C is for Christmas

It’s nearly Christmas. Our school Christmas Party starts off the fun. We make party hats out of red and green crepe paper and cardboard in our crafts lesson. Mine’s a golden crown studded with jewels (Rowntree’s Fruit Gums). We cut shapes out of folded paper to make doilies and make ourselves feel sick, licking the glue on the ends of the paper strips, to make long chains to festoon the classroom.

I carry a red jelly dotted with pineapple chunks in a glass dish on which my mum had stuck a label showing my name.

“Mind you bring back that dish, our Margaret, or there’ll be trouble.”

We play “Musical Chairs”, “Statues” and “In and Out the Bluebell Windows” in the school hall. I hate being chosen for the dog in ‘The Farmer wants a wife”. Some people are a bit over- enthusiastic when it comes to “we all pat the dog”.

The Infant class are performing a Nativity Play. My little sister is a cockerel who lives in the barn where baby Jesus is born. She wears a brown jumper, brown tights and has a feather duster stuck to her bottom. A bright red cardboard comb sticks up on top of her head. Mary Simpson’s dolly is baby Jesus. She holds the baby so tightly that he’s squashed. When she lays him in the manger he is upside down!

My cousin Barbara works at the Rock Mill on Wilshaw Lane. Just before Christmas they hold a children’s party. Barbara hasn’t got any children yet so she invites me. I’m not sure I want to go. I won’t know anybody and I’m only seven.

“You’ll enjoy it. And I bet they have jelly and ice-cream”

They do have jelly and pink and white ice-cream. Father Christmas comes and I have another parcel to take home. We play some games and run around sliding on the slippery floor. I am knocked out quickly in ‘Musical Chairs’. A big boy sent me flying and I want to cry.

“Love and marriage, love and marriage, go together like a horse and carriage…”

The grown-ups are singing along. I run to collect my yellow balloon and piece of cake. My Dad is waiting for me. I’d almost forgotten that we’re going home to a different house. We have flitted to a new place with three bedrooms AND an inside toilet and bathroom. There’s even a garden with an old lilac tree. There are no carpets on the floors yet and the curtains don’t meet in the middle but my Mum says we’ll be sorted by Christmas.

The Saturday before Christmas is the Sunday School Christmas party. The big room has been decorated with paper chains and Chinese lanterns and a big net full of balloons hangs from the ceiling. The Christmas tree on the stage is covered with coloured lights. On the afternoon before the party starts, I go to Sunday School with my mum to help the ladies get the tea ready. The kitchen is crowded and steamy. The big brown teapots are lined up on the table and the dull metal boiler is wheezing into life. Someone is filling sparkly glass bowls with sugar. A long wooden trestle table has been set up by the fire and it’s piled high with sliced "bunnies" which all need buttering. The butter is so hard that it won’t spread properly. My mum sits me on a little stool by the fire in the Primary classroom, holding the butter dish to the flames until it softens. Why are thin bread rolls called ‘Bunnies’, I wonder? They don’t have long ears or a fluffy tail. 

One of the ladies is slicing juicy pink ham and there’s bowls of crispy green lettuce, pale green circles of cucumber, sliced tomatoes and deep red beetroot. Everyone is chattering away as they work to make sandwiches. Aunty Mary passes me, with her home-made piccalilli jars in her arms.

“That’s a nice kilt, Margaret. Is it new?”

I’m proud of my pleated kilt. It’s Black Watch tartan and has a big pin that holds the hem together. I have a red knitted jumper with white reindeer galloping around my middle.

In the ‘Big’ Room the Dads are putting up more trestle tables, covering the rough wooden tops with smooth white paper. The plates are laid out at even intervals. They have blue and gold rims with writing spelling out “Wesleyan Methodist”. Knives, forks and spoons next, with the bowls of sugar arranged down the middle of the table and the yellow-green piccalilli in dishes in between. 

By 5 o’clock everyone has arrived and they are taking their places at the tables. The Minister raps sharply on the table with his spoon, holds up his hand for silence and says “Grace”- “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful”. A hundred chairs scrape across the wooden floor and the knives and forks clash and jingle as everyone starts to eat. Plates of bread and butter are passed backwards and forwards. I am waiting for the pudding. It’s red jelly and custard, one of my favourites. Thick white cups of strong brown tea appear, alongwith plates piled high with slices of dark brown fruit cake, glistening with red cherries.

