Helmsley Market Day (circa 1960’s)

Helmsley at the time that this memoir is set was the hub of the local farming community and there were still several working farms scattered within its boundaries. It was a less ‘refined’ town than it is now and was very much a rural, and thriving, market town of it’s time. A wonderful place to grow up in. You knew most, if not all the people in the town, and they knew you which was fantastic if at times a little restrictive.

Friday was Market Day (still is,) and the town came alive with market stalls erected to a specific pattern which never varied. This complex jigsaw of stalls was completed by the council workers, a hardy bunch of men identifiable by the Donkey Jackets they all wore to protect them from the weather. They worked long hours in all weathers though the local hill farmers thought they had it ‘soft,’ which of course these hard- working men did compared to the rigours of the small farmer. Setting up of the stalls had to be finished long before the official opening time of the market at eight am.

The traders needed to have their stall set out early to catch the older matriarchs, mostly widows or spinsters of this parish all dressed invariably in black, carrying wicker baskets, their hair pulled back into a tight bun underneath the best Friday bonnet, they looked like they had come straight out of a Charles Dickens novel. They always came early to market, come rain or shine, to find the freshest produce, at the best price. Grim faced, striding purposefully between each stall their high tightly laced black boots clicking on the tarmac, setting the rhythm of the opening market They always haggled with the traders, who knew them all and had probably set their prices a little higher so they could be talked down and everyone could go away happy, and come back next week for the game to start again.

Grandad, an inveterate early riser from years as a dairy farmer, used to take me along to the square to watch the hustle and bustle of the opening market. Everybody seemed to know him and he loved to catch up on all the gossip. Many of the matriarchs used to come over for a quick natter. Grandad had recently become a widower and they all came to ask how he was coping. These stony-faced somewhat intimidating women had warm hearts and kind eyes once you looked beyond the face they showed the world, no doubt to hide their own pain. You don’t show your emotions in Yorkshire. They always had a kind word for ‘t’little lad,’ and sometimes even a goodie or two would appear from the voluminous black dresses they wore. Of course, this attention given to us wasn’t all altruistic. These women loved a good gossip and Grandad was the hot topic at present, having recently become a widower. They were the ‘newshounds’ of the town and always had something of interest to say about some worthy of the local populace, as long as we understood that we didn’t hear it from them.

There was one trader who fascinated me. He came from the mysterious land that was the West Riding of Yorkshire. Grandad and I loved to watch him in action. He sold everything from dinner services to swathes of cloth, all at “knock down prices” gathering a crowd around his stall with his patter recited in the language of that part of the county. We all came from Yorkshire, but his accent was totally different to ours. Emanating from the area somewhere around Leeds his vowels were flatter than ours and sounded harsh to my ears. The area we lived in retained many words of old Norse as part of the local dialect, held over from our Viking origins in this part of this vast county.

“Th’all not believe what ahs deeing tiday Missus. Ahm not selling, ahs gieing stuff away” and off he went. “T’missus el kill me when I get yam, nah then lass, how de yer fancy this little tea caddy alt way fra India, special today. Not at ten bob, not at five bob nobbut hef a crown. Ahl even throw in this measuring spoon for free for fust ten customers. Nah then, form an orderly queue, ladies.” Even the hard, stony-faced matriarchs were putty in his hand. Often giggling like schoolgirls at his sometimes-fruity banter. They parted with their hard-earned money with smiles on their faces and never haggled about the price. The man was a true artist.

Most of the traders though came from within a thirty mile or so radius of the town and had been coming to ply their wares for years. There was a hard core of regulars the fish man from Scarborough, and his ‘fresh fish’ always sold out early and was often gone by noon.

My favourite was the sweetie stall, run by a man of extreme girth and a smiling face who gave the impression that he literally ate into his profit margin. It was absolutely packed with jars full of an enormous variety of goodies to tempt the kids and those with a sweet tooth. Once you had made your selection these were carefully weighed out in the enormous scales and poured reverently into brown paper bags. He took your money with a big smile and told you not to eat them all at once. Probably didn’t mean it. It was his business after all, to provide the kids with the requisite amount of E Numbers and sugar, so the local dentist could remain in gainful employment. Grandad always bought me a ‘mixed bag’ and swore me to secrecy as Mum probably wouldn’t approve.

