Noble Street kids - Yil het te gan te chorch!

By Clive Dalton

Saturday was the best day of the week for us Noble Street ‘yunguns’ – because there was ‘nee school’ and we were free from the terrors of Jean Milburn in the Juniors, before progressing to Joe Lumley in the seniors. Here you knew that the dreaded 11+ exam would descend upon you and dictate your future, because it meant Grammar School or more of Joe. Nobody, expected us to pass – so we confirmed their expectations.

The only problem with Saturday was that it was followed by Sunday – not seen by us as ‘the day of rest’ but more as a ‘day of misery’, because us laddies knew the mantra that would waft aroond wor lugs – ‘Divn’t git yorsels dorty, as yil het te gan te Sunday School, and then gan te church’.

Sunday school was in the morning and church was at other times decided by mother.

Oh what misery, especially as the other kids in the street I played with like the Benson lads or Billy Little didn’t have to face this. Why had I got to leave the rabbitin, the football or the cricket, and they didn’t? What great benefits would this suffering bestow on me, that they would miss oot on? Would the ‘chorchifying’ guarantee that ‘Aad gan up te Heaven’ when I’d much rather ‘gan up Hareshaw Lynn’.

Drafting into flocks

Walking to church was like sheep being ‘caaed oot’ on to their appropriate hefts on the hill. The Catholics had the longest trek (mornings only for them) to their church, St. Oswald's Church on the corner near the Tyne Bridge to hear the good word of Father Delaney – much in Latin.

We Church of Englanders (CofE) headed for the resting place of St Cuthbert carefully guarded by the Black Bull and Fox and Hounds. St Cuthbert’s spirit no doubt rested peacefully because of this as he had been on that spot. The story was that after his death his coffin was carted around by 6 monks and where it rested they built a church.

The Methodists were right in the village, (handy for the public netties) and the Presbyterians had a short hike up the Otterburn road to their church and manse. We all passed each other nodding politely – quietly believing that ‘wor lot’ were better than their lot.

We CofE lot had a bit of affinity with the Presbyterians as they took communion once a quarter, and we were qualified to join them; but there was less affinity between CofE and the Methodists where any thought of supping wine at a communion was well out of bounds for them.

Years later our CofE minister in Leeds told my wife and I that if we used a Methodist Godmother for our son’s christening (who was his aunt), the Minister would not answer for the lad at the final Day of Judgement! The daft minister lost our custom after that nonsense. He was a man before his time as I remember he talked of turning our church into ‘High Church’ and suggested we started holding ‘Confession’ like the Catholics. I wasn’t for that carry on!

The biggest danger for any CofE (and maybe any other church lot in the village as far as I can remember) was to get mixed up with the Catholics! Complete isolation was the safest policy in the village in those days. I have a faint memory that we CofE folk lot could have taken mass in the Catholic church, but nobody in my day would ever have dared risk it.

It’s hilarious today to see the Pope now making formal gestures to welcome stray Anglicans into their church!

Sunday School

For us CofE bairns, Sunday school was held at 10am in the Reeds School, and I considered it an absolute agony going back there on a Sunday, as Monday to Friday was enough for any laddie. We had a woman teacher (name forgotten) and her good work was regularly supplemented by the appearance of the Rev (later to be Canon) W.J. (Daddy) Flower himself, when his other Sunday duties allowed. Am not sure how he got called Daddy!

His parish was officially ‘Bellingham and Corsenside’ (in West Woodburn) so Daddy had a fairly busy day on most Sundays. When he visited the ordinary school classes (which he did regularly), one of his favourite lessons was the story about tea picking in Ceylon as he’d served there during his naval service. He’d bring a bit of privet hedge along, as it was the nearest he could find to the tea plant, and show us how the pickers plucked out the very top leaves and put them in a basket on their back.

Sunday school meant that our young lugs were bashed with concepts far above ‘wor heeds’ like what sinners we were (which we were told from many other sources too), and what we had to do to fix this (‘repent’ which we didn’t really understand), and how the ‘Holy Spirit’ could help us oot! It always seemed hard man te git a howld on!

