The Brook Street area was one our gang occasionally, nervously, ventured into but never alone. To us it was like the land on old maps that was marked, ‘Here there be dragons’. This area had to be crossed to get to the cliffs caused by the quarrying at Brighouse brick works. It was full of strange things and really tough girls and big scary boys who pushed drinking straws up frog’s bums so they could blow them up like balloons.
The frogs couldn’t submerge and some kids would fire catapults or throw stones to try and pop them. I never did it because I was worried about which end of the straw had been up the frogs bum. I’d also seen bubbles in the water so I assumed that, like us, frogs farted.

Putting your feet in wellies full of frog’s spawn for a dare is understandable. I was a bit apprehensive though about the friendly older boy we met under the cliffs. He’d remarked on Doreen’s empty jam jar. Thinking we were perhaps kindred spirits. He said he no longer filled his jam jar with frogspawn. He filled his jar with worms then he put his willy in it. The thought that instantly came into my head was; did he wash them first? I didn’t ask. People could get very upset if you’re critical about their personal hygiene especially at the first meeting. I also didn’t want to show too much interest in case he started inquiring if there were attractive worms where we lived and I didn’t want to watch a demonstration. Anyway it would take ages to collect the worms.

I did wonder what Miss Pring, at her Friday afternoon hobby class, would have said about this hobby. We made our excuses and left.

A Brighouse brick with a rival company's traveller's sample.

A worm expert is an ogliokist so I suppose he was sexually an ogliophiliac. If of course he’d used dead worms he would be Necro-ogliophiliac. You don’t seem to hear much about ogliophiliacs. In fact I’ve never met another. He could still be lurking under the cliffs. I hope this doesn’t put strange thoughts into any young man’s head.

The cliffs were a source of wonder to us. We were told a woman had been chased off the top by a mad bull. We’d look up from the bottom of the cliffs, trying to catch sight of the bull. If he was there he wasn’t looking over the edge that day. So we’d search the scree at the bottom of the cliff hoping to find her handbag or the dent where she landed. The cliffs had been quarried away at the base to supply clay for the Brighouse brick works. It was said a tramp was found frozen to death next to one of the brick kilns. He slept next to one that wasn’t lit. They said the bogies from his nose turned to icicle candles. The thought of it always put me off those long grapefruit lollypops the colour of grey washing up water.

To get to the cliffs we’d pass the White Horse pub. On the opposite side of the road was Cora Pickles fish and chip shop. Behind her fish shop was a travelling circus cage. In the cage was a full-grown Himalayan bear called Bobby. He was black with a white ‘V’ on his chest.

Cora told me years later that late one night a clown from the circus at ‘Sunny Bunce’s’ knocked on her door. He told her the circus had shut down and he needed somewhere to park his trailer and Bobby the bear. He said he heard she was in show business so he thought she might help him out. Cora was the manager of a roller skating rink as well as running the fish shop. She let him park the big trailer behind the fish shop, temporarily. He thanked her and left, never to be seen again.

Bobby the bear stayed with Cora for a long time. He wasn’t a great problem, except on one occasion when Cora had a difficult time persuading the ambulance service that she wasn’t a hoax caller. Bobby Bear had bitten her Dad. Bear bites are unheard of in Brighouse. Her dad had forgotten to knock on the cage door before going in with Bobby’s evening fish and chips. He caught Bobby unawares, so Bobby bit him.
How many times have you heard, “Why didn’t you knock? I could have been doing anything”.
It’s not known what Bobby was doing when Cora’s Dad quietly entered behind him with the fish and chips. To be strictly correct you should not knock before entering a room. The assumption is you’re knocking because you suspect the person or persons behind the door is or are, up to no good. Servants should not knock because their betters never ever get up to no good behind closed doors. Unfortunately Bobby knew nothing of etiquette.

I eventually wrote a fictional play based on this story and the various attempts to pass the bear on to someone else. Bobby actually ended up in a private zoo. Cora’s brother, David Metcalfe, maintains the bear came from ‘Hope Valley’ at Huddersfield. David was my best man at my first wedding. I remember in the vestry having to sell him a corner cupboard so I could pay the vicar, or the wedding was off. It was a very nice corner cupboard.

Below the cliffs was an old, rusting, vertical boiler, steam crane and two large water holes we tried to sail rafts on, fish for tiddlers and collect frogspawn. By the top pond was a rail track where bogey trucks had been pulled back and forth by a wire rope. This rope went round a big horizontal wheel, which turned to pull the trucks up and down the track. To scare us off it was said that a kid had been chopped in half between the rope and the wheel. This only made the place more interesting. The top pond was where I saw the big bright blue tadpole. I was so amazed I dived in to catch it but it got away. It was my own mini Moby Dick I searched and searched but unlike Captain Ahab I never saw it again and unlike the Loch Ness monster no one else has ever admitted to seeing one.

Wherever I went, if there was water, I got wet. On one expedition to the cliffs, knowing it was a dangerous area; we decided that like the ‘Boy Scouts’ and real expeditions we had to be prepared. Unfortunately we didn’t have anything much to be prepared with, certainly nothing that we could easily smuggle out of the house, like for example the coal hole chopper. We had to take something; it wouldn’t be a proper expedition without any equipment. Doreen took her usual empty jam jar with a string handle and I took the tin opener. Why the tin opener? Well how many times have you heard someone with a cigarette say, “Have you got a light?” I thought there was a slight chance of meeting someone with a tin who might possibly want it opening and if it was fruit they might be grateful and share it. It also crossed my mind it could be useful if I some how got imprisoned in that ominous old steam boiler.

