Wigan Album

This is the back side of what was our old house in Belle Green Lane and in this state it's not the prettiest backside you’ve ever seen. If the treasured photos that people have put on this site have prompted one thought it must be the - I wish I'd taken a photo of the such and such.......at the time… and, in my case, it's usually quite ordinary things that spring to mind - shops and streets – oh, and the black tank! Whilst so much has gone for ever, and this row of buildings is no exception, at least I did take the picture as a deliberate attempt to preserve the memory. The photo was taken about 1980 just prior to the demolition of the row and although I’m certain mi Mam wouldn’t have been best pleased to see this here I think it’s worth a look at for the sake of backyard posterity.

This house was opposite the Oak Tree Pub, which is still standing, of course, and it changed its number mysteriously in the late sixties. For those intimate with the area it was next door but one to John’s shop, and the big backyard was an open communal space of shared washing line posts bordered by the backs of this terrace and the terraces of Chatham Street and West Street with a dividing wall running the length. We’d relations in both of the adjoining streets. Joe Pearson’s elder tree claimed the corner spec in the sunshine on our half.

Number 89 is listed in the Ince Directory as being occupied by a steelworker. A fairly common job, I suppose, on account of the top place. I’m guessing that in about 1925 it became home to my Great Grandad and thence in turn to my Grandad – both colliery workers - and finally to us for a period of about fifteen years. Over the course of this time it has seen its share of grim days and deaths and joyous, good times and births. My Grandad nursed his Mother with her bed removed into in the front room, commode and all, and he himself passed away in his own bed. When age and infirmity struck the blow or a child was in need it was the way of things that someone in the family would ‘see to’ them. Perhaps also, it was the way of things then that both ends of life would take place in the home.

The outside lavvy was a later, posh addition to the two-up two-down standard mid-terrace and the coal bunker an even later attempt at modernisation. There was a chimney in the corner in the back room but no fireplace, nothing in the way of heating in the back bedroom and a bricked up fireplace in the front bedroom, but, the front room held pride of place with a great black range and the capacity to load about a bag of coal at a time and bake half the street. If you worked in the pit you got concessionary coal. You got it when it came. You got it whether you needed it or not. And, you got it whether you were in or not. It was handy to be in when half a ton of coal arrived for they would empty it straight int coal hole, that is, undert stairs. It’s easy to forget how far a bit of coal dirt can get. My Grandad, working alternate earlies and afternoons, would miss the coalman once a month and be treated to ten bags tipped in a pile int little backyard and have to shovel and bucket this miniature mountain int coal hole. It’s just what you want after a shift down the shaft digging it out!

Coming later, to the Sixties and Seventies and my own childhood, things had changed, but not that much. We still had the coal range but now for the back kitchen we’d a paraffin heater with a parabolic reflector. I could fill it, clean it, prime it and trim the wick by the time I was eight, although I still don’t know what a parabolic reflector is. We had big jumpers and rough army blankets for the bedroom central heating. In winter, the back wall, pictured, would allow water through and the internal walls which were painted in dirty green distemper and ragged with pale pink flowers glistened with moisture. The petty would be frozen both in the lead-lined, wooden cistern and in the bowl and we would have to smash the ice and light a little piece of firelighter in a tin lid in the corner to try to warm things up a bit. You had to watch it that the ripped up squares of newspaper hanging on a nail by the string didn’t catch alight. I jest not!

I have to make mention of the fence. Or, the attempt at a fence. Or, the two attempts at a fence. We’d a dog of the mongrel breed. He was one of few of this pedigree over the years but this particular one was daft and I mean daft. The fence was a piece of plywood just nailed up and was intended to hem him in. The dog had wider horizons than this and longer legs. He just vaulted over it. And so, as the dog grew up the fence grew up a bit at a time as well, even if it was never quick enough and never high enough - the supply of plywood was at a premium not to mention nails. Now, when most adolescent pups do a runner they have one thing on their mind – women. But, not in this case. The target of the dog’s affections wasn’t another dog. Fuelled by his belly and drawn by his nose, he had located Sutcliffe’s tripe works only two backs away behind the Belle Green Pub and discovered it was possible to filch the odd bit of offal. More than once he had returned covered in slime and dragging a cow’s leg and smiling. Well, not a full cow’s leg but the bit from the hoof to the knee. That’s a substantial enough bone for any dog to tackle let alone to drag two hundred yards up the backs whilst being chased by an assortment of other hungry pooches. And, the fun didn’t end when he had gained the relative sanctuary of the little backyard…..

…..mostly, on the boring bus home from school with a head awhirl with sums and homework, I would think about chips and mushy peas wi’ loads of salt and vinegar. It was like comfort eating but lasted longer ‘cos the bus took ages. What you don’t need when you walk in is “….dog’s bint tripe works again…” shattering the anticipation and encroaching upon the delicate aroma of the bubbling peas. Ultimately, I totally abandoned all attempts at diplomacy in this situation. I had totally abandoned all attempts at keeping mi school pants clean as well…..

…..so we had a stare off. Each poised in opposite corners of the yard. Lip curled, teeth bared and salivating wildly and the dog wasn’t too happy either. He simply refused to negotiate. The only thing to be done was to dive in and wrestle it out of its jaws. It wasn’t a dangerous approach ‘cos the dog would never bite. Not that it could with a gobful of leg, but it wouldn’t let go either and you’d just get covered in slime and slaver. By the time the cow’s leg was safely stashed in the bottom of the bin with the lid weighed down with a brick, there was bits of tripe in your hair and up your nose and everywhere. The only cure was a good wash down int tin bath – both of us. It took the edge off your appetite……..

Finally, there is a confession to be signed about the broken window. Well, ok then, two confessions. The downstairs one was done with a catty and murp from the outside. The back bedroom one was done from the inside with a catty and a ball bearing which went berserk, bouncing around the room and ricocheting around, somewhat dully, off the damp walls. In both instances the catty went off while I was cleaning it. No, mi Mam didn’t believe it either. I got a right belt.

That’s the end of this lamentable and possibly over long description of t’back of our ‘ouse. A lament it surely is. But I’m not sure just what it’s a lament for: perhaps for the outside WC and the weeping walls? For the tin bath on the back kitchen floor with a clog under the narrow end to tip it up a bit and save hot water and floating soap scum? For the coal ‘ole and the occasional mouse? For the cockies that moved in when the rest of the row was deserted and we were last to move out? For the Green Flash pumps hanging off the line? For filling next door’s bin up with water when they wouldn’t give us our ball back? For mi Mam’s mushy peas and home-made meyt and prater pies? For the smell of paraffin? For the smell of a wet, tripey dog? For the smell of mi Grandad’s flat cap? For innocence? For carefree days? For cared-for days?

Looking back, (through the shin bone of a cow?) I really don’t know what it’s a lament for. Even the perishing petty didn’t seem that bad at the time. We never looked back then. We never looked forward. We just looked around.

Here is a true lament to end with. It was taught to me when I was about seven with the gently wicked humour of a pitman. Or, perhaps, with the gentle, wicked humour of an Incer. Maybe, it was made up or, maybe, others will have heard it. I know not.

(For those of a sensitive nature the end of the thing is never actually pronounced…..)



Old King Cole – Ince Style


Old King Cole was a merry old soul
And a merry old soul was he.
He called for a light
In the middle of the night
To go to the WC.

The moon shone on the petty wall.
The candle took a fit.
And Old King Cole
Fell down the hole
And he got covered in !!!!