The Christmas story was good as it was associated with Santa, and I knew plenty shepherds who came to the marts. But Easter was a confusing time with all its grief and the threat of Jesus being nailed on a cross and then coming back (at any time) to save us. And then IF we got to heaven, we’d be sorted into sheep and goats (which I knew a lot aboot) so we’d better behave worsels and keep confession wor sins! Whew - it was heavy stuff for young heeds.

The only tangible benefit most of us saw from suffering Sunday school was a new book at the end of the year for our good attendance. Our parents didn’t buy us books as there was no money for such things so our Sunday school books were very precious.

I was not a great reader, but I well remember receiving and reading many times ‘Treasure Island’ and ‘Black Beauty’ that I got at Sunday school. Always in the front was a little label with |St Cuthbert’s Parish Church Sunday school and your name and ‘Presented by Rev W.J.Flower for good attendance’.

But the real ‘Big Deal’ form Sunday school was the annual trip to Whitley Bay on a bus. “The Spanish City” with all it’s roond-aboots and staalls begging for wor money – oh what sins that could have entered on wor slates.

Mrs Mary Mitchell of the Black Bull, (our church organist when needed and often the only member of the choir), always went with us to Whitley Bay - accompanied by her accordion. This alone was worth the trip, as some of her antics on the way home playing while dancing up and down the aisle of the bus, hyping up us bairns was unforgettable. We loved her.

Daddy always smiled politely at Mary’s antics, but certainly not Mrs Flower who had a face like thunder! It would have done her the world of good to have hiked her skirts up and joined in – and who was to know she wasn’t craving to do just this!

Tommy Breckons – the Good Shepherd

My old friend and great Northumbrian piper Tommy Breckons of the Foundry Farm in Bellingham, sadly now passed on, had this story told about him when he attended Sunday school as a wee laddie.

The tale goes that young Tommy was asked by the teacher – ‘why the Good Shepherd had left the ninety and nine sheep in his flock, to go and seek that which was lost’?

Tommy replied that ‘Well - it was probably the only tup he had’!

Confirmation

But things got worse for a growing laddie who had things to do at weekends. In my case from age seven I couldn’t wait to go to Jimmy and Helen Wood’s little farm at Dove Cottage at Reedsmouth. I biked there and also went on the train and could have lived there all weekend – sometimes I was allowed to. They were like extra parents to me as they lived next to us in Noble Street when first married and before getting the Dove Cottage tenancy from Robbie Allen.

At Dove Cottage there was muck to spread, the cow and goat to be milked, and hay to be made – all in my view far more essential events than ‘ganin te chorch’ to be harangued about what sinners we were and to ‘git riddy for the next woorld! But in mother’s views – ye had te git cleaned up and dressed in your suit te gan te chorch and that was the end of it.

At around age 12-13 I think, Daddy Flower came around (always in time for a cup of tea and rock buns) and suggested that it was time I started ‘Confirmation Classes’ so I could be ‘confirmed’ and then be allowed to take ‘Holy Communion”.

Mothers were the decision makers on religious issues in most houses, as fathers were usually fairly reluctant churchgoers, and were generally ‘oot’ on essential business like tending their leeks when the vicar called.

Hareshaw Head Village Hall

I had to suffer confirmation classes at Hareshaw Head on a Sunday afternoon after lunch in the little corrugated village hall there. My Reeds school mate Kenneth Pick was another candidate, and as Ken couldn’t get to Bellingham on a Sunday as there was no school car, Daddy collected me and we’d take off in his little blue Standard 10 car for Hareshaw.

Ken and I must have had half a dozen of these weekly classes, confirming that we were little sinners, for ever in need of repentance, and going through a little red book that we had to keep and use regularly thereafter, to guide our prayers before we were ‘ready’ for the Bishop of Newcastle to ‘lay his hands on wor heeds’ and give us his blessing, and allow us to take communion. This book then had to be our lifelong companion.

I had to get cleaned up for these classes and couldn’t just ‘gan in me aad play claes’ – so that was more agony, especially if I had to leave a game we were in the middle of.

Falstone Church

Confirmation took place in the Falstone Church of England, and I remember mother and I having to get there on Norman’s bus. Ken and I were there in ‘wor Sunday claes’ along with lasses that we’d never seen before from other parishes in white dresses. We had afternoon tea in the church hall, which I thought was the best bit of day. Then back home on the bus back to Bellingham.

