HORSES AND CARTS

 

When I was a child there were very few motors cars. People travelled by bus, tram, train or bicycle, and in the country by horse or horse and cart. Cheshunt was rural but had a train service to London, Waltham Cross was just about urban and could reach London by bus or tram. Coal and coke were delivered by horse-drawn cart and the coalman had to carry the sacks into the house from the road. In the terraced houses the coal was always kept in the cupboard under the stairs, so after a delivery the furniture and carpet in the front room (but more likely, lino) would get covered in coaldust. The gas meter was often in the same place and people putting money in the slot would also get covered. A bag held one hundredweight of coal, a sack held two. Coke was half those weights. For about two months before I joined the Gas Company I worked in a coal office, and although I wasn't supposed to, when things in the office were slack I often went into the yard and helped Foreman Barclay fill sacks and carry them to the carts. Yes, two hundred and twenty-four pounds on my back at sixteen years old, ex-Grammar School Boy. Mum couldn't understand why office work was such a dirty job - I never told her why. The coalman used to wear a leather helmet-cum-cape which covered his head, ears and shoulders, and looked like an executioner from the Middle Ages particularly if he had the usual large moustache.

Greengrocers delivered to the door from open cars, with the fruit and vegetables stacked up on either side. The fishmonger's cart came round every day except Monday (by then the fish had gone off having come from Grimsby or Billingsgate Market on Friday or early Saturday. Not many fishmongers had cold rooms or refrigerators.) Sundays were a special treat day for Mum and Dad because there were always shellfish on the cart - crabs, cockles, shrimps, winkles etc. I never got a taste for them and have hardly ever eaten any - it must have been the business of shelling and winkle-picking that put me off very early in life. So although I have often been to Spain and its Islands I have never eaten Paella, and don't intend to, although I believe it is possible to have it without shellfish.

The Milkman came round every day with his large, brightly polished churn on the back of an open cart. He had to fill our jugs with a dipper so looking back I am sure we sometimes got short measure. There were two or three steps at the back for us kids to stand on. The milk wasn't sterilised or pasteurised so it's amazing that we all survived. On the other hand there wasn't any cream in it to give us heart disease in later life. Quite often the milk was still warm from the cows!

On Sundays, usually after lunch, the ice-cream bicycles came round. There was much discussion among us kids as to whether Eldorado was better than Wall's. It was generally considered that Eldorado was creamier but cost too much, and that Wall's 'Snofrute' was tastier and good value - it lasted longer. It was a triangular water ice about five inches long in a blue/white wrapper. You sucked it, taking care not to suck the wrapper. There were several flavours, orange, raspberry, strawberry, lime - which I liked best. The Italian 'Hokey Pokey' man also came, with 'real' ice cream, 'Hokey Pokey' (penny-a-lump), coconut ice, toffee apples, and his monkey on his back.

Most people drank ale or stout with their meals and used to send their kids round to the 'Bottle and Jug' door of the local pub with a large jug for 'draught', bottle beer being too pricey.

Our local baker was called Kelly and lived in the same road as Grandma Sporne. He certainly had a horse and cart, but I can't remember if he delivered in our road. His son Bert was a couple of years older than me and was at Grammar School at the same time, but as a paying pupil. When I joined Cheshunt Cricket Club after the War Bert and I were fast bowling partners for several years, but I lost touch with him after I went to Ipswich. There was a famous game against Luton Corinthian one Sunday (Luton Town were not allowed by the Town Council to play at Wardown Park on Sundays, and played all their Sunday games away under that name). They always travelled by coach and usually brought a tea chest of locally made hats with them for our ladies. Marjorie used to look forward to them coming. On this particular Sunday they arrived as usual after lunch and by three o'clock had got us all out for eleven runs, a dismal effort on our part. All over, you might think. They certainly did, but it was not to be. Bert Kelly and I got them all out for nine runs, in spite of the fact that they had some Bedfordshire County players in their team.

The last I heard of Bert was about two years ago in an article in the Leighton Buzzard newspaper. He had died. It turned out that he was still involved in cricket and had been President of Leighton Buzzard Cricket Club. As Dunstable had regular fixtures with them and I had played against them several times it is strange that I had never come across him when we went to their ground.

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