"Grandma Noddy"

Times Square - Broadway

Tracy Francine

At her Villa in Spain

Worse Things Happen At Sea  - Fishermen's Memorial - A Pub Holiday 

 Nanny Lettie

Worse Things Happen At Sea

By

Francine Lee

As a child growing up in Grimsby and its environs, and having strong links with the fishing industry, I was always very aware of the sea and life upon it.  If tears were caused by a tumble or a broken toy, I was never told the proverb ' no use crying over spilt milk' but 'never mind, worse things happen at sea'.  This phrase was often uttered by my grandmother, among others, and always aroused my curiosity - what worse things?   Well grandma should know.

She was the eldest girl from a family of eight, four boys, four girls.  Her father and uncles were skippers on trawlers, as was their father and his father also.  Her four brothers and her only son, all became skippers, the latter breaking many landing records in the 70's before the demise of the industry.  Grandma, or Nanny Lettie as we called her, was the second eldest in the family, her brother Alf being her senior by two years.

Skipper by the age of twenty, his first trip in the command of the S.S. Leicestershire at the age of twenty-five was to be his last.  He and his crew were lost when the ship went down off the Isle of Hoy in the Orkneys.  Fifteen men died, twelve of them married, leaving behind twenty-three fatherless children.  The ship was bound for home when it was caught in fierce gales and sank.

Out at sea, crews kept in touch via radio.  Alf's father, also called Alf, spoke to his son before they turned for home.  Great Granddad anticipated his son landing back in Grimsby a day or so before him and sent Alf with message for the family of when to expect him in.  When Great Grandfather returned to dock he shouted to men ashore to ask if Alf had made a good trip.  He was told the Leicestershire had not returned.

The first news to reach Grimsby was that wreckage had been found off the Isle of Hoy bearing part of the word Grimsby and a wireless set marked No. 1125.  By process of elimination the wreckage was identified as that of the Leicestershire.

Angered by the lack of concern of the trawler's owners Alf's father paid for my Grandfather Jim (Nanny Lettie's husband) to fly to the Orkneys.  Jim would be able to find out what had happened and he would also be on hand to identify the bodies.  The Islanders, had with great heroism and courage, retrieved the bodies, though not all were recovered.

On the 6th February 1938, the trawler 'Hampshire' sailed into Grimsby docks with its cargo of six black coffins bearing the bodies of those found.  It was Sunday night.  All the other ships in the estuary held back so that the 'Hampshire' would be first through the lock gates.  Crowds of friends and relatives stood on the quayside awaiting its arrival.  It must have been an incredibly tragic sight.

My great grandfather, his remaining three sons and two other male relatives went on board to unload the coffins.  They were placed in the hearses to be taken to the Bethel Missions, the Fishermen's Chapel, in Tiverton Street.

Alfred Evans was from one of the best known and widely respected fishing families in the town.  On a cold winters evening the streets were lined with hundreds of people, from the Dock Roads to The Mission, as the cortege made its way in silence.

People paid their last respects at the mission during the next two days.  On the day of the funeral the streets were lined six deep with mourners.

The bodies were interred at Scartho Road Cemetery.  Although other bodies were recovered they were too disfigured to be identified and are buried on The Orkneys.

Photo 1 - Ernie Rogers [I believe], ?, and my grandfather Jim Meadows, Great-Granddad Alf stood  to the right

Photo 2 - ?, Bill Hughes [I believe], Jim Evans and Great-Granddad Alfred Evans

Nanny Lettie always said that that first loss hit her so hard that the following losses never seemed to hurt so much.  Three years later in April 1941 her husband was killed in the war, returning to his ship, a minesweeper.  Another brother died whilst fishing, one at home and one is still alive, Uncle Jim.  He is a great source of stories of life at sea, of the hardship, of loss of life and limb.  At the age of 75 he still works down the docks, as a ship's husband, standing watch when the ship is in dock and overseeing repairs and the restocking or stores.  Nanny Lettie's son John is still at sea, but no longer fishing.  Once the top skipper in the country he took to sailing from Spain and is now on the 'Stand-by' boats off the oil rigs, all his skills laid waste.

Men that have gone to sea since boyhood know of, nor want any other life.  Away for three weeks at a time and ashore for two or three days, they barely got to know their families, nor their families them.  At sea they live in cramped conditions and work, when the fish is on, day and night.  When in Arctic waters ice has to be chipped from the ship with an axe so that it doesn't become top heavy and keel over.  They are at work in rough, cold, unforgiving seas.  Lives and limbs lost part of everyday existence.  Now I know why 'worse things happen at sea'.

