Story of my life — my ancestry

This is the story of my life, but I can see much of myself in my parents, so I will start with them.

My mother was, strictly speaking, a Cockney since she was born within sound of Bow Bells. Her father was a wiry little man who had left school when he was twelve. In those days you could leave school younger if you could pass the leaving examination, and my grandfather had done this so as to be free to make his way in the world. First he had been a shop boy and then he had saved enough money to set up a shop for himself. He worked in his shop day and night, and all his family helped him. His mental arithmetic was superb.

My mother’s mother was the daughter of farmers. She was a gentle, detached and very religious lady who believed in Christianity as she had been taught it. She really thought there were angels hovering around. She worked very hard bringing up her large family and helping in the shop. Her family, for generations, had a tradition that children were to be brought up without punishment and with respect for their individualities. This tradition was not verbalised, but it was acted upon. When my mother and her sister had been pulling another little girl’s pigtail for fun, her mother had only to say to them, rather seriously, ‘You know, we don’t do that. You wouldn’t like it if it was done to you.’ And they never did it again.

My grandmother thought her children had a right to minds of their own. When my mother told her that she wouldn’t be going to Sunday School any more, because she didn’t believe in it, my grandmother accepted it without argument, saying only, ‘Well, you must do what you feel is right. But myself, I believe it.’

My grandfather had a practical cynicism. He subscribed generously to the Police Ball in the hope that the police would look after his shop. He chased vigorously anyone who stole things from the display outside the shop, but without rancour. ‘Just give me that back, please,’ he would say, when he caught them. He never prosecuted or got anyone into trouble. It was enough for him to regain his possessions.

All the family, as I have said, helped in the shop. Once my grandfather entered a national competition which offered prizes for the greatest quantities of wrappers from a certain brand of soap. He ordered as many boxes of this soap as could be contained in the cellar and elsewhere, and my mother, who was then five, spent the whole of one day in the cellar unwrapping them. She was quite happy doing this. My grandfather looked in on her from time to time. ‘How are you getting on? All right?’ he said. My grandfather won third prize in the competition.

He would open his shop in the middle of the night if someone wanted to buy something. When restrictions on opening hours came in he shook his head sadly. ‘They don’t know what they’re beginning,’ he said. He always regarded the growth of socialist ideas with misgiving. My mother, as a young woman, did not agree with him, and argued about all the good that could be done. ‘That’s all very well,’ he would say. ‘But you don’t understand. You’ll see. Once liberty starts to go ...’

When an early closing day was first instituted he deplored the fact, but my mother thought she did quite well out of it, as he took her to the Music Halls on those days.

Extract from Celia Green’s forthcoming autobiography.