Grandad Mac

Grandad Mac died in 1976, this essay was subsequently acquired. Very interesting too!

Grandad Mac

I was born on April 2^nd 1892, in the little cottage next to Hornings boot shop in Station Road, Bamber Bridge. My Father was William McMellon, schoolmaster and my mother’s maiden name was Anne Cotton. She was a schoolmistress. She was my Father’s second wife, his first wife having died giving birth to a daughter, my half sister Mary. My mother’s home was Whittle-le-Woods, and shortly after we took a house near Whittle. As headmaster of Brownedge Boys School, my Father had to walk the three miles to school every morning and home again at night. My earliest recollections are centered around my grandparents old house in Lord Street. This was a small road, which ran up to the hills and my great grand folks had built up a substantial stone house at the foot of the hill. As we get older we seem to remember small trivial incidents and scenes which have long slept in our memory but which now return with great clearness. I remember how afraid I was, as a child, to be put to bed in the large front room and left in the darkness.

The winds used to howl round the buildings and sometimes I would watch the moon coming up over the shoulder of the hill. On bright sunny mornings I would lie in bed and watch the swaying of a tall pear tree, which stood across the narrow way.

My Uncle Jim and Uncle Ross used to tell me stories about my grandparents and my great grandfather.

My Great Grandfather’s name was Thomas Lord Cotton and he married Attorney Morris’ daughter. He must have been a very enterprising man, for besides being a yeoman farmer he opened sandstone quarries at Whittle Hills and also employed hand loom weavers and dealt in cotton cloth and yarn.

He had a pew in Brindle Church and was Warden.

On Saturday’s he drove his smart Gig to Preston market and must have looked very substantial in his knee breeches and shoes with silver buckles. He had only one son, my Grandfather Cotton, who inherited all the estate off his Father.

My Grandfather, who possessed many of the qualities of my Great Grandfather, had a large family by two wives. He ran both farms and the quarries but he had one great failing, a love for strong drink and for this reason he never became very rich, though he provided very well for his family.

My Uncle Jim used to relate many stories of my Grandfather. For instance, he had a great fondness for going “on the spree”. He would be teetotal for three or four months and then he would go to Chorley and draw £50 from the bank and disappear. The family was never unduly perturbed by these occurrences and just waited for the usual sequel.

In a week or two a letter would arrive from the landlord of some obscure country inn saying that Mr. Thomas Cotton was there, in a condition of complete insolvency and kindly requested that someone should bring him home.

My Uncle Dick or Ross would then take the Gig, if the distance was not too great, and home would come grandfather in a chastened and repentant mood, vowing that he had seen the last of drink and that he would henceforward devote his entire time and energies to rebuilding the family fortunes.

Thus a sort of semi-vicious circle was formed, periods of heavy drinking followed by periods of equally heavy repentance.

Though all this was somewhat sordid and vulgar there were what might be called amusing interludes.

For instance the incident when coming home late one Saturday night from Preston in his Gig, filled with good will towards all mankind and good Scotch whiskey. His horse knew the way home as well as he, and at the top of Clayton Brow, it decided to do a bit of private grazing on the grass verge of the road. By this time my Grandfather was sound asleep and the hours of an early summer morning found them still there.

Two Whittle men, walking home came on the scene and with a sense of perverted humour, promptly unharnessed the pony, backed up the Gig to a tree and reharnessed the horse so that the tree was growing up between the horses rump and Gig.

When my Grandfather woke, sometime later, he found a little group of amused spectators speculating as to how this remarkable phenomenon had occurred.It took sometime before his bemused wits could be brought to bear fully on the situation and when this had been accomplished, the Sabbath morn was sadly marred by a stream of very effective profanity.

I knew many old Whittle folk and often listened to their somewhat lugubrious recounting of incidents and stories of the older generation. One was forced to the conclusion that it is only in comparison with our modern sophisticated standards, and we should not be over critical in our judgement, they were simple and honest and their pleasures and amusements were entirely homemade.

