes off them, waiting for the next colour to start rippling up from bottom to top, like a rainbow. It was breathtaking to me as a young child, and certainly the best part of going to the cinema. The lights would eventually dim and the organist would disappear, going back down through the floor, waving his hand to the audience as he went. The curtains would open and make way for the roar of the Metro Goldwyn Mayer lion (MGM for short), which usually heralded the start of the big picture. It was all part of the wonderful world of make-believe.

We've come a long way since those days. The world is a much noisier place. Cellphone and I-phone conversations disrupt any possibility of having a quiet ride home from work, if you are using public transport. They talk so loudly! As if the whole bus needs to hear what is going on! Fat chance of snatching forty winks after a day's work. Music comes at us from everywhere, in stores, elevators, boom-boxes in cars and of course on the end of a telephone, patiently waiting for a real person to speak to, instead of a voice interrupting the awful music repeating itself over and over to reassure you that you are a valuable customer, so please continue to hold on for the next available person. Occasionally I have held on for almost an hour before that happens. It makes me absolutely livid and I complain bitterly to the person who is receiving my wrath. Even trying to get a bank balance is like having the third degree, and sometimes you are speaking to someone in India instead of your actual branch. It is quite mind boggling at times! I think my father would have hated it all and I cannot imagine him ever sitting with a phone held to his ear for even ten minutes for any reason. He would have gone ballistic and I'm certain would have caused a revolution in this modern world.

He taught me a great deal about life and values. I looked up to him and respected his advice and did what he expected of me; I accepted that he knew best. I have to admit there were many times when I wanted to do something quite different to his wishes, but I was born in that generation where the male dominated the household. It wasn't resented - it was just accepted as being normal. Quite different to what I now feel at my present age, some of which would have been totally life changing, but that is hindsight and useless to think about.

My dad was from a large family of ten children. His father was a sea captain, a drunk who kicked his wife about when he was home. She had to collect jam-jars and buy his beer with the money. I never met either of them and my father never talked much about his past. My mother told me that his mum died of stomach cancer before she was fifty years old and his dad left home at the age of ten and went to work in a hotel in the city, where he polished shoes and washed dishes to keep himself. He slept in a cupboard, just big enough for him and his few belongings to exist, until he reached the age of sixteen.

The First World War was raging and he enlisted in the Army, lying about his age to be accepted. He was a Dispatch Rider and served in France. I can't imagine what life was like for him, a boy pretending to be a man, fighting for his country at that young age.

I have an old snapshot of him sitting on his motor-cycle dressed in army uniform, looking quite cocky as teenage boys often do at that age. He was definitely a self-made man, pulling himself up by the bootstraps to educate himself and make a success of it.

One of his most treasured possessions was a set of encyclopaedias, bound in brown leather, which were kept locked up in a glass cupboard. Occasionally he would let me look at them. I would sit on the carpet and hold them in my arms because they were very heavy. I loved reading them, especially the medical section, which showed a skeleton which named all the bones in the body. By the time I reached the age of seven I could recite almost all of them.

He was a very strict parent but kind and compassionate, especially with children. He really did love children and spent his free time entertaining them. Mum used to say if he had his way, he would have had enough children to form a football team! However they settled for five.

CHAPTER TWO

MOTHER

My mother was a Manx woman, born on the small ancient Celtic island which lies in the Irish Sea between the North of England and Ireland and is known as the Isle of Man. Those born on the island were usually black-haired and brown-eyed, with skin which tanned very easily in the sun, and small in stature, much like my mother. It is a small island, only thirty-three miles long by sixteen miles wide, but it's a paradise of emerald green hills, white beaches, turquoise sea, lighthouses, rocks, coves and quaint villages. Its residents have a very relaxed lifestyle and have a philosophy most seem to follow - never do anything today if you can put it off until tomorrow!

They have managed to keep this philosophy intact and one gets the impression that most of the island is still many years behind the neighbouring countries. Only the capital, Douglas, which caters mainly to tourists, ever appears to be busy and of course this changes in the winter months.

Approaching by ferry you arrive at Douglas Head Harbour to see the long promenade with its green boulevards and colourful flowerbeds on the sea side and miles of Victorian hotels on the other. My mother was the middle child of three daughters, born in the small fishing village of Peel, famous for its delicious smoked kippers, eaten mainly for breakfast, everywhere on the island. The harbour is dominated by the dark and rather forbidding ruins of Peel Castle situated on the cliffs, high above the village. Their father was William Halsall, the Station Master of the small railway station in Peel. He died when he was thirty-five of pneumonia, leaving his wife Annie-Eliza, to raise three young daughters, Doris, the eldest, Vera, my mother and Marjorie, the youngest, a frail child who suffered from asthma.

Grandma Halsall must have been quite the entrepreneur. She converted the front parlour of their very modest house into a general store and Post Office, baking bread in the early hours of the morning to be delivered to customers each day. This was my mother's job