The chimney sweep and the green grocer
Bert Lucas was the chimney sweep. He lived on the other side of the railway bridge from our home. That meant he lived on the wrong side of the bridge - for he lived in Easton and we in Whitehall.
He was a little, wiry man who plied his trade on a bicycle. Chimney sweeps in England did not wear top hats, and they swept the chimneys from the bottom up.
“Go tell Bert Lucas we need our chimney swept” my mother would say. “He’s the best”.
Of course he was “the best” - every trader my Mum patronized was the best in his class. No matter that Bert Lucas was the only chimney sweep in our area - he was still the best.
Mr. Haskins was the greengrocer. His was a gloomy little shop. In winter he would purvey a dismal range of root vegetables, cabbage and shriveled up apples.
We believed that no-one ever shopped there, but somehow he stayed in business.
Every once in a while I’d be sent to Mr. Haskins’ shop to get spuds or parsnips. He would shuffle out from some nether region of the shop, always with a three day old 7 o/clock shadow, and always with snot dribbling down his upper lip.
Mr. Haskins was an occasional member of the Plymouth Brethren “Assembly” to which my family adhered. He’d shuffle in, and shuffle out.
He smoked a pipe, de rigueur amongst the Brethren.
The story went that on one Sunday he’d shoved his pipe into his overcoat pocket as he entered our meeting room. His identity as the secret smoker was soon revealed when billows of smoke arose from the coat rack.
It was also told that he’d been spotted on hands and knees, crawling out of the meeting room at the sound of an air raid siren.
But those were just stories.
In truth I was scared of the chimney sweep and the green grocer.
For Bert Lucas had a huge red facial birthmark, scarcely masked by the soot of his trade. And Mr. Haskins? I thought that he looked like the devil - sans horns and tail.
Parsnips anyone?
He was a little, wiry man who plied his trade on a bicycle. Chimney sweeps in England did not wear top hats, and they swept the chimneys from the bottom up.
“Go tell Bert Lucas we need our chimney swept” my mother would say. “He’s the best”.
Of course he was “the best” - every trader my Mum patronized was the best in his class. No matter that Bert Lucas was the only chimney sweep in our area - he was still the best.
Mr. Haskins was the greengrocer. His was a gloomy little shop. In winter he would purvey a dismal range of root vegetables, cabbage and shriveled up apples.
We believed that no-one ever shopped there, but somehow he stayed in business.
Every once in a while I’d be sent to Mr. Haskins’ shop to get spuds or parsnips. He would shuffle out from some nether region of the shop, always with a three day old 7 o/clock shadow, and always with snot dribbling down his upper lip.
Mr. Haskins was an occasional member of the Plymouth Brethren “Assembly” to which my family adhered. He’d shuffle in, and shuffle out.
He smoked a pipe, de rigueur amongst the Brethren.
The story went that on one Sunday he’d shoved his pipe into his overcoat pocket as he entered our meeting room. His identity as the secret smoker was soon revealed when billows of smoke arose from the coat rack.
It was also told that he’d been spotted on hands and knees, crawling out of the meeting room at the sound of an air raid siren.
But those were just stories.
In truth I was scared of the chimney sweep and the green grocer.
For Bert Lucas had a huge red facial birthmark, scarcely masked by the soot of his trade. And Mr. Haskins? I thought that he looked like the devil - sans horns and tail.
Parsnips anyone?
