RECOLLECTIONS OF H. L. VOWLES 'EVENING POST' 1935
WHEN about two years old, I was taken by my parents to live at Bishopston. There were only a few houses there then, it being mostly fields. Old Black Harry, the smith, was a noted character, then established where Elton Road now is, in an old kiln with boards placed on the top for a roof. As boys we used to throw stones on it and then run away, for he kept half a dozen dogs. From Zetland Road to Arley Church were fields, with a low wall along the pathway, and a ditch at the side of the wall, which became flooded after much rain.
In the winter of 1881 I saw the water four feet deep under the railway bridge, and an old woman with a bundle of newspaper on her shoulder struggling through it from Cotham Brow. The water was over her waist, and it was a wonder that she was not swept away. After the rains came snow - it was ten feet deep over the high walls, and on the level it was four feet deep. I remember the snow of that winter being piled along the gutters, six feet high, with gaps every now and then to enable people to cross the street.
Eventually the snow was carted away to the Horsefair and piled as high as the roofs of the houses. But it would not melt, and so had to be broken up with pickaxes and carried to the harbour and thrown in.
Where Horfield Prison is, there was once a large round pond, with water about two feet deep and an island in the middle, on which we used to skate in the winter. The place was called Horfield Gardens, and my uncle who was a comic singer, used to sing and play the guitar at galas there. Opposite St. Michael’s Church, Bishopston, when I lived there (it was called Hill View, St. Michael’s Mount) were all fields, and I used to frighten the birds off the wheat with a bell.
There were fields where St. Andrew’s Park now stands, and a very deep quarry with water in it, where I used to get fossils like mussels and eels turned to stone - it seemed as though the sea was at one time where now there are villas and the park. When a boy I used to go behind Colston’s Girls’ School and watch the bathers go up a ladder at the side of the wall and dive in at Rennision’s Baths. In those days I liked to see the soldiers from Horfield Barracks marching to church wearing the old shako (with its knob in front, half red and half white) and the red tunic with yellow facings and braidings.
I have seen back streets become main streets, and main streets become back streets. I saw Lower Union Street being cut through to Horsefair, before which the arcades were the main way; and I also saw Baldwin Street being made and the People’s Palace being built, I was one of the first to go and see a show there. I have seen at the Palace the White-eyed Kaffir, Florrie Ford, Harry Lauder, Charlie Chaplin, Austin Rudd, Ada Limberg, the Sisters Tilley, Peter Goty, Hackensmidt, Sandow, Sims Reeve, Marie Lloyd, and many others. My uncle was chairman at the Albambra Music Hall in Broadmead, later called the Star, and then the Tivoli. He used to tap on his desk and say, 'Ladies and Gentlemen, George Elton will now appear '. Then it was: 'Millie Tempest will sing a song '.
The porter stores at Zed Alley were then carried on as a music hall, and another attraction was Wombwell’s Show, held every winter in the Horsefair. They had a splendid band, playing outside to the crowds looking on, and girls came out and danced on the small stage to entice the onlookers to go in and see the animals. Then there was the grand circus, with gilded cars drawn by elephants, and piebald horses and camels, and the band leading the way in a chariot.
I have been on the stage myself at the Prince’s Theatre in several companies in years gone by, and have been in plays in which Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, Wilson Barrett, Frank Benson, Mr. Tearle and others appeared. I have also appeared at the Old Theatre. I can well remember being in 'Faust' in which I was one of the lost souls in Hell. I was among fifty boys and fifty girls grouped on the stage, with mountain scenery around us, and Henry Irving dressed in red as Mephistopheles looking down on us from a rock, grinning.
There were pretty old houses in Lewin’s Mead, and in the Horsefair—all gone now ! - and shops each side of the Pithay, with their fronts ornamented with carpets and clothes which were hung outside. You could get lost in Lewin’s Mead and Black Friar which were full of courts and alleys. There were policemen at the beginning of these streets who never ventured to go down them.
An inspector, a sergeant, and a policeman would go down together for mutual protection—even in daylight. The same state of affairs prevailed in Gloucester Lane, where they would throw a policeman in the river. About 1875 I remember the little shops along where Fry’s factories were built later. In the hauling-way there is still an iron plate over the River Froom. I knew the caretaker, and one day his kitchen and all his coal disappeared into the Froom. St. Bartholomew’s Church was in Union Street, close by Fry’s factories, with an entrance round the back, and a narrow door in Union Street.
