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 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.

With 55 households being concentrated into such a small area you would expect a certain amount of friction between neighbouring families but actual disputes appear to have been remarkably few. Most village men folk worked together down the Prince of Wales pit, an industry that demanded close comradeship at all times. This, coupled with the fact that they even grouped up to walk to and from the pit together at unsociable hours, and through all weathers, built up a strong bond that extended beyond the pit gates and into their social and domestic lives.

Most men were members of the nearby Grove Road Angling Club, regardless of whether or not they actually fished, and therefore they knew each other and their respective families well. Not surprisingly, quite a number of families were related to each other, but irrespective of family ties, every adult was regarded as an aunt or uncle by us kids and grandparents were to be shared by all.

We felt as though we were not just members of a community but of a large family and it seemed that while we were out at play, we were being constantly watched over by more than just our actual parents. At times this could be an unwelcomed nuisance for we could not get away with too much mischief however, in retrospect I can see a definite advantage in this.

We were at war and food, money and most essential commodities were hard to come by. This was another kind of bonding agent for it was not uncommon to have a knock at the door by a neighbour who was after cadging a jug of milk, a cup of sugar or half a bag of flour. True friendship was judged according to who turned up on a later day to repay the favour!

Even Christmas time was a very austere scene. Stockings were hung up overnight and in the morning we excitedly emptied the contents usually consisting of small toys bought from Woollies for a few pennies and a few items of fruit - even a banana or orange was considered a rare treat - and a bar of Nestles chocolate. Any larger toy would have been second-hand and shared between us. Nevertheless, we were just as thrilled with our presents as today's kids are and probably more contented. One thing was for certain - everyone around us was no better off.

My dad was in the army for most of the war in the artillery stationed in the Orkneys at Scappa Flow and therefore we only saw him briefly when he came home on leave. Mother had to cope with us four kids by herself during our early years.

I have heard it said that you cannot remember much that happened to you in your first five years or so but I do distinctly remember certain events from that period. For example the times we were ushered into the air raid shelters after the sirens had sounded and sat on my mothers lap in the darkness amid the humorous banter from other occupants while we waited for the all clear siren. Fortunately for mother the shelters were situated in a line along the front of Oak Street and therefore within easy reach for her and her brood. On re-emerging from a shelter one sunny afternoon I recall a neighbour drawing attention to a blanket hanging amongst other washing across the street which had a large hole in it and passed the comment, ''phew!, that bomb passed a bit too close for comfort!'' In all fairness I reckon that most bedding and clothing had holes in it in those days.

As kids we were very much amused at the sight of some old dears hanging out their bloomers to dry containing a collection of large patches sewn on in an attempt to make them last a little longer. There were often more patches than original material.

Another vivid memory I can recall was on one sunny afternoon when my older sister Eileen walked us younger siblings under the railway bridge towards town and only got as far as the Angling Club when we heard a series of distant thuds that stopped us in our tracks. A number of men came running out of the Club and advised my sister to take us home immediately. What we had heard was a daytime bombing raid on the ordnance works at Thorpe Arch, nearly twenty miles distant, but it was near enough to have the Pontefract air raid siren sounded and we spent most of that sunny afternoon in the shelter.

Fortunately, Pontefract suffered only minimum attention from the German bombers, but apparently, one night after a raid on Leeds a returning crew caught sight of a train setting off from Baghill station and dropped his remaining few bombs in its direction. They missed and, sadly, fell on houses in nearby Midland Road with loss of life. One bomb failed to explode and after it was recovered from the debris a coin slot was cut in it and it was then placed near the Buttercoss to be used as a 500lb. collection box for the war effort. Afterwards it laid forgotten in the Corporation yard off Headlands Road for many years until it found its present resting place in Pontefract Museum. Effectively defused I trust.

Other memories were of standing on the railings at the foot of the railway embankment, which we often did to watch the passing trains, and seeing the frequent troop trains with servicemen crammed inside the compartments while others leant out of the door windows. On request from us they dipped into their kit bags and threw tins of food down to us. These usually contained either corned beef or spam and were dressed up in army 'house colour khaki with WD written all over them but, however humble the contents, they were much appreciated by mothers as a welcome surplus over and above the normal food rationing.

Other more poignant memories, however, were of slowly passing hospital trains displaying large Red Cross emblems on their carriage sides with bandaged soldiers gazing at the outside world and, no doubt, on seeing us kids by the line side conjured up thoughts of their own families back home who they were shortly to rejoin.

An amusing incident occurred in the village during the war when a few armoured vehicles suddenly rushed in on the scene and mustered on spare ground beyond Fox's shop causing great panic and a 'lock up your daughter' paranoia. When the dust finally settled it appears that a convoy of military vehicles had been travelling along the Great North Road when one of their numbers, with some local knowledge, remembered the off-licence in Grovetown and made a swift detour over Chequerfield’s from north of Darrington. After quenching their thirst and allowing us kids to climb all over their vehicles they retraced their tracks heading eastwards in a cloud of dust and, belching black exhaust, soon disappeared over the eastern horizon. Thus, with its wartime excitement now over, downtown Grovetown, a sleepy village where nothing happens, slipped peacefully and contentedly back into slumberland.

