Chapter 6. Featherstone West Yorkshire England. Vikings and Celts. Rovers win the cup. God?
Fearherstone circa 1960
Hi and welcome back You will recall in Chapter 1: How to write your life story, I made a reasonable start, but tended to get my 1st and 3rd person - I and Colin- mixed up. A way to go but this blog is in the first person.
Yesterdays history lesson made it pretty clear that most of us Wessie's have Viking DNA somewhere down the line. Add a dose of Celtic and I know understand why my beard was ginger yet all other hair, hang on, amost all other hair brown. My Movember tash of today still has traces. Judge for Yourself.
It is therefore important I spend a little more time on my formative years in Featherstone.
28 De Lacy Avenue, North Featherstone, West Yorkshire.
Dad has just scored the winning try in the Yorkshire Cup final, and the Yorkshire Post wants to portray him as ‘happy families’ if you know what I mean? Myself, on the left, brothers John, on dad’s head, and Mick. Mum and sister Mandy (still inside mum) comes later, please be patient.
My world age 7.
‘Like many surrounding areas,
Featherstone grew around coal mining. Coal had been mined at Featherstone since
the 13th century and remains of bell pits can still be seen to the north of
Park Lane at North Featherstone. In 1848, the opening of the Wakefield,
Pontefract and Goole railway line through Featherstone provided the basis for
large scale coal mining in Featherstone, by opening up new markets in the South
of England and Europe. Featherstone Main Colliery was opened in 1866, followed
by Ackton Hall Colliery in 1873. These were closer to what is now the main part
of Featherstone, which consequently expanded. Ackton Hall Colliery was the
first pit to close following the end of the miners' strike and this could not
be contested as geological difficulties had made it impossible for the pit to
continue production… Opened in the 1950s, Purston Park takes up a large area of
space and offers a lake and a children's play area’ [Wikipedia]
Featherstone was also an icon in the world of Rugby League football as the most famous of giantkillers. Crowds of 15,000 would pack home games, the town’s population 13,000. The players were gods, cult heroes and loved by every girl in town. As I said dad, was captain and thats for later.
I remember the night before we
left De Lacy Avenue, I slept in the lounge on a mattress, anxious and fearful
of the future. North Featherstone had been home for seven years. We lived
around a small crescent of four semi-detached bungalows around… Wembley
stadium. My patch of grass [now parking] held many fantasies, size of two
tennis courts, little did I know what was to follow. Our two-bed bungalow was
outgrown, three boys: John one year old, Mick five, me seven and mum pregnant
with Mandy. The bungalow opposite had a lovely old couple, Bernard and Anne,
probably in their 40’s but to a child that’s old. Peter Beech, my age, lived
next door, and Paul Leake, a blind lad who dad took to school in Sheffield. [Paul
and I re-connected two years ago and chat often. He will read this [Hi Paul] on
his speech translator]. I do remember my
mother moving dad’s car, some photographer was coming, very pregnant and
removing the wall to Pauls Garden. [So does Paul LOL] She seemed upset and dad,
sleeping from working nights, said nothing, just cleared up the mess as we
waited for a man from the local paper. Dad had scored the try to win the
Yorkshire Cup final, he was also very good at hiding his true feelings. Mick
looks anxious. He had just seen his mum drive into a wall, as you do when seven
months pregnant.
I also internalise my feelings
and emotions, always have done and still do, You?
Bernard and Anne, opposite, had a
wall running the length of their boundary, the edge of the cemetery and All
Saints Church, recorded in the Doomsday book of 1086. The wall also made a
shortcut to Kevin [RIP] Rooney’s house. We explored the church, the graves,
climbed the slag heap and walked to the park. Neville Waring was a friend of
Kevin, he lived in a modern house, opposite the doctors, on North Close.
Another friend Frank Nowosielfki [sadly he passed away 18 months ago RIP Frank] lived in Park Lane; a new house built on a
slope. Classic semi-detached three bed, brick under tiled roof, but the rear is
three feet above the ground. Perfect! A hatch opened, we crawled under the
floorboards between the joists, made a camp and Franks’s mum sent us lemonade
and cake. We went sledging down the adjoining bank, as the builder must have
run out of money and left open fields. His dad was Polish, Frank joined the
Navy and stayed. He now has OBE after his name, Om Frank.
