The Way We Were

I WAS born in Bury, and in the 1930s Whitsun was one of the high-spots, rivalling even Christmas. As well as heralding summer, it was the time for new clothes and - the Whit Walks. The first Walks are said to have been in Manchester on May 6 1801, when nearly 2,000 Sunday School pupils and their teachers walked from St Ann's Square to the Collegiate Church (now Manchester Cathedral.

This became a yearly event, numbers increased, and adults and children took part. RC Sunday schools walked on Whit Friday, from Albert Square to Piccadilly. The two processions were to grow over the years, and became a spectacle involving thousands.

Nearby towns had their own processions during Whit Week. In Bury, events began on Whit Sunday, when children sported new clothes. Mothers strove to buy a complete outfit for the children. Mums might have a new hat, and fathers nothing!

We loved the once-a-year feel of new clothes. After church we would call on relatives to show off our new clothes. If lucky, we might be given a penny. Then home to Sunday dinner, followed by Sunday school, after which we would all go to see the Catholic procession.

I remember the girls dressed in white and some with coloured capes. All carried flowers, usually white lilies. Statues, decked with flowers, were carried at shoulder height by young men.

Walkers from four churches were led by bands, at least one of them an Irish pipe band.

Each church had a banner with its name and religious scenes, and there were individual banners. The big ones were huge and needed a strong team to keep them aloft in windy conditions.

Centres of attention were the rose queens; little girls about seven years old, in embroidered satin with trains and maids of honour. It was a great spectacle, but often caused great financial sacrifice for families. Anglicans and Non-Conformists held a procession on Whit Friday morning, and my sister Evelyn and I, as Sunday School members, took part from an early age. The tradition at our schools was simple dress: children wore their best clothes and the girls carried a basket of flowers or a shepherd's crook decorated with flowers.

There were no elaborate costumes, no statues and no rose queen. The primary school girls were usually dressed alike in cotton dresses, made by teachers or mothers, and the boys wore uniform-coloured shorts and shirts.

Although practical and cheap, these outfits were not specially eye-catching, and we were not the hit with the crowds that the rose queens were. I recall one onlooker saying: "This lot look like blooming refugees!"

So much for the principles of our Sunday School Superintendent, Miss Riley, who believed it was wrong to glorify one child: we were all equal in God's eyes.

One year our outfits were extra pretty - pale blue, flower-sprigged dresses, tied with a large bow behind. But they had huge hems so they could be let down and thus do for two summers. For an old-world look, we wore poke bonnets. It began to rain, and as we marched along, the stiffening in the bonnets began to soak and the wide brims dropped down before our faces.

I remember holding my flowers with one hand and, with the other, lifting the brim so I could see my way. We must have looked a bedraggled and comic little group!

On Whit Friday morning we met at Sunday School at 7.30am for eight. Each Sunday School had a marshal, responsible to a procession marshal.

There were 50 churches involved, so timing was crucial if we were not to grind to a halt in the narrow streets of the town centre.

Waiting in the Sunday School hall, we would hear our band coming. Excitement mounted as it grew louder and stopped outside.

We were shepherded outside by teachers and formed up, ready to move off. In front were the band, the clergy and the choir; behind us, the older children, Guides, Scouts, Mothers Union and congregation members. The band always played Onward Christian Soldiers as we set off, and I still feel a catch in the throat when I hear it.

We walked through the parish before joining other churches for the long walk to Union Square, Bury, where a service was held.

This always seemed wearisome, and we longed to set off back to church. But when I was older, I used to enjoy the hymns, notably The Old Hundredth on the square.

At last the word would come to move off, and our procession would march through streets now full of onlookers.

Back at church, we had another service, and it was a relief to sit down after being on our feet three hours.

At the service there was a collection and we always gave from the pennies given us during the walk. Children collected cash in little bags at their wrists.

Later, we went to school for Whit Friday lunch. This was a cold pie and a small tart, washed down with a thick blue and white mug of coffee.

We always went home for our proper dinner: in our house a hot meat pie from Stott's with peas, plus a tart.

At home we changed into a summer dress and sandals and perhaps a blazer.

Then Evelyn and I would go back for a walk to the Sunday School field. No banners or flowers this time - just the band followed by children and teachers.

At Bury Infirmary, the band would play outside the children's ward.

Then on to the field, where we stayed till early evening, playing games and enjoying an ice-cream or a glass of sarsaparilla.

About four o'clock we had a bun and a mug of milk. It was a day of simple pleasures and shared happiness, which we were always sorry to see end.

I walked yearly in the procession, later with the Girl Guides, until in 1939 the war came and all public gatherings were banned.

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.