They asked and got very little out of life and there was nothing soft or sloppily sentimental in their make-up. As a little lad I have seen quarrymen come into the farm kitchen of my Uncle Ross’ house with gaping Cracks on their knuckles and fingers. My Aunt Winifred used to get a stick of resin and lighted candle. They would hold their bent fingers and she would drop flaming, melted, sizzling resin in the wounds and stick a piece of linen on each would so treated. I used to feel sick in the stomach at this crude surgery but to them it was just an ordinary routine procedure. They were hard drinkers and in those days, when ale was a penny and was much stronger than our present-day strong ale, it was quite possible to gloriously drink for sixpence.

Among my Grandfather’s employees were several notable pub champions. The pub most frequented by the quarry men was the Cross-Keys in Higher Whittle. I have heard it said that my Grandfather would often go in on Saturday night and put two golden sovereigns on the bar and time the gathered company as to the speed with which they could spend it. Sometimes Jim Falding would sing and the room would go quiet his singing was accompanied by small showers of saliva which were distributed in various directions across the taproom.

Then there were the stories told. These were always extremely vulgar and generally concerned with the more intimate aspects of personal hygiene and anatomy. Vice was certainly not camouflaged as it is today. Divorce was unknown and there was very little sympathy for the Mother of an illegitimate child. It was amidst such surroundings that my Grandfather’s family grew up.

They were looked upon by the village people as people of slightly superior class or as my Mother would say “The better end of the poor”. My Mother married my Father in 1889. He was then headmaster of Birkdale Reformatory School.

Here, my Mother’s brother, my Uncle Dick, was an assistant master and my Father, who was a widower came for his holidays to Whittle and subsequently met and married my Mother.

They lived at the Reformatory but Mother could not get used to such a mode of life, with its grim accompiancies of floggings and strict discipline.

She persuaded my Father to apply for a country school and he obtained the headship for Brownedge Boys’ School at Bamber Bridge in the year 1891. They took the cottage next to Hornby’s shoe shop and here I was born. My Fathers salary was £15 per annum, paid by the Parish Priest and this was considered quite good.

Soon after I was born, we moved to Whittle and my Father walked from home to school every morning. Whittle is three miles from the nearest station and there was no other means of getting to school. I think he must have got very tired of the long weary walk home every night, for we stayed in Whittle only a year. During this time my younger brother Bill was born. My Mother often took me to my Grandfather’s when I was small and I can recall many scenes and trivial incidents from those days.

There was a large yard and orchard behind the house and a kind of small yard where there was always a large heap of clean sand. I used to weigh out this sand in an old fashioned pair of copper scales. Sometimes my Grandmother would let me grind starch in a small copper mill. I would be taken among the gooseberry and blackcurrant bush or given a piece of peeled apple or pear. The cul-de-sac in front of the house had a sandy surface and a little stile, with three steps cut into the rubble wall. Over the stile was the narrow path, which ran over the shoulder of the hill. This path had a peculiar fascination to me. It led to my terra incognita, and it was strictly forbidden to go over the stile.

I used to stand and look up towards the hills and watch the great white clouds, which came sailing over their green tops. These hills had many quarries cut into them and they were great masses of bare weathered rocks. One day I climbed over the stile and made my way up the steep hillside. I wanted to see what was over the top of the hill and did not bother to keep to the winding path. I got among the clumps of whin bushes and gorse and finally sat down in a little hollow among some rocks. I must have fallen asleep for after a time I was surprised to find a number of people standing round me. There were my Mother and Grandma and several neighbours, all talking and chattering and trying to look both severe and relieved.

I got my bottom smacked and was carried home and given cakes and butterdrops. The mention of butterdrops always brings to mind Alice Bannister who lived in a small cottage near my Grandfather. She used to take me in her clean kitchen and from an old fashioned chest of drawers take out a bag of those great butter drops and break one up for me. They were real butterdrops about as big as half a crown and made entirely of good butter and sugar.

I remember my Grandfather’s death and how I was taken into a front parlour where he lay dying. He looked a little old man propped up among pillows and wearing a nightcap. I was terribly frightened. I had no conception of death, and when they put a lighted candle in his hand or held it for him, and said the prayers for the dying and then finally laid him back flat on the bed, I think I cried with fear. Accompanying details still remains most vividly fixed in my memory. My Mother could never give me a reasonable explanation as to why I should have been present at such a solemn event.

