 I came across this wonderful document today while looking through my father's books. Moorhead Mills, Booths' Mill, was the last of the seven mills in the industrial village of Gildersome outside Leeds to close. As I recall, it specialised in billiard table cloth and army uniforms and eventually succumbed in the late 198os (I think 1989). The mill - quite a sizeable one as you can tell from these aerial photos - was demolished and sold for building. It was on the Gildersome Lane end of the village not far from Matty Barker hill.    The first two of these aerial photos are undated. The third is from 1928 - and it shows the house were I grew up. Hilly Croft on Gildersome Lane was built as a mill owners' house - though my parents bought it in 1960 when, as I recall, the previous owners went bankrupt.
My father's family had a worsted mill on Gelderd Road at the other end of the village. This which closed earlier, probably in the 1970s - and like all the seven Gildersome woollen mills, has also been demolished. But towards the end of his working life, and quite by chance, my father (Arthur Whitehead) had a go at turning round Moorhead Mills and giving it a new lease of life. To his disappointment, though not his surprise, he failed. He was in charge as the mill closed - and I guess that's how he came to have this certificate. It's quite small, the size of a paperback book, but such an evocative reminder of the mills. The 'tanks for attack' campaign, by the way, was one of several wartime savings scheme intended to boost the war effort. I wonder how much money you had to raise to count as 'specially meritorious service'? I am posting below a couple of photos of Moorhead Mills at about the time it closed . These are included with the permission of Chuck Soderlund who runs a truly excellent website on the history of Gildersome. He in turn got these images from the mill historian Peter Munthe Webster.  
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Take the details of the Stepney branch secretary ... yes that's Clement Attlee, He was then 26 and based at Toynbee Hall. 13 years later he became the MP for Limehouse; another 13 years on, he became the leader of the Labour Party; and 10 years after that he took office as Prime Minister of the most reforming government in Britain's modern history.  And I was surprised to see that the small West Yorkshire mill village where I grew up had its own ILP branch. Leonard Newell was the secretary of the Gildersome ILP:  Nearby Drighlington also had its own branch, as did Morley, while Batley had two - one of them the only women's branch listed in the directory (secretary, Miss N.E. Turner).
 I've been thinking a lot about my mother this week. She would have been ninety last Saturday. Sadly, she died in August 2000. This is my parents' wedding at Gildersome Baptist Church on 18th July 1953. All four of my grandparents are present - Joseph and Ethel Whitehead are (discounting the child in arms) the fourth and fifth from the left at the back while Elizabeth and Thomas Graham are on the far right. My father's two brothers (and their wives) and my mother's three sisters (one of whom married my father's twin brother) are all there. So are my two oldest cousins. I think I can name almost everyone - but I really should have double checked with my father, who died a couple of years ago. I've blogged about my father, Arthur Whitehead - but not so much about my mother. Time to make amends. Margaret Graham was born in Glasgow - her father was a Protestant from Belfast (his mother was a Catholic, which explains why they eventually moved out ) who served his apprenticeship in the Harland and Wolff shipyards, then moved over to Glasgow where he worked as a boilermaker in the Govan shipyards. My mother was brought up in a close in Ibrox, a short stroll from the Rangers football ground - she and her friends used to sneak in when the gates opened and catch the last few minutes of the game. When my mother was about nine, her father got a job as, I think, a foreman in a steel stockholding plant near Gildersome, and the Graham family all moved to West Yorkshire. Their home was on Grove View at the centre of Gildersome. My mother went to Morley Grammar School and worked as a telephonist before meeting and marrying my father. Her parents and two youngest sisters eventually emigrated to South Africa and her father (who I never met) died there. Just by coincidence - or is it? - I have over the last few days been looking through some of the family papers and photos my father left - quite a few of which are in fact my mother's. Some of the letters