A grand old couple lived next doors to us at No. 15. They were Willie and Nellie Clayburn, who were like an extension to our family and we spent some happy times in their company. Willie was a tall fellow with a rustic complexion and a white moustache and as toddlers we certainly looked up to him, while Nellie was small and quite thin. Both had a great sense of humour. They had a daughter, Elsie, who had married farmer Ball from Oxclose Farm just across the railway from us. They in turn had a son and daughter, Jack and Harriet, who helped with a milk round run from the farm and all were quite well known throughout Pontefract as a result. Oxclose Farm was pulled down by a firm run by James Wilby of Friarwood but at what date I do not know, nor, sadly, do I know of any surviving pictorial record of it.

Willie Clayburn had retired but worked part time for the Pease family of The Grove and also ran an allotment on which he kept hens. Quite often we would walk into their kitchen and see him busily preparing a dead hen he had brought home for dinner and he took great delight in showing us a few unlaid eggs he had extracted from it. They were no more than yellow yolk sacs which he would then swallow raw and treated them as a delicacy. Needless to say we kids stood well away and just gazed in both wonderment and disgust. When he offered us a taste of his delicacy there were no takers. Obviously it did him no harm for they both enjoyed extremely good health and lived to a ripe old age only to succumb soon after moving to modern premises at Blackburn Court when Grovetown was demolished.

The Pease family, who lived at the Grove, comprised two brothers, Charles (Charlie) and Francis, and a sister whose name I never knew. Charles was a local magistrate and also had connections with Pontefract Race Company. None of these ever married. During a recent visit to Pontefract cemetery I came across the family graves. They employed a man who we kids knew as 'Bobby' Turnbull, so we assume he was a retired policeman and we were always of good behaviour when he was around. One of his duties was that of chauffeur and he was often seen driving a large but ageing brown and black Austin saloon to and from the house.

The Grove was a lovely stone structure with bay windows on either side of a central front door and most likely of Georgian period. A former resident was a Mr. Trueman of Pontefract Bank fame and one time Mayor of Pontefract; Trueman was also responsible for erecting Cranky Pin, the leaning monument at one time standing on Chequerfield but pulled down just after the war. The main access to the house was along a drive via a gate on Grove Road and through what is now known as Peases’ field. There was also a rear access to brick stable blocks and farm buildings from Churchbalk Lane alongside the shop which was then owned and run by the Pickerings’. An orchard separated the house from Churchbalk. Regrettably, The Grove was demolished in the 1970s. and the only surviving remnant of the whole estate is a portion of stone wall marking the Grove Road entrance. I will forever regret not taking a photograph of the Grove, but I do recall seeing one printed in the Pontefract and Castleford Express quite a few years ago so if someone out there has access to the Express microfilm archives it should be possible to locate and publish it for future reference.

Chequerfield Estate did not appear until about 1947 so in our Grovetown years there were only fields between Churchbalk, Carleton, Willow Park and Eastbourne estates with all the usual arable farming taking place. Among my more pleasant memories was harvest time on Chequerfield when a faded red stationary threshing machine driven by a continuous belt from a steam traction engine could be seen hard at work while being fed with wheat by a small army of recruited farmworkers. Meanwhile a leisurely procession of horse and tractor hauled wagons carried the grain and straw away. Another memory is the curiously attractive smell of tractor exhaust while running on tractor vapourising oil (T.V.O), as they did as a wartime economy measure, mixing with either a sweet scent of new mown hay or even the earthly humus odour from freshly ploughed soil. All on a Grovetown doorstep. Three mature trees stood at the bottom of Peases’ field and remained there well into Chequerfield Estate days while the area across Grove Road and extending right up to the hill - which we knew as Burnley's Hill - was one mass of allotments.

In a garage on these allotments Mr. Nunns, a Grovetown resident, kept his immaculate light brown Ford Anglia car - the only Grovetown-owned car at the time. Between these allotments and the railway line (where Gents factory now stands) was a long, narrow field which extended right down to the station boundary and was overlooked by a signal box. A beck ran between this field and the allotments. At the top of this field adjacent to Grove Road stood a wooden mission hut run by the Knottingley Salvation Army branch. Its interior was immaculate with walnut veneered wall panelling, highly polished bench pews and the obligatory pedal operated harmonium. We attended the weekday evening service as these were designed for us young folk and were well attended. At 7.20pm, however, I confess to my eyes and mind being more focused on the railway signal, which was visible through the window, being 'pulled off' in readiness for a Bristol to York express train to pass as it was always hauled by a 'Jubilee' class locomotive! The field was neither fenced or cultivated in our early years and came in handy as yet another play area. In later years, however, it did become fenced off and was used for a while by a horse riding school run by a Mr. Thornton. Burnley's Hill came in handy during winter time as an ideal sledging track along with a smaller mound in Bally's field.

Beyond the signal box and adjacent to the railway goods yard stood a long goods shed. One hot Summer afternoon we heard a train pass Grovetown which had just restarted from Baghill Station and soon afterwards heard a loud crackling sound. On looking out we saw that the goods shed roof had been ignited by a spark from the locomotive. As the roof was covered with bitumen felt, already at melting point due to the heat of the sun, the flames quickly took hold and within minutes had spread along the whole length of the roof. The resulting inferno did considerable damage before it could eventually be brought under control.