My Grandmother lived two years longer and then the house and property was sold. By this time we were back again in Bamber Bridge at Brownedge Lane and my Uncle Jim came to live with us. I must describe Uncle Jim at some length. He was my mother’s youngest brother and when a baby had had a fit of some kind.

My Grandmother and Grandfather had taken him to Holywell but no cure was affected. He had a useless arm, the right one, and the left one was bent and crippled. He had a thick leg and a very thin one and one shoulder blade was twisted and deformed. He called his dead arm his “swinger”. He was of a very cheerful disposition and because much of his time was spent in reading he became very erudite. He had a good baritone voice and was in great demand at local concerts. As a little boy, I was taught to do quite a lot of things for him such as cleaning his shoes, putting them on, washing his hands, fastening his coat or reaching things for him. My Father dressed him every morning and undressed him at night. My Grandfather had built seven cottage houses for him and these gave him a steady income of about thirty-five shillings a week. Uncle Jim, however, notwithstanding his considerable disabilities led a rather gay life. He liked his beer and good company, and betted heavily.

He mortgaged the property and got so far behind with his payments that finally the houses were lost, thus he was left dependent on my parents.

They looked after him well and he had the help and sympathy of everyone in the village. It was amazing the things he could do. He could write, the pen between his teeth and resting on his lame hand. He could drain a glass of beer by raising the glass with his teeth. He played bowls with his feet and billiards with his lame arm. Poetry was a favourite hobby of his and he could quote freely from all the great poets and authors. He had numerous friends and acquaintances and these were always at his service.

I soon acquired the technique of dressing him. First I would pull his trousers up, tuck his shirt in and button the braces. Then came the socks. I had to turn them partly inside out and pull the feet on. His fat leg used to give me most trouble. Sometimes I cut his toenails or washed his feet. When I put his jacket and waistcoat on, I had to lift his dead arm and push it down the armhole but after a time I could do this with great dexterity. His collar and tie were always difficult and he would often swear at me.

I sometimes had to stitch buttons on his shirt and trousers. It was always a mystery to me as to whether he had any feeling in his dead arm. I tested this once when I was stitching a button on his shirt sleeve. I jammed the needle in his arm and he jumped about six inches into the air. ”What the hell did you do that for?” he shouted. “I wanted to see if you had any feeling in your arm” I replied meekly. He then swung his dead arm round with great force and the flapper caught me smack in the face. It was very painful indeed. “Now”, he said, “could you feel it?” I abandoned all thoughts of trying the experiment on his thin leg.

He used to get a fair amount of drink and came in pretty late at night. He could get to bed if someone came in with him and took his collar and tie off, unlaced his shoes and unbuttoned his trousers. He would sit on the side of the bed and wriggle his pants off.On one occasion I had stitched a trousers button on and I stitched it through his shirt also.That night he had had too much to drink and his efforts to get his trousers off were very prolonged and interesting. I thought so as I lay in bed, pretending to be asleep. His first attempt caused him to shoot off the bedside and the wall brought him up, jerky and finally, having got one leg out, he crawled in bed with the remaining leg still clothed.

On rare occasion I was allowed to go with him on a fishing expedition to Whittle. These expeditions required great preparations. I had, under his directions to make the bait. This was composed of boiled potato and flour kneaded into a sticky paste with a drop or two of aniseed added. I also had to get nine little red worms and baked wasp maggots and put them among wet moss in a tin box.Then there were his hooks and lines to be got out and examined. On the morning of the adventure I had to be up at three o’clock and the rest of the party would come to our house to collect us My mother usually had packed sandwiches in a clean cloth and possibly a slice of currant cake. There would be Billy Wakefield, Joe Jackson, Tom Jackson and a man called Stead, I never knew his proper name. Those warm summer mornings were beautiful and the walk to Clayton Green was always delightful. The nearer we got to Whittle the further school was behind. I always feel that I was in my “Promised Land” we walked down Radburn Brow and climbed onto the canal embankment at Nick Brindle yard. On our left was Denham Hill, always grim and mysterious to me, with its faces of yellow sandstone and its heathery outcrops and hollows. It looked lonely and sad and I always connected it with the scene of some of Grimms Fairy Tales.

