‘I was 16 and a year out of school when I
started working there, so that must have been…1949; yes. Alfred Bass and Sons
Ltd. I guess it was the same as any other grocers of the time. A double fronted
store, although modest in size it looked grand from the outside, with the name
painted in large gold capitals across the top boarding. The two windows were
always plastered with the latest offers: 1/2lb butter 1 and 8; tea 1 and 6 a
quarter; you know. There were none of these huge glaring supermarkets we have
now, you see, and no getting things off the shelves yourself. Mr Bass served
everyone from behind a substantial dark wooden counter; dark wood shelves
across the expanse of the wall behind him held rows of products in large vats
and jars, ready to be weighed out to the customer’s requirements.
We were still rationed – that continued until the mid 50s – but supplies were steadily easier to come by. Rationing had actually served Mr Bass well, as many customers needed to register with a grocer to get access to any of the rarer commodities. This had gained him many loyal customers, all of which we knew by name; even getting to know what their regular requirements were. Mr Bass was very attentive and made sure he held stock for the regulars.
Mrs McCleary was one of those. Always in on a Wednesday for her cup of brown sugar, ounce of marg and 1 ½ cups of flour needed to make a cake for the Women’s Guild meeting on a Friday afternoon. She had the rest of her groceries delivered on a Monday, but insisted in coming in personally for her cake ingredients. Mrs McCleary was a severe faced old lady, round and bustling; always with purpose. She lived alone in one of the old terrace cottages off Susan’s Road – her husband had died in the Great War and they’d never had children. I remember it was a sunny day in mid September; on the whole it had been an exceptionally warm and dry start to autumn so the leaves had not yet started to turn, nor were the mornings filled with the cold damp air of pending winter. I felt cheerful in the warm sunshine of dawn going about my deliveries that Monday morning; whistling a little tune to myself as I cycled on my way. At Mrs McCleary’s I was shocked when a tall, willowy brunette of about my age opened the door to me. Rather than being greeted by Mrs McCleary’s austere scrutiny, I was surprised to be gazing into green sparkling eyes, framed by apple cheeks and the biggest smile I think I’d ever seen. I can remember the day as if it were yesterday and still get that awkward blush when I think about it. I think I fell in love then and there. Her name was Betty and she was Mrs McCleary’s niece; staying for a while to help Mrs McCleary organise a large function the League of Health and Beauty were holding. We only managed to talk for a short while that morning before the booming voice of Mrs McCleary called Betty back to her chores.
In fact most of our meetings had to take place in secret to avoid Mrs McCleary’s disapproval – she was not at all happy that her niece be stepping out with a shop boy! Betty and I would often meet after my delivery rounds: she would excuse herself for fresh air and a little exercise, which Mrs McCleary wholly approved; while I would make every effort to finish my rounds as quick as possible, so not to be missed at the store. On Sundays we would arrange to meet after church and this was when we had the longest times together. We could talk for hours about nothing or about everything; walking across the fields just enjoying each other’s company. Later that autumn I even took Betty to a dance – well she went with friends to avoid repercussions from her aunt. However Betty was set to return home before Christmas and I thought I was to lose her for good. I wrote to her everyday and she responded – in fact I still have her letters in a shoe box in the attic; I could never bear to part with them.
Unlike Mrs McCleary, Betty’s parents were more forward thinking and glad for their daughter’s happiness. So Betty was allowed to return that spring to stay with her aunt and help with another function, but was also allowed to see me. I was thrilled! We went dancing, on picnics, for long walks, but most of all just enjoyed spending time together. In early June, when Betty once more had to return home, she asked that I joined her to meet her parents. I managed to gain some time off work and we travelled the hour or so by train to Eastbourne. I was terrified, but Mr and Mrs Palmer were very accommodating and kind. Mrs Palmer was nothing like her sister, neither in looks or personality. She was carefree and confident, like her daughter, with the same brown curls and huge smile. I rarely got to see Mr Palmer, as he had to work, but on Sunday’s, after church and before lunch, we often went fishing together and got on well. My own father had died in the war and my mother was kept busy with the huge brood she’d been left with, so it was wonderful to fit into this surrogate family; it felt like home from home. Unfortunately, and all too soon, I had to return home. Betty and I still wrote constantly, but it wasn’t until Christmas that I actually saw her again.
Mr and Mrs Palmer had invited me to stay for Christmas. As mother had her hands full and the shop was closed for the holidays I was free to accept their offer. It was wonderful to see Betty again and it is true that absence makes the heart grow fonder; it felt like we had never been apart. Christmas day was magical; a real family affair. We were joined by Mr Palmer’s sister and her two boys, Mr Palmer’s elderly mother and even Mrs McCleary. Later that afternoon I asked Mr Palmer if I could have a word in the parlour. I had decided to ask for Betty’s hand after returning from my last visit, but had kept it secret in order to save enough for a worthy ring. Alone with Mr Palmer my heart was racing, palms sweating, as I struggled to get the words out. I don’t think I’d been more terrified in my life! I needn’t have been because Mr Palmer just reached forward and gave me a huge hug, enquiring why it had taken so long for me to ask.
