Category Archives: Stratford Grove West

Escape to Heaton: Mike’s wartime memories

Stories of women and children hurriedly gathering a few belongings together and leaving the home they know to escape the horror of war, only to find themselves once more in the midst of it, have become only too commonplace in 2022. Heaton History Group member, Mike Summersby, arrived in Newcastle as a three year old in 1941 under just those circumstances.

We are delighted to be able to publish some extracts from the memoirs Mike has recently written. Here, he remembers those early days in Heaton, the family’s new home in Mowbray Street and the underground shelter where the family spent many hours:

‘ The wailing siren warned of the attack. Searchlight beams danced across the night sky, seeking out their prey. The dull drone of the planes heightened the sense of fear. Were they ours or theirs?

People hurried from their homes to the row of reinforced concrete air-raid shelters that sat between the Tyneside flats on either side of Mowbray Street. Hurriedly dressed over nightclothes, some carried books, or food, or other comforts. It could be a long night in the shelter. 

It was 1941. Jessie Summersby (Mam) and her two sons – my brother Peter aged twelve and me aged three – had only days earlier arrived in Newcastle. Dad was serving in the army. Mam knew not where, except that it was probably somewhere overseas. 

As a wartime street warden, Mam had witnessed close-up the horrors of the London blitz. Near breaking point, she and her boys had left the capital as evacuees. After a brief stay in the Wiltshire village of Little Somerford, she had moved us to Newcastle, her childhood home, where her father and her twin sister lived. 

From her London home she had watched aerial dogfights between the RAF and the German Luftwaffe. She could tell from the sound of the engines which planes were ours and which were theirs.

Our new home 

Our new home was a single room in a downstairs two-bedroom Tyneside flat at 164 Mowbray Street, Heaton (now, but not then of course, opposite Hotspur Primary School) in which my grandfather, William Newton lived with his ‘housekeeper’, Mrs Montgomery. 

164 Mowbray Street in 2022

Mam, my brother Peter and I were given the front room. I assume all concerned hoped that it would be a temporary measure. But these were uncertain times. No one could know how long the war would last. As it turned out this one room was to be our home for the next four years. 

We also had use of the scullery, including a shelf in the larder, and access to a shared outside lavatory (colloquially the ‘netty’) next to the coalhouse in the small, red-brick-walled back yard. 

So it was that 164 Mowbray Street became the place of some of my earliest recollections and our family home until the end of World War 2. 

Being only three years old when we first arrived in Newcastle, I had no awareness of our previous home in London. Nor could I possibly, at that young age, be aware of the sense of loss and deprivation that my mother must have felt as she came to terms with her new situation. 

The young Mike Summersby

Now, as I reflect on that time and the years that followed, I can only marvel at how brave and resourceful she was, and how magnificently she coped single-handedly during the next four years bringing up her two boys in such strained circumstances. 

Mam (Jessie)

Mam did her best with what she had. Out of necessity she quickly settled us in. Typical of the front room of a Tyneside flat, our room was roughly thirteen feet square with two alcoves, one either side of a chimney breast. The sash windows looking out onto the front street were curtained with blackout material. 

Furniture was basic and second hand or improvised. Much of the floor space was taken up by a three-quarter size bed initially shared by mam, Peter and me, and a square table and two horsehair-covered chairs (rough on the legs of a young boy wearing short trousers). 

Later, Peter slept on a camp bed which was folded away each morning and set up in front of the window each evening. I marvel now that without complaint, and for much of our four years living in that room, he slept so many nights on canvas stretched on a wooden frame. Perhaps it felt like camping out but it could not have been comfortable, particularly for a growing teenager. 

The two alcoves were used for storage of all our worldly goods, including the less perishable items of food. Orange boxes served for shelving. Mam hand-sewed hems on pieces of cretonne curtain which she then suspended on string across the front of the boxes to hide the contents. The wood floor was covered with faded patterned linoleum that had seen better days and was cracked in places where the floorboards were uneven, which made it difficult to keep clean. Heating in our room was an open fireplace with an iron grate. Teasing a fire into flame on a chilly night required the careful layering of paper, sticks of firewood and coal. One of Peter’s regular jobs was to buy and fetch coal from the coal yard next to the nearby railway line. 

Lighting was by gas from a pipe at the centre of the ceiling. When the gas was turned on, a replaceable mantle fixed to the end of the gas fitting glowed when it was lit with a match or a lighted taper. The flow of gas, and thus the brightness, was regulated by the manipulation of pull-chains attached to the light fitting. The mantles were very fragile and frequently needed replacement. The gas mantle would be lit only when the light was intended to be left on – otherwise a candle or a torch would be used as a short-term temporary light – like when someone needed to use the chamber-pot (kept under the bed) for a nocturnal pee. Whatever the form of lighting, it had to be blocked by curtains or screens so that no light could be seen from outside. Stray lights could assist enemy bombers in locating or confirming target areas. The ‘blackout’ was enforced by patrolling Air Raid Precautions (ARP) wardens who would promptly order ‘Put that light out’ if it wasn’t properly screened. 

