My Father, Fred Green. From a Yorkshire coal mining family,
who started work ‘down the mine’ at the age of 11. Came
from a devout Christian family. Joined the police force, married
in 1914 and spent the whole of the great war as a gunner in the
Royal Artillery.
My Mother, Edith Annie Keightly, from Knavesmire, York. Also from
a devout Christian family whose father was head gardener to a
gentlemans estate (later branching out as a landscape gardener).
A pillar of the York co-operative society. He and Grannie Keightly
were very strict, had 6 children 2 of whom strayed from the straight
and narrow and were banished forever.
Edith entered gentlemans service straight from school and there
met policeman Fred. They were married in April 1914. Fred was
aged 24 and Edith 28.
Mother spent the war years 1914-18 at her mothers home in York
where their first child Donald was born and died aged 1 month.
Where my elder sister Marjorie was born and where I was born,
Cyril Jeffrey Green, 2nd November 1918, 11 days before the end
of world war one. Two more children were born to them later, Eric,
2 years younger than me and Betty five years younger, A Downes
syndrome child.
Fred not keen on the strict discipline of the police after his
army service returned to coal mining after demob.
We moved home to Fitzwilliam into a coal company house. My only
memories of which were my sister and I walking daily on our own
about a mile to school and back.
My sister Marjorie suffered a fatal scalding accident when a pan
of boiling water on the the hob was knocked over her - aged 6
years.
My father had to leave coal mining because of an eye disorder
common to miners (unable to see in the dark). We moved to a council
estate on the other side of Fitzwilliam but attended the same
infants school. My only memories here were of striking miners
and families lining the streets jeering at blacklegs walking to
the pit during the 1926 general strike and of the soup kitchens.
Father unable to find work in a village where the only industry
was mining moved to High Ackworth a few miles away as steward
of a working mens club. Memories here are of once being given
a comic to read. The huge glass roofed scullery with a massive
brick built coal fired copper. The home of a cousin of my dads
which was quite near, where the cousin used to regularly come
home paralytic drunk and collapse on the sofa. Also of his daughter
(normally away from home working in the cotton mills) playing
a horned gramophone, the first I had ever seen.
With not enough custom in a tiny village in those hard times the
club closed down. We moved on a little way down the street and
dad opened a fish and chip shop.
Young brother Eric and I would walk 3 miles up a big hill to school,
sometimes we went through the fields often taking a drink of fresh
milk straight from the cow on the way and as always unaccompanied
by parents. On return from school we had to turn the handle of
the massive (to us) potato peeling machine for hours on end.
Business failed again, I think for the same reason (although the
doctor warned us not to eat so much fish and chips, they were
doing us no good - perhaps we were eating all the profits!) The
only highlights I can remember here are of someone owing dad something
and paying for it with 2 white rabbits which Eric and I kept in
the large empty attic.
We moved again, to a council estate, 13 Hamel Rise, Hemsworth
a couple of miles away. A ‘modern home’ with gas lighting
and a bathroom! Sparsely furnished with the dining and bedroom
suite our parent bought on marrying and wool clipping rugs on
the lounge floor. This was the only furniture my parents ever
truly possessed (other than a lounge suite I got them with an
allowance to them during the war) and was only disposed of after
their deaths in 1979. Memories are of school just down the road.
The school garden allotment where I was so proud of the produce
I grew and the many fights which I always seemed to win. Except
one which greatly disturbed me ‘cos he was shorter than me.
Billy Bentham was built like a barrel, short and wide, I was a
skinny beanpole. We played endlessly in the street, under the
lamppost at night in all weather and all seasons. Eric and I had
to escort Betty every day, twice a day to special classes at another
school before going on to our own schools throughout our school
life.
Father at this time was endeavouring to make a living as an insurance
agent against all odds (who wanted insurance when the mines were
on short time etc). Finally having to abandon it and without income
times were hard. Little to eat and no form of recreation (I had
never seen a radio other than one made by my uncle Herbert who
was an electrical engineer). I have vivid memories of the time
my dad was in the workhouse alongside our estate and of going
to the bottom of my friend Dave Hart’s garden to say hello
to him.