Being confirmed made Sundays even worse in my view, as the decision had to be made about which Communion to go to. Each week, Daddy Flower before he started the sermon would read out the ‘announcements’ from the pulpit.

There was a range of these, such as details of the passing of a parishioner where - ‘We have heard with great regret of the passing of Mrs So and So, then reading the bans of marriage – ‘Where if any of ye had any cause or just intent why these two etc etc’. Then there were other events like meetings of the Mother’s Union. Finally we were told about who the collections would be for next Sunday.

Communions

Then there would be this depressing (for me) announcement:

‘There will be celebrations of the Holy Communion on Sunday next at 7 o’clock, 8 o’clock and at the 11 o’clock service’.

So there was the awful decision as to which one ‘te gan te’, and thank goodness you were only allowed to take the bread and wine once on a Sunday. God didn’t like over indulgence apparently.

Getting up early for the seven and eight-o-clock session was never a good option on a Sunday, yet it was a way of getting it over with so you had a clear day ahead to play. But then you were reminded that going to Communion didn’t absolve you from the other services of ‘Matins’ (11am) or ‘Evensong’ (6pm).

The worst deal was to go to the morning service and then discover that it was communion as well – and you felt that you had to stay and participate in full. You had to be fairly brave to walk out before the communion started unless you had taken communion earlier – because you knew that ‘God knew of your every move’. Communion at Matins really did stuff up your morning, as it lengthened the hour’s service to an hour and a half. Such valuable time wasted was my view.

How much to mix

We used to laugh at this, and there were other vicars up the valley that were even better at it than Daddy. What they had to do was to look around the congregation and do a mental calculation of how much of the communion wine and water to mix to serve the numbers present.

But they were masters at just underestimating this and running out before the last row. So they had to mix some more, and for this mix they always overestimated, and of course they couldn’t pour this consecrated mix doon the drain. They had to ‘knock it back’ before the alter before God, and it was easy to tell how generous they’d been by the length of their swig!

You had to secretly smile while standing in the queue waiting for Daddy to do the mixing for your turn to look along those kneeling to see the state of their soles rather than their souls!

It was clear to see those needing the urgent attention of Bob Mole the cobbler with his mouth full of tacks, to be spit out on demand to fix the new sole, which post war, was more like cardboard than good leather.

I would have loved to have chalk marked those on the basis of need!

Sermons

Pulpits and lecterns have always fascinated me as a place to demonstrate power over fellow beings. Sometimes in the empty church, I’d sneak up into the pulpit and have a quick look down on the pews.

What an impressive feeling it gave you ‘looking doon’ on your audience – I felt the power, even an empty church! I could easily have ‘borst forth’ haranguing the sinners sitting before me, threatening with hell’s fires unless they behaved and confessed their sins! Maybe this was the job for me – I knew aboot sheep and what a good shepherd had to do. Sheep were my favourite animal and playing auctioneers was a game I regularly played. Great qualifications I thought for herding a parish!

But I never dared stay long in the pulpit or try out my voice incase I got ‘copped’. The mind boggles over the feeling of power you must get high up in the pulpit of a mighty Cathedral and a full hoose.

The few lay preachers that came never risked addressing us from the pulpit and would speak to us from floor level. It gave us all a more comforting feeling.

The choir

The choir was really a farce as there was never more than four of us - and that included Daddy who had a very good voice. Joe Lumley could sing - in fact that's all he taught us at school. But to be fair, he made sure we knew the ten commandments by heart, and we were good gardeners with the help of the bigger lads like Tom Forster

Mrs Mitchell on her own was a choir as she loved to let strip. I couldn't really sing much but at least filled a space. I used to sit in the corner so was only seen when we all had to stand.

Hymns were good as they had a rhythm, and even if we had an unfamiliar one, after the faltering first verse we soon got into stride.

Psalms were the killers when there were so few of us, as they always had complicated tunes (apart from the 23rd) where you had to hang on to the same high note while gabbling through a great screed of words, before dropping down or rising up to the finish.

Mind you I got the hang of this, so to this day as a party piece for religious friends, I can sing any part of the newspaper including the adverts to a psalm tune.

On occasions Daddy must have realised that the psalm for that particular service was ganin te be ower much for wor lungs, so to everyone's relief, we spoke it aloud. He read a line and then the congregation read the next line and so on. What a relief and we should have always done this with such small congregations.