All the children go into the back room after tea to watch a film show. The projector starts to whir and some of the big boys at the back make shadow pictures on the screen by moving their hands into different shapes. The film begins and large numbers going backwards appear on the screen. We all shout, counting down, “5…4…3…2….1”

Laurel and Hardy are falling about. Mr Hardy is fat and bossy and is always shouting at Mr Laurel who looks as though he’s just woken up and doesn’t know what’s happening. When that film ends there’s lots of whistling and shouting until the next film starts. It’s ‘Mr Pastry’, one of my favourites. Our film show ends with Mr Hennings’ cine-film of the annual Whit Walks. We can spot ourselves holding on to a banner string or carrying the corner of a float that reads “Suffer the little children” or “Jesus wants me for a sunbeam”. I see myself in my new blue organdie dress with a sticky-out skirt and puffed sleeves. I have already grown out of that dress. I still wear the white pop-stud necklace that came from Woolworth. The big girls who walk with the banner are wearing shirt-waister dresses and carrying bouquets of flowers. 

The lights come on suddenly, we all blink in the brightness, then dash through to the Big Room which has been magically transformed. All the tables have been packed away and the older people are sitting along the wooden benches lining each side of the room. They are all chattering and watching us as we slide across the floor on the chalky stuff that’s been sprinkled on the boards for dancing later.

“Come and sit down now, children”

Our Sunday school teacher, Miss Brown, is calling us. We sit on pink and blue painted wooden chairs that are gathered in a circle. The lights are dimmed; just the Christmas Tree lights glowing red and green. We hear the sound of heavy boots approaching. A delicious shiver of anticipation run down my back. There’s a loud knocking on the outside door and Mr Hurst calls “Who’s there?” and then opens the door.

Father Christmas stamps into the room, pulling a stout wooden sledge full of gaily wrapped parcels. He waves a greeting to the grown-ups and then the piano starts to play. Miss Brown coughs to attract our attention and we begin to sing:

“Away in a Manger, no crib for a bed”….

Father Christmas looks pleased with our singing. We line up as he begins to give out his parcels. I rip off the crinkly crepe paper. It’s a magic colouring book where you just use a paintbrush dipped in water to bring out the colours. You have to be careful not to get your brush too wet though or all the colours run and you end up with a muddy brown mess. Father Christmas is leaving now. He must be very busy with so many children to visit.

The lights go on again and the games begin. There are racing games, guessing games and team games. We make hats out of newspaper and the best one wins a handful of sweets. In one game the grown-ups have to pass an orange down the line but they are not allowed to use their hands or feet. They hold the orange under the chin and then put their necks very close together. There’s a lot of giggling and some red faces. I am waiting for the Fancy Dress Parade. I am the Queen of Hearts in a red velvet cloak, a white satin dress covered with red hearts and a golden crown. My Nanny has baked a dozen jam tarts that I carry on a wooden tray. I hope I don’t drop them. Two of my cousins are dressed as the Bisto Kids, like the ones in the advert. They win First Prize.

It’s time for the grown-ups’ dancing. More of the white chalky stuff is scattered on the floor. Uncle John is first on the floor, wearing his shiny black dancing slippers. He kicks up his heels at each turn of the Quick Step. The ladies move along during the Progressive Barn Dance so they have a new partner each time. The Military Two Step is very energetic and the ladies rush to sit down at the end. When I go into the toilets, the big girls are crowded round the tiny mirror, trying on each other’s lipstick. 

I’m getting tired now. I sit next to my Grandad and lean on his arm. He’s waiting to hear who has won the Whist Drive. I don’t know what whist is because the grown-ups disappear into another room to play. I want grandad to win the Booby Prize as everyone cheers when the winner of that prize is announced.

But I don’t want to miss the moment all the children have been waiting for. The net holding all the balloons is released and there’s a mad scramble to grab a balloon. I mustn’t let John Wrigley pop mine; I want to take it home to remind me of a lovely Christmas Party.

Next morning the ‘Big Room’ is different again. The wooden benches are arranged in rows facing the stage. There’s a big table on the platform piled high with books. Every Sunday we have our cards marked with a star to show we have attended Sunday school. The Sunday School Secretary has a little office where he stamps all the cards with a little purple star. I have a first prize because I haven’t missed a single Sunday. I love choosing a book from a shiny catalogue or sometimes by visiting Burgess and Dyson’s book shop in the Market Avenue. When my name is called I have to walk to the front and climb the steps, shake the hand of the person presenting the prizes and then get back to my seat quickly before having a sneaky look at my new book. I can’t wait to start reading but I know I’ll finish it too quickly. 

