A woman of substance

My Grandma, Barbara, who has died aged 83, leaves a huge impact on all she met, worked with, befriended, knew through the church, and her ever wide family. To some of us she maybe Aunty Bar, sister, cousin; to others, friend. She leaves us here, surprised and full of loss, her family of 5 children, E, S, A, R, and C; their partners –A, C, A, and I; Grandchildren R, M, K, B, L, & B; and Great-Grandchildren S, H, I, T, and C.  

I asked to write these words, to gather thoughts and memories from loved ones, and I hope there is something here for us all. There are many, many stories, anecdotes, thoughts, and songs that resonate Barbara’s life through them. Each of us has our own, and each of them help unfold her into who she was – is – and how we knew her. We must tell and share them to keep her ever near to us. Here are a few.

Born to Hannah & Daniel Cin St Michaels on Wyre, on April 2nd 1929, Barbara, is one of 5 sisters and 3 brothers.  M, H, D, H, J, G & T, living and dead together, we think of your – our – families today.

Aunty J remembers:

During Barbara’s early years the family lived at C Farm, and all the family had to help with the milking using a bucket and stool. One day, Grandad C and his brother, Great Uncle G, walked into the shippon as we all sat milking.

Great Uncle G laughed at the young ones, H, Barbara and J and said to Grandad “look at those little cats milking, Jim!”

Barbara was annoyed at his remark and promptly squirted milk at him from her cow’s teat hitting him right in the eye and milk ran down the front of his best navy suit – he was not amused and Barbara caught the full wrath of Dad and Mum later.

Barbara was a very strong character, even as a child, and one day when she was walking to Out Rawcliffe School she decided she was too tired and refused to walk any further. Her elder sister, D, tried to drag her on, to no avail. A neighbour, Mr Dewhurst, saw this and shouted that he would chase her with a stick if she didn’t go to school – while waving a stick in the air.

Barbara must have thought twice about her protest and soon ran off with the rest to school. On the way, a very kind ladyMrs Hall gave us some sweets, and Barbara was happy.

By 1939 the country was at war, and during those years times were tough on the Fylde. Teenagers hadn’t been invented by the newspapers yet, but there was still plenty of fun to be had. Aunty Joyce tells us -

As a teenager, over at N H Farm in Wharles, Barbara’s humorous side meant she liked to play pranks. One day when Harry R (Wyn V's Dad) was having a cup of tea with Dad and Mum, Barbara and J tied Harry’s bicycle on the clothes line and pushed it up high with the clothes prop. They watched him search all over for it. The yard was huge and he looked and looked. When H finally looked up and saw his bike, his language was fairly colourful and the “girls” ran away at great speed. Harry got on his bike and pedalled away home.

Grandma’s last year at school, aged 14, was spent at Treales, under a headmistress with the finesse and control of a Rottweiler (as Grandma said). With war ongoing, Barbara worked on the farm with her family, helped out by a German prisoner of war, Wilhelm or German Billy as the family called him. This humanity, of all soldiers being the same no matter what side, meant that Barbara and family found a friend and Bill came back to visit with his wife during the 1980’s.

By the end of the war, Barbara was 16. I can only imagine the vivacity of the girls as they sewed their dresses to wear at the Saturday dances. And then, of course, Barbara met R, with whom she would embark upon a family life. Their life together was strengthened by the births of their first two daughters, E and , in their little house on Lilac Crescent.  

And then…the ever defining move to the Old Hall. The family home for many years, it saw the births of A, R, and C. It saw marriages of S, E, A, and the birth of 5 of her grandchildren. Many of you will remember legendary parties, endless cooking, and a little woman with a very big voice shouting ‘don’t let that cream get to butter!’

Barbara was a woman of vision. She knew what she wanted for her family, and she made it happen. She wanted a good home and enough money to buy decent shoes and frocks that she couldn’t have for those dances years before. She stretched it all to buy the Old Hall, and room by room did it out. By force of character and her & Bert’s graft, they made the place work, and worked for it and for their family.

The house became a café and chippy, a stop off point for visitors to Blackpool. For years when I spoke of Inskip, people would talk about 2 things - the car on the roof of the pub, and the café and the shop which many people knew and loved. The barn became our family home; the cottage the P family. Over the road and then in the white house was Aunty H. Down the road, the slipslap and lower slip and the C's  they contained. All Inskip: all full of love and family.

And what a life in that house!