But, best of all, the four of us
played rugby inside our very own stadium; Wembley, Twickenham, Murrayfield but
mostly Post Office Road, morning noon and night. Others joined in and life was
such fun. Except after I kicked a ball through Bernard and Anne’s lounge window
and ball games were banned. Nor when I
lay in an ant’s nest, playing hide and seek.
So there I was lying on the mattress, Friday, August 1960, we move in the morning, and a new life awaits. A new school three days later. Gordon Street Junior school in three days, new home, friends, I hope. A different view, middle not the top of the slag heap.
Gordon Street junior school, austere, red brick, pitched slate roof with timber sash windows. The dreaded secondary modern adjoined. The schools were flanked by playing fields to the east, railway line and allotments to the south, Featherstone Lane, becoming Station Lane to the southwest with row upon row of terraced cottages, two up, two down, no hot water and outside loo, running off the roads. Nan Mary and Grandad Wallace, dad’s parents, lived at 9 Robbins Terrace, my saviour on many a day. To the west was a black, half mile long slag heap of coal dust, filled 24 hours a day. My beloved north (Featherstone), the countryside by comparison to this, is now the past.
Neville Waring, two years older
than me, was already at Gordon Street, even though he lived close by. We last
met in 2019 and have stayed in contact. He sent me this message recently.
“I was aged about 8 or 9 years
old at the time… It occurred as I was coming out of the school entrance, at the
end of the school day, and entering the playground. My way was partly blocked
in the entrance by a melee. You, Colin
were on the floor, basically in the foetal position to protect yourself from a
group of 4 or 5 lads, of a similar age who were attacking you. As you were on
the floor the attack was by kicking. No
idea how you were put on the floor, as that happened before I arrived. I
remember getting out of the way and thinking that's not right. Due to age of
those involved it wasn't particularly violent but not right. Wish I had been
brave enough to help, but it was different times and you never wanted to
attract attention to yourself. Hope it
helps. Take care” Neville.
Interesting as the shy (Yin) Colin emerges here, 'you never wanted to attract attention to yourself.' is what Neville saw in me.
[17 Alexander Crescent, Featherstone. NO BALL GAMES - tells the kids to stay at home on their phones instead. Please someone explain why we are destroying our childrens futures]
The house opposite was occupied
by the Barker family, loads of them; Gordon, Derek, Nigel, Melvyn etc. Their
house was fun. They also loved rugby so were my saviour. Rugby happened on my
new green (the one above without the sign) the school fields, in fact everywhere. Even better, I had a ball,
discard from Rovers. Problem, I was seven, son of Slam and some lads were more
inclined to kick me than pass the ball. I survived and almost discovered God.
Station Lane was our high street,
Station Hotel, Post Office, station and pit entrance at the top, Post Office
Road, Barclays Bank and Wakefield Road at the foot. Just down from Barclays was
the Hippodrome cinema, Saturday matinee a favourite. One month, flyers and
banners, calling all children and parents, the reverend Preacherman is
proclaiming his wisdom on Sodom and Gomorrah. I am intrigued and attend. I sit
right hand side, halfway down, next to the aisle. He explains how the city of
Sodom became intoxicated on sand, sex and sausage rolls. Then explains how
Gomorrah became intoxicated by gay abandon, girls and gin. God politely requests they go into stage one
lockdown, they refuse. Stage two, they refuse, stage three, same and then he
destroys the lot. A bit harsh, I thought
and wondered if there may have been a different reason to destroy life as it
was known?
After concluding and repeating his mantra he held a new shiny bible above his head and said, ‘This bible will go to the first person to say their name and asks a question about my talk’. I stood up, waved my hand, and said, ‘Colin Lambert. So, why did God destroy Sodom and Gomorrah?’ He was not a happy bunny, but I got the bible. It never occurred I had just announced myself to Featherstone in a different way; I was not afraid to open my mouth.
My alter ego had just emerged in the form of Slam Jr. Oh ...
A book fell of my shelf yesterday. Just a coincidence.
Have a good day
Colin
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