Dorothy Clayton was born at Hazel Grove in 1941 and recalls the following memories of some of her relatives:

Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Hannah lived directly opposite us with their grown-up daughter, Lizzie. Aunt Hannah was Grandma's sister, a little wizened old lady with thin grey hair tied back in a bun. She was friendly enough whenever I went over, but it was Uncle Lloyd who fascinated my young mind.

In the summertime he would sit just inside their front door and watch the goings-on in the street. All the passers-by would speak to him and he would nod, even to the children. He always wore the same clothes: shabby black trousers, a clean white shirt, big black boots and a bowler hat.

His hands would rest on the handle of a Charlie Chaplin-type walking stick. I never saw him move off that chair but I suppose he must have gone to bed sometime, and I did wonder if he took his hat off even then.

Every so often he would lean to the right on the chair and do a little trump, which would make me and Lizzie burst into laughter and Aunt Hannah to sniff and tut.

Lizzie was their youngest child; her boyfriend had been killed early on in the war and she never did marry. Percival, their first child, had been killed by the Co-op milk cart when he was twelve and Billy, then married to Amelia, had lost a leg in a mining accident at Poynton colliery. A sad little family though I didn't realise it at the time.

Grandma died just before the war ended and her coffin was kept in our small kitchen until the day of the funeral. We children were told not to look at it as we passed through on our way to the lav.

After Grandma died we moved to a new house on London Road, Hazel Grove: a great deal bigger with three bedrooms and a bathroom with the luxury of hot water coming out of a tap.

The living room at first was just a straight transfer from the old house, including my hidey-hole under the table. The front room was empty for a while until it was furnished with a three-piece suite, a carpet and an out of tune piano , all second hand bargains from the local auction rooms.

The room was only ever used on Christmas Day when a fire would be lit and the menfolk would go in there and snooze off the booze and the Christmas pudding. The rest of the time the room would be kept immaculately clean and the door closed 'in case anybody comes' said my Mother.

I often wondered who 'Anybody' was, but they never came, for visitors were put into the living room with the rest of us.

I'd started school the previous year at our local Council school, and loved every minute of it. The Headmistress was Miss Buxton, a small elderly lady with a thin black moustache, she was quite strict but kind and everyone liked her.

Miss Exley was quite young and all us little girls thought she was wonderful. She would come into the playground and keep bending down for some reason in her low cut tops and showing off what I thought at the time were her lungs.

I told Mum and Dad all about her and Mum pursed her lips and said 'Oooh' and gave my Dad a nasty glare when he sniggered. I didn't know why. Mrs Blackwell taught the top class, a nice round lady with glasses and upswept grey hair.

I was fascinated when she sang the hymns in Assembly, for her head would wobble, her chins would wobble and her voice would wobble. 'All Things Bright and Beautiful' would never be the same again.

My brother was born in 1948 and I was thrilled and went knocking on every door in the neighbourhood to tell them I had a baby brother. They were all very pleased and one lady gave me threepence to buy some toffees.

I had a doll's pram but wasn't interested in dolls because they didn't move at all, so sometimes I would borrow the baby and push him around in my pram, which he filled nicely. He was a good baby and didn't cry much, but Mum did before she found us and I did after she found us when I got a good smack.

After I had been banned from pushing the baby I would borrow one of his little coats and a hat and put them on our cat, Tosh. He would go to sleep quite happily under a blanket and let me push him around all day. I loved that cat and was heartbroken when he was killed on the main road.

A few of my friends had also had a new baby in their family round about this time and I asked my Mum where they had really all come from, because I knew that the story about the Stork was a great big fib.

She gave me a funny look, did a funny little cough, and then at last told me the truth -- the doctor had brought them in his little black bag. Seemed to me he must have had a very big black bag, but I accepted the explanation for the next two years.

Dorothy Clayton, 2002