Dad went to Doncaster school for the deaf and dumb poor, where he was taught sign language and cobbling. This was to prepare him for a simple life where one had only to know the difference between rubber and leather and be familiar with any modern technological advances; namely the 'Stick on Sole' and the 'Revolving Screw on Heel'. This was a circular rubber heel with a screw through the middle on which it revolved. When it wore down you just turned it to an unworn bit. When the art of pointing at the sole or heel of a boot had been mastered; they could now communicate with the customer and were ready for the world. An added bonus of this type of job was any strange speech was attributed to having a mouth full of nails. Apparently this is what the craftsman cobbler does, fills his mouth with nails. There was a boot repairer (we pronounced it "Booit") at the bottom of Bonegate Road and he always had a mouth full of nails. My friend Mike Dews told me that he spat the nails like darts into the boot soles and then hammered them in. I don't know if this is true but everybody called him, "Spithammer".

Dad could certainly have held a lot of nails in his mouth because he hadn't any teeth. He'd had them all pulled out. I don't think this was to accommodate more nails because, although he always mended our shoes, he never worked as a cobbler. Being toothless made good sense in those days. It was the best way to avoid tooth ache and further dentist bills, so in 1946, when free dentistry was available on the National Health Service, there was a mass rush for false teeth. People wanted their teeth whipped out quick before the Government changed its mind.

Before Dad had all his teeth removed Mam said he used to bend iron pokers. She said it as though she thought we were wondering, why he didn't bend iron pokers now and seeing our puzzled faces, she felt obliged to explain, so she'd say to Doreen and me ... "Dad used to bend pokers. Then he had all his teeth out and he stopped."

I was confused. Did she mean he compulsively bent iron pokers and having all his teeth out was the only way to stop this irritating habit or, now because he hadn't any teeth he couldn't clench. Perhaps
clenched gums didn't give the impetus required to bend pokers. Or did she mean Dad had lost his strength like Samson when Delilah had his hair cut? In other words Dad's strength was in his teeth. Had he been to a woman dentist? who probably didn't know that "Ergogert" meant "A light clean please," and not "Please remove all my teeth". He should have gone to a deaf dentist who used sign language but apparently deaf dentists are not popular with screaming distressed hearing patients, so they're a bit thin on the ground.

Further inquiry into the connection between tooth removal and poker bending was useless. All you got out of Mam was; "Dad used to bend pokers and now with all his teeth out, and now he didn't". If you tackled Dad about it, pointing at the poker and miming poker bending. He'd smile shake his head and point at his false teeth. This could of course have meant, "No, last time I did that I over clenched my teeth so hard they went wobbly and I had to have these false ones". We will never know.

Dad's false teeth were the colour of ancient ivory. They were that yellow brown tinge that they now paint on pub ceilings. They have to do this because we're not smoking enough to get the mucky look a theme pub trying to look like a real old pub should have. Dad achieved this effect on his teeth by simply smoking lots of Woodbine cigarettes and the nightly soaking in Steradent didn't get all the nicotine off. Every night he'd put his teeth in the glass of Steradent at the side of the bed and his cigarettes under his pillow. When I started smoking, I'd sneak into their bedroom and gently remove the packet; pinch one cigarette and put the packet back under the pillow. In the morning his teeth would still be there in the glass but one fag would have been taken. When he noticed the disappearances, he told Mam. She being of a suspicious nature asked me what I knew about it. I being a clever Dick said it must be the tooth fairy taking the fags because his teeth were in a glass not under the pillow.

Parents told children that if they put their extracted tooth under the pillow the tooth fairy exchanged it for a silver sixpence. Why the tooth fairies wanted teeth Mam never told us. We never slept with our heads under the pillow in case the fairies took all our teeth. Mam told Dad what I said, that the tooth fairy had pinched the cigarette. He signed it couldn't be the tooth fairy
"It was," I said.
"No." he signed, "The tooth fairy always left money."
He'd got me there. I never did it again unless I'd a thrupenny bit to leave in the packet, then nothing was said.

The cigarettes gave him a terrible cough. His cough was so loud when he got up in the morning the neighbours used him as an alarm clock. The coughing didn't embarrass us because when he did it he sounded exactly like any normal hearing person coughing up their guts. Coughing, laughing, crying and snoring were the only normal sounds he made. Well perhaps not his snoring ... his snoring was unbelievable. I only slept in the same room with him once. It was like trying to sleep with a motor bike at full throttle. If they hadn't have been deaf it would have woken them up.

Dad would entertain us by pushing his bottom set of false teeth out of his mouth and up against his nose so he looked like an angry bulldog. He'd grab Doreen or me and rub his stubbly chin on our soft faces. It was like sticking your face on a wire brush. This was fun? He'd remove his top set of teeth and show us how he could touch his nose with his tongue. To me it seemed worth it, having all you're teeth out, to be able to touch your nose with your tongue. Imagine the admiring glances you'd get from the girls if you could do that. Oh yes! We made our own entertainment in those days. With the advent of better dentistry, fun with false teeth will become forgotten and the book will not be written. Tales of bakers crimping the edges of their pies with their false teeth and jokes like; "My top teeth are fine but the ones in my bottom are killing me" or "Grannies had all her teeth taken out and a gas cooker put in." All these will become folk memories.

Auntie Ethel had all her teeth pulled out. Granny Annie had had her's out much earlier. Mam kept her teeth.

One woman we knew had a top set of teeth so slackly fitted that they didn't keep up with her talking. The teeth would stay shut when she opened her mouth, or, if the teeth opened when she opened her mouth, they would shut before she shut her mouth. It was fascinating to watch her talk. She thought we were really interested in what she was saying. She didn't realise we were mesmerised by her teeth; they seemed to have a mind of their own. We didn't see this effect again till years later in badly dubbed Italian films. Her voice was out of synchronisation with her teeth. If you've seen the creature's teeth in the film, 'Alien', it was a bit like that ... without the drool.

She's probably got the drool now. Mam didn't cultivate her friendship because she was impossible to lip read.

I had a red gas mask with a tube that made a raspberry noise when you breathed out. Doreen had one made for babies. It was like a haversack with a celluloid window. She was fastened inside it and air was pumped in to her, with a thing like a concertina. We never had to use them. A girl from the orphanage told me they all had to sleep in theirs' just in case the attack came at night. I suspect it was away of stopping them talking in bed.

When I was nine years old I was given an old army gas mask. The mask was the type with a tube hanging down to a filter canister. I removed the bottom from the canister. Then I went into the back cellar and stripped off all my clothes. Putting the mask on and holding the canister above my head I submerged myself in Mam's dolly tub full of water. I thought I could use the mask as a kind of snorkel. When I was under the water, I took a deep breath and instantly panicking, I leapt out of the tub. There I was stark naked, the filter canister swinging on it's tube like an iron fig leaf bashing my nether regions. The mask had sucked onto my face like an amorous jellyfish. I couldn't breath. It was far worse than an auntie's kiss. My woolly balaclava experience came in handy and I some how managed to peel it off. It was similar to the robbery story were the police blocked all the exits but the thief escaped through the entrance. In this case it was the reverse the water had come in through the air exit. That was the last time I tried on a gas mask. You wouldn't be allowed to wear them now. The filters are made of charcoal and asbestos.

Wilf's new book 'My Best Cellar' (his autobiography up to the age of eleven) can now be ordered online. £ 9.99   download book sample here

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