'Fishermen's Memorial'

St. James Square, Grimsby

(photo by Gary Evans)

A Pub Holiday

by

Francine Lee

Our first temporary "home" was the 'Duke of Wellington' on Pasture Street.  To the left of it was the local Brewery and to the right, a few yards up was the main railway crossing, complete with signal box and long white gates.  I would spend hours gazing from the windows, watching the lights flash and the barriers glide across to form the large red warning circle on the front.  As Pasture Street was the main thoroughfare between Freeman Street and Top Town there was always a constant parade of vehicles and pedestrians making their way from one to the other.  The lights flashed, the gates came across and it seemed as if life was suspended, waiting for the train.  It would come rattling by, the gates would move gracefully back and cars and people would jerk back into motion.

We had to keep out of sight during pub hours but the remainder of the time were able to prowl around and explore.  I felt very privileged - I was in a building were only grown-ups were allowed.  The rooms were huge and the bars were a blend of glass, mirrors and bottles, so many different shapes, so many labels.

I quickly made the acquaintance of Bill the bottle man.  He would arrive early morning and his job was to crate up the empties and restock the shelves.  I soon became his assistant.  A crate upended and used as a seat, a damp cloth to wipe the bottles and I was ready for work.  Every label had to face the front, rows perfectly straight.  Once the task was completed my reward would be a game of dominoes, always hiding the double blank in the belief that the fewer spots I had left in my hand, the more chance I had of winning.

The following two pubs were situated by the Bull Ring - 'The Tivoli Tavern' and 'The White Hart'.  The Tivoli was a lovely little pub, warm and friendly, and part of the main terrace facing the Market Square.  Albert Gait, booksellers, was next door, Chambers next to that and toward the end of the street Noble's sweet shop.  The other buildings are lost from memory being of no childish value.  It was the Easter Holidays during our stay there and we were inundated with sweets and eggs from generous customers.  Living in a pub appeared to have many advantages.

During the day I would wander around the square.  Albert Gait's would be the first port of call admiring books and art materials that never lost their appeal, then on to Chambers.  Chambers was not a shop it was an experience.  You only had to open the door and the wonderful essence of coffee beans would swim up your nose.  I would stroll around the dark interior peering at the produce in it's great counters, teas, coffees, in huge glass fronted compartments, biscuits to be bought by the pound, nothing pre-packed.  Money and receipts whizzed overhead in little gold capsules to the cashiers.  You could certainly have a good day out at Chambers.

On a Market Day morning we would look out onto a different landscape.  A sea of green canvas, dipping and rising in waves would cover the square.  Brightly coloured flowers in buckets, pyramids of fruit and vegetables, clothes dancing on their hangers in the early morning breeze.  Traders shouting their wares, buses spewing shoppers on to the streets.  All day long people would stream back and forth until around four o'clock when business would start to taper off.  Stalls would be gradually folded down, traders drove away, cleaners remained to clear away the debris.

The White Hart was the other side of the Bull Ring on the corner of Wellowgate and facing St. James' Church.  Each morning we would wake to it's bells ringing reveille ready for school.  Even though only a minutes walk from The Tivoli from here there was a totally new perspective on the square, the Church being dominant to the scene.  At the back of the White Hart was a large courtyard where the draymen delivered the beer and across from the arched entrance was the off-licence - handy for sweets.

I don't recall much of the pub itself only that it was there that I first saw a Dimple Whisky bottle and rescued one to save sixpences in.

We only accompanied our parents to three pubs but it was during that time I became aware that life existed beyond our countryside haven.  After a year my Mum and Dad became managers of their own pub 'The Pier Hotel' in Cleethorpes, situated opposite the Pier itself and stretching out to either side beaches and the sea and more adventures to come.

Nanny Lettie

by

Francine Lee

I felt it quite warming that sounds, smells and even taste, can evoke such vivid memories of times past, and at the most unexpected moments.

A quick sortie around Sainsbury's the other day and the purchase of that long forgotten delicacy - potted meat - brought back such wonderful thoughts of childhood, and of one person in particular - Nanny Lettie.

Although my purchase came in an antiseptic looking white plastic tub - stating the required nutritional information - I was transported back to my Grandmother's local corner store where potted meat was scooped from a large white pot, slapped onto squares of greaseproof paper, and wrapped like 'six-pennorth of chips.'

It was such a treat to go to her house for the week-end, just Nanny and I, no siblings to vie for her attention, and I could look forward to being spoiled and cosseted.

With Nanny Lettie unable to drive (she later bought a car and whizzed about) we would catch the single-decker bus that would take us to Queen Mary Avenue.  Once on board she would strike up conversations with other passengers and soon the whole bus would be alive with the gossip and debate of the day.

She lived in Cleethorpes and, although this bordered on the town of Grimsby a large and prosperous fishing port, the many small shops and businesses that were dotted around the area, gave it the characteristics of a small village.  We could hardly walk a few yards before we saw Mr. or Mrs. So and So, who would nod in recognition or stop to pass the time of day.  A five minutes walk would often take an hour or more, depending on who she met.

As we strolled down the roads and avenues to Dugard Road she would point out where some relative or other lived, or had lived once upon a time.  As a small child I was under the impression that Cleethorpes consisted mainly of relatives on my Mother's side.