At last Fry’s bought it and a new church was built in St. Andrews, Montpelier. When I was four years old I had an old widow as a nurse, who, as far as I can remember, was old and wrinkled. Later on my mother told me her name was Mrs. Davis, and that her son who was one of the rioters in Queen Square had been hanged for his activities. When I grew up I consulted some books on old Bristol, and found that there had been a man named Davis hanged, so the story would seem to be true.
MEMORIES OF BRISTOL BY FRED HARTLEY
'You need to see Fred,' 'Oh you should talk to Fred'... 'Fred's the person you want, he used to live up the steps.' Fred would remember the past, the shops and the people. Fred could tell you of a time when he ran around bare-foot in Christmas Street and up the Steps. Obviously we had to see Fred. 'I'll tell him you'll be here next week then?' said Cliff the newsagent. 'He's certain to call in here as usual. No problem.' I stood back and watched Cliff 'ringing up' the pennies exchanged for a steady stream of varied snacks and the many magazines and newspapers. The tiny shop allowed people to flood in and out again while fresh coffee perked on the counter.
No fuss, no bother, that's Cliff Taylor, always ready for a chat, but that is how it is in Christmas Street and up the Steps ... nothing changes that way. 'Until next week then,' I said. At the top of the steps on my way to Park Row a young couple politely waited while I focused my camera. 'Fame at last,' the young man said jovially as I gestured for them to move on into the picture. Scenes of the city can be so dead without people I thought, as they skipped happily down the steps and stopped to look into a jewellers. I remember Trull's, the 'pandora's box' of buttons and all things haberdashery, the best place in town to buy good strong thread... you could be surprised by what you found in Trull's.
Above Park Row I looked across the city, the spire of St John's Gate marking the old city wall. I wondered what it all looked like when Fred was a boy. A lot has changed since I first knew Christmas Steps but Fred could tell me of even more. 'Just a cart track, that's all it was; said Fred as we leant against the railings opposite the newsagents and St Bartholomew's. The traffic thundered by into Lewins Mead... 'Used to be the Jewish quarter down there,' he said. 'And where the car park is and the garage, it was an island of warehouses. I saw them pulled down as a kid. I found big pennies like that, like cartwheels.' He made a circle with his fingers which obviously meant they were much larger than would be expected.
Fred Hartley was born in Hotwells, but he was destined to see a lot in this heart of old Bristol when his father decided to set up a violin shop in the Steps in 1912. It was a whole new adventure playground, a bustling community of business and barter which would have attracted the eyes and ears of an eight year-old boy. 'I was a little villain,' he said. 'Our cat used to sometimes 'nick' a fish from Cox's, the wet fish and greengrocer shop, and lay it on our doorstep. Mother used to say we should give it back but I'd 'egg her on' to keep it! Vegetables used to be kept in baskets outside shops.
Down the steps I'd run, stick my foot out, over went the baskets and down the Steps those veg' rolled... I enjoyed that! Oh, everyone knew me alright and I knew everyone else. Now, Jack Besser, he was the original owner of the fish and chip shop at the bottom of the Steps and before that he used to own our shop which was a fish and chip shop in 1895 ... always a lot of fish available in those days. He had two daughters, one by the name of Rosie ... lovely girls,' said Fred with a wicked grin. Fred's father was known for his expertise in making and repairing violins. 'All the big orchestras came to my father. The Bournemouth Sinfonietta, Halle, Philharmonic, and he would look after them. I did a bit myself before I became a joiner.
I was apprenticed in 1918 at Hill's Shipyard but I've seen Mantovani and Henry Hall come into the shop. Now, 111 tell you. Bill Ackery, he was a cabinet maker over there, now the delicatessen at the bottom of the steps, and he was a good chap. Father and him officiated at the Merchant Venturers in Marsh Street. They looked after the dining tables after banquets. Bill did wood repairs and Father was the 'treacle-pusher', you know, the name they gave to trench polishers. They used to have some banquets and the whisky flowed. I can remember seeing the Prince of Wales there 'Come and look at your future King' my father said to me! I saw Queen Mary too when she came to the Steps to see Fred Elson.
