	Wood Street Mission
	I wonder how many people living in the leafy suburbs of Hazel Grove and areas like it, really know what it is like to be on the receiving end of the work of organisations such as the Wood Street Mission? I am the middle child of three brothers whose mother was abandoned, during the Second World War. We lived in lodgings where we had the use of one bedroom in a three-bedroom house shared by another family of two adults and five children. Life in this house was not easy; in fact, by today’s standard it was spartan in the extreme. We didn’t have toys and books; we had to make our own entertainment, which again was very simple. Food was on ration after the war, and it was in very short supply, as some of you may remember. We lived in these conditions until I was nine years of age when we were re-housed into a Council house in Adswood. Life continued to be hard with mother being in poor health and declining. She had no skills, being of Irish peasant stock, so she couldn’t find work that attracted decent wages, resulting in us living a hand-to-mouth existence. The fact that we were hard up was not unusual, as many families were in similar straits. But we were different in that father would pay his maintenance for us lads when he felt like it, which resulted in there being many times when there was nothing to eat in the house – and I mean nothing. Mother was a lapsed Catholic but our new next door neighbour was something of a religious zealot who would go to the local Catholic Church every morning for 8.30 Mass. She would then come home and curse my mother through the wall, which was very thin, saying such things as she would burn in hell fire for eternity, and so on. Mother used to delegate jobs around the house, to be done before she got home from work. My eldest brother had to do the shopping, I had to light the fire and tidy up, whilst my youngest brother had to have the kettle on.	One evening when mother got home from work a man stopped her at the front gate and said that he had reports that we children were at risk and not being looked after properly. He was invited in and it was explained to him that we had our jobs to do and these had been done, as he could see. He would not tell mother who had made the report, but we all had a very good idea. Anybody who came into our house must have been able to see the desperate state we were in. Upon leaving, this man told mother that he was satisfied that everything was alright and that there was no need for further action. My brothers and I had never received a birthday or Christmas card from dad and had certainly never received a present from him. Mum did her best to give us a little extra at these times but money was always a problem. It would have been about four to six weeks after the visit from the cruelty man when there was a knock on the back door. It was the day before Christmas Eve. When we went to open it there was nobody there, but there was a large box on the door step, which contained toys, books, comics, and tins of all kinds of food. To say that we were gob-smacked would be an understatement. We were ecstatic, we had never seen so many toys and games – and to think they were all for us! That Christmas was the best we had ever enjoyed, and we are eternally grateful to whoever arranged those presents for us. For those of our readers who are not sure whether the works of the Wood Street Mission and like organisations really have an impact, I hope this short autobiography will assure them that it most certainly does. The results of the Mission’s work stay with the people it helps for a very long time afterwards. Norman Allen
	Norbury Parish Church, Hazel Grove, Stockport, Cheshire. Telephone: 0161-483 6325

Wood Street Mission

I wonder how many people living in the leafy suburbs of Hazel Grove and areas like it, really know what it is like to be on the receiving end of the work of organisations such as the Wood Street Mission?

I am the middle child of three brothers whose mother was abandoned, during the Second World War. We lived in lodgings where we had the use of one bedroom in a three-bedroom house shared by another family of two adults and five children.

Life in this house was not easy; in fact, by today’s standard it was spartan in the extreme. We didn’t have toys and books; we had to make our own entertainment, which again was very simple. Food was on ration after the war, and it was in very short supply, as some of you may remember.

We lived in these conditions until I was nine years of age when we were re-housed into a Council house in Adswood.

Life continued to be hard with mother being in poor health and declining. She had no skills, being of Irish peasant stock, so she couldn’t find work that attracted decent wages, resulting in us living a hand-to-mouth existence. The fact that we were hard up was not unusual, as many families were in similar straits. But we were different in that father would pay his maintenance for us lads when he felt like it, which resulted in there being many times when there was nothing to eat in the house – and I mean nothing.

Mother was a lapsed Catholic but our new next door neighbour was something of a religious zealot who would go to the local Catholic Church every morning for 8.30 Mass. She would then come home and curse my mother through the wall, which was very thin, saying such things as she would burn in hell fire for eternity, and so on.

Mother used to delegate jobs around the house, to be done before she got home from work. My eldest brother had to do the shopping, I had to light the fire and tidy up, whilst my youngest brother had to have the kettle on.

One evening when mother got home from work a man stopped her at the front gate and said that he had reports that we children were at risk and not being looked after properly.

He was invited in and it was explained to him that we had our jobs to do and these had been done, as he could see. He would not tell mother who had made the report, but we all had a very good idea. Anybody who came into our house must have been able to see the desperate state we were in. Upon leaving, this man told mother that he was satisfied that everything was alright and that there was no need for further action.

My brothers and I had never received a birthday or Christmas card from dad and had certainly never received a present from him. Mum did her best to give us a little extra at these times but money was always a problem.

It would have been about four to six weeks after the visit from the cruelty man when there was a knock on the back door. It was the day before Christmas Eve. When we went to open it there was nobody there, but there was a large box on the door step, which contained toys, books, comics, and tins of all kinds of food.

To say that we were gob-smacked would be an understatement. We were ecstatic, we had never seen so many toys and games – and to think they were all for us! That Christmas was the best we had ever enjoyed, and we are eternally grateful to whoever arranged those presents for us.

For those of our readers who are not sure whether the works of the Wood Street Mission and like organisations really have an impact, I hope this short autobiography will assure them that it most certainly does. The results of the Mission’s work stay with the people it helps for a very long time afterwards.

Norman Allen

Wood Street Mission

Norbury Parish Church, Hazel Grove, Stockport, Cheshire. Telephone: 0161-483 6325