Another large fire we witnessed occurred late one dark evening and involved the liquorice works of Hilaby's in Front Street. Although situated on the other side of town from Grovetown the flames from the vast amounts of sugar stocks were so high we could see them from our own doorstep. We were taken to the scene the following day where firemen were still damping down. All that was left of the factory was a blackened empty shell. Fell carpets repaired part of the building but when they eventually moved out the site was cleared to make way for the Kwiksave store - now used by Asda.

As a rule doors were not locked even though the front doors opened directly onto the pavement and illumination throughout the village amounted to only a few well scattered 4-mantled gas lamps. And, yes, we had a lamplighter who walked the whole district each evening armed with a long pole carried on his shoulder with a small flame and hook on the end. At each gas lamp he would use the hook to pull down a chain hanging from below the glass cage to open the gas valve and then use his flame to ignite the mantels before moving on to the next lamp. The following morning a return visit would be required to turn off each light. Regrettably, modern technology crept in on the scene as each lamp was eventually fitted with a clockwork timer. Then, literally overnight, Mr. Lamplighter became Mr. Winder-upper of clockwork timers and enjoyed more socially acceptable working hours, though to many it seemed yet another sad loss of a romantic scene. The song, 'The old lamp lighter of long, long ago', aptly portrays the sight and atmosphere of those lamplighter years.

Another less romantic figure walking Grovetown streets who most definitely did not work socially acceptable hours was the village knocker-upper. His day would start at around 4am. calling at selected houses by appointment carrying a long pole, usually a clothes line prop, and tap at the bedroom window continually until a sleepy-eyed miner slid open his sash window and showed his face as evidence that he was indeed out of bed and so ready for work. If he got no response from his pole tapping, the Knocker-upper would resort to throwing a few choice stones at the window and shouting until he got a response. Not long afterwards came a clip-clop sound of hob nailed pit boots trudging along the pavements. Initially one pair, then two, then many more as the miners met up to walk to the Prince of Wales pit together. Two hours later hob nailed boots would be heard again as the night shift wearily made their way home to bed and woe betide anyone to make a noise for the next few hours and awake them from their slumber. Door slamming was definitely banned.

On Front Street, conveniently placed on the miner’s run, was a barbers shop run by barber Lowe. He was an ex-army barber and quite a dab hand at basin cuts or short back and sides - regulation style, of course. He obviously did not require much sleep, just like our knocker-upper, for he opened his shop at 4am. It was not uncommon for miners to call in for a haircut on their way to work when on the 6am. shift, let alone on their way home from a night shift, as he worked on them like greased lightning.

Race days were special occasions as our granddad on my mother’s side would be sure to visit us. He lived just outside Rotherham and would catch one of the race special trains into Baghill Station then walk from there straight down to the park, calling afterwards at our house for tea before catching a later train home. Granddad was a smart chap at the best of times but really looked the part for a day at the races in his green tweed sports coat, a light brown flat cap, carefully creased flannels and highly polished sturdy brown shoes. His broad South Yorkshire drawl really fascinated us kids as we sat around listening to his 'if only' accounts of near misses with the day’s betting. "Only donkeys been running today", he would say, "How could you pick a winner from a field like that?" But when he was called to the table for his tea and started downing large portions of the pound of raw tripe, soaked in vinegar, that mother had specially bought earlier from Schofield's tripe stall for him, there was a quick exit through the front door by us kids. I cannot recall us actually sitting down at the table for tea with him but we soon reappeared when he had finished, for deep down we were very fond of him in every other respect. We always looked forward to visiting him, usually on Bank Holidays, for not only did we like to see him personally but the journey to Rotherham meant a combined ride on the train and a trolley bus. It also gave us a chance to see again Granddad's pet border collie dog, Pete (or should it be Peat?) who Dad brought down from the Orkneys to Grovetown as a pet for us kids when once on leave, but he proved too boisterous for us toddlers so Granddad took Pete home with him. Both lived to a grand old age.

No one travelled about much during the war years so entertainment for us young'uns was very much localised and centred on playing out in the fields or street games such as a football kickabout and Levi Hi Ho, which lasted for hours. Marbles lasted a long time too as we spent a lot of time retrieving them from gutter drains as we could not afford to buy replacements. The girls took to skipping with lengths of broken clothes lines. Hide and seek was very popular as there were plenty of hiding places in the village ginnels and also in back yards if we happened to find a gate unlatched.

On pancake day (Shrove Tuesday) out came whip and tops - sometimes it was actually referred to as whip and top day. These had been stored at the bottom of the lumber cupboard from the previous year along with coloured chalks to decorate the tops. Pavements were full of them and their owners, but we did not miss out on the actual pancakes themselves which were laced with sugar, orange or lemon juice, while others were served up with a smattering of jam or treacle. Needless to say all the street games were played well away from lines of washing that were strewn across the streets as there were some women in the village who we would not dare to fall foul of by dirtying their whites or any other colour come to think of it.

