The highlight of a school day when I was around the age of ten, growing up in the town of Dover during the 1950’s, was the arrival at our prefab estate of the morning bread lady, or “Our Bread Roll Lady” as she was affectionately known.  

The cutting peal of the wooden handled school bell, which she rang out of the van window while cruising along the streets, could be heard long before she ever reached us. Hearing the first brassy tones of that battered old bell would send me instantly into my “pleading for money” routine.

It was only tuppence (1p) for an unbuttered roll, but at times like this attempting to extract any cash at all from my father was, to say the least, akin to pulling teeth. On most occasions my demands for money would invariably fall on deaf ears, and he would disappear into the kitchen or bathroom to get out of the situation. There were a few times, however, when I managed to win the day, and he would grudgingly count out two pennies while at the same time mumbling something about already having enough bread in the house.

He was, as the old saying goes, careful with his money.

Whatever comment he made was lost on me. It went in one ear and straight out of the other. I was already standing at the living-room window, staring down the road, clutching my hard won prize; waiting impatiently for the Austin A35 van to appear. Bit by bit the ringing of the bell grew louder as she approached. Time seemed to stand still. It felt like an eternity before the little green van finally came coughing and rattling into view, and while I waited the coin in my hand would become almost as hot as the roll I was about to buy.

As soon as I clapped eyes on it, I would be out of the front door of our prefab like a greyhound from a trap, scared that she might pull away before I had chance to get there. But I needn’t have worried as there was always a small crowd of local housewives eager for their first gossip of the day, assembled around the van. 

I knew it would be ages before it was my turn to be served.

As I stood there, shifting from foot to foot, trying to keep my mind from the tantalising aroma of warm, fresh, crusty bread wafting out from the back of the van, I would try to eavesdrop on the conversations that the women were having. They would huddle together in a small group, like witches around a cauldron, arms folded across faded paisley-print, wrap-around aprons. With the occasional touch to the knobbly, knotted headscarves covering a head full of curlers, their mouths would be working overtime.