If ever my thoughts drift back to the winter of '62/'63, my blood begins to run cold, quite literally. Not that the circumstances I experienced then were particularly dramatic, nor was there hair-raising danger or heroism involved, in fact the period could almost be described as uneventful, yet those months from November to March, scarred me psychologically for life, and changed forever my perception of heat and cold and the true value of coal. The events are imprinted into my memory so vividly, that recalling them now, even after almost 50 years, sends me immediately running to the central heating thermostat to pump up the heat.
Before that fateful winter, strange as it may seem today, I had absolutely no interest at all in the effect of 'aspect' - that is north or south, east or west facing property - nor did I care or question how much fuel it might take to heat a bath-full of water to boiling point. As they say - 'Ignorance is bliss' and I was blissfully ignorant. Didn't every home fire burn furnace-hot with a fierce flame and searing glow?
When I was still living at home with my Mam and Dad, I annually looked forward to the 'back-end' as Dad called the cold months of the year, because the temperature inside our house would drop by a degree or so, to an almost acceptable level, and the heat from the fire became welcome, rather than dreaded. At last we could burn more of the stock-piled coal which filled the coal house to bursting point, and we could begin to use up the overflow supply stacked in the outhouse, which had accumulated during the warmer summer months.
Summer-time always caused us coal storage problems. Dad tried his best to give bags of it away to neighbours and friends, anyone who would take it, in an attempt to deplete the never ending supply which kept arriving relentlessly at the end of every month. His pitman's 'free issue' would be delivered with unerring regularity by the coal man - shouting his usual “Where d'ya want this ton then? There's 20 sacks to tip - will they all go in?” And somehow they got packed in - into the coal house, or into the outhouse, wherever there was space.
Of course Mam and Dad did what you're meant to do with coal ... they kept burning it, shovelled in onto the back of the fire as often as they could, even in the middle of summer, stacking it up precariously until it roared and roared up the chimney. They didn't seem to either notice or mind the heat, Dad even appeared quite proud when he saw more coal arriving, as if it was something special. But I hated it, black, filthy stuff. Also, as our fire had a back boiler there was always the added problem of too much hot water, so, as the pipes rumbled and thundered we would try to reduce the temperature by taking more hot baths, filling the washer, anything to run some of it off, spluttering and steaming. The whole house seemed to perpetually glow with heat. It drove me mad, it was hell on earth.
As the seasons changed, winter chill brought some improvement. It was heavenly to open the door and stand on the doorstep for a minute or two and breathe in big lungfulls of refreshing cold. But even during the coldest days, with windows shut tight, the rooms indoors felt small and stuffy and, and as the years passed, I began to feel suffocated. I dreamed about unheated space, my space. It was time for me to go. I enrolled as a trainee nurse and left home.
My priority was to find somewhere to live near the hospital and I chose my first flat with care. It was elegant - and to be quite honest, more expensive than I could afford without very careful budgeting, but it had what I considered 'great style' and I would economise. It was a first-floor flat, one of three converted from a mid-terraced house in a Very-Desirable-Part-Of-The-City, with Many-Original-Features. The drawing room, bedroom and bathroom were quite spectacular, beautifully proportioned with lofty ceilings and tall Georgian windows.
At one end of the long drawing room was a beautiful marble fireplace, delicately carved - cold and smooth to touch. Unfortunately its graceful effect was spoilt rather, because the landlord had blocked up the grate with hardboard in order to insert an ugly little gas heater. But nevertheless the room, in spite of this one tiny flaw, was gorgeous. And the windows - I loved the three towering windows on the north wall. They were softly draped with long, white curtains, so fine they billowed slightly in the breeze, or was that a faint draught stirring the fabric? The furniture consisted of a settee and two chairs covered in ice blue cloth, a sideboard, and a couple of small occasional tables. There was also a large lamp with an ivory silk shade and three oriental-type rugs scattered on the highly polished wooden floor. Best of all, the room felt cool, serene. Although I viewed my flat for the first time on a hot mid-July day, no stifling direct sunshine penetrated it. Likewise the bedroom, it too felt airy - almost chill. It was love at first sight, this was the flat of my dreams.
For the rest of July, August and most of September I swept around my lovely place, adding a few personal possessions here and there. I had freedom. Freedom to come and go as I like. Freedom to invite friends back. Freedom from home's hot stuffy atmosphere. However, everything has a price, especially freedom, and I was always short of money. After paying rent I had very little left to spend on anything more luxurious than bread, coffee and milk - but meals were provided free when I was on duty, that was a godsend. Overall, I was so happy with my new way of life I believed nothing could spoil it.
I began to notice a change inside the flat as October approached. I started to feel cold. It was a new sensation, and I didn't like it - perhaps I was coming down with a chill and it would pass. It didn't pass. I began to wear cardigans and I pulled the furniture away from the windows a little nearer the fireplace.
It became necessary to turn the gas fire up as high as it would go, but its yellow flickering flames just fizzed and hissed and threw out a reluctant warmness, a pathetic excuse for heat in spite of insatiably gobbling up more and more of my precious housekeeping money. It was totally inadequate to heat such a large room. By November I was taking showers at work, unable to face the horrors of undressing in my icy bathroom. I was not ready to die of self-inflicted hypothermia. By December, sick of shivering uncontrollably and feeling my face and jaw ache permanently, with tension against the freezing chill, I abandoned the idea of living in my drawing room totally. I could no longer afford to feed the gas 'thing', and in any case, any expensively warmed-up air simply floated, as warm air does, up to the ceiling. I've no doubt there was a thin layer of horizontal heat approximately twelve feet above my head - but I was no longer prepared to spend my last pennies making the light fittings cosy.
By January I was reduced to spending my waking hours in the kitchen, hunched in front of the gas oven, switched onto 'high' with the door left open, toasting my front while my back froze.
Getting into bed was an unbelievably horrible ordeal. It was like diving into a pool of frozen water. Hot water bottles gave comfort for a short while, but they rapidly cooled down to tepid, and by morning were as cold as stones in a frozen pond. If getting into bed was an ordeal, then getting out again the next morning wasn't much better. I would wake cramped and aching - bracing myself for the dreaded moment I must step out of bed into the icy air in the room. I began to crave warm sunshine and a coal fire and central heating.
By February I felt I hadn't a friend in the world. No one visited me at the flat any more, and who can blame them. Icy cold draughts and freezing temperatures are not conducive to good conversation, they induce icy aggravation and bitter hostility. There isn't much to do whilst sitting in front of an oven door, alone, clutching an hot water-bottle - except think, and I did quite a bit of thinking during those long, cold, dark, loney winter nights. I pondered on coal, heat, and the height of ceilings, and realised that many fundamental things I had taken for granted at home were far more important to me than I had cared to admit. Now I could appreciate fully the warmth and security of my childhood and youth, and my fortune at never knowing then bone-freezing cold. For the first time I understood the true value of coal, and its cost - mined by my Dad and thousands of men like him who'd spent most of their adult lives underground, hewing and putting, labouring to keep us warm, year in - year out. I felt proud and grateful of their monumental effort.
By March I knew that the small hot rooms of home would never feel suffocating again. In future I would gladly wallow in the luxury of them, and turn my face to sunshine flooding in through south facing windows.
I don't believe that there are hot fiery flames in hell after all.
I do believe small and warm is beautiful - and home and heaven is where the hearth is.
If there is such a place as hell I believe it isn't hot, it is icy, icy cold.
