Next to the butcher’s, where there is now a terrace of houses, was a long, low, white cottage where Tommy and Alice Parkinson, elderly twins, lived. They had an orchard, and my mother would buy apples and pears from them, and I was often allowed to go into the orchard to gather windfall cooking apples such as Bramleys, for my mum’s pies. Alice and Tommy had a big old kitchen sink that they’d sunk into the ground and filled with water for their ducks. Then there was Billy Whelan’s, which later moved up-market, and became “Billy’s Market,” where you could buy all sorts of cheap—and I do mean cheap—stuff. As a tiny kid, I had a red woollen bathing suit, which, when wet, was scratchy, soggy and droopy, and I strongly suspect it came from Billy Whelan’s.

On the corner—the house, handsomely restored, still stands there— was Bonneys’ farm, which was really a small-holding with a large garden, where you could buy lettuce, rhubarb, spuds, and assorted veg at the back door. On VE night, Bonneys started gathering stuff for a bonfire in the middle of the five-way junction—this was long before the bollards appeared at the intersection of Woodland Avenue, Rossendale Avenue, Lesley Avenue, Lawson’s Road and Trunnah. People brought out anything burnable, wood, rags, broken furniture, even tyres, and a huge fire was lit. Mountains of sandwiches made of anything eatable magically appeared, and since there were very few posh plates left at the end of the war, they were served on saucepan lids. That was the first time I ever tasted Lancashire parkin cake. My mother, Jenny O’Brien, had a very pretty soprano voice, and I remember her singing, to the accompaniment of Arthur Baxter, also from Trunnah Road, on his accordion, and a piano that came from somewhere, again, apparently, by magic. Arthur played at all the street parties of my childhood, but. I seem to remember he died too young.

Bonneys also used to host great Guy Fawkes bonfires on their land, and their dog Spot—no kidding, it was called Spot—used to chase rip-raps, and more than once got its nose singed.

Across the road, at the corner of Woodland and Rossendale Avenues was Morris’s farm. Mr. Morris was a very taciturn man who seldom smiled. He often drove his cows along Trunnah Road, much to the annoyance of the neighbours, because the cows did what cows will do, all along the carefully swept fronts of the houses. I used to buy milk from Morris’s, from a big aluminium canister at the front door.

Large’s grocery was across the road at the junction of Rossendale and Lawson’s Road. Harold Edmonson’s butcher shop was on that row. Mr. Edmonson lived in a big detached house on Heys Street, between Poolfoot Cottage and the herbalist’s shop where you could get a glass of sarsaparilla for a penny. Next to Edmonson’s shop was Mrs. Balderstone’s knitting wool shop. It had a glass door and “Balderstone’s” in large, silver, copperplate script diagonally across the glass panel.  Inside, a glass display case full of wool, needles, and patterns served as a counter, and on the walls a rainbow of wools was displayed in diamond-shaped boxes.

Then there was Miss Hacking’s sweet shop. When the first sweets became available after the war, I was sent there for “a quarter of toffees.” There were only two jars to choose from, and I had virtually no experience of sweets or their names, except the ones my dad saved for me from his army rations, mostly Mars bars and indestructible, tooth-crushing, sugared almonds (which I still don’t really like). I thought ‘mentho-lyptus’ sounded wonderful, and spent all the coupons on that. My parents were underwhelmed, and said they would really have preferred some caramels. Can’t think why….

A couple of houses, and then there was Peter Sumner’s bicycle shop. I still don’t know what the exactly the oil was, but the shop always had a particular odour that I can still smell. I used to be sent there to ‘get the accumulators filled.’ We had two huge ridged bottles with wire handles and huge, black, rubbery, ridged things inside, and the bottles had to be filled—with what I knew not. I just knew that the weight of them practically pulled my arms from their sockets on the way out when they were empty, and came close to killing me on the way back when they’d been filled.  I now believe the filler was distilled water. For quite a long time after the war, we needed them for the radio. Wireless, I mean.

