RETRO: '˜Tupp'ny rush' at the cinema and choirboys out on strike

Jack Hambleton, who was born in Duncombe Street in 1924 and grew up on Industry Street, continues his childhood memories of Walkley before the war.
A view of the shops on South Road, Walkley, SheffieldA view of the shops on South Road, Walkley, Sheffield
A view of the shops on South Road, Walkley, Sheffield

The road at the top of Industry Street was South Road, a continuation of Howard Road.

It was so narrow that tramcars clanging along on iron lines ran almost on to the pavement.

Flory with her daughter Evelyn outside her shop at Providence Road, Walkley.Flory with her daughter Evelyn outside her shop at Providence Road, Walkley.
Flory with her daughter Evelyn outside her shop at Providence Road, Walkley.
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The road was dominated on one side by St Mary’s Church, and the Ebenezer (we called it the ‘Ebesneezer’) Methodist Chapel, and the cinema, the Walkley Palladium.

There were rows of small, clean shops. Among those friendly shops was Wibberley’s, the butchers.

Next door was Wass’s pastry shop, then Harry Rushby’s small, house‑windowed hardware shop.

You walked into Rushby’s to the clean smell of carbolic soap, bleach and soda, squeezing past rows of brushes and mops, and from the ceiling hung gleaming pots and pans.

The chapel during the 1950s (photo: Tordoff Holmes)The chapel during the 1950s (photo: Tordoff Holmes)
The chapel during the 1950s (photo: Tordoff Holmes)
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Like most of the shops, a card was displayed in the window stating ‘Goods Laid Away’.

The customer chose the goods, paid a small amount weekly and collected them when they were paid for.

Further along was Bothamley’s fish and chip shop and the Post Office, owned by two very charming sisters, the Misses Glaves.

Then the Maypole grocery shop, where the assistant could be seen cutting butter off big slabs and patting them together with two pieces of flat wood.

St Mary's Church, South Road, Walkley, Sheffield - 1959St Mary's Church, South Road, Walkley, Sheffield - 1959
St Mary's Church, South Road, Walkley, Sheffield - 1959
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Coughs and colds meant a trip to Boots’ Cash Chemists for either Victory V lozenges or cough candy.

There were other butchers, dress shops, newsagents, fruit and vegetable, and a shoe repairer.

At the end of South Road, at the tram terminus, was Ling Yu’s Chinese laundry.

Next door was that haven of peace and tranquillity, the Walkley Library.

Flory with her daughter Evelyn outside her shop at Providence Road, Walkley.Flory with her daughter Evelyn outside her shop at Providence Road, Walkley.
Flory with her daughter Evelyn outside her shop at Providence Road, Walkley.
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You crept in trying not to breathe, silently chose a book, gave your ticket to the librarian, then crept out.

On the other side of the road among other shops was the delicious-smelling Gretton’s pikelet shop.

Mr Gretton walked around the streets with his laden basket ringing a bell shouting “oatcakes and pikelets”.

Saturday morning at the Walkley Palladium cinema was the highlight of the week, where most of the kids in the neighbourhood congregated.

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We stood in the side alley waiting, not very patiently, but very noisily, for the doors to open.

We paid our two pence to the lady sat behind a glass window, then the ‘tupp’ny rush’ was on for the best seats.

The chapel during the 1950s (photo: Tordoff Holmes)The chapel during the 1950s (photo: Tordoff Holmes)
The chapel during the 1950s (photo: Tordoff Holmes)

In the darkness of the cinema, with a beam of light shining from the projectionist’s box at the back, the film came on.

Loud cheering erupted as cowboy Tom Mix, astride his faithful horse Trix, single‑handedly took on Red Indians, and the baddies.

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Having beaten them, Tom rode off into a golden western sunset.

We then laughed our heads off at Laurel and Hardy, having got themselves in another fine mess, or laughed at the antics of the Keystone Cops.

At the top of Fulton Road stood a beer‑off shop. A shop I had good reason to know, and remember very well.

My grandmother lived in the next street to the shop. She was very fond of anything alcoholic and she would try to impress upon me by saying: “Just for medicinal purposes, you know”.

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The largest grocery shop in the area was the Co‑op on Walkley Street.

This establishment was patronised by most mothers.

Each customer was given a number. I made that many journeys to this shop I never forgot my mother’s number, 12318.

The amount of money spent annually on purchases earned a dividend. The ‘divi’ would then be re‑spent to purchase children’s new Whitsuntide clothes.

All the streets had corner shops. Industry Street also had one in the middle.

