This is the 1914 diary of Jack Bromley who was born on Coalpit Lane in Nottingham, where he now lives and works. He and his wife Florence have a three year old son, Billy. Jack tries his best to juggle the demands of his needy family, declining business and disappointed father-in-law.
Jack Bromley is my Great-Grandfather. The diary is imagined from facts established during research of my family tree.
January 6th
It’s a bitterly cold day and I am lighting a fire in the small shop stove. My boy Billy is building a wall using lumps of coal from the scuttle. Florence walks through in her finery, off to meet up with her sister Annie to peruse the sales. This activity will likely lead to the purchase of more finery. She looks horrified as Billy runs towards her with coal filled hands ready to hug his Mother. Fortunately, disaster is averted as I sweep Billy into my arms and take him into the scullery to scrub him clean. Florence tuts rebukingly before making a hasty exit.
Extracts of the 1915 Wright’s Street Directory for Nottingham are below, with the Bromley’s shops listed at numbers 29 and 24.
January 10th
I sat down this morning with a pot of tea and my eye was drawn to an advertisement in yesterday’s Evening Post for Toupees at less than half price. Although at over six bob I think I’d better get used to my bald head. My brother Harry has a great head of hair. Even Pa still has more than me. I wear my cap most of the time so it’s not noticeable.
Business is still slow in the shop. I wonder if we’re in the wrong position. Folks with cash go to the swanky department stores in town. Folks with less cash go to the market in Sneinton for a bargain. Folks with no spare cash don’t worry about smallwares and the like. They need to spend every penny on food and rent. Ma and Pa’s bakery shop is always busy. People always need their daily bread, yet can make do without a new bonnet, or indeed a toupee for that matter.
Picture credit: British Newspaper Archive
January 12th
A new week begins.
Me and Billy enjoy breakfast of bread and butter and a pot of tea. Florence prefers to rise after 9 o’clock. As we’ve eaten the last of the bread, I walk across to Ma and Pa’s for a loaf. I find them in the middle of a heated discussion about my older brother Harry’s latest escapade. It transpires that he earned himself a black eye on Saturday evening after a”misunderstanding” regarding his cavorting with the barmaid at the Noah’s Ark. The landlord, her father, took issue with such licentiousness. Harry was thrown out of the beer house and a bit of a brawl ensued. Ever ready to believe her children can do no right, Ma has sent my brother off this morning to make the bread deliveries with a flea in his ear, threatening to throw him out of her own house if he indulges in further disgrace. I return to the calm of my shop. It might be cold, but at least it’s peaceful.
The picture below is of the Noah’s Ark beer house. Further along the street is where Jack Bromley’s shop would have been.
Picture credit: St Ann’s pre-demolition website
The End of Coalpit Lane 