When E contacted Bonds to arrange things for today, and spoke to Martin, he said, “Ooh … I can still hear the toy brick hitting the roof of my van!”  Martin hadbrought the young E home from the dance. Grandma belted toy bricks from an upstairs window, shouting “I think it’s time you were coming in now!”  

A teenage A went out one evening, ‘for a change’, and had a key for the chippy door, but not for the kitchen door.  Mischievous Grandma sweetly said, “Don’t worry, I’ll leave a key in a wellie by the back door.”  Once A had gone Grandma told C to gather every wellie in the house. In fact she was all for going down to L's for all theirwellies too! C & Grandma put a very long line ofwellies by the back door, with the key in one of them!

And at the centre of this house full of life, there was a death, the early loss of her husband, Bert in 1981. With R & C still at home, Barbara cried, grieved, rolled up her sleeves, and got on with it.

One evening Grandma and C were sitting watching television together when a Mr Kipling advert came on. They both looked at each other, and then rushed to the kitchen to make Bakewell tart – Grandma made the pastry while C made the filling.  They ate it there and then.  

So Barbara started her business as an outside caterer, taking hotpots and buffets, across the district to feed people as they celebrated. Her food by this point had become legendary. And when I think of her, I think of her and the ladies bonding together over happiness, sadness, and hotpot, life’s great ups and downs. Endless de-shelling of boiled eggs and the clunking, shuddering potato peeler. She was the first stop off for many of Bar’s Girls in the world of work. A task-mistress, she wanted things done the right way – her way. But secretly kind, helping where she could with the personal lives that came her way. And I like many became one of the girls, on the princely sum of £1.25 an hour and a plate of hotpot for supper, crust and red cabbage obligatory.

Us older Grandkids still remember the party when she left the Old Hall. The oldies dancing to wig wham bam and high ho silver lining. Like every party us kids would make dens in the cloakroom and try and get in the cellar or attic where we shouldn’t be. We were up past 1 and everyone had a grand old time at the house cooling.

So her life travelled onwards to the Cottage, where she spent her time cooking in yonder workhouse; wrapping 10 dinner plates or 20 bowls or sideplates in teatowels and packing them carefully into sunblest trays to take to the Masons or whoever – and there were many – wanted her to cook for them.

The old kenwood mixer was a source of endless fascination for us grandkids, because out of it came all sorts of edible sweet treats. Vanilla slices, coffee doodahs, cream horns, and of course the slightly stale leftover black forest gateaux with pink rings round the cherries which would arrive back from her jaunts, for our feasting. Not to mention the constant stream of custard tarts and pie fairy offerings – the apple pies with pink apples oozing. We stuck our fingers in the bowl knowing it was naughty, knowing we’d get a rap on the knuckles from Aunty Ethel or Margery, and knowing that Grandma would – out of sight from the ladies – hand us the bowl. And before anyone asks, I’ve been told to tell you that yes we do have the recipe for the perfect éclair, yes there is a secret ingredient, and no, you’re not having it.

When she moved into the cottage, she spent time doing it up. We remember the wattle and daub walls uncovered. L, on the P's leaving the cottage for the village & the birth of L, was confused because she thought all bedrooms should have separate stairs – because of course the cottage had 2 bedrooms & 2 staircases.

And of course she carried her fine taste for interior gubbinswith her after retirement when she moved up into the village.  She moved in with A & C for 6 weeks before she moved in to her bungalow. When she finally moved out again – 3 months later – C was glad simply to get the remote control back in his hand! During this time, Peter M and his team had created her suntrap back garden, with the outside inside – a garden room – and the inside outside – her porch.

Over the years, her commitment to the community of St Peters grew. Her creative side shone through her flower arranging, and I know that many of us here have benefitted from and admired her eye for colour and floral drama. 

And her retirement years saw her spending time with her family. When C was ill (the first time round … in about 2004), on his first day ‘home alone’ after he’d come out of hospital and Anne had gone back to work, he was standing in the kitchen, feeling very ill and unable to do anything about it; he was totally miserable and didn’t know what to do, when in walked … Mum, who made him comfortable and fed him!  As he said: “I’d just got to the end of my tether … and guess who was there!”

As happens with this thing we call life, Barbara got older. With much humour, as her hairdresser remembers, and she would always reply to the question of how she was with a resounding “Oh, y’know … fighting fit!”

E and A did ‘Lytham and lunch’, but things got slower and slower. In the end, walking between Stringers and the posh shoe shop with Grandma in between them they had to keep saying, “Come on Mum … hobble faster!” Which of course she took in her good humour.