The wedding was planned for that spring; a simple affair in a small church near Gildredge Park. I decided to move to Eastbourne and Betty and I set up home close to her parents. We were together for 66 wonderful years, until Betty died of a stroke last autumn. I’m not unhappy that she has passed. I am happy for the time we had together and the memories I have.’
We were still rationed – that continued until the mid 50s – but supplies were steadily easier to come by. Rationing had actually served Mr Bass well, as many customers needed to register with a grocer to get access to any of the rarer commodities. This had gained him many loyal customers, all of which we knew by name; even getting to know what their regular requirements were. Mr Bass was very attentive and made sure he held stock for the regulars.
Mrs McCleary was one of those. Always in on a Wednesday for her cup of brown sugar, ounce of marg and 1 ½ cups of flour needed to make a cake for the Women’s Guild meeting on a Friday afternoon. She had the rest of her groceries delivered on a Monday, but insisted in coming in personally for her cake ingredients. Mrs McCleary was a severe faced old lady, round and bustling; always with purpose. She lived alone in one of the old terrace cottages off Susan’s Road – her husband had died in the Great War and they’d never had children. I remember it was a sunny day in mid September; on the whole it had been an exceptionally warm and dry start to autumn so the leaves had not yet started to turn, nor were the mornings filled with the cold damp air of pending winter. I felt cheerful in the warm sunshine of dawn going about my deliveries that Monday morning; whistling a little tune to myself as I cycled on my way. At Mrs McCleary’s I was shocked when a tall, willowy brunette of about my age opened the door to me. Rather than being greeted by Mrs McCleary’s austere scrutiny, I was surprised to be gazing into green sparkling eyes, framed by apple cheeks and the biggest smile I think I’d ever seen. I can remember the day as if it were yesterday and still get that awkward blush when I think about it. I think I fell in love then and there. Her name was Betty and she was Mrs McCleary’s niece; staying for a while to help Mrs McCleary organise a large function the League of Health and Beauty were holding. We only managed to talk for a short while that morning before the booming voice of Mrs McCleary called Betty back to her chores.
In fact most of our meetings had to take place in secret to avoid Mrs McCleary’s disapproval – she was not at all happy that her niece be stepping out with a shop boy! Betty and I would often meet after my delivery rounds: she would excuse herself for fresh air and a little exercise, which Mrs McCleary wholly approved; while I would make every effort to finish my rounds as quick as possible, so not to be missed at the store. On Sundays we would arrange to meet after church and this was when we had the longest times together. We could talk for hours about nothing or about everything; walking across the fields just enjoying each other’s company. Later that autumn I even took Betty to a dance – well she went with friends to avoid repercussions from her aunt. However Betty was set to return home before Christmas and I thought I was to lose her for good. I wrote to her everyday and she responded – in fact I still have her letters in a shoe box in the attic; I could never bear to part with them.
Unlike Mrs McCleary, Betty’s parents were more forward thinking and glad for their daughter’s happiness. So Betty was allowed to return that spring to stay with her aunt and help with another function, but was also allowed to see me. I was thrilled! We went dancing, on picnics, for long walks, but most of all just enjoyed spending time together. In early June, when Betty once more had to return home, she asked that I joined her to meet her parents. I managed to gain some time off work and we travelled the hour or so by train to Eastbourne. I was terrified, but Mr and Mrs Palmer were very accommodating and kind. Mrs Palmer was nothing like her sister, neither in looks or personality. She was carefree and confident, like her daughter, with the same brown curls and huge smile. I rarely got to see Mr Palmer, as he had to work, but on Sunday’s, after church and before lunch, we often went fishing together and got on well. My own father had died in the war and my mother was kept busy with the huge brood she’d been left with, so it was wonderful to fit into this surrogate family; it felt like home from home. Unfortunately, and all too soon, I had to return home. Betty and I still wrote constantly, but it wasn’t until Christmas that I actually saw her again.
Mr and Mrs Palmer had invited me to stay for Christmas. As mother had her hands full and the shop was closed for the holidays I was free to accept their offer. It was wonderful to see Betty again and it is true that absence makes the heart grow fonder; it felt like we had never been apart. Christmas day was magical; a real family affair. We were joined by Mr Palmer’s sister and her two boys, Mr Palmer’s elderly mother and even Mrs McCleary. Later that afternoon I asked Mr Palmer if I could have a word in the parlour. I had decided to ask for Betty’s hand after returning from my last visit, but had kept it secret in order to save enough for a worthy ring. Alone with Mr Palmer my heart was racing, palms sweating, as I struggled to get the words out. I don’t think I’d been more terrified in my life! I needn’t have been because Mr Palmer just reached forward and gave me a huge hug, enquiring why it had taken so long for me to ask.
The wedding was planned for that spring; a simple affair in a small church near Gildredge Park. I decided to move to Eastbourne and Betty and I set up home close to her parents. We were together for 66 wonderful years, until Betty died of a stroke last autumn. I’m not unhappy that she has passed. I am happy for the time we had together and the memories I have.’
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