‘May the words of my lips ….'

As we gave voice to the last verse of the hymn, and Daddy mounted the few stairs to the pulpit, took out and fitted his ‘pince-nez’ specs on his nose, my only thoughts were – how long will he be going for this time.

We stood for the initial salutation - ‘May the words of my lips and the meditations of all our hearts, be always acceptable unto thee etc etc, before parking our backsides on the hard varnished pine pews.

Some of the pews had cushions but you had to be very careful that you got into your ‘right pew’! From olden days certain families paid for ‘their pew’ as a means of financing the church, and there was a little bit of that left in our day. You certainly never sat into the pew Mrs Flower sat in! She would have glowered you out of the church.

Then we had the ‘Collects’ – pronounced ‘col-lects’. The ‘Collect for the day’ is usually the prayer proper to the Sunday of the current week. However, the Collect of a Principal Feast, other Principal Holy Day or Festival always takes precedence over the Sunday Collect and becomes the Collect of the day. When a Lesser Festival falls on a weekday its Collet may be used in place of the Sunday Collect.

Then we’d have the chosen ‘text for the day’, which Daddy read to us twice for maximum emphasis. My old memory still remembers what must have been Daddy’s favourite text, as we seemed to have it often, or it’s hard wired into my old brain:

‘And He will come like a thief in the night, He will come like a thief in the night’! This was a serious warning to us to be prepared, and not take any risks with our sins as we ‘cud git catched oot’ when our Redeemer came back to save us – IF we had been behaving like sheep and were worth saving, and had not acting like goats!

Then away we’d go – my mind on the long wander, occasionally lapsing back to what Daddy was saying, now and again taking a sly look at the watch, then back to looking around the stone roof wondering how on earth they built those stone arches and got the stone slabs on the roof to stop the reivers fires.

There was the old church’s history to ponder, the flaking paint, the stained glass windows and those families who had paid for some of them, the joints, knots and grain in the wood of the pews, anything to pass the time waiting for the magic words which signalled that maybe the end of my agony was nigh. And there was always the mystery of the ‘Lang Pack’ to ponder as the stone coffin lay outside by the church door. What was in it now - old bones or dust?

It was all too easy to nod off taking great lunges forward before you came to, or your head would fall back creaking your neck. The biggest fear was to start snoring – as some of the older gentlemen members of the congregation sometimes did before some kind wife would dig them in the ribs. This had to be done carefully otherwise they’d awaken with a muckle snort like an old bull or their lurch upright could break wind!

One of my popular solutions for the boredom was in the back of the Book of Common Prayer, as there were two columns covering in great detail on one side of who a man may not marry, and on the other who a woman may not marry – all to avoid the sin of incest. Some on the list took a lot of working out and you had to imagine your own relatives to crack the code.

‘And finally dear brethen..’

You waited with baited breath to hear Daddy say these magic words – ‘And finally dear brethren’! It was a sign that he was coming to an end. It was his last big point to make before my release.

But it was a trick, and one I have used over the years – thinking of Daddy whenever I did. It’s a ‘sucker punch’ as you can see the poor sufferers at your feet visibly suddenly brighten up in anticipation of you finally relieving them of their agony. But it’s NOT over!

Daddy wasn’t going to end there. He would get going again, supposedly to summarise his message, except that the summary would introduce new issues, and further warnings about ‘the thief in the night’. He’d try another ‘And finally dear brethren’– but he had worked out that a third was too much.

‘And now to God the Father…..’

Oh those magic words – still imprinted on my old memory. It was when Daddy finally gathered up his notes, took off his specs and put them in their well-worn case, turned to the alter and out came those magic words:

‘And now to God the father, God the son and God the Holy Spirit, be as is most justly due, all glory, might, majesty, dominion and power, now and for ever more. Amen.

It was over, and I had to be very careful not to be the first to leap to my feet, as I was so keen to get out of there. Wonderful – I’d be home after the next hymn, the collection and the blessing.

Brownrigg Camp School

Brownrigg school was in its hey day in the 1950s and the pupils used to go to their appropriate churches in the village – probably under threat. The Anglicans came to St Cuthbert’s, sitting in the very back pews behind Mrs Flower, and the poor beggars used to get so bored during the sermon and started whispering and yakking quietly to each other. A bit of pushing and grabbing developed to help pass the boredom.