Now, there was a man, friend of my father and an expert in antiques and Worces tershire china. He had a large white moustache and a great booming voice. Round about August time when Queen Mary was staying at Badminton, she'd arrive with her equerry following close behind. Up the Steps she'd march to Fred's shop in her turban type hat and her choker type of thing round her neck, holding her cane high with a lofty look on her face. She was known to be a bit of a tight bargainer and you could hear Fred saying 'NO Ma'am, no, that's not enough Ma'am, NO!' You couldn't hear Queen Mary but you could hear Fred. I used to run up to Mother and say 'it's old Mother Mary, she's here again!'
Fred remembers every shop which used to be in the Steps and Street. Weaver's, picture frame makers and artist's materials, Smith's antiques, Mrs Gribble's antiques who had a son who was a projectionist at the King's Cinema, Frank Shire the phonograph repairer, Phelan's Shoes and Boots. Fred continued: 'There was Merchants the clock maker who used to wear a skull cap and the faggot and peas shop where Mr Stancombe always wore a Salvation Army jersey. I was friendly with a little Italian boy at Cocoran's cockle shop. He had brown eyes and I used to like him.
Then there was Lucy and Harry Churchill. They had a provisions shop and he was the Manager. I wasn't keen on them, it was their baskets I tipped over! Lucy had a sister Amy... alright Amy was. She used to work down the Barton making the caps for Jews at Stewart, Galiup and Solomon. At the bottom here, was Bill Maggs the baker and his cake shop ... used to store all the wheat and flour in over the top there... had two daughters and was married to the sister of the owner of the Prince Rupert across the road. Just here in Christmas Street was George Ley the locksmith. He had a 'dick the swiveller', a glass eye. He lived in Horfield and he came down here every day... a little lock-up shed, that's all it was. After the blitz there was a row of little shops here, workshops, Brooke's laundry, Capems the seed place and a printers.
Just where we are standing there was a little clothing factory and Earl's the watchmaker and he went to Silver Street. You know Earl's, don't you?'There was no doubt Fred did. know everyone. He paused as his eyes looked further afield then off he went again . . . 'Over the main road there was Belsten's cafe. I used to play football with their son Bob. Taylor's the printers were in Host Street... Oh I could go on for ever. There's been a wealth of detail here. I have even seen after the first World War, mounted police with sabres charging down Lewin's Mead and Rupert Street. I was only a kid but I remember I got in a doorway and there was this woman and a policeman 'went in' with the flat of his sabre and caught her on the cheek just like that.' Fred ran his finger down his cheek indicating a large nasty gash.
Bristol's riots are not the best side of the city's past and not all are remembered, but Fred remembers the struggle men had after the first World War to get their jobs back from the women. 'A tram was turned over here. They were trying to get the conductresses off the trams. Then they went and put a brick through the tramway garage and that's what started all the riots ... Oh yes, I've seen all that.' The riotous noise of the traffic was incessant but for a while we had blotted out the groaning brakes of the buses and lorries, the monotonous drone of modem travel. Of course, now I remember the violin shop before it was sold in 1986, such a feeble contribution against the memory and bright mind of Fred Bartley who could tell even more. Yes, I really must see Fred again. 'Okay?' I asked . . . 'Right,' said Fred!
LIVING A DOUBLE LIFE
This story, written by G T Morgan and sent in by a reader, gives us a glimpse into what life must have been like in Bristol in the 1920s - a time which saw extremes of poverty and wealth. His home was a small pub, but his working day was spent as a page boy in a leading city hotel. Here are his evocative reminiscences.
In 1926 I lived a life in two worlds. For by day, at the hotel, I made personal contact with film stars, actors, millionaires, famous aviators, commercial travellers and professional tipsters. But by night, in east Bristol, I experienced the blue, smokey atmosphere of a spit and sawdust public house, a place which happened to be my home. Here and there was a bar spittoon, and a gas jet was used to seal bottles in the 'bottle and jug' with red wax.
Our way of life was very different in those days, and I saw much poverty among my good friends and neighbours in Derby Street. Comparing our back street struggle for the very necessities of life with the soft lights, sweet music and plush carpets of the hotel, I felt I was living a Jekyll and Hyde existence.
From the pub window in the early morning, I could see women queuing up outside the pawnbrokers shop opposite. Clutched closely to their white laced cotton pinafores were white sheet bundles tied at all four corners. These women also wore their husband's caps, but to add a feminine touch they pushed an oversized steel hat pin through the top.
