PT 3

The York Tramways Club & Institute stands just off George Street and adjacent to the grave of the fabled highwayman, Dick Turpin.  It’s located in an area known as Fishergate.

I knew about the Tramways Club long before I knew what a tramway was – or a tram for that matter.

All major festivals and Bank Holidays were marked with a visit to the club.  For years, babysitters sat for my brother and I on Saturday evenings while my mam and dad were down there.

The building was pure 1960s – Hockney’s “A Bigger Splash” comes to mind, minus blue skies and palm trees.  It was built during the heyday of the workingmen’s club scene.  They must have thought it would never end.

Its Entertainment Room was impressively large, with high panoramic windows. The shimmering stage issued an off-beat bass-drum thud as the resident band guided a packed floor through waltzes and pop standards.  A glitter-ball provided a ball-room atmosphere.  Long-drop shaded lights gave it that early ‘60s feel, lasting long into the ‘80s.

My early memories are of the Big Room packed with people – not a table unoccupied.  Bar-staff could be seen moving constantly, clearing glasses and cleaning ash-trays.  On family days, the kids careened around the floor or mounted the stage for organised fun.  Over in the corner, a queue formed for the balloon-sculptor, who tied his balloons with lightning speed to produce dogs and… actually, I only remember dogs.

One of my favourite images is of the sun slanting through a veil of cigarette smoke that reached almost to the floor.  Almost certainly Boxing Day.  A rich mélange of music, fun-loving voices and ringing glasses.  Ash-trays and damp beer mats.  Lemonade and crisps.  The working-class at play.  And why not?

My dad had joined the Tramways before I was born.  Membership was keenly sought after and being issued a card was by no means guaranteed.  The Committee was the General Presidium of Leisure.  But the Club President was ex-Air Force - so no problem, Stan.

At the age of 18, I applied for membership, although admission was easier as the club scene was on the wane by then. 

One night, my mate and I rode across York on our Japanese motorbikes.  We entered the castle keep – the Bar.  Then we forged on to the treasury – the Games Room. It was secreted beneath the Bar mezzanine and accessed down a flight of open teak steps.  We placed our pints down and waited for our turn at a snooker table. 

There were two of them, illuminated by long rectangular lights.  We set up the balls – triangle of reds at one end – and inserted fifty pence in the slot.  The light came on.

We’d only ever played pool before, and the green snooker baize was so vast you felt like climbing on and kicking the balls.  We took it in turns to stalk around the table, sizing up shots and angles and sighting along the cue. 

Out beyond the glare of the light, amid the clatter of dominoes, the steady gaze of seasoned players followed our progress.

In time, the light extinguished.  We hadn’t pocketed a single ball – except maybe the cue-ball a number of times.  My mate went to push another fifty pence in the slot.

“I’m sorry lads.  You only get one light.”

There was no malice, but what went unsaid hit hardest. We finished our drinks and headed out to the bikes.

The Tramways was a stone’s throw from the Walmgate slums where our family came into being.  The slums were long gone, the family having moved out to the first council estates in the 1920s, but some of our relatives still lived in newer houses along Hope Street across the road.  I never found this out until years later. It still seems odd that we never visited. 

In 1984, I moved into a bedsit in Fishergate with my girlfriend.  We married in 1985 in St. George’s Church opposite the Tramways.  How many of our family's births, deaths and marriages must that church have seen? 

The reception was held in the club of course.  By this time, my girlfriend and I were well-known regulars.  It helped being a fitter the Rowntree’s factory.  One big family. 

The Best Man was my snooker-mate and he was feeling a little nervous about his duties.  We called in for a stiffener on the way to the church.  All my mates were already in the bar.  At some point in the proceedings, the chauffeur walked in through the door. 

“Is Kevin here?”

I made myself known.

“Come on, mate.  I’ve driven her round the block three times.”

I dragged the Best Man across the road and down the aisle while he searched his pockets for the ring. The priest gave me knowing looks all the way through the ceremony. I must have smelled like a brewery.

A year or so later, our little family of three moved away from Fishergate and we became strangers to the Tramways again. I called in once a year with my brother and my dad to pay my subs. 

On one such Sunday lunchtime, we won the navvies’ breakfast – a huge tray of meat that was raffled each week.  You could hear a pin drop as we picked it up from the bar and walked out. 

I don’t think I’ve ever been back.