Saturday January 23, 1982

 Alarm rang at 8 and after a hurried breakfast we went off to Leeds, a bright almost Spring-like day. 

We got to the Reference library for about 11. I looked at the censuses for 1841, 51, and 71. Ally looked at the Bramley census for 1871 and Otley for the same year. In 1841 the Wilsons lived at Kiln Fold, Pudsey, where William Wilson, aged 25, is described as a clothier. His wife Betty is 25, and son Squire, aged 2. Ten years later the couple are living at Rider's Yard, Chapeltown, Pudsey, but Squire is missing and Peter Barraclough [aged 15] has appeared. Where was he in 1841? And who exactly is Peter Barraclough? In 1851 William Wilson is a 'slubber'. The census for April 1871 shows that William Wilson is dead, and his widow, Betty, 55, is a housekeeper at Rider's Row [I presume close to Rider's Yard] and her five younger children are with her. My great-grandfather, John, aged 18, is a woollen mill hand. I also came across other ancestors the Fawberts who in 1841 inhabited Rider's Row, and thirty years later were at Chapel Fold. Ally couldn't find my great-grandfather John Rhodes anywhere in either Bramley or Otley, but she did find great-grandmother Christiana Ross, living in 1871 at Midgley Hill, Bramley, aged 5, with parents Samuel Ross, 31, shoemaker, born in Bramley, and wife, Mary Ann Ross, 30, cloth weaver. Next door at Midley Hill dwelled Christiana Appleyard, 66, born in Bramley, and her spinster daughter, Hannah R Appleyard, a burler. Mary Ann Ross was born Appleyard, and so I assume that her widowed mother lived next door. Christiana, my great-grandmother, it seems, was named after her grandmother, taking us back to 1805. It was marvellous delving into the past in the company of Ally. We sat in this studious fashion until after 4. The library had no public bogs and so we ran to the Jubilee pub across the road, but didn't have time for a drink. 

To Guiseley at 4:30 with our gathered information. Frances is staying with Mum and Dad owing to illness at Burley.Lynn has shingles and Dave a cold. The baby is amusing but refused to go to bed until 8:30. She sat at the table with us eating beans and rice pudding. I explained to her that she isn't the first Frances in the family. She's six generations in descent from Frances Fawbert, wife of greengrocer Edward Fawbert, bringing up a family in Victorian Pudsey.

Dad was out working on and off and afterwards we discussed the elusive John Rhodes, his grandfather. Dad insists he was born in Otley and was partially blinded, aged 13, on Otley Chevin, by a firework explosion. Just when they moved to Bramley I do not know. Dad recalls his grandfather's funeral [1947 or 1948] and gave me a detailed account of his appearance. A tiny, crooked old man with snow white hair and a bump on the top of his head. He wore thick spectacles and always wore a black starched apron in the house. A cantankerous old so-and-so by the sound of things. Dad says he will go to Bramley on Monday and find John's grave. We've hasd no luck on two occasions. Bed at 3am.

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Friday January 22, 1982

 Another mild day. We now expect Kathleen to take the remainder of the year off because her aged auntie has been taken desperately ill. The last rites, and all that. So, it's bye bye Kathleen until the first flowering of daffodils.

Dave L.

Home at 6 for pizza, garlic beans, chips, &c. Petal is beautiful and brighter with the influx of iron tablets, though she has sore lips at the moment, cold sores, and finds kissing painful.

Dave L marched in at 8:15 and we sat for a couple of hours with lager talking about old times. He finds reminiscing a depressing pastime and needs to be worked on before pouring out tales of yesteryear. I love talk of our Benton Park days and Andrew Dean stories. I don't often get the chance to wallow because Dave is the only person I have known, barring relations, since March 1967. He went off at 10:15 and we took milky drinks up to bed.

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Thursday January 21, 1982

 Another dawn start to beat the crush caused by Ray Buckton.

Bob [Schofield] has finally used my tip about Jeremy Lascelles. It seems gthat the young man married last July a certain Julie Baylis, of Worcester, and both are employed by Virgin Records. Bob, beaming, told me he has now passed on 'his scoop' to the Daily Mirror. Am I being used? What price will they pay Bob for my work?