Those were the days of the dreaded means test, and unemployment was rife. Groups of men would stand idly on street corners, their only possession a packet of Woodbine cigarettes. But this was also the era of the Bullnose Morris car, the lamplighter crystal set, the tin trumpeted gramophone, the barrel organ and radio stations 5WA Cardiff and 2LO London.
This was still the age of the smithy - the clanging, dancing hammer on the anvil, and the fumes from burning horses' hooves. Cockle-sellers in Welsh national costume would roam the streets, their cries of 'cockles!' mingling with the melodious rumbling of a side street barrel organ. Kids would be in the streets playing conkers, kicktin, monkey tops, bedlam, hoops and skipping.
They also swapped or exchanged cigarette cards known as 'generals'. There was also a wonderful series of 'Do You Know' and 'Cries Of London'. A weekend chore for them was polishing knives, forks and spoons on a scouring board, The sweet shop on the corner sold aniseed balls, humbugs and halfpenny gobstoppers that changed colour with every few sucks.
Wire-rimmed glasses and spectacles came from the sixpenny bazaar. A cry of 'ripe bananas' came from barrow boys, and weekend joints were sold by butchers at Saturday night giveaway prices. Horse dealers trotted their horses up and down the side streets under the watchful eye of would-be buyers, and sheep and cows, being driven from the market to the slaughterhouse, would dirty the streets.
An occasional escaped bull would run amok, causing excitement and scattering pedestrians in all directions. My playground, St George Park, was where many ex-professional soccer players - such as Billy Coggins, Walt Jennings and Ted Hathway - booted red rubber gaskin balls about on the grass.
Even Bob Hope, in later life America's king jester, sought pleasure in the park. He, like may other youngsters, fished for tiddlers in the lake and quenched his thirst from the chained copper cup water fountain at Park Crescent.
But each morning I left this world behind me as I boarded a tram to the Centre to take up my duties - a long 12-hour day working at the hotel. Alongside the docks, by the city Centre, was ex-Bristol and England rugby player Sam Tucker. By day a foreman docker, he would stand on a box and select his men for the day's work. Hundreds more, with cigarette in mouth, would miserably disperse to idle away yet another day of unemployment.
At the top of Park Street was the Princes Theatre, destroyed in the Blitz of 1940. Pauline Frederick, the silent film star and stage star, made an appearance there in the late 1920s after a two-week run of The Wandering Jew featuring that very famous actor Matheson Lang. It was Miss Frederick's manager who offered me a film test at the Fox Studios in Hollywood. It was all very exciting - until my parents objected and dashed forever my hopes of seeing Charlie Chaplin, Jackie Coogan, Ruth Roland, Tom Mix and William S Hart in real life.
My wages at the hotel were six shillings a week, but tips gave me an average of £2 per week. At Christmas the kindly chairman of the board of directors handed me a gift of two brand new half crowns (25p)
Bert Hinkler and Captain McIntosh, two famous aviators of the time, often joked with me. One day they even signed my autograph book. I remember seeing Yehudi Menuhin, and I became friendly with Will Hay's son, who often accompanied his father. The Bristol Times and Echo newspaper paid cash for news items in those days. This offered me a sideline, as my job often threw into my lap many good stories.
When a famous film star tried to make her presence in the city a secret, it was no mystery to me how it became known to Bristol readers. Old Bill Hooper, at the Princes Theatre stage door, was a well- known personality. Known as Larry Lynx, he obtained good information about horses from stage personalities. His tips seldom failed.
On classic race days, such as the Derby or Lincoln, I would pluck a pigeon from dad's racing loft and transport it to the hotel in a box. I had a pigeon post operating. Gambling of any kind was forbidden in the pub, so the gent's toilet was used, with bets often written on the back of a cigarette packet.
Mamoud, a Derby winner, proved one of Bill's certs.
My autograph book was stuffed with names - Yehudi Menuhin, Larry Gains, Layton and Johnstone, George Formby, Houdini, Nellie Wallace, Ella Shields, Henry Ainley, Richard Tauber, Talbot O Farrel, G S Elliot, Kreisler, Mona Vivian, Flotsam and Jetsam and many others. But the book, just like the Princes Theatre, was burned in the Blitz. Now, those big names are just a memory.