Some of the old stalwarts in the congregation (especially Mrs Flower) would look around and give them a ‘glower’ hoping they would get the message and shut up, but on occasions – Daddy had to reprimand them from the pulpit! He didn’t realise they were maybe getting fed up with his interpretation of God’s word, especially about Jesus returning like a thief in the night!

How may times?

The question I used to wonder about frequently, but never dared ask anyone for an answer was – how many times did I need ‘te gan te chorch te be safe from etornal damnation’?

It seemed to me that the Catholic kids in our street (The Weltons) had it made. They only had one morning service each week and got their slates cleaned for the following week – no problem. If I’d gone to all the possible services on a Sunday – would that have guaranteed me freedom from this sinful life I was leading, and the very high risk of endin up in hell?

How come the Presbyterians only had to take Communion once a quarter and I had ‘te gan ivry week? I never debated religion with my parents, nor with anyone else either. It was not done in those days. I wanted to know what was the least I could get away with to balance playtime with keeping a clean record for the next world! should have asked Daddy at our Hareshaw meetings – imagine that?

Blowing the organ

At about age 12 I think, I was asked to blow the organ – for pay! But this meant going to both morning and evening services – and listening to even more sermons.

Along the side of the organ was a narrow passage with a solid wooden handle sticking out of side and a tall very hard stool. This had to be pumped up and down to work bellows on the inside, and your guide was a little metal weight which slid up and down the wall on a string, which must have some how been attached to the bellows.

There was a mark on the wood to show ‘full’ (at the top of its range) and one to show ‘empty’ (at the bottom). Empty meant no air so no music, and you’d hear the organist in a loud whisper saying – ‘Blow Clive Blow’.

These marks kept changing because as the string came out of a wooden hole in the side of the organ, after a time it wore thin and would break, having to be shortened.

When you heard Daddy announce a hymn, you started pumping like mad to build up a head of wind before the first verse. You could have short breaks during the playing as the slide slowly fell, but it was unwise to let the weight get down below half way, just incase there was a sudden demand for air in the music.

So hymns like ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ were hard work compared to ‘There is a green hill far away’. ‘Jerusalem’ generated a sweat! You had to know the service well, as wind was needed in small bursts for all the responses, and it was easy to nod off when there was not a lot of action. The air also slowly leaked from the bellows so you couldn’t rely on your past pumping staying in storage.

During the sermon you could come out and sit in the pew opposite the pulpit (and be watched so had to behave), rather than perch on the hard stool, hidden in the cubby-hole. You had to stand to pump and could only sneak an occasional quick sit on the stool while watching the metal weight move up as air was used up. For it to drop you had to pump!

Log of past pumpers

The wooden side of the organ was a wonderful log of past organ blowers, as in moments of idleness, and secure in the fact that nobody could see, it was essential to write and leave your name for posterity. My name is still there a friend told me some years ago when they went to check! How wonderful – I hope it gets me some points when the sheep and goats are drafted! I remember the older lads John Howarth, Aynsley Glass, Fenwick Daly and my brother Geoff before me.

Collecting the pay

To do this I had to go to the rectory at an appointed time, met at the door by Mrs Flower or the maid, and shown into a small side room where we’d sit down at a small table and Daddy would get out a little note book with a red cover.

In it he had recorded each time I had blown the organ and the fee of I think a few shillings for each job. I was paid on a quarterly basis so after signing on the final page beside the massive grand total which he had added up, I proudly ran home with a small fortune of a few quid to show for my labours.

Organists

Tommy Hedley was a regular organist at Evensong while Jean Milburn generally played at Matins. It suited Tommy’s schedule because after church Tommy was regular pianist at the Black Bull around the corner till hoyin oot time at 10pm.

After the slow semi-solemn music played as the congregation filed out of the church, Tommy was a demon for letting strip with a piece of air-guzzling Mozart which you had to be prepared for. I think he was warming up before the Black Bull.

Mrs Mitchell (landlady at the Black Bull) was also an accomplished organist, and when she wasn’t playing, she was often the only member of the choir! She read the music when she sang – how about that!

