GRANDPARENTS played an important role in many Bradford households back in the day; they certainly did for me.
From the early 1970s, my grandparents, Eileen (Nana) and William (Gan Gan) Banks, raised me. We lived on Sewell Road off Leeds Road, in a working-class area of Bradford. Our home was a humble two-bedroom red brick council house.
Jason with his grandparents in 1973.
Gan Gan worked hard every day as a hawker, selling fruit and vegetables to local shops and businesses to make ends meet. Each morning before the sun had risen, he’d set out for St James Wholesale Market, and from the age of three, I was by his side. I loved those rides in his brown delivery van to the busy fruit and vegetable market.
The market was always jam-packed with hawkers. The vendors would whistle to each other and shout out their spiels to draw in buyers: “Ey up lads, come and get yer potatoes and tomatoes, freshest in town.”
Their tables were loaded with green cauliflowers and sprouts, King Edward potatoes, Yorkshire rhubarb, Cox’s apples, and rosy red tomatoes. I’d help Gan Gan gather up stray fruit and veg that rolled out of the van. The best part of the day was when Gan Gan let me slide down the potato shoot at the market; better than any playground I’d ever known.
After a long day selling the produce, we’d often finish at the Bedford Arms pub on Wakefield Road, run by my Uncle Peter. The pub was always smoky and buzzing, packed with flat-capped Yorkshiremen. They gathered there every day, sharing stories, swearing, drinking, and putting the world to rights. After a swift drink or two, Gan Gan would take me back home to Nana.
Nana, like so many Bradfordian women of her generation, worked long, hard days in the mill. Her job was to clean the looms, and every morning she’d wake up, make me three soft-boiled eggs and toast soldiers that I’d dip in. Then, after getting ready, like clockwork, she’d walk down the snicket at the bottom of our back garden and head off to Aked’s Mill on the nearby Gibson Street.
Jason and his brother with their Nana.
As a young child, I’d play football or play with my toy Matchbox cars in the backyard; I’d listen to the break-time alarms echoing from the mill, knowing the final buzzer meant Nana would soon be walking home up the garden path in her blue work overall.
Nana, even after a long shift, would conjure up some magic in the kitchen. Some of the ingredients were unsold produce that Gan Gan brought back from the market. Nana would turn them into rustic meals like beef and carrot stew, corned beef hash, and golden, crispy Yorkshire pudding.
Just like I was Gan Gan’s helper, I wanted to be my Nana’s little helper too. In the kitchen, I would mix the cake mix and whisk it with a fork, making sure I didn’t spill any. My treat before the buns magically rose in the oven was running my finger around the big enamel bowl and scooping up the delicious remnants into my mouth.
Happy times with 'Gan Gan'. (Image: Jason Croot)
Nana’s buns, cakes, Yorkshire Parkin, and jam pasties were scrumptious; when you bit into them, they’d taste like sunshine on a plate. Best of all was her silky golden apple pie, which she’d brush the pastry with milk and fill with sugar-sprinkled Bramley apples.
When the cooking was finished, Nana would make a cup of tea, take a much-deserved rest, sigh and say,
“Aye, it’s reet good to get off mi feet for a bit. Mi feet are burnin’ like Roman candles.”
Then we’d join Gan Gan by the open coal fire in the living room, watching Laurel & Hardy on our 14-inch black-and-white TV. Nana used to kid me and tell me that Laurel & Hardy lived in the top house at number 1. I’d look out of the small panes of the window trying to spot them; of course I never did.
Those days of watching TV whilst eating golden, buttery apple pie were the best. But not all the pies were baked in the oven. When the mood struck him, Gan Gan would serve up his own “speciality”: chin pie, rubbing his whiskers against my baby face and making me giggle.
After supper, with his appetite satisfied, Gan Gan would stretch out on the old sofa with a bottle of Guinness that he’d cooled in the bath. He’d tell stories and play records on his vintage Blaupunkt radiogram; one of my favourites was “Knees Up, Mother Brown”. Nana would be on her toes, lifting her knees up, then she’d swirl her foot and twiddle her toe down. Then came the chorus:
“Knees up, Mother Brown. Knees up, Mother Brown. Come and get your knees up. Knees up, Mother Brown,”
Gan Gan would sing along and dance, and sometimes I’d join in. Those were moments that warmed me up like Nana’s golden apple pie.