When advancing years fall about the ears and the mind is forty years younger than the body and you know that the reason Elvis married Priscilla was because he hadn’t met you, then is the time to write a ‘memoir, on the life and times of a respectable matron who has led a less than respectable life!

When I found out I had been adopted at a few weeks by a very nice Methodist family who had, on the visit to the ‘nursery’ declined the small baby boy already earmarked for them and took instead the blonde curly haired ‘bimbette’ in the next cot I should have realised I was intended to have a head start in the proceedings called ‘life’.

An inauspicious beginning

A word about my natural mother here, affectionately labelled ‘a bit of a goer’ by those who knew her had a rather celebratory V.E night, it would appear there were two serviceman in the running for the role of ‘my father’ and I do wonder if that has in some way coloured my view of the male of the species, being as I am an absolute sucker for a nice neat bum in a uniform. But I digress, the first candidate was a British soldier (best to keep the home fires etc if you can) he too was a writer of letters and a pal of her brothers. The second and most likely choice for ‘Dad of the year 1945’ was a Canadian perhaps it was the accent , the supply of silk stockings, extra food supplied for Sunday afternoon tea, and the fact that the Canadians were stationed within five miles of the family home had something to do with it.

Mother one presumes had heard the adage of American G.I’s ‘overpaid, over sexed, and over here’ which applied to Colonials as well.

It didn’t put her off.

Given the fact that the ‘natural mother’ in this case refuses to accept, even when drunk, that she gave birth to’ moi’, there is absolutely no chance of my walking up to a white haired Mountie on trip to Canada and calling him ‘dad’.

The lovely couple who adopted me though made anything worthwhile, its not who gave you life that makes a parent its who wipes the tears, gives you cuddles and enjoys your highs and helps your lows, they did that for me.

Mom was plump and motherly. Dad was like a string bean, I could prune roses at three, disbud chrysanthemums at four and say my piece at the Sunday school anniversary at five, I always was a bit of an exhibitionist.

In 1953 when Queen Elizabeth II was crowned we were, by the terms of the day, quite wealthy, we lived in a semi, owned a car and a business. Mother was just a little of a show off, no-one else in the street could afford a tele and everyone wanted to see the Coronation.

We placed the set in the front room with the curtains closed and a huge magnifier in front of what was a ten inch screen, lined up the chairs in rows and waited for the event of the century to unfold as unfold it did, terrible reception, brief but exciting, power –cut notwithstanding, the Hyacinth Bouquet of York Road had her moment of glory. She served tea in her ‘best china’ and fairy buns at the end. The occasion was discussed in Chapel, the W.I. and the Mothers Fellowship for many a long year and my mother bathed in the reflected glory.

This was of great importance to her, I’m sure her family felt she had married ‘beneath her’ as she was quite a looker in her youth during the 1920’s, a bit of a flapper she and her sister Fanny shared a small wardrobe of clothes and depending on who had the better ‘catch’ for the night got to wear the ‘Fox fur’ with its glass eyes and long tail (what a treat!).

It must have worked for Fanny because she married a Vicar and though poor for the rest of her days was decidedly respectable.

My mother’s family had been somewhat ‘different’. My mother and her brother as children held funerals for the local cats prior to their demise, the poor animal would be pushed in an old pram by my mother wearing a chenille tablecloth, high heels and grandmas best hat accompanied by her brother in trilby, frock coat and a holding a black cane, all the while they, and accompanying urchin congregation, would be wailing incantations they felt were suitable to the occasion. Luckily the cat, being flight of foot and wise to the goings on of the ‘Longstaff children’ (there were in fact 13) swiftly made itself scarce before they got to the already dug ‘grave’.

This same cat, the confidante and prized possession of the widow ‘Banks’ ( it was a particularly good ‘ratter’) was the victim of a number of assaults by the children; from being’ encouraged’ to wear walnut shells as clogs to drinking the odd bit of medicinal sherry. One unfortunate night two of the children nipped out of bed when grandad had gone down the yard to the privy, grabbed the cat, opened the soil hole in the alley and threw in the protesting moggy. The children did not sit down for a week; neither did grandad thanks to the horrendous scratches on his ‘sit-upon’. The cat went into retreat for a few days and the widow Banks was never quite sure if she had a sewer problem. The RSPCA would have had a field day.

My fathers family were in effect a little higher up in the ‘pecking order’ his dad had been an undertaker in Bridlington and dads life was one of comparative luxury, when they married his parents bought him a small ‘grocers’ business, this he eventually sold and bought fish and chip shops.