On certain warm summer evenings one teenage lad, who lived in Elm Street, would sit on his front doorstep and give an impromptu medley of popular tunes on his harmonica. He would soon be surrounded by other villagers of all ages who united in a communal sing-a-long, especially with the sentimental ballads of the time. Moths appeared to dance in time to the music in the gas lamplight while the occasional spooky firefly, as we called them, winged their way out of a dark ginnel opposite towards Bally’s field.

House gable walls were popular with us kids on cold evenings as we soaked up the warmth from raging coal fires within.

Saturday mornings were spent at the 'flicks', usually the local Playhouse, but sometimes venturing to foreign parts of town like the Premier and Alec, down Tansh, or the old Crescent for the usual helpings of cowboy serials. Personally I found these boring especially the inevitable cliff hangers at the end of each episode as the following week’s outcome was far too obvious - he always managed to climb back up! - but we had a good laugh all the same and thought it a tanner worth spent. Some of the 'smart' kids paid less and were made to sit on the front rows seemingly willing to risk permanent neck damage by having to look upwards at near vertical angles through being only a few feet away from the screen, but when the lights were dimmed they would crawl under the seats to rows further back. They were easily picked out soon afterwards in usherette torchbeams for they were the ones whose jackets or pullovers were thick with dust, fluff, discarded chewing gum, fag ends, stale apple cores and other unmentionable matter from a not too clean floor and were promptly dispatched back from whence they came, much to our amusement.

In later years we made the Crescent our weekly venue as the Star group who owned it employed a compere who was known to us as Uncle Tony. He did a great job of leading us in a sing-a-long and even on occasions a local talent session during the film interval which we thoroughly enjoyed. Afterwards we ran our way (we seemed to run everywhere) to Woollies biscuit counter where for a penny we could get a large paper bag full of broken biscuits. On some occasions there were no broken ones to be seen but there was always a sympathetic assistant who would have a clumsy spell with the biscuit tins and in next to no time there would be enough for all.

Our run home took us down Gillygate, with a quick diversion straight through the men’s urinal, and a call at the adjacent newsagent for our Dandy and Beano comics. This was later augmented by the Eagle comic for our weekly space adventures with Dan Dare versus the green egg-headed character from Venus known as the Mekon.

On passing the fish and fish shop at the bottom of Gillygate we would pause to view a model lighthouse in the window with a flashing light illuminating perspex beams bearing the wording - Fish Fryers Federation. Hung up on a screen behind was a framed verse which read - 'Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean, but when it came to fish and chips, they licked their platters clean'. We were curiously fascinated by these items.

Also on our way home we ran down Slutwell Lane with its steep, cobbled road, passing on the left a large house with its front door opening direct onto the pavement with a wooden canopy over it. This was Sarminjo Lodge, a former All Saints’ Church vicarage, named by a previous vicar who composed an anagram from the first letters of his three daughters names, Sarah, Minnie and Josephine (Sarminjo) one of whom spent her last days in the family home. It was demolished and the land absorbed into the Hospital grounds. Slutwell Lane most likely derives its name from sloath or slow well - not as is usually suggested.

Further down on our left stood a joiner’s workshop and the large wooden cattle market complex now occupied by part of Friarwood car park and Stringers’. This was an extremely busy place on cattle market days with even special cattle trains into Baghill goods yard.

Whereas the present Slutwell Lane terminates at a 'T' junction with the re-modelled Friarwood Lane, it used to continue straight down to the still extant Mayfield Avenue terraced houses before turning sharp right immediately in front of them and onwards to the present junction with Grove Road. This section was narrow and pretty much hemmed in by high brick walls on either side with overhanging shrubs while the frontage of No.1 Mayfield seemed precariously situated being right at the bottom of a very steep hill.

About 100 yards along Grove Road, a narrow stone stile was built into the stone wall at the foot of the railway embankment which provided a short but clumsy footpath route to Station Lane and Baghill Station. Initially, this led us around the boundaries of those Mayfield properties, marked by a row of old railway sleepers stood on end, before opening out into a mini valley flanked by an embankment, above which stood the cattle market on one side and a deep cutting with a stream flowing at its base on the railway side. Further along, a row of allotments stood between the path and the railway goods yards. On reaching the foot of Station Lane embankment, a wooden kissing gate was passed through which led straight on to a flight of very steep wooden steps to reach road level. This was the clumsy part, for it was quite a task to negotiate these two obstacles armed with bulky luggage when dashing to catch a train, but it was either this or Slutwell Hill! However, this path became a popular short cut to the Senior Boy’s School in Back Northgate during later years.

Ewbanks 'Eagle' liquorice works stood on the right of Grove Road with its odd profiled square sectioned black chimney belching out equally black smoke. This did not detract from the deliciously sweet aroma wafting from the open windows as the also black substance of liquorice along with accompanying sugary ingredients were being processed into delicious confectionery inside. The deep, sweet root of natural locally grown liquorice had long since been superseded by a liquorice extract in concentrated cake form imported from Spain thus we referred to it as Spanish. In that form, as a raw material, it resembled lumps of coal in appearance and was so strong to taste that it was totally unpalatable and not at all sweet. Strange how Pontefract’s economy became dependent on black liquorice and black diamonds both of similar appearance.

