The long list ­— Newport’s war-time milkmen

He passed me a document issued by the Ministry of Food in December, 1942 ­— a time when we were still at war, and when food supplies were being rationed.

It was a time when the country was urged to ‘dig for victory’, so school playing fields were dug up and iron gates and railings were confiscated and taken to make weaponry to aid the war effort.

It was a time long before supermarkets and such things as paraffin.

Bread and milk were delivered to the door by local rounds-men and women.

To the handful of readers of my generation that read this, I am of course stating the obvious, but today’s younger generation will never have experienced such a thing ­— they have no idea who Esther Williams, Johnny Ray, Teresa Brewer or the Bowery boys were, and I suppose, if I am being honest, they have no need to know.

Reverting to those deliveries that were made to most houses, my overriding memory was of our milkman, Bill Brown, who worked for Tom Cleal, and who would arrive on his horse and cart drawn by Bluebell ­— his ever-faithful horse ­— and carry his churn full of milk to the back door, where he would ladle it in half-pint measures into a jug or basin that my mother provided.

I should mention there was often a bonus to be had if Bluebell relieved herself in the road, and that was a signal for me, under orders from my father, to shovel it into a bucket, and in time it would be placed around our rhubarb.

Supermarkets do not give such perks today, but I digress.

It was important at the time that the country made savings, so the following document was issued to all householders.

It will help if I quote the first passage of it, which reads as follows: “In order to achieve the maximum economy in manpower and transport, engaged in the distribution of milk, the Ministry of Food has required all milkmen delivering milk within the borough of Newport to join a wartime association, which has had to divide the borough into zones, each of which will, after December 1, 1942, be served by one dairyman, only.

“It will be illegal for you to purchase liquid milk from any retailer with whom you are not registered.”

So how many milkmen delivering to houses within the town do you think there were at this time?

Would you be surprised if the list issued named no less than 39?

Admittedly, some came from farms and dairies outside of Newport, but each had an established milk round, and to be suddenly instructed to serve just certain streets would not have gone down too well with them.

The list is far too long to reproduce here, but if I mention just a few, older readers may enjoy the reminiscing.

There was Tom Cleal, at Little Fairlee Farm, Stan Linnington, of Robin Hood Street, Arthur Moody, at Alvington Farm, H. Morris, of Paradise Farm, G. Ralph, of Clatterford Farm, R. Sibbick, of St Cross Dairy, G. Wheeler, at Parkhurst Dairy, and A. Warne at Alvington Villa, to name but eight.

Thus, if you lived in Alvington Road, you were served by Mr Warne, but if you were on Alvington Shute, you were told you would be served by a Mr Brett of the Pitt, Carisbrooke.

For those living in Barton Road, they were instructed to obtain their milk from Stan Linnington, of Robin Hood Street, but if you lived a short distance away in Green Street, your milkman was Mr Hobbs from South Fairlee Farm.

Those just a few further yards away in Ash Road were allocated to Tom Cleal, from Fairlee.

Those that lived in Prospect Road were told that Mr Strickland, of Pitts Farm, Calbourne, was their man.

Bill Shepard told me that at this time, his parents lived in Linden Road, and his milkman was Mr Cassell of Stone Place, Shorwell.

Earlier, I mentioned the man that delivered paraffin ­— this being Mr Neat, who had a shop on the corner of Crocker Street.

His was an essential service, as many houses lacked electricity and relied on paraffin lamps.

Indeed, at our family home, we never had electricity installed until 1952.

There were several shops that delivered bread to the door, and I recall ours came from Russell’s Bakery at the bottom of the High Street.

A selection would be placed into large wicker baskets and brought to the back door for my mother.

These were days before sliced bread, and thus the loaf had to be cut using a sharp knife, and invariably the slices were cut quite thick ­— into chunks we dubbed doorsteps.

To have one of these toasted on a fork in front of a coal fire and then smothered with beef dripping is a delicacy I still miss to this day.

When I talk to the younger generation today, I think I might as well be talking double Dutch.

It is difficult for them to conceive how we lived just 70 years ago.

Likewise, I often try to imagine life for my grandmother in her tiny Chillerton cottage, at a time before the introduction of a bus service, when she would walk the four miles each way and back to Newport.

I asked my grandson the other day, before embarking on a trip in my car, if he needed to go to lavatory.

He thought for a while, and then asked: “Grandad, what is a lavatory?”

Yet another word, like chitterlings, lardy cakes and mantelpiece, that appear to have deserted our vocabulary.