The market was much more important than just a bargain hunters paradise (although, you could buy anything from a cauliflower to crockery.) It was a social occasion. If you sat on the steps that surround the Feversham Memorial for long enough you were almost certain to see everyone in town.

By nine am, most of the ‘matriarchs’ had gone home and the market was ready for the next wave of customers.

The farmers from the wild country that surrounded the town descended ‘en masse’ on a Friday to buy their supplies for the week and to catch up on all the local gossip. They rarely saw anybody except their own families during the week, carving out a hard livelihood on their small farms. Little patches of green, bounded by dry stone walls, keeping the wild at bay, scattered amongst the heather of the high ground. Hardly any of the farms had mains electricity, inside plumbing or a public water supply, and none had telephones. It was a hard life and they looked forward to the break from their unremitting slog that Market Day brought. They arrived in a wide variety of vehicles ranging from beaten up, barely legal vans and ex-army land rovers, to horse and carts. Most came with their wives and associated pre-school children, and of course the obligatory sheep dog. It was a fabulous, entertaining riot of noise and colour. The highlight of the week.

By eleven o’clock most of the farmers had completed their business with the market traders and for them, the real business of the day was about to start. Licensing laws were far stricter in the sixties than they are now but market days were an exception and the pubs were open from eleven am to eleven pm. The farmers had packed their purchases in their chosen method of transport, sent the wife and kids off to visit friends or family in the town, but kept their dogs with them and got down to the serious business of the day, always conducted in the pub.

It was great fun watching these normally dour gentlemen staggering, with great concentration from pub to pub, trying to fill their pipes with the black twist they all seemed to smoke, whilst at the same time keeping a watchful eye out for ‘the Missus’ who might have the temerity to drag them away from an important business meeting in one of the four pubs that surrounded the market square. These meeting were normally conducted of course, over frothing pints of Best Yorkshire Bitter.

Grandad took me home for lunch where I was left with my aunt, one of the afore mentioned hill farmers wives on her Friday visit, before making his way back to the market “to do a bit of business” for himself.

By 5pm the market was gone, packed away until next Friday. Of course, the pubs were still open, and generally packed out. But that is another story for another day.

It was the only day that anything exciting happened in the town.

Market day still exists in Helmsley although the market itself is much smaller now. Many of the characters that ran the stalls are long gone. So have the small farmers and their somewhat reckless consumption of beer. The market and the town are much less colourful without them.

But as I said, Helmsley and its market are much more refined than they used to be.

PJ.
© 2024

Story Analysis

This vivid memoir captures market day in 1960s Helmsley, Yorkshire, painting a rich portrait of rural English life. The author masterfully describes the rhythmic patterns of the day, from the early morning setup by council workers to the evening wind-down in local pubs. The narrative focuses on the social fabric of the community, particularly through the lens of a young boy accompanying his recently widowed grandfather.

The story’s strength lies in its detailed character portraits – from the black-clad matriarchs doing their early morning shopping to the charismatic West Riding trader with his distinctive accent. The author skilfully weaves Yorkshire dialect throughout, adding authenticity to the scenes while highlighting the regional variations in language and culture.

About the Author

Peter J. Watson is a Yorkshire-based writer who draws deeply from his experiences growing up in North Yorkshire. His writing style combines keen observation with gentle humor, often incorporating Yorkshire dialect and cultural nuances. After losing his wife Patricia in 2017, Watson turned to writing as therapy, producing works that range from deeply personal poetry to nostalgic memoirs of Yorkshire life.

The Author’s Works

Peter J. Watson has published three distinct collections that showcase different aspects of his writing:

Each book offers readers a unique perspective on life, loss, and the human experience, all filtered through Watson’s distinctive Yorkshire voice and sensibility.