On the roadside was a loading bay and if the right person happened to be on duty he would, by request, disappear into the factory and return with hands full of spice for all. Why we ever used the term ‘spice’ when referring to sweets I will never know. Ewbanks employed mostly female workers and it was fascinating to watch a whole army of them streaming out of the gates at each shift ending, cascading in all directions. Some would still be wearing green smocks, and the obligatory turban, but all would be covered from head to foot in starch. These girls were, literally, the sweetest girls in town. Mother worked there part time when we kids started school and often spoke of the happy atmosphere that prevailed. A result of aroma therapy?

Near to the factory gates stood a pair of semi-detached houses, formerly Eagle Villa, which Ewbanks used as their offices and it also incorporated a sweet shop. However, by the time we passed this, our pockets would already be filled with spice! In any case the chip shop was just a block away where we could get a bag of chips for threepence. It never failed to amuse me at the way some lads poured so much vinegar on them that when they got outside they had to tear off a corner of the bag and let the surplus drain out onto the causey. Obviously some food items were plentiful even in rationing days.

After the war, during some rough shunting in the railway sidings overlooking Grove Road, a wagon full of scrap aircraft parts shed a plane wing. Whether Spitfire or Hurricane mattered not for it still became the focus of attention to us kids for fun and games. We managed to drag it to the top of the embankment, sat in the undercarriage recess, and used it to slide down the slope in. Unfortunately the trip was a short one and ended abruptly against the stone wall but we enjoyed the new found toy for a day or two until it was reunited with its counter parts in the wagon. The embankments were completely clear of shrubs in those days - they would not have a chance to generate due to spark throwing by passing steam locomotives. Railside fires were quite common.

On another occasion a group of us took advantage of the goods yard locomotive turntable and used it all too briefly as a roundabout. We were soon chased off but one of the kids was caught and gave all our names to the railway bobby. The result was that those of us who were eight years old and over, later appeared in court before a magistrate who happened to be a Mr. Pease from nearby The Grove who knew us all very well. There was an air of humour prevailing in the courthouse that morning at the spectacle of a dozen apologetic looking youngsters lined up in front of the bench - not enough room in the actual dock - while Magistrate Pease did his level best to keep a straight face and deliver a stern message to us about the dangers of railway trespass, before passing his judgment. The maximum fine for trespass on the railway was forty shillings then, but we got a ten shilling fine, a good lecture and a damn good hiding, all of which obviously worked for we were never in trouble again. At least not on railway property.

However, trains have held a lifelong fascination for me and some of my most pleasant memories are of watching them from the lineside in the Grovetown locality including witnessing a one-off arrival of Bertram Mills Circus train which unloaded at Baghill and formed a procession - animals, keepers, performers and all - which later threaded its way through town and on to Pontefract Park. There was always a large variety of trains along the 'Baghill Line' with an equal variety of steam locomotive workings as both the L.M.S. and L.N.E.R. were still operating engines originally built in the 1800s.

Fortunately for Pomfretians, most of these scenes have been captured for posterity through the camera lens by Peter Cookson, who, in his own quiet style, also stood by the lineside watching the same trains. We are eternally grateful to him, especially as he has allowed his photographs to be shared by all in past editions of the 'Digest' and elsewhere. Nevertheless, even Peter will agree that no picture will ever truly record the delightful experience of actually being at the lineside and watching these workhorses, either ambling by on goods trains or thundering along hauling a smart express train. The sight, sound and smell are unique to this machine and will ever be at the forefront of my memories of Grovetown and later when I lived in Chequerfield.

So captivated by these machines was I, that on leaving school I got a job at Normanton engine sheds on the footplate, and loved working on them so much that I thought nothing of pedal biking the seven miles to work and back from Chequerfield at all times throughout day and night and enduring all weathers. Thunderstorms, ice, fog and snowdrifts while biking to work did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm for them. But that is another story.

Grovetown had essentially two shops, as there was a small affair operated from the front room of a house in Elm Street who just sold odds and ends, but the main shop occupied the corner of Oak Street and Elm Street This was run by the Fox family but when Mr. Fox died in the 1940s it was run by Mr. Nettleship who I understand was the son-in-law. It incorporated an off licence and on the gable end fronting on to Grove Road was the wording, 'Hammonds Tower Ales'.

Behind the air raid shelters alongside Oak Street was a fence of old railway sleepers set up on end which gave off the curiously attractive aroma of old creosote on hot summer days. This fence and the railway line formed the boundary of a long, narrow field which extended from near Swanhill bridge down to Grove Road and is now occupied by Ashleigh Avenue. We knew this as Bally's field as it belonged to Oxclose farm situated on the town side of the railway where Carleton Glen estate now is and was farmed by a Mr. Ball and family. This field was used for grazing up to four horses at a time. One of these, named Billy, was spooked by a passing train and became entangled in a wire fence breaking its leg in the process. We later witnessed the sad sight of him being put down and carted away. Billy was a friendly horse and a favourite of the local kids. Needless to say, Bally's field was one of our favourite play areas in happier days.

