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The flat, indeed the entire
building, had no electricity, but was run entirely on gas, which I was
informed was generated from a small plant outside, (though I cannot
confirm this). We had gas lamps, a gas cooker, and a gas iron. The
lamps were fitted with mantles that were only obtainable locally from
a general store in Compton Crescent. The iron was a fearsome
contraption that was connected by a rubber tube to a tap on the living
room hearth. It had an internal gas ring that exploded upon lighting
and played roaring flames onto the inside of the sole plate. There was
no fine tuning with this - I
remember most of our clothes were either wrinkled or scorched. Our 'entertainment' was a portable radio that took its energy from a
pair of accumulators - acid filled glass batteries that were regularly
topped up at the garage down the road.
By the time we had moved there,
many of the outbuildings had disappeared. The small front garden was
planted with hydrangeas and always smelled damp, while the back garden
was overgrown with weeds and nettles surrounding a rusty tin shed full
of long forgotten oddments and enormous spiders. At the end of the
garden, the back gate led out to a rough road along which were several
ramshackle light industrial workshops unconnected with the pottery.
Of the other tenants, I remember
the flat below us was occupied by a small elderly lady named Mrs
Cramp, who had a bachelor son. Cramp junior was a strange little chap
with a squeaky voice. We rarely saw him, and I’m not sure if he
actually lived there, but his bicycle would appear regularly in the
downstairs hallway. One of the other flats next door housed a couple
by the name of Saywell. I believe he was either a potter or a foreman
and his wife was the canteen cook.
As to the pottery itself, my dad
was a stoker/watchman/general hand who also tended to keep an eye on
the place when everyone else had gone home. He would often get up in
the middle of the night to replenish the coal fires that heated the
kilns. On cold winter mornings he would carry a shovel of burning coal
from the works into the flat and give us an instant fire in the living
room, though occasionally he would fail to negotiate the stairs and
almost set them alight! This trick was performed to amusement of
bystanders at the bus stop opposite who would eagerly invite him to
“bring it over here mate!”
On weekends and evenings I would
often go on a tour of the pottery with dad, and my lasting memory of
the place was of an almost Dickensian works with rows of round brick
kilns, all covered by a rusting corrugated tin roof.
Conditions seemed pretty Spartan by
today’s standards with bare brick walls and rough timber beams. The
workshops contained lines of wheels with foot activated pedals and the
whole place was coated in a thick film of fine clay dust – including
the canteen. The only internal evidence of electricity was a few light
bulbs strung around at intervals under the roofing.
Outside there were what seemed like
vast hills of clay that had been cut into steps by spade and loaded
into small rail trucks. These were hauled up an incline by electric
winch to a gantry over the pottery where the clay was tipped into a
hopper. It was then compressed and dampened before being squeezed
though a 6” square opening at the bottom, rather like a giant
toothpaste tube. As it emerged, it was sliced into three foot lengths
by wire and stacked ready for use in the workshops.
On summer days when no-one was
around I would climb the dizzy heights of the clay mountains, taking
care to use only the 'steps' that had dried out, otherwise it was
quite a plunge to the bottom if your footing was unstable! I was
idolised by my schoolmates when dad let us ride in the 'train'
occasionally, though I recall it was a bit messy!
I think the kilns were about ten
feet wide with say, six or eight fire grates around the outside. I
remember seeing the 'raw' pots stacked on shelves inside and then
the entrance being bricked up. It always seemed to me such a waste
when the bricks were knocked down again after firing. I once tried my
modelling skills and fashioned a couple of clay animals which were
discretely placed amongst one batch of pots but, sadly, they wilted
rather badly during the process and I was disappointed with the
biscuity blobs that emerged afterwards!
One of the regular activities that
I never witnessed was the chimney cleaning. As I understand it, each
of the fire grates led to a central chimney, and the constant use led
to considerable accumulations of soot. One of the methods of loosening
this was with large firecrackers that were strategically placed and
quickly abandoned when lit. These evil devices were like giant jumping
jacks and it terrified me just to look at them.
One day I accompanied my father on
his tour whilst riding my prized new bicycle. Dad decided he would
like a go and set off pedalling around the kilns. Unfortunately, he
turned into a hidden stack of bricks and sustained a nasty gash to his
chin that needed several stitches. I was more concerned with my bent
front wheel!
Living at Wayside Cottages really
singled us out in the local community. No electricity meant no
television, so while the rest of the population tuned into the hit
programmes of the day, we were limited to the Home, Light and Third
Services of the radio. Still, I managed to keep abreast of things and
save face with my schoolmates by regular visits to my aunt’s house
in Devonshire Hill Lane. Their TV was almost as tall as I was – and
it had a 14 inch screen!
Back home I would spend alternate
winter Saturdays gazing out from the spare room window at the top of
the house. This afforded me a free view of Wood Green Town’s
football matches, though much of the pitch was obscured by a rickety
wooden grandstand that appeared to have been fighting the elements for
many years. There was also a long single storey building that was the
social club where my parents would spend their weekend evenings, and I
was introduced to the delights of 'Housey Housey' and live skiffle.
I was allowed to accompany them provided I behaved myself – usually
for about 10 minutes before I disappeared outside with the other kids.
After the evening’s entertainment
we were usually accompanied home by a family friend named Charlie. He
was a tall, gangly young man, and seemed very excitable following a
few pints. His regular 'party piece' was to accidentally brush his
head against the living room gas mantle, showering the floor with
glowing fragments and sometimes setting his hair alight.
Almost all the output from the
pottery seemed to consist of varying sizes of flower pots, though I do
recall some flatter, broader 'rustic bowls' that had rough scoured
outsides. Towards the end of our stay there I remember there was one
attempt at automation. A machine that stamped out pots from dollops of
clay, but these were seemingly unpopular because they did not 'breathe' like the hand fashioned product. A strange thought
considering the advent of plastic pots.
Judging by my father’s comments, "Colie" the boss, Sid
Cole, was a staunch socialist but came
across as a bit of a taskmaster who expected a high return for meagre
wage, though this has to be viewed in the light of a rapidly declining
industry. However, one of his oddities was to test the honesty of his
staff by leaving a row of meticulously placed coins on his office desk
when he was away. On his return these would be carefully inspected to
see if there had been even the tiniest movement.
My mother (Bet) worked part time at
the nearby Direct Mineral Water Supply Company which manufactured soft
drinks. They would probably be referred to as 'mixers' these days.
Occasionally, workers were allowed to take home products that did not
meet the required standard and failed the quality control of the day.
I was never impressed by the bottles of pale, sugary water, or bitter,
cloudy sludge that found their way to our kitchen.
I was never sure what happened to Mrs Cramp's son who eventually disappeared from the scene, but she,
herself, gradually succumbed to dementia and started to act very
strangely. She began to bake mince pies in great quantities - and at
all hours. Sometimes we could smell the cooking in the middle of the
night. Often she would catch me on the way to school and invite me
into her living room, an eerie dark place due to the heavy curtains.
All around were dozens of knickknacks and chalk ornaments, occupying
every available space on shelves, tables and sideboards. She would
tell me in hushed tones that she had a special treat for me - a batch
of freshly baked mince pies that I could share with my schoolmates.
She would open up one of many large square tins and load half a dozen
pies into a paper bag, then send me on my way. This happened for
several months on an almost daily basis until we finally moved away in
late 1957.
The pottery closed soon afterwards
and the house was there for a while longer, but our relatively short
time stay was certainly an experience to remember.
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