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Going in on a Sunday afternoon after dinner for a quarter of Palm toffee, for my mother, Mrs Saunby would take a slab of the toffee out of a tin box, breaking it up into small pieces with a small silver-coloured hammer.

Industry Street was a safe street and very few vehicles appeared.

The heaviest traffic was the coal merchant’s lorry, owned by a father and son affectionately known, as Big Bill and Little Bill. Little Bill was in fact six inches taller than his father Big Bill.

Milk was delivered by horse and cart with the Milkman scooping milk out of a spotlessly clean metal churn into a measure, then pouring it into one’s own jug.

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Appearing every Friday, pushing his wheelbarrow up the street was ‘Pop’ Clayton, the fishmonger.

If we were not at school we pushed it for him.

Monday was Mother’s clothes washing day. Fixed in the corner of the small kitchen, standing on a stone slab, was a copper, which was a large metal container covered by a wooden lid.

After seeing me off to school mother would light a fire beneath the copper to heat the water it contained.

Arriving home for my dinner, I would not be able to see her for steam.

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She would be in there somewhere either stirring the washing with a wooden ‘dolly posh’, or getting dinner ready.

If the weather outside was wet, or it was wintertime, the washing would be strung out on a wooden rack suspended from the ceiling, or placed on a brass fireguard around the hearth bringing even more steam into the room.

On Monday the dinner was always a ‘fry up’ (potatoes and greens left over from the Sunday dinner mixed together in a pan and fried).

At 12 years of age in 1936, I joined St. Mary’s Church Choir.

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During that period a happening of great amusement occurred which I doubt has ever been recorded in the Church’s archives.

We angelic-looking choirboys ‘went on strike’.

Two of the elder members of the choir, Mr Hodgson the dentist and Mr Hague the gents outfitter, supplied the choirboys with bags of sweets each Sunday to share out.

After the Sunday Evensong these two gentlemen, thirsty from their hymn singing, retreated to the nearby Howard Hotel, for what they considered to be a well-earned beverage.

Certain upstanding members of the congregation, on seeing them hasten out of church, straight through the pub doors and into the bar, were not impressed.

A ‘deputation’ to the vicar complained.

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Our suppliers of sweets were suspended from the choir until they had mended their ways.

The choirboys came out on strike in sympathy with them.

The strike was only called off when the two ‘culprits’ were reinstated to their rightful places in the choir pews and our weekly supply of sweets restored.

At the top of Howard Road, standing behind high stone walls, was St Joseph’s Convent.

The nuns of the convent were Sisters of Charity of the Order of St Vincent de Paul.

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They tenderly cared for the sick in the convent’s hospital while other nuns taught children in the convent school.

These lovely ladies, dressed in long, dark gowns and wearing an unusual headgear resembling a cone placed on the top of the head, with the sides coming down over their ears then curving up.

Meeting them in the street always brought a warm smile and a cheery word of greeting to both young or old.

Across the road from St Joseph’s, at the side of the Howard Hotel, was a fascinating thoroughfare – Birkendale.

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Walking through a single iron gate you were entering into another world, a tree-lined, cobble‑stoned lane with large residential houses with their front bay windows looking on to long lawns.

The pair of iron gates at the entrance to Birkendale were by tradition opened only once a year – on New Year’s Day.

Most districts in the city had cattle slaughterhouses. Walkley’s was at the bottom of Duncombe Street.

Local butchers bought cows, sheep and pigs from nearby farms, carrying out their own slaughtering.

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To get the cattle into the slaughter houses from the street they had to bring them through the backyard of the houses, the animals rubbing against lines of clean washing.

Some stubborn animals would sit down outside the privvy doors.

Anyone using these places and not being able to get out would have to remain sitting on the lavatory seat until the animal had been forcibly removed.

On Bolehill Road stood the large imposing Ruskin House which was purchased in 1871 by John Ruskin, the poet, author and art critic.

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It was impressed upon us schoolboys that, during his stay in Sheffield, Ruskin would sit in his garden at the rear of the house looking down to the panoramic views across beautiful Rivelin Valley.

Looking behind him and far into the distance, with an industrial Sheffield covered by smoke and grime, Ruskin is quoted as describing Sheffield as ‘“a dirty picture in a golden frame”, the golden frame being the nearby picturesque Derbyshire.

Close by to Ruskin House was a small sweet shop.

In its window, crammed among the jars of boiled sweets and dummy wooden bars of chocolate, were proudly displayed the many international football caps won by Ernest Blenkinsop, the Sheffield Wednesday and England international full back.

n Next week’s final instalment: the joys of long winter evenings in front of the fire and visiting the Little Pie Shop.