feel too intimate for a third party to read. Among them is a Valentine card my father sent before they married. She also kept a lot of my letters - from college, from India when I worked there, all sorts of stuff which I never imagined might survive. There's also a few of my mother's pocket diaries from the 1950s, including her entries at the time of my birth. It's both wonderful and slightly unsettling to read about how I came into the world. I was born on June 23rd - here's what she wrote on that day and the days either side:  'To go in Mo[rley] Hall [[maternity home]] 10am if not taken before. A[rthur] took me. Dr McNaughton came - started injections 2.15pm. Pains started about 3.30pm. Had injections. A came 7-8pm. Pains wore off + started at midnight. Went into Labour Ward 1am - nothing to eat all day. Dr Mc called twice + called to see A. A came 7-8pm the waters started to break. Baby born app 11.30pm. 8lb 2ozs. Dr McNaughton arrived about 5 mins after birth + gave 2 stitches. Sun 24: A + Mam came 2.30-3.30pm + A at 7-8pm. Baby doing fine - Andrew. Dr McN called in morning. Nellie came to window about 6.15pm + brought flowers.' Also among her papers I came across this portrait photo - I don't recall seeing it before. It's undated, but I imagine it may have been taken for her twenty-first birthday.   I've been on a sentimental journey back to Gildersome and Morley, the corner of West Yorkshire where I - and my father - grew up. This locality, just outside Leeds, was once part of the Heavy Woollen District. The Whiteheads had a mill in Gildersome - though producing fine worsted cloth rather than heavy woollens. It was called W. Whitehead & Sons - Willie Whitehead was my great-grandfather. The journey, and this post, has been prompted by the recent death of my father, Arthur Whitehead, at the age of 91. He worked for a while in the family mill, and lived for much of his life in Gildersome.
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Gildersome Baptist Church ...
The cemetery at the back has been landscaped, but many of the gravestones are still there. The most imposing memorial, in Cleopatra's Needle style, is to one of the Booths, Joseph Booth 'Cloth Manufacturer, Gildersome' and his wife Elizabeth, both of whom died in 1874.
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 | The inscription reads: 'In Loving Memory of Eunice, dearly beloved wife of Leonard Whitehead, who died March 5th 1919 aged 31 years'. Leonard was my father's uncle - Eunice died five years before Dad was born. Leonard later married Eunice's sister, Agnes. Their nephew - Geoffrey Crowther, Baron Crowther of Headingley - was editor of the Economist for almost twenty years. |
Family footsteps ...
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Whiteheads' mill - Deanhurst Mill on Gelderd Road - was sold by my grandfather in about 1960. It carried on operating until, I'd guess, the 1970s. It was demolished quite a while back. The photo below shows the view from the site of the mill, across Gelderd Road, on to what was farmland, with the stump of an old windmill once visible. As you can see, it's now being developed. On the skyline you can make out the clock tower of Morley Town Hall.
Morley Hall ...
| There's a fairly non-descript plaque - a building of such antiquity deserves better. Below is how the place looked in 1960, when it was still a maternity home ... and then another image of how it is today. |  |
Morley's churches ...
| On Morley's skyline, alongside the Town Hall, another building dominates - the burnt out ruins of St Mary's-in-the Woods. It wasn't the parish church but non-conformist. There's isn't a C of E church in the town centre - though the place is stuffed full of grand non-conformist chapels, many still in use. |  |
 |  What a delightful and impressive Baptist Tabernacle! |
 |  The Methodist Church above, with a Whitehead gravestone; below, what was the Primitive Methodists |
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And during my promenade, I popped into The Royal in Morley Bottoms where a pint of John Smith's set me back £1.89. Not happy hour, not a special offer - that's the price!
| My father died earlier this month at the age of 91. I've written this tribute for the Morley Observer in West Yorkshire - I'm posting the piece as submitted, along with some memory-rich photos: |  My father outside his childhood home in College Road, Gildersome |
The death on October 6 of my father Arthur Whitehead - from a Gildersome mill family and a former Morley councillor - breaks another link with the textile industry which once defined the area.