Coming back, across Lawson’s Road, by the stop for the buses to the station, there was a shop on the corner. At one time it was a chippy, and later an ice cream shop, where we got Bond’s ice cream—a Sunday afternoon treat at our house.

Back on to Trunnah. At the corner of Lesley Avenue, there was the pillar box. One of the neighbours used to take bets on the afternoon’s race meetings, especially from the men cycling home from the ICI at dinner time. That kind of betting was illegal, so, if the law showed up, he who shall be nameless would post the slips to himself in a previously stamped and addressed envelope, and saunter, smiling, back to his house.

There was a patch of open ground with a huge chestnut tree at the opening to the Old Lane. This was a cinder track that led to a gate closing off a rear entrance to Hill House. The Old Lane was later elevated to ‘adopted’ status, and re-named 'Occupation Road,' though it was still the Old Lane to the kids. It was lined by hawthorn hedges, and along the side away from Lesley

Avenue, outside the hedge, there was another pathway that led to Miss Kate Waring’s cottage. This tiny house, like Alice’s, had stone floors and was impeccably whitewashed, and surrounded by a beautiful cottage garden. I used to be sent there to buy gooseberries.

Back on Trunnah, you came to Mrs. Higginson’s. Also a white house, it had two storeys, and there were hollyhocks by the door. The terrace of little houses now stands where her orchard used to be. Her son used to breed budgerigars there.  We used to buy fruit from Mrs. Higginson, whose name—very unusual for that era—was Deborah. When it was time for the May procession at Sacred Heart, we used to get lilac from her, for my flower basket. (And I wasn’t one of the miscreants who chucked rocks at the roof of the Tin Mission, honest.)

At the end of that block was another cobbler’s. Mr. Wardle was there originally, but he moved and it was taken over by a Mr. Robinson, whose wife was fond of Italy and Italian art. I still have a miniature of the Holy Family that they gave me long, long ago. Mrs. Robinson also died quite young.

At the corner of Brown Street was Boylan’s, the paper shop. Ha’penny Spanish, liquorice root, comics and the Green on Saturday afternoons. Next door, another wool shop, later Marjorie Kierby’s; then, with a couple of houses intervening, the chippy, and another little convenience shop-cum-grocery—Munroe’s, I think. Down near Butts Field, Mrs. Brazil used to make yellow ice cream and sell it from her front vestibule. VJ Day party on Butts Field with more bonfires and singing.

Down to the corner of Heys Street, and back on the other side. The place that is now a large pub was in those days called Abbey Field, I think, and there was nothing between that and the Methodist Chapel. A Mrs. Addy lived in the house. Later, it was bought by the Sisters of Mercy as a holiday and rest home for the nuns. I still have a hand-painted handkerchief they gave me, “to swank at your dances,” they said. Since then the house has had a fairly chequered career, but they serve nice beer on a warm day….

Nothing much else of note as you walk back up to the five corners, but I remember clearly many of the families who lived on Trunnah: the Tusons, the Millingtons, the Martins, the Wrights; Miss Iddon, who spoke a wonderful ancient Lanky twang that I could hardly understand; the Jordans, Mrs. Groves, and Johnny Butler and his wife, who rode their bicycles to St. John’s church until she became ill. He often took her out in a wheelchair He was a lovely old man. Then, on our block, Bleasdale Terrace, there were the Wilsons, the Hartleys and later the Liptrots; the Fords, then us, the Coddingtons and the Fletchers. And here we are back at Shepherd’s.

I was born Anne O’Brien. My parents were Jenny and Tommy. I went to Sacred Heart School and Layton Hill. I’m Anne Lloyd now, and I’ve lived in Canada for forty years. I write educational materials and the odd story or article. And my stuff appears over the name Trunnah Publications.

                                                          Go figure.

I'd be glad to hear from anyone who remembers me:

                              anne.anneobrien@gmail.com

Copyright © 2009, Anne O’Brien Lloyd