My Uncle and Billy Wakefield would sing duets or discuss the prospects of the days’ fishing. I remember one jingle he would always sing:

When the wind is in the north

Then the fisher foes not forth

When the wind is in the south

It blows the bait in the fishes mouth

When the wind is in the east

It’s neither fit for man nor beast

When the wind is in the West

That is when the wind is best.

We would finally reach Whittle Bank. Here the canal widened out into a large sheet of deep water and, of course, here were to be found the largest fish, eels, roach or perch. Rods and tackle were prepared, hooks baited and soon the whole party would be seated on the bank, patiently watching their floats. I remember on one occasion, my Uncle sending me to a house in Red Row to inform a man called Thomas that we had come. I found the house and a very untidy woman invited me in and gave my message to the aforesaid Thomas, who immediately went out. The woman invited me to sit down and after I had told her who I was, she began to give me what might be called an informal chat. I was rather shocked when she referred to my Grandad as Old Young Cotton and gave me certain details regarding his drinking capabilities. I didn’t quite understand what she meant when she called my Aunt Polly as a “stuck up bitch” and after some further anecdotes about the remaining members of the family I began to feel somewhat ashamed of my relationship. She was making apple pies and her technique in this homely operation both horrified and fascinated me. She had a great pile of dough at one end of the table and an astounding number of shallow pie dishes. She rolled out the bottom layer ad lined the dishes and filled these with sliced apple and sugar. She then rolled out and cut the lids. Next she licked the first three fingers of her right hand, rubbed the pie around the edge and stuck the lid on. My stomach gave a peculiar wriggle and like the mercury in a thermometer my breakfast kept rising up my gullet. She finally put the pies in a large oven remarking that I would soon be able to sample them. It was the most untidy house I have ever seen. There was a long dresser or chest of drawers along the wall opposite the fire and on it was every conceivable kind of household odds and ends, all mixed up in an amazing higgelty-piggelty fashion. There were jam jars, pickle bottle, cups tin plates, candlesticks, loves, cakes and endless small articles. The floor was flagged and the ashes from the grate spread out over the hearthstone. Two cats and a dog were sprawled on the hearthrug and a linnet sat dejectedly in a tiny cage hanging in front of the window. Mrs. Snape was extremely fat. Her bare arms were like two immense sausage balloons and her blouse sleeves seemed to cut deeply into them. Her partially bare and ample bosom seemed to throb and shake every time she made a movement and she appeared to be fighting for every breath she took. Presently the first batch of pies was ready and out of the oven they came, hot and golden and smelling divinely. She got a plate and cut me a large portion from one of them. My hunger and that appetising odour conquered my knowledge of the spittle-moistened lids and I ate the pie. It was certainly good and I had no hesitation in finishing a second piece. Presently my Uncle Jim and his friend came to the house and after helpings of apple pie and tea, we prepared to make our way home. I remember telling my mother of few of the things Mrs. Snape had said about our family and how she nattered at Uncle Jim for having allowed me to visit what she called such disreputable folk. Many were the times that I went on these fishing expeditions and always went to see fat Mrs. Snape and generally sample her apple pie.

1896

Sometime in the year 1896 we came to live in the little cottage in Brownedge Lane. Ours was the middle house of a small row of five cottages on the same side as the Oak Trees, a large Public House whose frontage was in Station Road. It was a pleasant little home. There was a small garden in front and a long backyard behind. At the back was a large piece of land which at some time was a bowling green but which was now used by travelling fairs, shows and circuses. Inside was one large front living room and a kitchen with flagged floor. It was very cosy in the living room. My mother had rather cultured views as to furniture and ornaments and whenever she could was always adding some other Victorian nic- nac. We had a large mahogany table of which my father was very proud. I used to sit and watch him on winter nights playing with his collection.