Swanhill bridge comprised of three arches and echoed the design of the viaduct still straddling Knottingley Road. It was a legend in its days, as the arch nearest Grove Lea developed a dangerously looking hump which lifted the parapet and road surface by about six inches in a 'sleeping policeman' formation. As kids we always sat on the back seat of any bus we caught from town as we enjoyed being thrown up out of our seats when the bus passed over this hump. The hump should have given cause for concern, particularly at the great height of the bridge above railway track level, but it had been there throughout everyone’s living memory and was accepted as being safe. However, when eastern extensions to mining activities from the Prince of Wales pit were proposed, the structure was deemed unable to accept the expected ground subsidence and so it was dynamited early on 27th March 1982 and replaced by the present characterless bridge.

As Oak Street was the longest street onto which all other streets opened, it became the natural selection for the Grovetown street party to celebrate the end of the war. As with most local communities of the day, tables belonging to every household were commandeered and positioned end to end along the street to be piled, seemingly sky high to us small ones, with all manner of sandwiches, cakes, buns and dish upon dish of our favourite childhood specialities - trifle and jelly. No one seemed to know from where all the ingredients came in order to home bake and prepare all these eats, bearing in mind food rationing was still with us and, indeed, was to remain in place well into the 1950s, and no one cared. There prevailed an overriding relief that the hostilities had ceased and even though our area escaped the worst of death and destruction endured by others, nevertheless the overall disruption to every day lives war can bring about was universal. Moreover, families were being gradually reunited as service men and women returned home. To us kids, blissfully oblivious to the harsh realities of wartime as we should rightly be, it was yet another happy day we were spending together and another precious memory to store away to recall in future years.

Along with the end of the war came the revival of bonfire night. A narrow strip of spare land between the backs of Elm Street and Grove Road came in handy to site the village bonfire which was always huge, and so were the stocks of home made parkin and treacle toffee; perhaps even a toffee apple from Pontefract statice fair which always coincided with bonfire night. At first, firework numbers were limited due to immediate post-war restrictions but they gradually built up over the years to a fine show. However, for us kids the following morning was just as pleasurable for we always managed to revive the fire and sat around it baking our potatoes in the embers.

Apart from Oxclose Farm, the site now known as Carleton Glen contained a line of allotments, about fifteen in number. These were to the rear of the farm and stretched uphill towards Swanhill with a beck and tall hawthorn hedge forming the farm boundary. After the war Dad shared one of these allotments with our uncle Jim (Kitch) Walker and on it they kept pigs and hens and, in addition to growing the usual vegetables, there were also rows of Carnations, Pyrethrums and Sweet Williams.

Our access to these allotments was gained by passing beneath the iron railway bridge, turning immediately left behind the present doctor’s surgery and on to a track which continued parallel to the railway for a 100yds towards Oxclose Farm gates. Here we turned sharp right then left and on to the allotments themselves. Lush pastures and horticultural nurseries were very much in evidence.

We always referred to this site as Cranky Pin but for what reason I do not know as the name refers properly to the Waterloo monument. This was the tall obelisk built by Mr. Trueman over on Chequerfield which during its existence developed a pronounced list to one side, thus acquiring the nickname ‘Cranky Pin’.

As a family we spent many a happy hour on the allotment, particularly on Sunday mornings. It was always sunny, rain only fell overnight when it would be more beneficial to the crops, while the only air movement was an occasional warm balmy breeze to waft the sweet scent our way from a silent Ewbanks liquorice works.

Another surprisingly pleasant odour on our allotment drifted from the stewing vegetable matter in the coal-fired, brick built boiler alongside the pigsty. The accompanying smells from the actual sty were quite another thing as Daisy paced up and down until her warm meal was eventually bucketed into her trough along with a few lumps of coal for good measure. Vitamin supplements?

One character, who cultivated the first plot, was a gentleman named Harry Potts who I believe lived on Friarwood. Harry, Mr. Potts to us kids, was the much respected patriarch of the site, being the secretary, and I think that he is pictured in the photograph on page one of the Digest No.20 in the left background. He was in a position to keep a watchful eye over other allotment holders but was very approachable and always willing to share his vast knowledge of all things horticultural.

Yet another faithful sentinel who watched over us was the tall crowned tower of St. Giles whose quarterly chimes kept us tuned in to the other world beyond Friarwood. There was not the conglomeration of hospital buildings in those days so the clock face could be easily read - not that time mattered to us kids, but the later peal of St. Giles ten bells in accompaniment with those of distant All Saints meant to Mother that it was time to gather some veg and head off home to prepare Sunday dinner. Her hungry brood would not be too far behind.

Sunday 'lunch' was not part of a working class scene then as midday was definitely dinner time and Sunday dinner was always special with traditional Yorkshire pud served of course as a starter, followed by the freshly picked veg with whatever meat our rations would allow, finishing off with, perhaps, rhubarb crumble. No wonder we were close behind!