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 M is for Market 

A regular part of my life, as a child, living in Ashton-under-Lyne, was our three times a week visit to the market. It was a short walk from our house on Turner Lane, by the railway line, to the market ground. I would hold on to the handle of the pram that my nanny pushed. One or other of my brothers would be in the pram and would eventually be surrounded by shopping as we progressed. First, we had to go under the little subway, dashing to avoid the rumble and roar of a train going into Charlestown station. Then we had to negotiate crossing Wellington Road to the pavement opposite the Prince of Orange pub.  

I insisted we stop outside Wilde’s pet shop with the baby rabbits and kittens in cages in the window. I demanded a penny for the slot in the head of the model dog collecting for the P.D.S.A. Just before Wilde’s was “the clock shop”. In the window was a golden clock (made of brass?); its pendulum a girl on a swing. How I loved to see her swinging gently to and fro. 

No dilly-dallying, we had to get to the market. 

We turned the corner by the Water Board Offices on Warrington Street, walked across Katherine Street and on to the market ground. The pram would be forcefully manoeuvred past the roundabouts and across to Kelly’s stall by the market hall for fresh salad ingredients. The lettuces soaked in a tin bath and the white celery was lined up in rows with red tomatoes alongside. Then we walked along the fruit and vegetable stalls which lined Bow Street by the trolley bus stops to see who had the cheapest apples or potatoes. Nanny produced the special bag we kept for potatoes, its inside blackened and its own unique smell. The stallholder would weigh the potatoes on old fashioned scales with brass weights, then tip the spuds straight into the ‘potato bag’.  

There were swing boats by the market hall but you needed a friend to be with you to pull the rope opposite yours to make it swing. Inside the Market Hall we would make for the tripe stall. Nanny was partial to tripe and onions or a bit of cow ‘eel. I averted my gaze from the stall with what looked like giant loofahs or chamois leathers arranged artistically. A large loaf from Oldfield’s and then to the biscuit stall with the glass topped biscuit tins. A pound of mixed biscuits. My favourite chocolate marshmallows and those plain biscuits with pictures of different sports were included. 

At the beginning of the summer holidays, we would go to the market ground specifically to go to Harry’s stall. Harry sold Clark’s sandals which were ‘seconds’. The sandals would be paired up and tied with string, then piled in a jumble on the stall so it required some effort to find your size. The new sandals were to be kept for ‘best’ and Dad would cut out the toes of last year’s for wearing when playing out.  

The ‘pot stall’ was one of Nanny’s favourites. You could hear the man shouting his wares all over the market ground and he always attracted a crowd. Whole sets of cups and saucers at knock-down prices. He juggled plates, offered a pretty teapot to the lady on the front row who held it reverentially as if it were the Crown Jewels. I wanted to steer Nanny away in the direction of the roundabouts and/or the ice-cream stalls. We were in luck; Nanny was in a good mood. We could ride the roundabout. But then an agony of indecision, which car, bus or other vehicle should I choose? My little brother only ever wanted to ride in the little red car with the hooter to squeeze. I could go on the Deadwood Stage with the six-shooters or drive a bus or even a motor-bike. 

After that excitement it was time to retrace our steps with one last stop at the Co-op where the sugar was weighed out into blue bags with a metal scoop. Nanny was intending to bake; something to look forward to. 

 

 

Susan Isabel Dacre Artist

 Susan Isabel Dacre, or Isabel Dacre, as she was more usually known, was born in Leamington Spa, Warwickshire in 1844. She was the daughter of William Dacre, a jeweller and Susan nee Wyatt. She was baptised on 26 May 1844 at Kingston Seymour in Somerset on the same day as her older brother William. Isabel and William's mother was born in about 1816 in Clifton, Bristol so it is likely that the children were taken back to her parish church to be baptised. I can find no trace of the family in 1851 census although they are likely to have been in the Manchester area as another child Eliza Ann Dacre was born in 1847 in Manchester and a further child Marion Frances Dacre was born in 1851 in Oldham.

Their mother remarried in 1858 at Dunham Massey near Altrincham to Henry Hugh Race. In 1861 Susan Isabel and her brother William are visitors to the household of George Finn in Stretford near Manchester. William (18) is described as a 'hotel keeper'.

Henry Hugh Race, his wife Susan (nee Wyatt formerly Dacre) plus the four children were all living at 45 Great Ducie Street Manchester in 1871. Susan was a 'hotel keeper'. In the same household was Kate Aylett born about 1847 in Bermuda, West Indies. Catherine (Kate) Aylett would marry William Dacre, older brother of Isabel on 3 Feb 1875 in Hulme, Manchester. Isabel Dacre is described as an 'artist'. She had only just returned to England from Paris and she began studying at Manchester School of Art where four years later she would win the Queen's Prize.

