Era of Cockney Bob and Owd Salt

No-one ever convincingly fathomed out why Bob, one of St Helens' most colourful post-war characters, adopted his 'gorr-blimey' way of speaking. And the mystery went with him to the grave.

Some speculated that he'd polished up his remarkable verbal skill by listening to the likes of London-based comics Max Miller, Tommy Trinder and Charlie Chester on early wireless programmes. But that's rather unlikely, because they never piped radio signals to brick kilns -- and that's where Bob was usually to be found at night, resting his weary head after slogging around town collecting scrap metal.

Now, Mike Ryan of Dearnley Avenue, Blackbrook, Florrie Eden of Greenwell Road, Haydock, and Vi Ellison of Kentmere Avenue, Carr Mill, add to the memory-jerking topic thrown open by readers who recently asked if anyone could provide details about Bob and about another eccentric old-timer, known throughout the borough as Owd Salt.

Mike confirms that little Bob Dudley -- all 5ft 2ins or so, of him! -- was a legend in St Helens, where everyone knew him as 'Cockney Bob.' He adds that, before taking up residence within the warmth of local brick kilns, Bob was believed to have lived for some time in the old Irish quarter of Greenbank.

Mike first came across him while an apprentice with the painting and decorating firm of Swires when one of his duties was to push a ladder-laden handcart around town to where the tradesmen were working.

Bob's regular beat included an area at the back of Rivoli Cinema (demolished in recent weeks). There he could be spotted struggling along with a large, old-fashioned, boat-shaped pram full of all kinds of scrap -- cast-iron guttering, old bed frames, bits of lead piping, anything that he could turn into a copper or two. For Bob was far from work-shy and was proud to earn a bit of daily cash the hard way.

"At that time, the Greenalls Brewery was in full flow in the town centre, and many was the time when Bob would be road-hogging with his pram while brewery wagons were trying to get in and out of the gates."

Mike also recalls that, during the summer months, Bob, always with sleeves up and shirt fully opened at the neck, would be tanned to a mahogany hue by the sun.

At night he would wander up to the brickworks at Ravenhead to sleep in the warmth of the kilns; but he ended his days in the local Salvation Army hostel.

"Bob," says Mike, "never begged or asked anybody for anything. He was happy to wheel out his old pram to earn his living." And he signs off: "A nice memory of great times during the 1960s." Owd Salt comes next into the frame, thanks to 83-year-old Florrie Eden and Vi Ellison (78) who turn back the clock to around the 1930s and 40s. Florrie remembers him as a sort of Pied Piper character with kids trailing behind as he tugged his handcart through St Helens and outlying districts. He was a lean fellow with pinched features and long grey hair. Nobody seemed to know his proper name.

Perched precariously on top of his cart were large blocks of salt which he sliced with a big knife to the sizes requested by his door-to-door customers. Florrie recalls that he "jumped and whooped" as he made his way down Clipsley Lane, with small children dogging his footsteps.

Vi was whisked back to her junior school days by that earlier mention of Owd Salt, whose Christian name she believes was Peter. "We knew him as Old Pe Salt," she says. "I think I was about seven when I first knew him. My mother would go to his cart to buy a block of salt and it was so big that I couldn't carry it. But it was my job to break off pieces from the block and flatten it with a rolling-pin until it was in a powdery form." The rest was then re-wrapped in a newspaper for future use.

"Old Pe wore a heavy overcoat with string tied round the middle." After making a sale, he'd call out 'Gee-up!' as though speaking to a horse and continue on his merry way.

"God bless him!" she declares, "he was earning an honest crust and must have gone around the streets of St Helens before carrying on to Sutton, where we lived, in Watery Lane, and then to Parr and beyond. He must have been tired at the end of the day. But you could safely say he was worth his salt!" adds Vi, who also provided some separate wartime memories which I intend to publish soon.

The kids were fascinated by Owd Salt's odd mannerisms which a number of other readers (wishing to remain anonymous) have also mentioned. One said: "He had a rope looped over his shoulder to help him struggle along with his cart." When the uphill going got tough, he'd click his tongue and 'Giddy-up!' himself, as if urging a horse to greater effort."

The ancient salt seller was apparently partial to a pint or two and had regular pit-stops around St Helens. On one memorable afternoon, after a livener or two in the Sefton Arms, his heavy salt-block load slipped backwards as he was roping himself between the shafts. The cart tilted and a rather befuddled Owd Salt was hoisted aloft, pedalling thin air as he tried to get the shafts level and his feet back on the ground.

Amused passers-by managed to stifle their laughter and rescue him, none the worse, from his elevated plight. Then off he 'giddy-upped' in the general direction of Parr.

THANKS a million, Mike, Florrie and Vi for your chirpy little contributions. Can anyone else provide details of other colourful characters who used to enliven the passing scene? If so, please drop me a line at the Star.