Beer from the off licence

As soon as I was old enough, from age seven I think, my parents sent
me on errands to the shops at each end of the street. In those days
there were no supermarkets, but once a week my mother did her shopping
in North End Road, on market day when this road was filled with stalls
selling fruit and vegetables, much like to-day. The medium-sized
grocers, Gapps Stores for tea, Sainsbury's for other groceries, the new
"cut-price" shop, occasionally a small butcher selling rabbits and
stewing steak were the shops my mother regularly visited.

But I got small items for her during the week. There was Wilson's, a
small grocer's near St. Andrew's Church, which I passed every day on my
way to school in Greyhound Road. Here I would buy sugar, butter or tea
occasionally when my mother had run out. Opposite Wilson's was Cosy
Corner, a sweet-shop primarily, which also sold cigarettes. Here I was
given twopence for chocolate on Saturday mornings, when I would also
usually purchase twenty "Weights" cigarettes for Dad. In those days it
was legal for small children to buy cigarettes, but not smoke them of
course.

In the week, I might have a farthing "everlasting stick" made of
toffee. For a real treat, I would also have a "Wall's" water-ice
wrapped in blue-check thin cardboard. These could be sawed in half, and
often when I had not the money for a whole one, I would offer the
ice-cream man a halfpenny and wait patiently while it was sawed in
half.

Though I would never have dreamed of trying to smoke one of my father's
cigarettes which I had brought from the shop, I was often afraid of
doing quite reasonable things, or so it seems, as my father even
complained about me rustling paper during his afternoon rest on
Sundays. Fortunately, he was out much of the time at week-ends, always
on Saturday afternoon, when I was told he gave "political speeches"
drawing a crowd by jumping up on a soap-box. He was a powerful speaker,
very persuasive, and my cousin has often said "Uncle Jack could have
sold refrigerators to Eskimos!"

When I was not buying cigs for Dad, I was buying a loaf of bread for
Mum. Hemmings the baker's was at the other end of the street on the
same side as Cosy Corner. Here I often bought a crusty loaf, always
white bread in those days. I don't think wholemeal was available in our
local shops, as we had never heard of "healthy eating". Nevertheless
the food my mother provided was very varied, even when money was short
Hemmings issued a ticket with every purchase, recording the amount
spent. When we had collected about one pounds worth, we were entitled
to a free box of cakes, costing one shilling. I used to hang about
outside Hemmings, as many customers dropped their receipts, and would
pick these up, so that every two months, I had gathered enough to get
this free box of cakes, twelve in a box, and I preferred them to my
mother's home-made cake, in that strange way of children. Mum's
home-made cake was usually in two parts, baked as one cake, one side
contained caraway seeds, the other currants and sultanas. The caraway
side was for Dad; he preferred this.

Opposite Hemming's was a public house, the only building left still
standing today from the old May Street, which was demolished, around
the mid-seventies to construct a block of flats in the form of an
estate. The pub was called "The Clarence". Every Sunday I would call at
the side entrance, an "off-licence" section, for a pint bottle of
Watneys' Indian pale ale.

I set off for the off-licence one Sunday morning to buy a pint of ale
to go with Sunday dinner and was proudly bearing it home, when for some
reason I had to cross the road. As always, when the coast was clear, I
almost run across. This habit was acquired because my father was always
shouting "Hurry across the road." He meant "Be careful!" Yes, I did
look each way, up to three times before crossing. In the middle of the
road, I dropped the bottle of ale, which broke into many fragments. Not
a drop of drink was left. Only the stopper remained whole. I sat down
in the middle of the road and cried, fearing my father's ire, and for a
few moments, careless of the traffic. But perhaps I did stumble to the
road side to continue crying. A middle-aged man crossed over to see
what was the matter with me. I had never been told not to talk to
strangers, at least not in our street, so I told him, that my father
would be very cross, and I was afraid to go home now. He said, "Don't
worry, Have you got the stopper?". I picked it up.

He said "The Public House will replace the bottle, if you go straight
back and tell them you have dropped the bottle, and show the stopper."
This cheered me up, and I thanked this kind stranger, but only half
believed him. But I went back to the off-licence and they did replace
the bottle of beer. I thanked them profusely. The stranger had told me
this was the usual policy . But I'm not sure about that. All I know is
that they probably recognised me, and whether it was their usual policy
or not, they replaced the bottle of Indian pale ale. When I got home, I
said "Here's the beer, Dad"; that was all I said. I did not tell my
father of this incident. I remembered this man for long afterwards but
did not see him again. Neither did I ever drop another bottle of beer
in the street. I was very, very careful
As soon as I was old enough, from age seven I think, my parents sent me
on errands to the shops at each end of the street. In those days there
were no supermarkets, but once a week my mother did her shopping in
North End Road, on market day when this road was filled with stalls
selling fruit and vegetables, much like to-day. The medium-sized
grocers, Gapps Stores for tea, Sainsbury's for other groceries, the new
"cut-price" shop, occasionally a small butcher selling rabbits and
stewing steak were the shops my mother regularly visited.