During the sermon the organist always went and sat in the pew directly below the pulpit. Tommy Hedley being a farmer at the Demesne loved the Harvest Festivals as the pulpit was always surrounded by sheaves of oats. He spent the time selecting grains and chewing them during the sermon. He really gave the organ full bore when he got back to play ‘We plough the fields and scatter’ and he knew the great feeling of satisfaction when ‘all was safely gathered in – ere the winter storms begin’.

For those in peril on the sea

Remembering regular hymns. With Daddy Flower being ex Royal Navy we knew that if it was a really clarty rough winter’s night, we’d have the ‘sailor’s hymn’ for ‘those in peril on the sea.’

And of course during the prayers, we always prayed for ‘Those who went down to the sea in ships and occupied their business in great waters’, after which we did ‘the Queen, the Duke and all the Royal Family’.

Tolling the bell

As well as blowing the organ, there was also the job of tolling the bell. This was tricky, as pulling the long thick rope had to be done with a sharp click so the hammer hit the side of the bell and didn’t just move in sync with it, as there’d be no ring. You hadn’t got to let the rope go free but keep it under tension between pulls.

It was a good feeling hammering the old bell that had been up there for a few hundred years.

Reading the lesson

I was never allowed to do this as Joe Lumley had the job sewn up. He always did it well too.

Taking the collection

After a great deal of fund raising I remember, the organ got an electric motor so there was no more manual blowing. This cut my income but I wasn’t worried as it freed me from regular attendance.

I was then asked to take the collection, either by myself it there was a small attendance or with a partner if we had a ‘full hoose’ which only happened at special festivals. The turned and carved oak platters had a tiny bit of felt in the bottom so the coins landed quietly, good for anyone who had placed a handful of pennies in instead of half a crown!

The platters were handed to the person at the end of the row and they passed it along the row to each other. You hadn’t got to watch how much money a person put on the plate. After the collection you then took it up to the alter, handed it to Daddy and he turned around and held it up high before the alter. You then had to turn around and make sure you didn’t trip over the carpeted steps on your way back to your pew.

Good morning’ - Good Evening’ and gone!

The last part was to see Daddy come down from the alter after blessing us and stand by the door to bid us ‘good morning’ or ‘good evening’ with his very pleasant smile.

I had to make sure I didn’t break into a run until I got past the Town Hall, so as not to show how serious I was te git back inte me aad claes with time to make up before dark!

Pilgrimage to Lindisfarne (Holy Island)

Daddy Flower must have had the idea to give our faith a 'rev up' so organised a Parish bus trip to Lindisfarne - which I thought would be a trip to the seaside like Whitley Bay. There was plenty sea and sand around Holy Island. That was a big mistake as I had underestimated what the word 'pilgrimage' meant, and should have sensed trouble as no buckets and spades were allowed.

We set off with a full bus load from Bellingham and when we got to Beal we de-bussed and after removing shoes and socks to expose our lilly white feet and corns, we set off across the causeway as the tide was out. This must have been well planned. When we got to the island, with footwear back on again for the tar seal, we set off in a long procession with Daddy leading us in his vicar's garb. I can't remember if Mrs Flower was there but I'm sure she would be. It was quite a hike on the road through the village and on to the priory.

This is where I hit trouble, because as we passed one of the big houses (a boarding house), out of the front door came my favourite Aunt Martha and cousins Mary and Chrissie from Winlaton who were having a holiday there. They must have gone to the door to see what all the commotion was. I wanted to leave the throng and stay with them - but no, I had to continue in the procession with mother.

We finally assembled in the ruin of the priory and oh man, the service went on for hours - with no seats, just standing all the time on the grass. There was clergy of all ranks who all had to make a long speel - there seemed to be no end to it.

Thinking back now the place was full so there must have been more than us Bellingham folk there. It was the pits for a laddie, to be so near all that sea and sand and not be allowed to 'gan and play'.

All these years later, I can't remember how we got back to the mainland. Maybe we hiked but we could also have paid for one of the ancient rusty taxis that would travel with the water up to the door steps when the tide was not fully out. Their exhausts were all eaten away with the salt water so sounded like tractors.

Mother and I did go back to have a holiday in later years with my aunt and cousins, and they were memorable days with fresh seafood always on the menu. I made sure we didn't spend much time in the priory.