He was a born collector and had shells, fossils, foreign stamps and many curios. His stamp collection was rather valuable. Every month he got catalogues from ‘Stanley Gibbons’. In after years, my mother told me that she had sent his collection to be valued and that they offered him £120 for it. That was a good sum in those days. I often wonder what it would be worth now. He also had a microscope made for him by an old watchmaker named Hill. He made his own slides and had quite a number of cigar boxes full of them. In this year my mother returned to teaching. She became one of my father’s assistants at the Boys School and their combined salaries gave them a position of some affluence. In those days wages were very small and often mills were closed for long periods. A good four-loom weaver got about twenty-four shillings and a spinner about thirty. Most labouring and tradesmen’s wages were about a guinea. Of course rents ad food were cheap we only paid two shillings per week rent and no rates and taxes. To still further augment his income my father also gave private lessons. It was in this year that I was sent to the Little Sisters Convent School on Brownedge Lane. Mrs. Gerrard, across the road looked after my younger brothers, Jack and Bill.

This little school as part of the Convent which stood in Duddle Lane. The girls’ school adjoined the Convent and the teachers were the Sisters of Charity of St. Paul. I suppose my parents considered us too superior to be sent to the infant school among the children of the village. The convent had boarders, boys and girls and these came to the Convent school. Well do I remember their names Noel Middlehurst, Ella Dobben, a French girl, Ethel whose father was a bank manager Fred Clayton, a doctor’s son Leo Moss and the Meagher family, Bob, Les, Maggie, Luc. What happy days they were. There was one large classroom and the head mistress, Sister Marie Joseph, was the essence of patience and kindness. We learned arithmetic, writing and spelling and some extremely rudimentary outlines of geography and history. We were a happy crowd and though Sister could be severe at times we had few cares and our days passed peacefully and smoothly. Often our Parish Priest, Father Pozzi, would come in. His round chubby face with its crown of black curly hair was always a pleasant break in the mornings work. Sister would give a signal and we would all stand with the usual “Good Morning Father”. Sometimes we would sing a hymn of which he was very fond, ‘O, Paradise, O Paradise, ‘Tis Weary Waiting Here’. At the end he would laugh and turn us out to play. There was no real playground so we went into Duddle Lane with strict orders to keep within certain fixed limits. There were no houses in the lane and down the opposite side to the Convent was a ditch and a hawthorn hedge. How sweet was the May-bloom in spring, in those days. Even now when I sometimes get a whiff of scent from May blossom, my mind goes back to those happy days. A long play and in school again. Sister would lean over you, guiding your hand in some writing exercise and the black wooden cross which hung around her neck, tickling your ear. It used to irritate me this Cross, it seemed to be always getting in the way. They say life is full of Crosses and I wish every cross could be as light as this one was. The lesson I detested most was poetry and we certainly had our share of this. I often wonder what some of our modern H.M.I’s would say if they found a class of children of ages 5 to 10 reciting verses of The Wreck of the Hesperus or the Walrus and the Carpenter. My Uncle Jim once taught me a rather vulgar poem in the Lancashire dialect and I was completely dishonest by Sister when I recited it for her and the class. The other children enjoyed it and I secretly taught it to Leo Moss and Bob Meagher. Sister had a peculiar punishment for anyone caught telling lies. I often think that the lie is one of natures provisions for self preservation in the young I cannot possibly visualise a class of George Washington’s and anyway I am afraid that such a position would lead to some complicated situations. To return to Sister’s methods, it was very simple. The offender had to hold his tongue out, she placed on it a pinch of “Hell Powder” and then made to withdraw it and close his mouth. It was rather painful as cayenne pepper has a rather devastating effect on mucus membrane. It was certainly effective and very few of us wanted a second dose. Every morning, about 10.30 a.m. we had a short break and we day pupils could eat our lunch. This consisted of a thin slice of bread and butter and generally a piece of cake. We went to a tap in the lavatory for a drink. So the days went smoothly by, one like another.

Mary Alice Gerrad, who called at the house for me, took me to school in the morning. I had my little lunch satchel and a book or two. I caused Mary Alice quite a lot of trouble one way or another. Sometimes when we reached the Presbytery garden I would sling my lunch basket over the hedge and when she had gone ** reached school, Mary Alice would sometimes tell Sister what I had done so the usual penance had to be performed, usually standing on a low stool and reading some poem.

