3

Always the slowest job was preparing the potatoes. They had to be put through the potato machine and then every one had to be looked at and any eyes or bad patches taken out with a potato knife.

It was with a feeling of the beginning of long labour that the first bucketful of rough potatoes was lifted up and poured into the machine. The potatoes thumped and rumbled round in the machine and the water hissed and swished. Then muddy water started to come out round the edges of the hatch at the front. The rumbling and hissing continued, and soon the water was coming out clean. After about a minute the hatch was opened, and the potatoes came pouring out, white and pale yellow. The hatch was closed, and another bucketful of potatoes went into the machine.

Each skinned potato had to be taken in hand and picked before it could be thrown into one of the galvanised dolly tubs filled with water. In winter one’s hands lost feeling in the cold water and the cold from the concrete floor came up through the soles of the rubber boots and through two or three pairs of socks to make one’s feet agony. And in winter the potatoes had more eyes and more rotten parts in them. In summer the work was only tedious.

It was Thursday morning. We were doing the potatoes for Friday dinner-time opening.

Because of the weeks I had been away from the job I noticed the alkaline smell of the potatoes. The din of the machine and the background noise of the big refrigerator running was violent after the quiet of the hospital.

‘The spuds have been a hell of a job single-handed,’ my father shouted.

By eleven o’clock he had sung all his songs and we had two dolly tubs full of potatoes.

‘I think that should do. You go and make a cup of tea, Roy, and I’ll swill down. They won’t be delivering the fish till tomorrow. But I have nearly enough cut in the fridge. I want to change the fat in the fish pan this morning.’

While we were drinking our tea he said, ‘You want to get yourself to Anlaby Road this afternoon. Yorkshire are playing Kent. It’s a nice day. You want to get yourself down there.’

‘I don’t like cricket much,’ I said.

‘You want to get to like it. You want to get yourself interests.’

After we had had our tea he changed the fat in the fish pan and I cleaned the inside of the shop windows.

At half-past twelve I went to make the dinner. We had boiled potatoes and a tin of peas and a tin of corned beef followed by tinned apricots and tinned cream. I made every­thing look as nice as possible. I often thought that I would like to dress up to get dinner ready. When Mrs Wilson cooked our dinner for us she always made Yorkshire pudding. She could make very light Yorkshire pudding. Shirley’s Yorkshire pudding had always been too heavy. I had once tried to make Yorkshire pudding—it was like lead.

My father went up to change after dinner. He came down to the kitchen in his best suit and took three pound notes out of his wallet and laid them on the table. He pointed at them. ‘Go out and spend that, Roy. Don’t sit in here all afternoon. It’s a lovely day. Get yourself out. Get yourself off to Bridling­ton or somewhere and see what’s going on.’