Had we carried straight on from under the railway bridge, which was prone to flooding, the footpath that still runs alongside Grove Road Angling Club would take us along a leafy glade route past idyllic Ashcroft Cottage, across a small footbridge over a beck, and then out into an open section between fields towards a row of tall poplars. This path was paved throughout its route and terminated at Southfield Avenue terrace on Friarwood Lane opposite where Valley Gardens’ gates are now situated, but of course, these gardens were not developed to any extent until the early 1950s. This walk was very rural, quite picturesque, and a more popular route to town than the alternative one up Slutwell despite having to ascend Friarwood steps which, incidentally, we always called Bluebell steps. The path from Friarwood Lane to the foot of the actual steps was attractively laid in sandstone setts and bounded by orchards on either side with stone fronted Friar Wood Cottage half way along on the right.

Had we turned left on to Mayors Walk and trod the elevated footpath on the right hand side, now very much overgrown, we would reach the base of a high stone retaining wall near Button Park. Built into the foundations was a stone projection that formed a convenient low bench which we kids would visit in early May and look over Cranky Pin listening for the first calling of the Cuckoo in answer to our own calling. On some occasions we were lucky but more often than not the only Cuckoos calling were the ones seated on what we appropriately called the Cuckoo stone!

When we grew older and wandered further afield, the lanes from Carleton towards Hundhill became popular for us and a favourite venue was the 'Brick Pond'. This was situated between the railway line and the footpath that still runs from Hardwick Road bridge towards the rear of Carleton High School. Originally it was excavated to extract clay for use in brick manufacture, hence its nickname ‘Brick Pond’, but was eventually abandoned and in time filled up with rainwater, thus becoming a haven for wildlife and well stocked with fish. On its eastern side, seepage occurred, swamping the grassland amongst which dwelt large numbers of frogs and newts. In later years Pontefract Corporation angling club obtained sole fishing rights there but it suffered the same fate as Barstow's pond near Monkhill by being filled in for safety reasons. Fortunately it survived throughout our Grovetown years and I'm sure all who played around it will treasure the memories of days we spent there together.

In January 1947 along came the snowfalls which lasted into Springtime. Every night brought a fresh covering of a few inches. Grovetowners went outside each morning with shovels to clear their respective portion of causey and roadway but, naturally, the first priority was to clear a path to the backyard toilet. To slam your front door was taboo as the accumulated snow on the roof gradually slid down the slates to hang precariously over the wooden guttering in deep sheets that sometimes covered part of the upstairs window - and right above the causey! Slam or no slam, the inevitable avalanche did occur and unsuspecting pedestrians would have to be dug out and revived after receiving a smattering of icy snow down their backs. Opening the front door was also done slowly to prevent built up snow from falling inwards. Soon there was no more room for fresh snow to be piled up along the streets for there was no daytime thaw as the freezing temperatures persisted round the clock. Frozen pipes, especially in outside toilets, were inevitable and buckets of hot water provided the first flush of each day with, perhaps, more throughout the day.

Getting about became a lonely experience for us little ones because we could not see each other above the heaped up snow. Grovetowners started their schooldays at Willow Park which normally entailed a trek along cinder tracks over Chequerfied to school but now it was necessary to locate each track under fresh snow coverings before attempting to forge a way forward. Little bare legs (long flannel trousers were only for the older lads) had to be lifted high before being plunged into the snow ahead and wellies soon became snowbound inside as well as outside as we slowly trudged schoolwards, but we always managed to get there. Fortunately, our return trek was all downhill and became yet another opportunity for fun and games.

Buses serving Grovetown were single deckers operated by B. & S. (Bullock & Sons) until that company became part of the West Riding in 1950. They managed to negotiate the downward route from town but the return uphill journey along Churchbalk and Swanhill in thick snow was another matter and on one occasion we had no less than four of their buses stuck in Grovetown streets along with an unsuspecting bread delivery van. Any vehicle not fitted with wheel snow chains was sure to succumb and soon they were fitted to all service and delivery vehicles as well as many cars.

The bitterly cold conditions lasted into March but at long last faithful Spring arrived, as she always does, and a rapid thaw set in. Cuckoos winged their way into Cranky Pin answering the calls from we native ones, soon to be followed by a glorious Summer bringing a welcome relief from months of hardship which by now had evolved into yet another collection of memories.

As car ownership was something far off in the distant future, our early trips from Grovetown to the seaside were mostly dependent on the club trips organised by nearby Grove Road Angling Club, whose chosen destinations were naturally Bridlington or Scarborough, with a singular excursion to foreign parts, namely Cleethorpes. This proved unpopular due to the long distance to travel by bus and also because although geographically situated on the east coast, as the tide ebbs miles eastward, Cleethorpes promenade appears to drift to the west coast! A seaside town without a seaside didn't seem right to us kids and viewing the sea through a pair of binoculars offered no consolation.

As we got no sleep the previous night due to over excitement, we were always up early and ready to go. Younger brother Alan was guaranteed to throw up even before actually seeing a bus, but then settled down nicely on a fresh empty stomach. The eleven or so buses parked up in a long line from opposite the club entrance on Grove Road well past Ewbanks Liquorice Works towards Slutwell, and were always nosed towards the railway bridge. The first three or four buses were reserved for us kids, while parents rode on the others. Before boarding, we had our obligatory lapel badges attached in case we got separated during our day out, but I suspect that some of the parents were secretly keeping their fingers crossed anyway and perhaps neglected to tie them securely. A few shillings in an envelope as pocket money, a bottle of pop and a packet of crisps were handed out and we were away.

