Glass Mountain Writers - Lucy Payling

Lucy Payling was born and raised in Attercliffe, Sheffield. She says she never imagined herself becoming a writer, but 'perhaps it was reading the sixpenny exercise books, written by my father, filled with memories of his childhood and his time as a soldier in the First World War that prompted me to join a creative writing class'.

Lucy's work has appeared in various publications including Portobello 98 magazine, The Write Age, published by Age Concern, and Radio Sheffield's anthology Writing on Air. She was also runner up in the Off the Shelf Festival competition, 99 Words, and her work has been broadcast on Radio Sheffield. She is currently working on her autobiography, For the Duration.

Uncle Harry's jacket

When he shrugged himself into the sleeves

it settled round his shoulders, moulding to his body

like a second skin. Harris Tweed Made in Scotland,

stitched in gold thread, boasted the label inside.

A spectrum of colours from heathers and brackens

of the Scottish isles woven into rough textured

brownish tweed. Buttons covered, cuffs bound,

elbows, patched with leather; emanating a mixture

of tobacco, wool and body odour. Uncle Harry’s jacket

was a coat of many pockets; handkerchief pocket,

ticket pocket, pen and pencil pocket, inside breast pocket,

keeping safe his leather wallet. But best of all a poacher’s pocket.

Holding kite string, matches, cigarettes, penny stamps;

A paper bag sticking to Pontefract cakes or wine gums

and a tin containing the heart shaped indigestion tablets

he was never without. Even a penknife with ten different blades

and an implement for removing stones from horses hoofs.

Uncle Harry’s Jacket, a coat of many pockets,

pocketed many memories.

Counting the days (Circa 1937)

Counting the days to Christmas began with ‘Stir Up Sunday’. Taking turns to stir the Christmas-pudding mix; closing our eyes and making a wish. Our tickets arrived for the Gloop's Club, annual concert at the Wesleyan Hall, where the antics of Gloop’s, Emma and Bertram came to life and the ‘Goody bags’, handed out when it was over, evoked ‘THMILE's’ as wide as Gloop’s own.

Excited eyes were drawn to shop windows displaying wooden forts, complete with toy soldiers; miniature sweet shops, dolls, dolls houses, cradles and prams. We marvelled at a model railway, set out in the bottom of the window, as a goods train, then a passenger train, steamed out of a tunnel at each side; snaking through a village, stopping at signals, pulling up at a station. Letters were posted up the chimney to Father Christmas, then just to be sure, we shouted our wish list out loud. Tension was mounting, the days we were counting.

Soon, holly and mistletoe draped the photo frames on the wall and the mirror over the mantelpiece. Then, came the magical morning we found paper garlands radiating from the centre of the room and multicoloured tissue paper bells and stars, drawing-pinned to the ceiling. Our artificial tree was topped with a silver spike and an angel with a silken halo. Cotton wool snow iced its branches, wisps of tinsel shimmered and fragile star centred baubles spun on cotton thread. Tension was mounting, the days we were counting.

On Christmas Eve we were allowed to go round the street Carol Singing with a bunch of kids. One held a tin can with a string handle and a rough slot cut in the top for pennies. Singing as much as we could remember of, ‘Once in Royal David's City’ or‘ Good King Wenceslas’ a hasty knock-knock was followed by….

We wish you a merry Christmas

An’ an ‘appy New Year.

Hole in mi stockin, hole in mi shoe,

Please can ya spare a copper or two,

if ya aven't gorra penny, a ha'penny will do,

if ya aven't gor a ha'penny. God bless you.

Knock - knock, knock - knock.

“Cum on, let’s gu next door, thi nor in.”

At last! It was time to hang our empty pillowslip at the foot of the bed. I lay listening for hours, pretending to be asleep. I never heard Father Christmas but on waking before dawn our bulging pillowcases revealed at least one item from our wish list, as well as a tissue wrapped orange, a box of figs, a net of gold covered chocolate coins and several surprises.

Seventy years on and the same sparkle of excitement is captured in our young children’s eyes, when with tension mounting, the days they begin counting.

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