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We bought our groceries at the Co-op, recalled Kath O'Sullivan (nee Margerison), who was brought up in Thornbury, a suburb of Bradford, W Yorkshire, before the war. This was a chain of stores throughout the North of England, which was run by a workers' cooperative. Every time you made a purchase, you received a small stamp marked with the amount. This was your divvy coupon and at the end of each year these coupons were redeemed for a dividend depending on the profit the Co-op had made during the year.
When we visited the Co-op we did not help ourselves to goods. Instead, we waited at the counter, seated if we wished, as there was always a chair there. The assistant fetched each item on our list. When we bought cheese he usually cut a tiny piece for us to try first. With bacon he showed us various rolls and we chose the one we liked best and he would ask how thick we would like it cut, adjusting the slicing machine to suit.
The Butcher's shop was fascinating, its floor liberally sprinkled with sawdust. Behind the counter were displayed small cuts of meat. The window was used to display meat also. At one end of the shop was a huge chopping block. Behind it hung the carcasses of beasts, their blood dripping on the sawdust.
The butcher wore a holster in which he kept his knife sharpener. He would sharpen his knife before cutting a leg off a sheep and trimming it to size. If we asked for fry we received a mixture of liver, kidney and sweet breads.
Once, when I was about seven, my mother asked me to go to the Pork Butcher for some belly pork. I refused, saying I couldn't possible say a rude word like that. Without more ado she wrote me a note. When I handed it to him, in front of a shop full of women, he laughed and read it out. ' Kathleen refuses to ask for belly pork.' The women shrieked with laughter.
Other local shops were: the Draper's, which sold buttons, hooks and eyes, cotton and needles, material, wool, etc.; the Shoe Shop where the owner measured your foot before bringing shoes to try on; and the Men's Outfitters sold shirts, socks, ties and underwear etc.
Then there was the Tripe Shop...(yes, there was a shop which sold nothing but tripe and cows' innards). Of the many different kinds of tripe, my father liked honeycomb best. He would sprinkle it with vinegar and pepper and eat it as it came with plenty of new bread and butter. Mother never touched it, but I used to stand there like a baby bird, mouth wide-open waiting for him to pop a bit in.
At the Fishmongers there was Cod, Hake, Herrings, cockles and mussels. The Poultry shop had chickens, game birds and rabbits hanging up outside. The Fish and Chip shop, a palace of delight, filled the evening air with the mouthwatering aroma of fresh fried fish and chips.
The Toy Shop, where we pressed our noses to the glass and told our friends what we were getting for Christmas, was a great delight. The Sweetshop, (which was usually the newsagents also) sold a huge selection of sweets from big glass jars, mostly costing a halfpenny for five.
The sweet shop near the local picture theatre, The Lyceum, in Leeds Road, Laisterdyke, was the most exciting place. Here, on a Saturday, the children queued to spend their precious halfpenny before going into the theatre.
The choice was immense: one of my favorites was Lamb Chops, green peas and new potatoes, little sweets made to look like the real thing, as well as Dolly Mixtures, Jelly Babies, liquourice torpedoes, and Liquourice Allsorts as well as chocolate bars and toffee bars.
There were Lucky Bags containing a mixture of sweets along with something we called locusts. Dad laughed when we ate those. He said they were something that they fed to horses, in France, during the war. I liked the taste of them.
Sherbet suckers, little paper sacks full of fizzy powder which you sucked up through a piece of hollow black Spanish (licorice) were another favorite. There was Palm Toffee on trays. The shopkeeper had a little, metal hammer with which to break it before weighing the shattered bits.
The Chemist's shop had huge carboys (glass jars) filled with brightly colored liquids, in the window. Inside were other glass jars containing dried roots, herbs, bottles of pills and patent medicine.
There was a weighing scale topped by a cane Moses basket. For it was to the chemist that the women brought their babies and toddlers to be weighed. The chemist was consulted if the child had sores or spots, the doctor was the last resort.
The chemist sold patent medicines such as Dr Williams' Pink Pills for Pale People, Blaud's Iron Pills, Cod-liver Oil and Malt, worm cakes, teething powders, and gripe water for fractious infants. My mother had such a prescription for cough mixture, which I know contained ipecacuanha and licorice. The chemist would make this up for her whenever we had a chesty cough
Kath now lives in New Zealand.
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