A Standpipe, a Coal Bunker, and Spiders in the Shed
Remembering my Tiny First Home
Born a bonny eight-pounder in a hospital bed, I was brought home in a knitted white shawl to a caravan, a compact 23-footer. The caravan was our home and bought on Hire Purchase, paid for weekly by my working class parents. It was permanently installed on a concrete pad in a corner plot.
Community
The farmer’s field played host to a number of other homes like ours—each with their own little garden. We called it the ‘caravan site’.
The site had a communal block of showers and toilets; each wash and flush had to be paid for so we never used them. There was no piped water to the individual caravans—but we could fetch potable water from a standpipe 50 yards away towards a stream at the edge of the field. I begged Dad to let me carry the bucket home but he would only let me help him turn the brass tap on and off.
There was no drainage or sewage—our waste water went into a soak-away/cesspit which Dad dug in the garden. In a shed, where the spiders lived, there was no lighting at all; there, we had our own privy, an old oil drum with a wooden seat on top; a lorry came to empty it every month. Oh, the stink!
Entertainment
I was born at a time when the radio was a dominant feature in the home—an important means of communication and entertainment. Our transistor radio was battery-operated. Dad would fiddle with the dials as it whistled and crackled. Then, voices could be heard in faraway lands, then, the urgent beeping of what sounded like morse code. But, occasionally I could listen to a story being read aloud, and occasionally mum would sway along to a big band sound and her colourful cotton skirt would fill the caravan as she moved to the beat.
There was no television in our home, and for those who had one there were only two stations you could watch—BBC and ITV. I must have been six or seven before we had a little black and white television and I watched ‘Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men’, and ‘Noddy’s Adventures’.
I was born at a time when ‘going out’ meant going to the cinema to watch a film, or up the pub for a game of cards, dominoes, or darts. For mum, staying in meant reading the ‘Woman’s Own’ magazine, and knitting cardigans for the family. For dad, staying in meant tending to his motorcycle—it had a sidecar, I travelled on mum’s lap. In fact, there was little leisure for either of them as they both worked in factories—Dad during the day at the aircraft factory, mum at night at the sweetie factory.
Home Work
And there was a never-ending list of jobs at home. Dad would be in his shed, soldering something or other. And the coal lorry would arrive with a few sacks for us and there were trips back and forth to the concrete coal bunker to fill our little coal scuttle for we had a chimney and stove in the caravan… until I surprised mum and got up from crawling, and fell against the hot metal and burned my face and arm.
With no such thing as convenience food or a proper fridge, everything was bought fresh and prepared at home; potatoes were a staple. Glass bottles of milk were delivered daily and stored in the shade under the caravan. It was many years before I saw any pasta or rice.
Gas bottles, one full, one in use, rotated beneath the caravan to provide energy for cooking and lighting. And I remember mum boiling water in the kettle, then hand-washing the sheets and clothes in the little kitchen sink. She would wring them by hand then roll each item up in a dry towel which she would lay on the floor, then we’d take our slippers off and tread out the moisture. The towels were damp wet after a few rollings, then everything went up on the line outside.
Millionaire Dreams
I was born in the year the Premium Bond came into existence—a savings scheme that offered the chance of winning a million! Mum and Dad bought one for me, it cost £1.00, it never won. Dad regularly did The Pools (a system that bet on the outcome of the weekly football matches). He had a few small wins on that but nothing big like it promised. The paper Pools coupons have been replaced by a digital version, and the minimum purchase price of a Premium Bond is now £25.00.
Busses and trains were the two forms of public transport in our town; we had a bus station and a train station. When I began to make words I referred to the steam train as ‘chuff-chuff’. Well, that’s what it sounded like. In my birth year Third Class railway tickets were abolished. You either travelled First Class, (like never), or Second Class, (occasionally). The bus was cheaper.
Everyone smoked. Everywhere. My parents smoked cigarettes and dad had a cigar on birthdays and special days, he even tried a pipe for a while but couldn’t get on with it. A room full of tobacco smoke was normal. Nicotine stained the walls. And, in our restricted tin-can space it turned the net curtains yellow. The Minister of Health said no harm was proven from this activity.
There was a Milk Bar in town, evidence of an emerging youth leisure culture. By the time I was considered old enough to enter, much to my disappointment it had closed down.
Memory Lane
I was born in 1956, seventy years ago. A great deal has changed. I have moved 350 miles, from the south of England to the south of Scotland via a number of towns in between.
The caravan site closed in the mid-1980s to be developed for housing. In 2023 I returned to see how the town looked and explore the lane that led up to the site. It felt strange yet familiar. I dredged my memory for the clinker and cinder lane that used to be, of the sweet chestnut trees that lined it on both sides, their limbs clasping hands above and the huge snake-like catkins they dropped in Spring.
On Google earth I can identify the site’s perimeter and wonder if the people who live there now ever sense the old ways of life. Do they catch the smell of an oily cloth as they open their garage door? Or the whiff of cigarette smoke in the wind? And, do the marigolds that used to grow in all the gardens still set seed and put down roots amongst herringbone pavers and granite setts?
WRITING PROMPT
For this week’s writing prompt, think about the place where you were born. Write a short piece (max 500 words) that recalls what is was like if you can, and your first memories of home. Research facts or use your imagination to reveal the sights and sounds of place.
Offer for Annual Paid Subscribers: If you’d like to receive private personal feedback on a piece of writing inspired by this prompt, send me a DM with the words JULY OFFER. I’ll respond with an invitation and instructions on how to submit. You’ll get detailed craft notes on your work. This offer expires on 31 August 2026.
Leave a comment: Tell us about the first home you remember.
Credits, Notes and Links
Image above is my own.
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I love this writing prompt. Away to step back in time, to feel the nostalgia of a place. I can feel the steamy summers and the coolness of the creek where we used to collect crawdads.
But your essay, so much detail in a tight word limit that feels like the caravan in size but with all the openness once out the entry.
Wonderful memories, Yasmin. Very articulate on so much. Like a time capsule, really.