But I got small items for her during the week. There was Wilson's, a
small grocer's near St. Andrew's Church, which I passed every day on my
way to school in Greyhound Road. Here I would buy sugar, butter or tea
occasionally when my mother had run out. Opposite Wilson's was Cosy
Corner, a sweet-shop primarily, which also sold cigarettes. Here I was
given twopence for chocolate on Saturday mornings, when I would also
usually purchase twenty "Weights" cigarettes for Dad. In those days it
was legal for small children to buy cigarettes, but not smoke them of
course.

In the week, I might have a farthing "everlasting stick" made of
toffee. For a real treat, I would also have a "Wall's" water-ice
wrapped in blue-check thin cardboard. These could be sawed in half, and
often when I had not the money for a whole one, I would offer the
ice-cream man a halfpenny and wait patiently while it was sawed in
half.

Though I would never have dreamed of trying to smoke one of my father's
cigarettes which I had brought from the shop, I was often afraid of
doing quite reasonable things, or so it seems, as my father even
complained about me rustling paper during his afternoon rest on
Sundays. Fortunately, he was out much of the time at week-ends, always
on Saturday afternoon, when I was told he gave "political speeches"
drawing a crowd by jumping up on a soap-box. He was a powerful speaker,
very persuasive, and my cousin has often said "Uncle Jack could have
sold refrigerators to Eskimos!"

When I was not buying cigs for Dad, I was buying a loaf of bread for
Mum. Hemmings the baker's was at the other end of the street on the
same side as Cosy Corner. Here I often bought a crusty loaf, always
white bread in those days. I don't think wholemeal was available in our
local shops, as we had never heard of "healthy eating". Nevertheless
the food my mother provided was very varied, even when money was short
Hemmings issued a ticket with every purchase, recording the amount
spent. When we had collected about one pounds worth, we were entitled
to a free box of cakes, costing one shilling. I used to hang about
outside Hemmings, as many customers dropped their receipts, and would
pick these up, so that every two months, I had gathered enough to get
this free box of cakes, twelve in a box, and I preferred them to my
mother's home-made cake, in that strange way of children. Mum's
home-made cake was usually in two parts, baked as one cake, one side
contained caraway seeds, the other currants and sultanas. The caraway
side was for Dad; he preferred this.

Opposite Hemming's was a public house, the only building left still
standing today from the old May Street, which was demolished, around
the mid-seventies to construct a block of flats in the form of an
estate. The pub was called "The Clarence". Every Sunday I would call at
the side entrance, an "off-licence" section, for a pint bottle of
Watneys' Indian pale ale.

I set off for the off-licence one Sunday morning to buy a pint of ale
to go with Sunday dinner and was proudly bearing it home, when for some
reason I had to cross the road. As always, when the coast was clear, I
almost run across. This habit was acquired because my father was always
shouting "Hurry across the road." He meant "Be careful!" Yes, I did
look each way, up to three times before crossing. In the middle of the
road, I dropped the bottle of ale, which broke into many fragments. Not
a drop of drink was left. Only the stopper remained whole. I sat down
in the middle of the road and cried, fearing my father's ire, and for a
few moments, careless of the traffic. But perhaps I did stumble to the
road side to continue crying. A middle-aged man crossed over to see
what was the matter with me. I had never been told not to talk to
strangers, at least not in our street, so I told him, that my father
would be very cross, and I was afraid to go home now. He said, "Don't
worry, Have you got the stopper?". I picked it up.

He said "The Public House will replace the bottle, if you go straight
back and tell them you have dropped the bottle, and show the stopper."
This cheered me up, and I thanked this kind stranger, but only half
believed him. But I went back to the off-licence and they did replace
the bottle of beer. I thanked them profusely. The stranger had told me
this was the usual policy . But I'm not sure about that. All I know is
that they probably recognised me, and whether it was their usual policy
or not, they replaced the bottle of Indian pale ale. When I got home, I
said "Here's the beer, Dad"; that was all I said. I did not tell my
father of this incident. I remembered this man for long afterwards but
did not see him again. Neither did I ever drop another bottle of beer
in the street. I was very, very careful