Dad was a frustrated farmer, he had wanted all his life to farm with his uncle on the Yorkshire Wolds, the nearest we got was an allotment.

This patch of land was his nirvana, his escape from life. On rare occasions mom would join us there sitting in matriarchal splendour in the ‘shed’, cup of tea in one hand, cigarette in the other she watched as dad and I weeded, watered and generally tended our ‘plot’.

Sadly for mom dad decided to have hens, hens need a cockerel and we had one in spades. Rodney a Black Leghorn (shiny black feathers and very large and red comb) with attitude. The poor little ‘Light Sussex’ hens ran round the garden like reluctant virgins with the great brute in hot pursuit shouting his head off. This my mother did not like, she waded in at full sail to protect the virtue of the poor hens (she was not in any way a country-bred lady) Rodney was enraged, flapping at her and screeching at full volume he whipped the elastoplast off her leg and ran round the garden with it stuck to his nose!

His days were of course numbered, the next Sunday he was duly served on the dinner table along with stuffing and the full works,

“That’s Rodney” said my cousin.

We children promptly downed our cutlery and refused to eat what was our friend.

Mom did not go to the allotment ever again.

I began school on a high, I was still only four and was escorted by our neighbours daughter, I was little Jill she was big Jill.

As time progressed my father managed to lose an awful lot of money and when I was eleven we went bankrupt. In those days it was the end. All you had were the tools of your trade; my dad had none save an adding machine.

Out went the car the house the holidays the fine furniture.

In came a twenty year old caravan with a corrugated lean-to, no water or electrics, rising and falling damp on a field and a dog.

Kim was my mainstay and my life for those years; I grew through puberty, my first love and the hell of abject poverty with his furry coat to cry into.

A crossbred bull terrier with a piratical patch over one eye he was in turns loving and affectionate, a great guard dog and a tremendous ratter. He did however have one great problem, his love of ‘sherbet lemons’. My cousin Brian and I discovered this phenomenon when we gave him his first, he loved to suck the sweet and then when confronted with the sherbet went quite completely potty and chased his tail around in circles, given all the things we got up to these days we would be doing time from the RSPCA.

The caravan had to be seen to be believed, red and cream with a fence of chicken wire round it alongside a stream, every so often Kim would produce a rat from goodness knows where and leave it for us on the doorstep.

Mom, ever anxious to hold onto her sanity made a nameplate for the gate into this hovel; she called it ‘Jillareth’ a combination of our names. We were as poor as church mice, in fact the mice probably did better. they weren’t constantly living in mud and damp!

I went to a secondary school, a couple of friends from school came to visit and I was quickly removed from the ‘most popular girl in the school’ list, who wants to visit a damp hovel with no lighting, in fact I’m sure their parents had something to do with it.

I had my school uniform plus a pair of jeans and one of dad’s old shirts, that didn’t last long as I developed a bust and got to wear a T. shirt.

Of course I fell in love, don’t we all, he went to our chapel youth group and his name was Richard, his dad was a doctor, in actual fact we got on really well until I took him home.

Picture the scene, my mother with her grey hair and wraparound pinny and dad with his collar off and in need of a shave, on the day Richard came to tea it had been raining and you had to pick your way through a river even to get to the gate.

Mom had made a special effort, we had salmon paste sandwiches, tinned peaches and a fruit cake, it was undoubtedly the rations for a week but she had tried; the caravan had been cleaned to within an inch of its life but no-one could deny the hammering of the rain on the corrugated roof, the calor gas lighting and the all pervading smell of damp. We all tried to put a brave face on it. Having been brought up a staunch Methodist I foolishly believed that being poor was not a problem in modern society, what an eye opener. I was dropped like a hot cake and still remember the scalding tears I wept over Kim’s strong back; I learnt that money does mean a lot, to some people.

After four long years in the caravan we eventually managed to scrape enough money together to rent a terraced house, (the caravan was burnt as an eyesore it was so dilapidated) and buy some furniture ‘on tick’ the first night there was something of an experience, partly furnished the house had a single bed for me, I slept like a log only to awake the next morning covered in red itchy spots. My mother was frantic; the wise old dear from next door soon sorted her out,

‘Fleas dear, you’ll have to get the man from the council in’.

It was and we did.

The house was surrounded by tape like a crime scene and men in ‘hasmat’ suits with packs on their backs went in like ‘moonwalkers’, mother was mortified, I scratched for days and dad just looked on in amazement. Thankfully we did not stay there for long. The humiliation lingered long and hard and the tiniest midge bite in future invoked all manner of sprays and the washing in full of everything that was washable.

