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.