Royal news: Princess Margaret is ill with gastro trouble. Prince Andrew is in love with a ballet dancer called Karen. Will we have long to wait for the commemorative mugs?

Phoned Ally, glum at the AHA complaining of not enough work. Told her to keep her pecker up. Phoned Mum. She's having Frances on Saturday because 'Lady' Audrey [Baker] is having a birthday party. No Susie news although she was at the hospital today. She is growing tired of hanging on.

To the reference library again at lunch. They say the 1881 census will be ready for public viewing in three or four months. Overjoyed that the place is open until 4pm on Saturdays. You know where to find us at the weekend.

Morrison's at 5. [I escaped the YP at 4 leaving Carol moaning]. Fish and chips at 6. Dave L phoned to invite himself to ours tomorrow. We haven't seen him since Sue's on Dec 27. He's disappointed because he thought Karen's party was on 23rd, not the 30th, and he's arranged to be elswehere.

'Top of the Pops' - abysmal. Phone Sue for a bulletin. She says baby could be another three weeks. Peter was out in Leeds with the boys. Chippy and Johnny are leaving for Miami next weeks for a two month sojourn. Ghastly thought.

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Wednesday January 20, 1982

 Fog, but warm fog. Kissed [Ally] goodbye at 7:30 after boiled eggs and toast. I so wanted to stay at home in bed.

Rail strike. The buses are full of ladies in fur coats and businessmen in sheepskin jackets and deer stalker hats, who usually journey by train. I resent imposters. Really, the people who always travel by train should refuse to work when the railwaymen strike.

Buckton: moody.

Papers dull. Full of articles about rape. The Prince and Princess of Wales have been granted joint armorial bearings incorporating the prince's shield and Garter buckle and the Spencer shells - cockleshells, I think. The press seems to be letting them 'rest in peace' since the Buckingham Palace conference asking Fleet Street to 'lay off'. I haven't seen a photo of Diana in the papers since. Poor Lord Spencer is having to sell paintings from Althorp to pay the death duties of the late earl, who died seven years ago.

Steve Burnip has genealogical contacts in Leeds and on my behalf has made enquiries about the Bramley parish registers and things look good. Edward III here we come!

Billy, God bless him, is 42 to-day. _______________. 

It took two hours to get home from Leeds thanks to Ray Buckton's ridiculous moodiness. Had spaghetti and chips, of all things. We are [illegible] on the lines of Coronation Street.

Read 'Key to Rebecca' and sat in bed reading it until the end, at 12:30.

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Tuesday January 19, 1982

Over 40 degrees F again. YP for 9, and took a 2 hours lunch break and went to the Reference Library to search for Wilson ancestors on the 1861 census [April 13, 1861]. After an hour I found I found my great-great grandparents William Wilson and Betty, his wife, resident at Chapel Fold, Pudsey [now long since demolished I fear]. William, head of the family, is 43, a woollen slubber, and was born at Bramley, circa 1817/1818. Betty, aged 45, was born at Pudsey circa 1815/1816. Of the nine children that we know of from Hilda's family Bible, only six are listed on the census. Mary, aged 16, is a worsted weaver, James, aged 12, is a factory worker, Rhoda, aged 10, is a factory worker, John, aged 8 [my great-grandfather], is a scholar, then Martha, aged 4, and Martha Elizabeth, aged 1. All the children are Pudsey-born. I felt very emotional discovering my roots, quite choked thinking of those poor infant factory workers. Without much effort I have managed to trace the Wilsonsn back to the beginning of the 19th century. It's piquant that my Wilson and Rhodes great-great grandfathers were both Bramley born.

From the office I phoned Bramley Parish Church. They don't have the parish records for 1817/1818. Sod it.

Home at 6:15. Fog. Liver. Bath. Out in the fog at 8 to cousin Jackie's, at Amberley Street, Barker End. Joined by 2 friends and then the new boyfriend, Barry. He is employed at A. Baldwin & Co, who have dealings with the AHA. Out to the Coachman's pub for a few pints of Tetley's - weird really. Our first visit to a pub in 1982.A good night. Home at 12:30.

