I'll begin my story by explaining a bit about the village I grew up, and 11 years ago, returned to live in.
The village is what my dad would call, within spitting distance of the local pit. The pit hooter signalling the start of the shift would cut through the air, stopping people in their tracks, women and men alike visibly holding their breaths in case the signal indicated an accident.
Like many Yorkshire villages we lost our pit, and with it the heart of the village. Gone were the men heading home at the end of their shift, either on the pit bus, or the walk across the path between the corn fields, with the trademark coal dust, like kohl around their eyes.
There were two sides to the village, “the old village” which were the original miner’s houses and “concrete canyon” which was built as the pit grew, houses in both parts of the village were owned by the NCB for miners to live in.
Everyone knew everyone in Sunnyside and everyone knew everyone else’s business. You couldn’t make a move without someone telling your mam and dad. Although infuriating, the streets were safe and unlike today our parents could send us out to play and know that aside from falling out of a tree or falling off our bikes, very little harm could come to you.
The village had all the shops you needed, which was good considering the first sign of snow we would be cut off from the town, buses didn’t come up the lanes in snow or ice. My mum, who is 75, still stocks her cupboards as though we could be cut off at any time. We had Hathers the butchers, Snowdens the newsagents (known as snoddies), a minimarket, owned by the Collins’s I believe and the post office, who apart from selling stamps, could tell you anything going on in the village. Also not forgetting, the customary Working Men’s Club, meeting ground of the miners between shits, especially on Sunday when any woman daring to go in the door were referred to as “pudding burners”. Referring to Yorkshire puddings, the main part of any Sunday dinner (we didn’t do lunch, that was for “posh” people).
My dad, my brothers and all my uncles were miners as were most of my friend’s dad, those that weren’t worked in the Steel works, unemployment was unknown, and it was expected that lads leaving school would automatically go down the mines. The women that did work usually worked the twilight shift at United Biscuits (KP), at the sewing factory, or as dinner ladies and cleaners at the local schools. My mum, who was born in Sheffield and seen as an “in comer” worked at a steel works as a bar inspector, I was proud that my mum had a career rather than the pin money jobs my friend’s mum’s had. Because my mum worked shifts and my dad nights regular this meant my dad did his share of childcare, which wasn’t really known in our village.