Henry Hugh Race, stepfather of Isabel died in 1873. He was a licensed victualler at the "Ducie Arms" Strangeways, Manchester. 

Isabel disappears from the census in 1881 and 1891. It's likely that she was abroad. In 1883  she was sharing a flat with another woman artist Mary Florence Monkhouse at 10 King Street in the heart of Manchester. Isabel's brother "Willie" Dacre was a veterinary surgeon and occupied premises nearby at 23 King Street.  in the 1901 census Isabel was living at 10 Acomb Street in Moss Side, Manchester. She was 56 and head of the household. At the same address were her two nieces, Sarah and Dorothy Dacre, daughters of her brother William who had died two years earlier in Colwyn Bay. His wife Catherine had mental health problems and she returned to her family in Canada in 1893. In the same household was another artist Francis Dodd born 1874 in Holyhead, Anglesey. Isabel Dacre and Francis Dodd remained friends for the rest of their lives. Isabel was a visitor to the household of Francis in 1911 at 51 Blackheath Park Greenwich. Isabel was to move to London where she lived near to the Dodds until she died at 20 St John's Park Blackheath on 20 Feb 1933 aged 1933. The probate was granted to Francis Dodd A.R.A.

Down the rabbit hole

 I started to disappear down the rabbit hole, known as the Internet, after reading Andrew Simpson's blog "Of Eltham, Manchester and an artist from Wales." His interest had been sparked by a painting of Well Hall Road, Eltham (where Andrew was brought up) by an artist called Francis Dodd. 

Dodd was born in Holyhead on the Isle of Anglesey on 29 November 1874, the son of a Wesleyan Minister. Francis trained at the Glasgow School of Art where he was a friend of Muirhead Bone who would later marry Gertrude Helena Dodd (sister of Francis). 

In the 1891 census, Francis was living with his parents in Glasgow, described as a student. Dodd travelled extensively in France, Italy and Spain before returning to England in 1895. One wonders how he was able to afford foreign travel, given that his father cannot have been a wealthy man. 

On his return to England, Francis settled in Manchester and by 1901 he was living as a boarder in the household of Susan Isabel Dacre, another artist, alongwith Susan's nieces Sarah & Dorothy, daughters of Susan's brother William "Willie" Dacre, a veterinary surgeon in Manchester. By 1904 Francis had moved to London and was living at 51 Blackheath Park, a prestigious address. He would remain at that address for the rest of his life. 

In 1911 census Francis Dodd was still single, aged 36 and his occupation was given as 'Draughtsman/engraver). At the same address was Susan Isabel Dacre aged 67, painter, described as a visitor. Francis was wealthy enough to employ a housekeeper.

 In the same year, 1911, Francis Dodd married Mary Isabella Ingle in Lewisham, South London. In the 1939 register Francis was married to Mary and they were both living at 51 Blackheath Park. Another person is shown living at the same address: Mari W. Dodd born 30 Oct 1908,  a health visitor and S.R.N.

During World War 2, Francis Dodd was appointed an official war artist by Charles Masterman, the head of the War Propaganda Bureau. Francis served on the Western Front and produced portraits of senior military figures. He became a Trustee of the National Gallery in 1929, an Associate of the Royal Academy in 1927 and a full member in 1935.

It seems that Francis Dodd and Susan Isabel Dacre were life-long friends. He lodged with Miss Dacre in Manchester in the early 1900s. She was a visitor to his house in Blackheath Park ( 1911 census). When Susan Isabel Dacre died in 1933, probate was granted to Francis Dodd, A.R.A,

Mary Isabella Dodd nee Ingle died in December 1947 and Francis remarried in January 1949 to Ellen Margaret Tanner, His second marriage was very short-lived as Francis Dodd took his own life  on 7 March 1949 at 51 Blackheath Park, Blackheath, Greenwich. He was aged 74. At the inquest in Lewisham it was stated that Mr Dodd had been found in a gas-filled basement by his gardener, The verdict was suicide. Probate was granted to Ellen Margaret Dodd, his widow, Henry John Tanner, builder's agent (brother of Ellen, 2nd wife of Francis) and John Watford Brouncker Ingle, Solicitor.(nephew of Mary Ingle, Dodd's first wife).

Sources  Ancestry. Wikipedia