Memories from S.A.B.U. . . . . Skelton & Brotton Urbanites
( I am indebted to
Betty and Marie Bolton, formerly of Green Road, Skelton, for
these reminiscences )
The day a dead whale washed up on Skinningrove beach immediately
posed problems for Fred Stringer, Chief Engineer for Skelton
& Brotton Urban District Council. It soon began to smell (the
whale, that is, not the Council) and disposal was sure to prove a
major undertaking.
Fred had noticed that the beast was a few yards from the
‘dividing line’ between his and nearby Loftus District
Council’s land. Aiming to shift the responsibility and the
whale in one action, Fred decided that a discreet tow across the
beach would solve the problem – so Mick
‘no-signals’ Buck was summoned. Unfortunately, as chain
and tackle were being attached, their activities were observed by
Bill Ransome, Chief Engineer to Loftus UDC and all hell (at a
local level) broke loose. Fred had to dispose of the whale after
all, and relationships among the two local authorities were a bit
strained thereafter, neither Council being famed for its sense of
humour.
How different things were in those heady days – sadly cut
down in 1974 with the re-organisation of local boundaries and the
creation of that monument to incompetence, Cleveland County
Council. Since then we have enjoyed (!) Langbaurgh Council –
difficult to pronounce, let alone spell – and now the
much-criticised Redcar & Cleveland Council . . . many
changes, most of them expensive, few bringing benefits to
residents.
So were things really better in those days? Certainly the streets
were cleaner (each road sweeper took pride in his section of
highway – Dicky Dowey, etc.) and even in the severest
winter, Skelton Green Bank would be hand-cut free of snow, and
the pavements eventually received attention. Now? Machines,
overheads, labour costs, time-and-motion, etc. have all
contributed to less service – a really tremendous reflection
of local government in the 21st century.
Skelton & Brotton UDC was only as good as its staff and
councillors. You could get things done by speaking to the person
concerned in his/her office, or on the street – no need then
for fancy planning applications. Richard Young was a new addition
to staff, having transferred over from the big city
(Middlesbrough), and he collapsed in hysterics when someone
brought in plans for a garage extension, skillfully sketched on a
rolled-out fag packet!
Time-keeping was a matter of honour to many – Geoff Posthill
manfully struggled in from Runswick Bay, in all weathers, and was
never less than 10 minutes early for work. His dedication was
somewhat offset by Lily Ridsdale, who lived directly across the
street from the Council Offices, yet rarely succeeded in crossing
the 30 yards before 9.05am.
Joe Newton (car owner) travelled from Saltburn, and one day staff
expressed amazement that he had arrived on time, despite the top
end of Marske Lane being ice-bound. “Oh”, explained
Joe, “I just cut through past the Hall.” Close
examination confirmed that his route past ‘the Hall’
was, in fact, the ultra-private road leading through Skelton
Castle grounds and out onto the Guisborough Road at Parson’s
Bank. Of course, Lily was late that day as well.
Betty Bolton worked in ‘Payroll and Accounts’ where the
yearly audit had to balance to the penny, and days would be
spent/wasted by staff looking for miniscule amounts. Fortunately,
the quill pens had given way to more sophisticated biros.
George Skipper was the Rating Officer, while his wife, Rhoda, ran
‘Skippers’ (the Wharton Arms) with a benign, yet
disciplined eye.
Many of the local councillors were ‘characters’ –
I am sure we all remember Harry Ingleby (Labour), Mr Morris
(Conservative – I never learned his first name, even when he
was Chairman of the local Cricket Club) and others. Reg Simon
(Lingdale, Conservative surprisingly) smoked Woodbine fags but
was never known to hand them round and could smoke one well down
past the recognised ‘butt’ stage, then pinch it out and
re-light it later in the day.
Sexism didn’t exist in Skelton & Brotton UDC as long as
women never asked for silly pay rises, or even parity with their
male counterparts, although, fortunately, that policy did change
in later years as the ladies assumed more responsibilities.
(Away from the Council, for a moment, Marie Bolton is probably
our leading local expert on the location, condition, and
subsequent demise of the ‘gent’s urinals’ which
were located at the ‘Skelton Triangle’ (which includes
the ‘haunted house’) at the top of Coniston Road, and
the unit across the road from the junction at Saltburn Lane).
Were they really ‘the good old days’ though? In the
1950’s, a craftsman’s weekly wage was £6.50, whilst a
labourer aspired to a mere £5.10. No bonus payments and no
overtime (unless there were snow-clearing duties required).
Understandably, many of the ‘troops’ had other jobs
– ‘Rattler’ Morgan was a part-time bus driver,
while Lou Griffiths, Mr Lettin and Dennis Pearson all rushed off
to different jobs when their council work was done.
As a rough guide, the Management and Office Support employed
about 17 people over three Departments (Engineers, Clerks, Public
Health) while there were about 40 ‘workers’ (with only
one Foreman, Ken Forbes). Among the latter job descriptions were
one ‘Rat Catcher’, one (only) Plumber, yet three
Cemetery Sextons and six Grave Diggers/Gardeners. The conclusion
may be that, if overrun and bitten by rats, and dying, there were
plenty of staff available to give you a good send-off!
Most of the above were recalled by Betty Bolton, but twin-sister
Marie chipped in with a classic tale, unassociated with the
Council. She recalled the fearsome Miss Johnson (Skelton Infants
School) supervising ‘Maypole Dancing’ on the Cross
Green, while playing the harmonica (mouth-organ is not a phrase
to be used in conjunction with Miss J). Having personally
suffered vicariously at the hands (large, strong, chapped) of the
aforesaid Miss Johnson, who’d have made Anne Widdicombe look
effeminate, I have great difficulty grasping this image – it
appears more ‘X-Files’ material than Skelton &
Brotton . . .
Neil Harrison