Patricia Crowther - From Stagecraft to Witchcraft

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Contents

Chapter 1
Made in Sheffield

Like many people born in Sheffield, I am proud of my roots and fiercely defend the city in which I was born. My parents, Clare and Alfred Dawson, ran four tobacconist and sweet shops in Sheffield when I made my appearance, and they lived on the premises of one shop in Duke Street.

I was born half-an-hour into the 14th October on a stormy night, a phenomenon which coincided with my difficult birth. This had been predicted by a local palmist, but she also said that both my mother and I would survive the ordeal.

Apart from coming into the world when the wind was howling round the house and the rain lashed against the window-panes, there was nothing to suggest that I would eventually become known as 'The Sheffield Witch', although my great grandmother had been a practising wise-woman in Brittany before she came to Sheffield. She met and married one William Dawson who hailed from Dublin, so there is a mixture of French, Irish and English in my blood.

Miranda, my grandmother on my mothers side, died in her forties (long before I was born) having given birth to ten children. Mother said she was very lovely, her dark hair framing delicate features and the most startling blue eyes. Miranda had a sister whose name was Caroline Trevelyan-Corker-Goddard-Grant. She was known as Trevy, for short!

Trevy had married a Cornish man, and when my mother visited their cottage in Normanton Spring near Woodhouse, she often mentioned that things were different there, because Trevy had lots of herbs about the place and often looked into the future through a dark-blue glass ball.

I was so protected in my early years that I contracted almost every common ailment, available, including an abscess on my neck as large as a tea-cup. The excellent Dr. Callaghan lanced it to my tearful whispers of, Oh thank you. Thank you. Both Dr. Callaghan, and his successor, Dr. Billington, worked overtime on me!

Dr. Callaghans premises were opposite my parents shop in Duke Street and his ten year old son would come into the shop and demand a haporth of shag (loose tobacco). My mother, being grateful to his father, would say. You are under age young man, then serve him quickly, telling him to hide it away.

We had a wire-haired fox terrier called Tony, who was older than me, and he would pick a fight with any other dog in sight, if none were to be seen, he would go and find one. He also hated people in uniform or anyone whom he considered alien to his territory. Tony was the terror of Duke Street but he was a very good guard dog.

A neighbour would scream, Oh, es got me cat!, while Tony walked proudly round the yard with the unfortunate animal dangling from his jaws. Mother would hasten to reassure the woman that Tony would not hurt it, and indeed, he did not. After a few perambulations of his patch, to show who was boss, he would release the cat, unharmed.

My little cousin, Alwyn, spent time with us, and one day he crawled under the table and sat down next to Tony. He intended to copy Tony's actions, but as the dog was merely sitting down, there was not much Alwyn could do except sit beside him.

Tony was not amused at this and bared his teeth, growling menacingly. To my horror, Alwyn did the same, putting his face close to Tonys. I expected him to be bitten at any moment. I think I must have screamed, because my mother rushed in, and following my pointing finger, ordered Alwyn to stop the game, immediately.

Tony was fierce courageous dog. He only bit me once, and it was my own fault as I was teasing him at the time. Having the wound cauterized at the local chemist's taught me never to tease an animal, again.

The row of shops where we lived contained a butcher's shop and I heard awful stories of how he caught rats and scalded them to death in a tub. He owned a bull mastiff and one day it chased me until fell, screaming with fear. I was always falling down and often wonder how I succeeded as a dancer.

A succession of servants took me out twice a day, in my perambulator. Close by, there was Norfolk Park and the Cholera Grounds, the latter contained a tall monument erected over a mass grave of people who had died from the disease in the 1800's. Despite this, it was a pleasant place with well-kept flower beds and lawns and a view over the city.

My parents had a lot of trouble with the girls they employed as shop assistants. Quite a number of them stole money and goods and were summarily dismissed. One girl had stuffed her shoes with notes and hidden gold and silver cigarette cases in her bedroom. In my mind's eye I can still see one of the culprits weeping at the door, her suitcase at her feet. The police were not informed of these crimes, as my parents believed that by losing their employment, the girls had been punished enough.

It was discovered that one girl was pregnant, so her father was asked to come and collect her. She was terrified of him and said he would probably kill her if he found out about her condition. So, when her father knocked on the front door, she departed via the door at the back. It was a close run thing.

My mother was extremely independent and at the age of seventeen, in order to start up in business, she borrowed five hundred pounds from her great-aunt - a large sum in those days. My parents, who were engaged to be married at the time, rented a fruit shop in Duke Street and worked hard to repay the loan and buy furniture for when they married.

Every evening, before closing the shop, they covered the fruit and vegetables, displayed in the window, with white sheets, and one night, a policeman on his beat was amazed to see the sheets undulating in the light of his torch. It turned out to be rats, busily gnawing their way through the produce. They took bites out of all the fruit, including every single grape!

The floor and walls of the shop were duly sealed, but noises came from a potato bin. When it was raised, a rat appeared with an injured leg. It hobbled out of the shop and up the street where it surprised an old tabby cat dozing in the sun. As the rat limped past, the cat did a double take, then pounced.

Prior to our dog Tony's arrival, or even mine, my parents doted upon a rough-haired fox terrier called, Floss. This much-loved animal had a yen for peas, and would carry a few pods from the shop into the middle of Duke Street, where tram-cars ran up and down all the time. Oblivious of any danger, Floss would sit down and proceed to open the pods and consume their contents. Tram-drivers would swear and slam on their brakes; at the same time producing a hissing noise from the vehicle in order to make Floss move out of the way. Many of these drivers would try to avoid being put on that particular route because of "That damned dog!"

Floss became very ill and my parents called in the vet; and cancelled a holiday in order to nurse her. However, she passed away, and with many tears, was buried in my Aunt Annie's garden at Crookes, a garden which at that time, overlooked one of Sheffields reservoirs. A large, framed picture of Floss remains to this day with the caption, "Our Floss, loved".

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