And of course, it was disastrous going clothes shopping with her … we’d arrive home and she’d have spent nothing, while Anne says she spent a fortune because she took notice of her Mum: “Ooh that’s lovely … yes, go on, buy it … ‘course you can afford it … ‘’

When I think about my grandma, I think about a feisty, independent woman, who loved her family and loved pretty things, who was born a year after women got the vote on the same terms as men and left us in an age where if we choose we can have the internet on aeroplanes.

I was often in the car with Grandma, and when I was small, I would ask her about growing up and choices. She used to singque sera sera to me, to us, in her lovely uplifting voice. And she was right, the future isn’t ours to see. But also she was firm in the fact when we made troublesome choices for right now, not for the future, that we all must strive to make our mark. Song was a big part of her, with a tune falling out of her mouth frequently. She loved Vera Lynn, a memory of the war years, and would sing ‘There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover’ whenever she had an opportunity. She loved to collect beautiful things. Shoes and bags specifically come to mind. And coats. And frocks. I think that we all must feel grateful to this woman for her vision to provide opportunities for those she loves, her commitment to her family and the future.

So let us all celebrate Barbara, and know that she loved us, and we loved her, as much and as honestly as we possibly could.

Spin Cycle

Oddly, she didn’t mind the blood so much. There was an extraordinary amount of it though. She had read somewhere that an adult male has about 7 litres of blood and when this was spread around her usually pristine kitchen floor, it was, surprisingly, quite impressive. She knew she could clean it up; it was one of her strong points, cleaning. She had had more than enough practice recently.



It wasn’t his fault, this she knew. Unfortunately, he was paying for other’s incompetence.


They shouldn’t have sent delivery men not qualified to plumb in a new washing machine.


The head was the most difficult. It was extremely hard to sever this from his body, but it made an interesting specimen in the new machine. He gazed out of the large Perspex window, with somewhat of a quizzical look. Once it was nice and clean, she would bag it up for the bin men.


They shouldn’t have allowed her to pay extra for installation if they had no intention of plumbing the new one in.


The legs were a challenge. She had hoped a whole leg would fit in the drum. She had opted for the 8kg wash capacity model after all. Unfortunately, no matter how she bent it, it would not fit and required chopping in two. There had been many times she had thanked Aunty Jenny for the wedding present of a set of Sabatier knives; this was no exception.


They shouldn’t have kept her on hold for 45 minutes whilst they tried to wriggle their way out of sending someone to plumb the machine in on a Sunday.


Luckily the arms went in together. Each cycle took 35 minutes, another reason for choosing this model had been the daily quick wash. With 3 children and a rugby playing husband, it was a useful option. It had proved to be very handy today, considering the number of body parts that needed washing. The 35 minutes between loading and unloading was just enough time to clean up some of the blood. The towels would have to go, but she was suitably impressed with how clean they were getting in the new machine. Excellent choice.


They shouldn’t have made her wait in all Sunday afternoon for the, now dead, employee to finally arrive to plumb the machine in.


To be fair to him, he had done a good job. He was polite, not a bit smelly and had been very apologetic for her inconvenience. He had also slumped to the floor with a satisfying thud when, having plumbed the machine, she struck him. She had always felt there was another use for her Le Cruset griddle pan than cooking steaks, and when it connected with his skill, she realised it was almost made for the job.


They shouldn’t have messed her about when she had not slept for three nights due to her baby daughter having the vomiting bug.


It was not her fault that she had six loads of washing waiting to be done when her old machine gave up the ghost. If an item hadn’t actually been vomited on, it had been used to mop up vomit. Her house smelled, her daughter was ill, she was tired.






They shouldn’t have made her ring back to check where the man had got to after waiting for 4 ½ hours.


She had had second thoughts about the torso, all those internal organs may damage the shiny new washer, but, “in for a penny” was her conclusion. They had come out pleasantly par-boiled. Granted the smell wasn’t appetising, but she had put up with many unpleasant smells in her time and at least there was a sense of justice attached to this one.


She took the 12 washed and neatly bagged body parts to the boot of her people carrier to be taken to the tip when she next had a moment. The blood had now been removed from the kitchen floor, thanks to the new Lakeland Plastics mop.


Feeling satisfied with her day’s work she poured herself a large gin and tonic. The only thing now was what to do with the Comet van in the driveway?