LIFE AT Consett (1940s)
Consett, the town of iron and steel and
coal,
Men laboured long and hard, some drew
the dole,
Others, the jobless, begged their daily
bread,
Men without hope wishing they were
dead.
A war was on, the searchlight’s beam was
a sign,
The warplane’s drone sent shivers down
our spine,
In the snow we queued at the butcher’s
for our meat,
In a blacked-out Consett life was far from
sweet.
At school we learned of Queen Victoria’s
reign,
We knew if we played the fool we’d get
the cane,
We learned of the British heroes, Nelson,
Drake,
I’d rather have been at home eating
chocolate cake.
Victorian children we learned worked in
the pit,
Deep down in the darkness working in
grime and grit,
Opening and shutting the trapdoors,
covered in dust,
Working-class slaves in a system obscene
and unjust.
The winters were fierce, the winds were
icy cold,
We longed for a sun-filled summer to
unfold,
To play by the sea on a sun-kissed
Northumberland shore,
To make us feel we had walked through
heaven’s door.
The parish church was a place of peace
and joy,
Surrounded by angels, I sang as a
choirboy,
God in the sacred music was easy to find,
Away from the siren’s wall, the daily grind.
The Reverend John Stephenson,
Sunderland
MY DAD
Sunday dad goes to the club for a drink,
He’s on the committee. He’s important, I
think.
“Help peel these tatties,” from the kitchen
calls mum. “There’s dinner to make. Don’t
sit on yer bum.”
As dinner goes on the plate, dad bursts
through the door. There’s meat and
vegetables and Yorkshires galore.
He sits at the table, always at the top.
Mum passes round gravy. “Watch out, it’s
hot.”
Dad cracks a few jokes, eats dinner and
sighs: “Might have to go and lie down for
a while.”
Now dad’s in bed, so nobody shout.
Tracey and I will shine apples, no doubt.
The best meal of the week is about to
unfold. Sunday tea, cakes, biscuits,
scones and sandwiches cold.
Food on the table, tea in the pot.
Milk and two sugars is what we all got.
Dad comes to the table with a very cheeky
smile. Kathy Kirby hair, and white vest, he
sits for a while.
He lifts his right cheek and lets off a ripper.
It rattles round the table like Blackpool big
dipper.
“Fred!” me mum scolds, but we all find it
funny. Priceless, I think, worthy of
anyone’s money.
Dad you’re fantastic. I love you so much
For helping me become English… not
Dutch. (Well not many words rhyme with
much.)
Marlene Redfearn, Barnard Castle
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