The netty was a cold, stark, forbidding cupboard of a place housing a wooden platform straddled across its width, with an appropriately shaped opening above the lavatory bowl. Faded whitewash decorated the otherwise bare brick walls. ‘Toilet paper’ was squares cut or torn from newspapers, each square punched in one corner, threaded with string and hung in a swatch on a nail. Mounted precariously above the facility was a rusted metal water cistern from which hung a similarly rusted metal chain. The cubicle was little wider than the wooden entry door with its gaps at top and bottom – presumably for ventilation. Ceiling cobwebs added to the sense of gloom. This was a grim place of necessity in which to spend the least possible time, particularly during the winter months. 

The Culvert 

We had left London to escape the blitz but Mam soon found that the air raid threat, though less intensive than in the capital, was a fact of life here in Newcastle, too.
During our first year living at 164 Mowbray Street we spent many hours in the culvert. After a night spent there, Peter always liked to prolong his stay in order to avoid going to school, or at least to provide him with an excuse for arriving late. Grandad didn’t use the culvert or the street shelters. He preferred to stay in his home, taking refuge in the cupboard underneath the stairs of the flat above. 

About a third of a mile long, the Ouseburn Culvert had two entry points. The preferred access for us was down in the Ouseburn Valley off Stratford Grove West. The other – which we never used – was under Byker Bridge. 

The Culvert was our place of refuge many times during World War 2. At the wail of the air raid siren we would stop whatever we were doing, grab our gas masks and run out into the streets in the direction of sanctuary. There was no street lighting to guide us if it was a night raid and, anyway, moonlit nights were a mixed blessing. If you could see, you could be seen. 

The Culvert today

Once inside the Culvert we felt safe. An elliptical structure 6 metres high and 9 metres wide, with a concrete platform floor, it was dry and had the space for distractions and facilities to make the experience tolerable. A canteen, a first aid post and sick bay, bunk beds, an area for worship, a stage for performance, a library, and tolerable – if basic – toilet facilities. 

One particularly memorable evening the wail of the air raid siren sounded just a couple of minutes after we had returned to our room from a trip to the fish and chip shop on Stratford Road. Fish and chips were a hugely popular takeaway meal, especially as they were not subject to food rationing. As usual we’d had to stand in a queue to wait our turn at the counter. Then, with happy anticipation of the meal ahead, we carried the hot, newspaper-wrapped bundles the short distance back to our room in Mowbray Street. As soon as Mam had unwrapped the feast, off went the siren. We hurriedly dressed, grabbed gas masks and without a second thought Mam loosely gathered up the fish and chips in their newspaper wrappers and we all ran towards the Culvert. Sadly, on our arrival at our safe haven there was very little left of our now barely warm meal. Most of it lay scattered along the pavements between Mowbray Street and our sanctuary. 

Whilst the Culvert offered safety from whatever mayhem might be going on above ground, the overriding but generally unspoken fear was of what would happen if bombs were dropped at either end of the tunnel. Otherwise the occupants were sufficiently protected in their underground location, with its cleverly designed inner blast walls, to offer safety for up to 3,000 residents for as long as it might be needed, until the ‘all clear’ siren was sounded. 

Street shelters fell into disfavour after a number of people were killed or maimed as a result of direct bomb hits, in some cases resulting in the concrete and reinforced steel roofs collapsing on the people inside. It turned out that the Ouseburn Culvert was probably our safest option after all. 

The culvert was originally constructed to cover a section of the Ouseburn, a tributary of the River Tyne, through a valley which then would be infilled to provide improved access between Heaton and the city centre. (You can read much more about its construction and history here.)

Today, much is rightly made of the Victoria Tunnel, an underground waggon-way built in the 1840s to carry coal between Leazes Main Colliery to the waiting ships on the River Tyne. Longer than the Ouseburn Culvert, it was not as spacious in section but, like the Culvert, it was converted for use as an air raid shelter during World War 2. Tours of the Victoria Tunnel give visitors a graphic interpretation of the sounds of war and the conditions under which people sought shelter from the bombing raids of the Luftwaffe. If similar reconstruction of World War 2 facilities and other interpretation work were to be carried out at a section of the Ouseburn Culvert, it would make a very impressive addition to Newcastle’s heritage offer. 

I’ll tell you more about my memories of growing up in Heaton during and after the second world war anon.’

Acknowledgements Thank you to Heaton History Group member, Mike Summersby, for permission to publish this extract from his memoirs. We plan to feature more over the coming months.

The Poetry of Alex Robson

Alex Robson’s   (The Bard of Stratford Grove West) poems seem to divide into three broad types: celebrations of nature and the world around him; commemorations of people or events; patriotic verse.

Thanks to Alex’s grandson, Chris, and his wife, Janet, we have a number of very special copies written in his own hand and dedicated to members of his family.

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Here are more of Alex Robson’s poems that broadly represent his work.

 

CELEBRATIONS OF NATURE

 Britain Calling (March 1933)

Placid lochs and stately mountains,

Winding paths and sylvan glens –

Dreamy woods and whisp’ring valleys,

Fragrant moors and flow’ry fens,

Breathe the name of beauteous Nature

Thro’ a heart that knows no rest,

Calling, seeking to caress you,

To the bosom God has blest.