At night Mary Alice would take me home and give my parents an outline of the events of the day. Later on I had to come home by myself, much to my delight. It was on one of these occasions that I had a most disastrous experience just at the entrance to Duddle Lane was a small farm with a large expanse of grass it called The Green, here they used to break in young horses. One afternoon, I was coming home and on The Green was Tommy Cutler breaking in a gelding. He had a long rope and whip and the horse was made to go round and round while young Tommy flicked it with the whip. I stood entranced and watched the performance. Suddenly the horse reared and tugged violently at the rope. Tommy lashed out with his whip, shouting and pulling on the rope. I heard him shout, “I’ll punch his bloody guts in”. I thought this a wonderful thing, I had never heard the word ‘bloody’ and I certainly didn’t know what guts were but they certainly seemed to me to be admirable words, not to say, effective.All the way home I kept repeating the words ‘bloody guts, bloody guts’ until I had completely memorised them and the more I repeated them the more I liked them. The point was, when and where could I repeat them. My opportunity came at tea. I was sitting next to our Bill, my Father was always very strict at meal-times and any breach of good manners we firmly dealt with. During the meal, Bill made a face at me on the quiet. I just looked at him and said in a clear voice ‘I’ll punch his bloody guts out’. There was a silence while you could count to ten and then my Dad got hold of me, put me over his knee and smacked my behind until I fairly howled.

The writer of the above was my Father, Francis McMellon. In 1899 he left the little convent school in Duddle Lane to attend the boys’ school inBrownedge Lane where his Father, William, was headmaster.

He must have been a fairly bright boy because in 1903 he became the first boy of that school to win a scholarship to Preston Catholic College. When the result of the scholarship reached the school he had to stand on the stage in front of all the assembled boys. Doubtless his Father was very proud but it was an unwise decision as Frank, as he was called, had to put up with quite a bit of bullying and ridicule for the rest of his time at that school.

At Preston Catholic College, he had his share of troubles with the staff but did well academically and left in 1908 with his ‘Matriculation’. That same year he became a student teacher back at Brownedge Boys’ School under the redoubtable Mr. J. Walmsley. He (Francis McMellon) was always keen that people knew that there was no comparison between the old “pupil teacher” and the new grammar school educated student teacher. During the next two years he studied hard besides teaching a class of boys and in 1910 he passed his examination and became a qualified certificated teacher. He was to remain at Brownedge Boys’ School for the next forty-five years, the last nineteen as headmaster.

He succeeded Mr. Richard Billington to this post in 1925. Mr Billington whilst being a strict disciplinarian/accomplished pianist and church organist was however, no scholar. He had never left the school, becoming a pupil teacher when he was twelve years old and continuing as an uncertificated teacher then as head teacher until he retired in 1936. Because of this my Father bore the full burden of arranging syllabus and curriculum and after the Hadow Report of 1926, taking charge of much of the teaching of the senior boys though normally Mr. Billington was their class teacher.

It is not generally known (if at all) that he taught Mr. Billington mathematics, science, physics and practical drawing to help pass his exams at Wigan Mining College, where he was studying (evening classes and by post) to get a teaching certificate. For most of his teaching career my Father also taught at ‘night school’ from 1911 to 1950 as headteacher and at Preston Tech Evening School, 1936 to 1939 and in 1930 he was the founder of a night school at Lostock Hall where he taught from 1930 to 1950.

From my own experience as a child and from many conversations with other ‘Brownedgers’, I know he was a very competent teacher- rather more than competent – he was excellent.

Though he was strict and would tolerate no insolence or insubordination, he was generally well liked. In no small missive this was due to his very, very good sense of humour. He was a great entertainer of boys and had a wonderful store of knowledge and tales. Old men and not so old who attended Brownedge School are always ready to reminisce about the tales he told them and the almost daily humorous incidents in which he was involved. In 1919 he married a farmer’s daughter, Agnes Prescott who lived in Whittle-le-Woods. They lived in a house Brownedge Lane (45) nearly opposite the school where he was to teach for the next 36 years.

This meant that he had spent 47 years teaching and running St. Maria’s Boys School.