On passing Grovetown we always gave a cheery wave to the kids who were left behind, possibly because their dads were not members of the club. Up Churchbalk, Swanhill, along Southgate and under the three arched bridge then down towards Knottingley roundabout from where we picked up our selected route and a fine sight we must have made from the roadside. Two committee members travelled on each kid’s bus, occupying the seat immediately behind the driver, in theory to take charge of us but, in retrospect, I cannot to this day understand how they could do so as we were not even visible to them due to a stack of full beer crates placed conveniently by their side and part obstructing the gangway. Needless to say these were converted to empties long before we got home.

All too soon the return journey had begun with scores of sleepy heads nodding and swaying in sympathy with the motion of the bus as it wound its long weary way back home. We soon came alive again as we neared Whitley Bridge as this was a cue for a customary sing song with a round or two of 'Ten green bottles' and a solemn 'Now is the hour' before we eventually jumped off the bus to meet up with mams and dads for the short walk home.

Our first full week holiday was spent in a little caravan at Sewerby near Flamborough which we reached by taxi from Grovetown and although the weather was pretty dismal it did not dampen our excitement or enjoyment of this new experience. Flamborough remained our favourite holiday spot for the next few years and was spent in all manner of vans including a converted railway carriage such as you would find on most coastal sights in those days.

One sunny day back home whilst we were looking out of our front bedroom window, we caught sight of a strange object gently threading its way down the cinder track from Oxclose Farm. It was a brightly coloured double decker bus that had been converted at the farm into holiday accommodation and was being hauled by a tow vehicle. We watched in total fascination with Mother and Dad as it disappeared out of sight behind the railway line, but what they did not reveal is that they not only knew its destination but also that they had already hired it for a week’s holiday at Flamborough a few weeks hence. The conversion was rudimentary by today's standard but in those years it was the bees knees for holidaying kids, especially climbing the spiral stairs leading to the upper deck at bedtime and for once we did not need any persuasion.

One morning during the Spring of 1948 we left home for school in Willow Park as usual but afterwards, instead of running homewards down the cinder track from Hardwood Avenue to Grovetown, we carried straight on down the new concrete road and into Chequerfield estate - we had moved home. This house was in Broadway and was built by a firm called Gibsons. The exterior was a sea of mud, bounded by a garden wall but the home itself was a completely new concept to the one we left behind in Grovetown, for this one was spacious, had three bedrooms, running hot water and mains electricity! I well remember Mothers encouragement for us in turn to flick a switch alongside the living room door jamb then watched our eyes light up just as brightly as the bare electric light bulb suspended from the ceiling. No more need to ignite gas mantles with a lighted spill from the open fire, standing with one foot on a chair and a knee on the table top! A mains electric Sobell radio was switched on, playing soft music as if to welcome us home - no need for accumulators! Our first television set did not appear until 1952. An upstairs indoor toilet and a bath with a supply of hot water on tap completed the air of modern luxury whilst the absence of central heating meant nothing to us as it was not generally installed in working class homes of the day.

Incidentally, the name Chequerfield is derived from the tree Sorbus Torminalis, otherwise known as the 'wild service tree' or 'chequer tree' due to the pattern of its fruit, which must have grown abundantly there at some time past.

I was to live in Chequerfield until my marriage to Brenda (nee. Chapman) in 1966 when we moved to King Street for a year or two. Then to Lynwood Crescent and latterly to Brockadale Avenue, from where we finally retired and moved to our present home in Kelso, Scotland, after 61 years in Pontefract. Dad died of the usual miners illnesses in 1984 but Mother sailed on to reach a good old age of 91 and actually died in Halberg House within a couple of hundred yards from her original Grovetown home. Brenda's Mum still lives nearby so we have good reason to return to our native grounds.

We have occasionally climbed Burnley's Hill and in a pensive mood, gazed nostalgically over the valleys which were home and playing fields to us both all those years ago, and needless to say there are many changes. Gone is Grovetown, Bally's Field and Ewbanks Liquorice Works, while Cranky Pin is awash with housing as are the Chequerfields. Nevertheless I must admit that from this vantage point, which I do hope will remain a lofty breathing space of open grassland for future generations to enjoy as we did, the overall vista is quite pleasant on a warm sunny day.

Pease's field is still there and the avenue tree planting schemes that struggled so hard to establish themselves against vandalism in the early years have finally matured and even offer a rural atmosphere to the overall picture when in full leaf. Naturally, a more permanent feature that will forever mean homeland to me, as I have previously related, is the crowned tower of St. Giles’ who after two hundred and thirty odd years still watches over all from its own more prominent vantage point.

Working class areas such as Grovetown usually attract a negative stigma and I know people who decline to admit having been brought up in such back streets. I, for one, remain proud of my working class roots and treasure the fond memories of my early years there with my family and pals, and often recall them along with the sweet scents and aromas that always seem to accompany all good visual memories. Grovetown village, amidst its rural location, yet so near to a busy town, was indeed a unique community.

Ken Fox, 2006