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Monday January 18, 1982

 Warm and almost muggy. The clock on the YP building proclaimed 43 degrees F.

We were late out of bed and played, toyed, with breakfast until 8:00. Late to the YP, but it is Monday.

John Wilson.

Went at lunch time to the Register Office to see whether they have my great-grandfather Wilson's birth certificate [March 13, 1853]. They say yes, and that they can let me have it later in the week. Then I went to the Reference Library to make enquiries about the census records, and was delighted to discover that the census returns for Pudsey up to 1881 are at the Leeds office. Tomorrow lunch will see me return to the third floor. Can't wait.

Phoned Mama at 10:30. They visited a pub near Northallerton yesterday and attempted to look at a post office at Kirby Misperton [the home of Flamingo Park Zoo], but the fog got the better of them. At least they are still on the 'look out'. She had no news of Sue.

Esacaped at 4:45, home at 5:45. Fish for dinner. We have received 'Mrs Beeton' and 'The Woman in White' by Wilkie Collins, from the book club. We now lookl like a library here. 

Phoned poor Dave G. They now have an alsatian dog named Sadie, to ward off the numerous attempted thefts and break-ins. His grandad is not well and sounds to be fading. He sounds very much to be tied to the Hollywood and couldn't promise to get away to see us soon.

To bed after the 9 o'clock news. This is ridiculous.

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Sunday January 17, 1982

 2nd Sunday after Epiphany

Awoke at about 9:30. We can't sleep on until the afternoon as we used to do. Climbed into the bath. Ally, like a sickly old lady, lay amongst the tea cups, feeling violently sick. She had just taken an iron tablet and thinks it might have disagreed with her. She is still swimming in catarrh, and this can bring on feelings of nasuea, can't it? Ally says it isn't morning sickness.

Frank phoned and spoke about house insurance. By 11:30 she was feeling better and we had boiled eggs and toast and more tea. 

Played with the apple wine and made some date sherry. Watched 'Carry On Teacher' [again] and sat reading. I am into Ken Follett in a big way. Ally is battling on with Agatha Christie's autobiography. I am in Cairo in war-torn 1942, and Ally is in the genteel Home Counties in the post-Edwardian days of 1914.

Dined at 6 on leek and potato soup, lamb steaks with mushy peas, sprouts, mint sauce, followed by cheese and biscuits and all washed down with our very own rosé wine. We live like the Aga Khan, only better.

To bed in the proximity of 10pm. We laid there perspiring. The temperature must be well over 40F, bloody tropical.

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Saturday January 16, 1982

 Hangovers. Ally begged me never to give her gin again. I agreed. I am far from happy too. I made tea and crumpets and we sat in bed forcing them down. Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable arrived.

    We went to Bradford shopping at 11:30. Fog. Bought meat and veg, &c, and a date sherry pack. Got Ally Sanatogen tablets to give her iron and make her big and strong.

A freezing, damp and foggy day which seems to linger on the brain. Not good for hangovers.

At home. Watched 'Odette' starring Anna Neagle [1950]. Ally bought me two presents yesterday. 'The Key to Rebecca' by Ken Follett, and a recording of Grieg's Piano Concerto in A minor, which has the Peer Gynt suite on the B side. Sat this evening reading the Key to Rebecca, another gripping tale, but please, oh please, when the film version comes to Bradford Odeon, please stop me going.

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Friday January 15, 1982

The Queen and I.

 Warmer. Trains are back, sod it, so no early exit. YP dull. Told 'People' [the YP gossip column] that the Hon Robert Jeremy Hugh Lascelles, born in February, 1955, and twenty eighth in line of succession to the British throne, has taken the plunge, but my morsel wasn't rapturously received by anyone. Sod them. They'll all be screaming when [Nigel] Dempster gets it, or William Hickey, but at least it won't be my fault.