When we got there I decided that I’d keep away from the water and try to return from this expedition dry. I resolved to climb the cliff. The bull had not been seen so we assumed it had been taken away to the ‘Destructor’ and executed for its crime. Its tail would have been made into oxtail soup. The chap at the shop had told me every tin was made from a complete tail. I imagined the rest of him would be nicely silver papered in Oxo cubes. First I scrambled up the loose scree to the foot of the actual rock face. This placed me quite high above the ponds and my watching mates. The cliff itself now looked no height at all so I set off climbing thinking I could always change my mind and climb down if I got scared. I could tell the gang there weren’t any footholds they’d believe that. The climb was quite easy and was going well until I decided to look down. My nerve left me. I succeeded in climbing about two-thirds up the cliff, much higher than I intended. It was time to go back. With my face flat against the rock I looked down to see where the lower footholds were. Because I was panicking clinging close to the cliff face I couldn’t see anywhere to put my foot. I froze I didn’t want to go any higher and I couldn’t go down. The only thing I could do was cling on, till weak with hunger I’d let go and fall off. For some reason I felt I couldn’t shout for help. My face was so close to the cliff I thought the sound could disturb it and perhaps it would shake me off or cause an avalanche. Under my breath I started praying.
“God if you get me out of this I’ll always be good I’ll never ask for anything again. I won’t ever climb another cliff.”

I’d been in this position for what seem like an hour when the cliff must have thought this is boring he’s not doing anything scare him on. The little ledge I was standing on started crumbling under my feet. Keeping my grip on the cliff I tried to move my feet to a more stable bit of the ledge. This made it worse; suddenly the ledge fell away completely. My feet went with it I lost my grip on the rock and the rest of me followed my feet down the cliff. It would be impossible to describe the fear and my emotions as I fell with my face scraping against the rock. Fortunately the fall was only nine inches. I landed on the ledge below, my face still against the cliff and my arms and legs in the same position only nine inches lower. I was nearer the safety of the ground by nine inches but my predicament was exactly the same. There was only one thing for it I couldn’t go down; I would have to go up. Foot holds and handholds above me were clearly visible, so up I went. Each foot I climbed up was an extra foot to fall down but there wasn’t any going back. I got to within eighteen inches of the top. The cliff top was sticking out above my head all held together with grass roots. Despair set in I couldn’t see how it was possible to get round this overhang. Now, I couldn’t climb any further up and I couldn’t go down. Then I heard this voice say, “Hello”.
I leaned my head back and saw this lad looking at me over the cliff top. He looked about the same age as me. I’d never seen him before; he didn’t go to my school.
“Hello” I replied quietly.
I didn’t want an avalanche adding to my problems. I’d seen that happen in cowboy films.
‘There’s a path that comes up here you know”.
It was clear he was trying to be helpful.
‘Im stuck,” I said.
‘There’s a path over there if you want to get up here”.
“Yes I know. Do you think you could lean over and pull me up?”
“I don’t know about that.” he said, “It’s easier if you come up the path” His head disappeared. Risking an avalanche I shouted, “If you don’t help I’ll fall off and get killed.”
He was my last hope I thought he’d gone. Then I heard him say, “If you think that’s best?”
He reappeared and gave me his hand.

He was kneeling down and as he pulled me up he assumed a crouching position. Because of the over hang I had to lean out from the cliff to get round it. At this point he was holding both my hands. He was holding me with my feet against the top of the cliff I was leaning backward in mid air over the drop. We were in a state of equilibrium. Stalemate. He didn’t have the strength to pull me up onto the cliff top.He had to make a decision quick and he did. Being a courteous lad he let me be first to know what his decision was. With a slight embarrassed smile he said,
“I’m going to let you go”.

View of the cliff I fell off

I think he had a good idea what my reply might be so he didn’t bother waiting for it. He let go. I then did something I never did before or since; I fell, turning two perfect backward somersaults before I thudded into the ground at the bottom of the cliff. The impact knocked all the wind out of me but I was still conscious. Here the story becomes bizarre I’d landed next to the eldest Barstow brother who for some reason just happened to be sitting at the bottom of the cliff reading a newspaper. He knew exactly what to do he lifted me by the waist like a slack string puppet and pumped me up and down by my pullover collar till my lungs refilled. If he hadn’t been there I'm not sure I'd have recovered. When I came round my first thought was I’m in deep trouble. I reached down apprehensively to feel the top of my right leg; there was a lump. I breathed a sigh of relief I still had Mam’s tin opener in my pocket. I could safely return home. We could have tinned salmon mixed with bread and vinegar for Sunday tea and I for once I hadn’t fallen in the water.

The top of the cliff was a different land. The lad didn’t come down the footpath to see if I was still alive. I didn’t go up it. I never saw him again. He probably kept quiet about letting me drop; perhaps thinking he’d killed me. I hope he’s gone into the priesthood. Perhaps he’s a monk doing penance, pulling people up at that monastery that you can only get to in a basket hauled up the cliff.

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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