Of having failed to post my fathers pools coupon on time locally
and having to ride his outsize old bike the 8 miles to Pontefract
to catch the last post. Of being caught red handed with my fingers
in the biscuit tins at the back of the ‘Maypole grocers shop’
(he’d got a mirror rigged up showing on the biscuit tins).
The manager was a friend of dads and being an ‘ex-cop’
was known down at the station. They laid on a scare for me - I
was never tempted to pilfer again. Those biscuits did taste good
though (it was the only way I got any).
I remember regularly going twice on Sundays to ring the bells
and pump the bellows of the organ. Of long walks after church
with my parents through the local fields and down the ‘lovers
lane’ where all the young hopefuls paraded. Of walking (all
the family) to visit my Grannie Green, an 8 mile trip each way
and being given a half crown (which I could never keep) from a
purse kept beneath her many voluminous skirts, the most I ever
got and not regularly was 1d a week pocket money.
On leaving school at 14, I used to ride my dads old oversize bike
with a cheap carrier on the front to hawk yeast (for baking bread)
round the local villages - not successfully as it used to dry
up packed in paper bags and there was opposition from an older
well established rival, but as dad got it trade price from a mate
etc, I ended up having to travel further and further to sell less
and less.
I eventually got a job at the local newsagent (3/- a week) delivering
papers the whole length of a long straggling village on foot early
mornings. Spending the late morning in a sympathetic cobblers
shop with the other paper boys. Selling the midday racing paper
in the streets and delivering the evening papers every night,
with ‘the Pinkun’ (racing and football results) being
hawked in the street on Saturdays. We were not even allowed time
off on half-day closing days, having then to work in the newsagents
home garden!
Finally I succeeded in getting a proper job with Frank Partridge
‘Painter and Decorator’ of South Kirkby, who used to
have contracts to paint the local council estates, It mattered
little that most of the time was spent mixing his special ‘slush’
or up on the roof cleaning and painting gutters - I was happy
doing it! - a proper job. Alas business slackened and he had to
lay off - guess who? Cyril Green, the last to be employed.
Times were no better at home, no money. We couldn’t even
pay the rent on the council house and had to move to a centuries
old cottage on a farm, with stone flag floors, terrible damp,
no gas or electric, cooking on the kitchen coal range. The only
water supply, a single tap at the sink which failed to work whenever
a cow in the farmyard was taking a drink. The loo and cesspit
were in the garden where the wooden platform seat had two holes
in it!
There was now frequent friction with my father and I finally burst,
cycled to Pontefract on the old bike to join the army, but though
the recruiting officer was full of sympathy they were not recruiting
anyone. So I rode on to Leeds and succeeded in being accepted
into the Royal Navy.
Entered H.M.S Ganges boys training establishment,
Shotley, Ipswich. - I think the model on which all Borstals were
based, to me a pleasant relief but on reflection a very tough
introduction to navy life. Allowed home for normal school holidays,
at no other times allowed outside the premises except Sunday afternoons
when we could walk the length of a country lane for two hours
only.
Every morning spent at instructions or drill. Every afternoon,
whatever the season, come rain or shine, out in the open in shorts,
vest and so’westers (if raining) either at sport or recreation.
Mess huts were divided into a concrete square with trestles for
eating on only and a polished wooden floor for the remainder with
our rows of beds on it which we were only allowed on in the evenings.
A wash house with toilet and basins with cold water only. Baths
and dhobeying (clothes washing) being done at 6.30am in a different
building, or rather showers not baths, we never had baths in the
navy!
No forms of entertainment or radio but never having had any I
didn’t miss it. There was always plenty of life and activity.
I did seem to spend a lot of time behind the swimming baths -
fighting!
I am thankful that I didn’t smoke - punishment for any misdemeanor
was ‘jankers’, doubling around the parade ground with
an imitation rifle held above the head. Many times a friend of
mine whose only crime had been to get caught smoking in the heads
(toilet), had come off jankers unable to lower his arms again
for some considerable time.
I was paid 4s 9d as a boy 1st class, just enough to buy a little
something in the tuck shop and a couple of stamps!
I was selected for training as a wireless operator, finished training
on 2nd July 1936 and joined H.M.S Cumberland as a boy telegraphist
29th July 1936.
In the navy all Green’s are called Jimmy. I was no exception
- so NOT Cyril Jeffrey but Jimmy Green started his navy career.
