Extracts from "My Life In Travel" and Wartime remembrances
It was always a happy house and a home to so many visitors for nearly a quarter of a century. Those that are still with us always recall their stay at "Concliffe" with a warm glow, and expressions of blissful memory whenever they think back to the days that they spent with us in Durley Avenue. Others who have crossed over, have all imbued the structural fabric of the house with some substantial charge of happiness and joy. No palace or mansion could hope to compete with the warmth and glow emanating from each and every one of the walls upholding that small end terrace dwelling.
The name was constructed from Consett, Co.Durham, and Undercliffe in Bradford, whence came my parents, Olive and John. I suppose it was a blessing that they didn't hail from Knitsley and Ravenshead, or Cleator Moor and Scarborough (Clearough). Naming homes was very much the fashion in the Thirties, although I don't recall too many of the others in the Avenue. The house opposite was one exception, since "Pindi" sounded foreign to the young mind. It's owners had spent much of their lives in India. Then half way up Village Way there was "Evimiz". That too was something of a mystery until I studied Turkish and learned that 'Ev' is a house, and 'imiz' the suffix for 'our'.
The floor plan must have matched tens of thousands of semi-detached houses built in that era. Yet the builders used many variations on the outside to distract the casual eye in an effort to break up what would otherwise have been just another street of boring uniformity. Thus one block of four had rounded bay windows with pebble dash covering the brickwork and lean-to hip porches, while the next sported box bay windows with Tudor type finish, and gabled porches. "Concliffe" fell into the former category. As the years wore on, portions of the pebble dash had to be repaired, with moisture building up beneath, forcing sections to come away from the brick work. Dad took great pride in fixing it up and repointing the bricks while he was at it. Uncle Jim had talked my parents into paying the extra for an end house, which was worth its weight in gold when coal was delivered and the dustmen called. Many a time when popping into our neighbours for tea and a chat, there would be a terrible commotion and disruption when these gentelmen called, for it all had to pass through the hallway and kitchen.
There was one thing that to my young mind, made our home very different from the many others in the Avenue that I had seen inside. The lintel at the back of the small front room, which jutted out over the stair well was inches wider than it should have been. It was plenty wide enough to support two small feet. Now why on earth I should ever have wanted to stand on it, and in so perilous a postion is something that only a young lad can fathom, and a reason which is lost with age. To get there, I had to work my way along the tiny narrow ledge at the foot of the upstairs bannister, clutching the top of the rail as I went. Perhaps it was just because it was there, and it was something that had to be done fairly regularly. They caught me once, sleep walking, pulling my blanket along, and calling out to some unseen nags. I had just reached the top of the stairs!
The back garden was a couple of feet lower than the house. There was probably only a concrete path to start with, from the side entrance past the kitchen door, and dining room french windows to the fence. Dad had built up enough soil to afford space for a small patio, and until the early Forties, his steps descended from the dining room side. Later on he changed it all, and in making the patio much larger, he built new steps opposite the kitchen door. The coal and coke bunkers that came with the house were wooden and very dark in colour. So the steps were right along side them and behind the bunkers he had built a large wooden shed, where he kept all his tools, and our bikes. By the time the War was over, both the Shed and the bunkers were leaning in all directions, and it was clear that they were on their last legs.
Malcolm & Uncle Charlie |
Fireplace |
Fireplace 1958 |
Click on the pictures to enlarge them a little, and then 'back' to come back to this page. The Old garden steps are obscured by Marion on my bike, but one can see where they used to be. Dad waged his own war, against the constant drafts streaming into the Dining Room. Uncle Charlie had a fireplace business in Bradford and told him to change to one of the new ones which pulled air in from below the floor boards. This was duly done in 1958.
Dad built the new coal and coke bunkers soon after the war ended. I still have horror memories of mixing sand and cement for the mortar. He didn't let on then but it must have been in his mind, that this was a practice run for the Garage. I dont know what inspired him to finish off the back of the bunkers with a brick arch. Whatever it was, he just had to try his hand at forming one, and he was so proud of his finished folly. When asked what it was for, the casual enquirer was treated to a lecture on structural forces. Anyway next door's cat loved to sit on the top. So it did serve some purpose.
As for the Garage, well that all happened when I was away in Aden with the R.A.F. in 1952. Pictorial evidence survives to show that Mum was roped in on that one. But you will have to go to the next page to see that.
If you lived in Pinner during the Forties or Fifties, why not exchange memories with Malcolm?
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Created on ... July 7, 2002