Next mom got a job as a caretaker for a ‘compound ‘of flats and bungalows for the elderly, she was herself now nearly at retirement age, there was a cleaner to do the service areas and her role was to provide a caring soul for the ‘crumblies’ to turn to in moments of need; it suited her down to the ground. It also suited dad because he had a huge garden to disappear to and soon erected himself a green house and was gone for hours.

Mom soon had bingo sessions organised, sweepstakes on all the big races and one or two even joined her for the Saturday afternoon wrestling on the t.v, this latter was always great fun for me, the language coming from these genteel ladies would have made a navvy blush. Huge men displaying their all managed to change well brought up ladies into screaming demons with shouts of,

‘Rip ‘is arm off’ and ‘Jump on ‘is ‘ed’, then they would have cups of tea served in bone china and contemplate the sermon for chapel the following day; such is the power of television!

They were happy and I was just about to embark on the next wonderful part of my life, a job and falling in love.

My first real job was with the gas board, I was a post- clerk with special responsibilities to the meter inspectors. These intrepid men went where no man had gone before, people were poor even in the sixties and had prepayment meters and these chaps had to go and collect the coins from the meters, cash up and give a certain amount of rebate.

There’s was, to say the least, a hazardous job in some areas. Necessity being the mother of invention every coin you could think of was used to ‘diddle’ the meter; they would plead poverty to the meter man and threw themselves ( sometimes quite literally) on the inspector, no wonder they came back some days looking a bit shell shocked and in need of a strong ’brew’.

One poor man who was in our humble opinion a bit slow on the uptake came back with a couple of haddock one day, the look on his face spoke volumes. Jonny Bulman who was in charge had to take him into a quiet corner and explain that facts of life to him (it was pretty obvious his father hadn’t, added to which they were ‘chapel’ and such things were never even hinted at!)

Your first job at sixteen is frightening, I wanted to stay on a school and do A levels, absolutely no chance of that, nor was going into nursing, the pay was awful and in any case I couldn’t start till I was eighteen..

My two aunts helped out the family finances by giving me the money for a kilt, two twin-sets, a new bra and suspender belt and shoes (I still had my duffle coat from school to keep me from the elements)

I tried to fit in, I really really tried but there was never going to be an easy way to get on with my workmates, firstly I had no A levels, a pre requisite in those days to work for the local authority and I lived on a council estate, snobbery was alive and well and living at Northern Gas. One girl who was particularly offended by my working there made sure I heard every nasty thing she said about me, she had been to a private school (lucky her) and had never been poor in her life. From the ‘get go’ she decided I was a tart, if only! I have to say working with men was so much better and the ladies who cleaned for us always had a lovely ‘cuppa’ waiting for me each morning, they were lovely.

My first real crush had been on my cousin, he was a merchant navy engineer (what did I say about uniforms!) and eight years my senior. There was I, five feet tall with large bosoms, dark haired and to say the least suffering from ‘puppy fat’ (it never really went,) and he liked long legged cool blondes. He got married to one and I cried for weeks, such is life, I was fourteen.

The first real boyfriend was Mel, again he was ‘chapel’ and we met through the pot holing and hiking group. Mom had always taught me to ‘be a good sport’, I was, the lads thought I was a good laugh. I could teach them all the rugby songs (I had quite a repertoire) have a good laugh and could match them one for one on ‘Minnies’ black velvets, (she was the landlady of a well frequented pub in Great Broughton) so much for the good quiet ‘chapel’ girl.

Mel was great, well over six feet he had to lift me up to kiss me (by then some of the puppy fat had gone thank goodness) we had great fun together and discovered just what it was to ‘go steady’. I hung on to my virginity like grim death! If ever the moment came close mothers voice would echo in my ears,

‘Don’t you bring trouble to my door Jill and don’t marry a catholic’,

After two long years for him and my mother, (she was a nervous wreck each month ‘in case’, chance would have been a fine thing) he went off with someone else, covering my tears I asked him why,

‘She comes up with the goodies you never did’ perhaps mother saved me from myself!

Suffice to say I finally met the man of my dreams and yes dear reader he did wear a uniform (Royal Signals) and it was the sight of him in navy blue that swung the deal, such was life before the invention of fast food, fast sex and fast life. And yes he still has a great ‘rear view’ even forty years on!

Jill's story list and biography

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