The local children were quieter than my contemporaries in town – even the St Mary’s girls had been rumbustious when compared to the simple souls who inhabited the village of Barr Bridge. At least, that was the impression I got early on in my career as a Barr Bridgeite. But country folk were deep, as my mother found out after a month or so. ‘She says these are the only potatoes she has.’ Three sad and greenish tubers lolled in the centre of our kitchen table. ‘We are surrounded by fields and farmers, but that dreadful woman has no decent produce on sale.’ On later shopping expeditions, Mother was refused candles, semi-sweet biscuits, ready-chopped firewood and Craven A cigarettes. The cigarettes were the last straw. The war was over, the fug of Turkish tobacco had cleared, and my mother wanted her rights. ‘Go to that shop,’ she snapped at me. ‘And get whatever the woman will sell you.’ I managed, after very little effort on my part, to come home with candles, a bundle of firewood, half a pound of Marie biscuits and twenty Craven A.