Phoned Lynn to enquire about photographs and found Mum, Dad and Auntie Hilda at Burley. They must be out cheering up poor Hilda, who says that the shock of Tony's redundancy is only just sinking in.

Pete & Sue.

Home at 5:45. Splashed in the bath and helped Ally in the kitchen. At 7 Mum, Dad, Sue and Peter rolled in for dinner. Susie is massive and rounded and looks more like Mum's sister. Had drinks before our sweet and sour steak. Susie talked about baby names. Mum turned her nose up at Samantha, and Samuel and Benjamin received my approval. But, dear me, not Jennifer. Food, wine and more booze. Mum looked at books - endless glossy photos of the Princess of Wales - whilst Dad and Ally did the dishes and shovelled up the excess rice and noodles. I took numerous photos to commemorate what is most likely to be Sue's last motherless visit to Sprog Cottage. They went home between 10:30 and 11. Sue's not allowed to stay up too late. 

Ally was horribly pissed and she sat with her gin and orange, kneeling by the fireplace, giving me a critical report of our first six months as man and wife. I laughed because she had no idea what she was saying, and eventually she disappeared upstairs and fell into bed, wearing her plum coloured tights. God Bless her.

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Thursday January 14, 1982

 Still cold. YP fun. Rail strike Day 2, and so left at 3:45 again. Saw Delia in the foyer who kissed me ____________. 

Home for 5. Ally and I went to Morrison's early for our weekly provisions. Back at 6:30 we had curry and noodles on trays in front of the TV. Top of the Pops, David Attenborough talking about hedgehogs [very good], and Shoestring. Finally, Lord Harewood talking about his apparently dismal life. _______. George Harewood said, referring to his relationship with his first wife, that they get on quite amicably and met recently at 'my third sons wedding'. That's another Lascelles offspring to marry in secret. James Lascelles married a Yank in 1973, and produced a daughter, Sophie, six months later. Viscount Lascelles married the mother of his two children in 1978, and now Jeremy has wed, but to who?

Phoned Cousin Jackie at 7 and arranged to go over next Tuesday. She has a new boyfriend, Barry, a weight-lifter in the building trade.

To bed by 11:30.

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Wednesday January 13, 1982

 Frost and ice again. National train strike, and so I set off slightly earlier prepared to do battle on the buses but found they were not overcrowded.

Worked through at lunchtime so enabling me to escape at 4pm. The bus was fully of schoolboys with greasy hair and spots effing and blinding.

Home before Ally and to pass the time I peeled potatoes and bashed around in the kitchen like a gourmet.

Mark Thatcher: lost

News: The prime minister's son is missing in the Sahara desert with no water and a French tart. Denis Thatcher has flown to Algiers to join the search and poor Mrs T is in Downing Street 'strained and red eyed'. The boy hasn't been heard or seen of since Friday and his fate does indeed look bleak. These Thatchers are a funny lot. The girl, Carol, writes for an obscure Aussie rag and rarely comes home, and Mark hasn't done a decent days work since mummy assumed the mantle of Tory leader. Mind you, I suppose it's better than a Baldwin situation. Poor Stanley had his own sons facing him across the Commons on the Labour opposition benches.

The TV is diabolical. Night after night of endless quiz and chat shows aimed at the old and greedy. The same old mundane faces of so-called superstars in the shape of Ted Rogers, Arthur Askey, Roy Jenkins and Jimmy Tarbuck, &c. I could be physically sick. Ah well, I suppose it helps to take our minds off the continuing decline of our great country. Sarah announced she is going to commit suicide when the miners go on strike and bring on the dark nights with power cuts. I am looking forward to the long dark nights, when the TV stands cold and young couples have little else to do but climb beneath the sheets to keep warm. Perhaps the population will receive a much needed boost because by the look of the '81 census the population is declining and we'll soon be going the same way as the dinosaur.

We had dinner by candlelight and afterwards Ally went up to the bathroom to shave her legs. She likened them to those of a giant panda. Her cold is subsiding but the catarrh and phlegm is still evident.

We giggled on the sofa, behaving like fools. She has an infectious giggle. I just collapse amongst the cushions when she gets going.

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