 

Nature, sweet enchanting Nature,

Bless’d with joyful heart and true,

Comes expressing living beauty

In an ever changing hue:

Virgin frills becoming springtime,

Summer robes of beaten gold,

But express the wondrous glory

Fairy arms so oft enfold.

 

 

Nature lends her heart to Britain,

Where she wanders day by day,

Thro’ each meadow, wood and valley,

By each mountain, loch and brae,

And thro’ her proud Britain’s calling

Those who seek a foreign host,

“Some embrace the British beauties!”

Which indeed have charmed me most.

 

Twilight (November 1929)

Across the sky with outstretched wings

Of ev’ry colour blest,

A mystic bird of paradise

Is speeding to the west,

Upon its wings the night gods ride

To yonder burning glade,

That they might crowd and give to earth

That sweet magenta shade.

 

If I Were King (November 1934)

If I were King of Winter-land,

I’d rule with frost and snow,

With something like a High Command –

A Sovereign Right; and so

Instead of dull, damp foggy days

I’d squander lots of wealth,

To give you snow and ice – you know –

The sort that’s rich in health.

 

I’d kill foul air, at any cost!

I’d bid my heralds sound

A “Royal Salute” for bold Jack Frost –

Indeed I’d spread around

A rich white carpet, soft and thick,

That he might come to you,

And lay his treasures at your feet –

That would be something new.

COMMEMORATIONS

In Memoriam (commemorating the death of Queen Alexandra – 1 December 1925)

 Alas, dear England, how my heart is moved,

Since heaven’s breath absorbs the flowing tears,

Shed by the great, the humble and the poor

For one whose soul a worldly heart endears.

 

Oh, England, ‘neath thy mournful veil ‘tis I –

A subject who would humbly kneel me down,

The while the dawn awakes a heav’nly home.

And God bestows a greater, brighter crown.

 

Far, far across each wide and boundless sea,

‘Twas lighting flashed, the solemn news to spread,

Till Empire stood in hushed solemnity

And visualised the spirit of the dead.

 

Oh, England, I am nearer, nearer thee,

With patriotism clothing we anew;

And something rising from my innermost soul,

Confesses much I felt I never knew.

 

‘Tis  such as this which draws from stagnant pools

The bubble of a pure and crystal stream;

And loyalty, one’s pride would feign disown

Makes clean the heart compelling pride redeem.

 

The bubble, multiplied by many more,

Soon bids a sea its living waters roll,

And ev’ry wave is but the heart and voice

Expressing sorrow o’er a Priceless Soul.

 

Our Wedding Day (to his wife celebrating their 33rd wedding anniversary, May 1938)

Another year of perfect bliss

Has urged my heart to pen you this;

A tribute to your own dear heart

In which I’m proud to share a part.

 

And may the God who made you mine

Continue long this love divine –

And spread in no uncertain way,

The sun that always bless’d this day.

 

The Wolves of Hades (published at the outset of World War 2 – December 1939)

One day the tongues of hungry wolves

Shall lick their own bones dry;

And trembling curse the fatal hour

When wolf by wolf shall die.

That day has come! And now unleashed

Are “Bull-dogs bred of old-

Nor leashed again until we know

The last mad brute is cold.

 

Far worse than Hell’s vile treachery,

This last infernal burst,

E’en shocked the powers of Hades,

And made the bull-dog thirst;

Thirst with the courage – and the will!

To play them at their game;

To fight with unstained jaws – and teeth –

Long gripped by acts of shame.

 

Oh, Poland, in your hour of need,

Comes Britain to your side,

And with her faithful neighbour

Shall stem the bloody tide.

And may the God who gives them breath

Give faith unto their cause,

Nor cease till men shall live in peace,

Till earth be rid of wars.

 

Till Hell shall flog its own fierce beasts,

And scatter in the dearth,

The remnants of the super haunts

That housed the scum of earth.

Till God shall smile on all mankind,

And souls rejoice on high,

As phantom legions tell of beasts

Who licked their own bones dry.

 

The Man of Destiny (dedicated to Winston Churchill May 1943)

When ill-prepared and menaced

And deadly war-clouds spread,

And nations fell despondent

Or trampled o’er their dead,

He li the lamp of trials,

And cast aside the mask

And bared our faces to our fate,

Nor trembled at the task.

 

He saw our cities burning,

Our meagre forces trapped,

But set the wheels aturning,

Till every field was tapped:

Till men and women – old and young –

Were wrought to finished steel;

Till hearts, unscathed, did forge the link

That bound the common weal.

 

Till in the faith of he who bore –

Who carries still – the load,

Who promised nought yet led them thro’

Each dark dramatic road,

They’ll march unwavering by his side

Long brighter roads ahead.

Till he has netted eve’ry fiend,

And ev’ry fiend is dead.

 

Then let us pray that he might live

To see the world made free,

And feel the joy of all who knew

The Man of Destiny.

Read more about Alex Robson here