With his passing, there are no longer any Whiteheads around who worked at Whiteheads' mill.
Arthur was 91 and had for the last few years been living in Easingwold near York, but the greater part of his life was spent in Gildersome and Morley. He married a Gildersome girl, Margaret Graham - born in Glasgow, her family moved to the village when she was a child - in the local Baptist Church in the coronation summer of 1953.
His grandfather Willie Whitehead, who began his working life as a loom tuner, established the mill just over a century ago. According to family folklore, he borrowed money from an aunt who had inherited after (accidentally) giving her husband disinfectant to drink.
In the 1920s, the business moved to purpose-built premises at Deanhurst Mill on Gelderd Road - a small worsted mill in an area more noted for shoddy and mungo manufacture.
Joseph Whitehead, my grandfather, was the main force behind the mill's success. He was a typical, strong-willed tyke and chairman of what was then the Gildersome Urban District Council.
His wife, Ethel Brooksbank - one of the first women graduates from Leeds University - was every bit as formidable. Both served as magistrates in Morley. They were also active in Gildersome Cricket Club - and I remember as a child going with my Dad to see the occasional game at the ground at the back of Street Lane.
My father and his twin brother, Bernard - older than him by ten minutes - were born in Wibsey in Bradford and moved when very young to College Road in Gildersome, at the back of the family mill. They went to Gelderd Road primary school and Batley Grammar School; my father took a two-year wartime degree in the textile department at the University of Leeds.
During the war, he trained as a pilot in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe). He was still there when the war ended - and can remember his instructor saying: if you are signing up to stay in the air force we'll keep on with the training, if not just clear off.
On his return, he qualified as an accountant and worked in the family firm; so too did Bernard, who had a flair for design (Bernard died in 1984). I remember visiting Deanhurst Mill as a toddler, and being assailed by the deafening clack-clack of the looms and delighting in tumbling around among the cloth off-cuts.
 Bernard and Arthur and their older brother Donald ... and on the right, my parents when they were courting |  |
When my parents married, they moved to Bruntcliffe Lane in Morley. My father was elected to the council - he was a Liberal. I was born at Morley Hall maternity home in 1956; my brother Malcolm, now a vet in North Yorkshire, came along three years later.
In 1960, the family moved back to Gildersome - to Hilly Croft on Gildersome Lane, which like most of the more imposing buildings in the area had been constructed decades earlier with mill money. That was my childhood home. My bedroom looked out to Harthill. There were blackberries in the surrounding fields, partridges used to stroll across the lawn - it was a curiously rural corner of the West Riding.
At about that time, Joseph Whitehead took his family by surprise and sold the mill. It continued to make fine worsted cloth for a while longer. But my father left the business and went on to a highly successful career in carpets, working variously at Heckmondwike Carpets, Kosset Carpets at Brighouse, and becoming managing director of Carpets International, which included the renowned Crossleys Carpets of Halifax.
On retirement, my father worked as an investment adviser to a leading enterpreneur. And by a curious twist of fate, that took him back to Gildersome's mills. He tried against the odds in the 1980s to devise a recovery plan for the village's last working mill - Booth's mill, also known as Moorhead Mill, which specialised in cloth for billiard tables and army uniforms.
That failed, and the mill closed - and with it a tradition of textile manufacture in Gildersome which stretched back over two centuries. I have in my home in London the mill's wind-up 'clocking-in' clock and a batch of time cards.
After sixty or so years in Gildersome and Morley, my parents moved to Hunmanby Gap on the coast near Filey. My mother very sadly died three years short of their golden wedding anniversary. My father then moved first to Huby, and for the last few years he has shared a home in Easingwold with a childhood friend and distant cousin, Betty Richards.
Arthur's interests included painting 'op' art in the style of Bridget Riley and tapestry. He enjoyed good health almost to the end. Friends have described him as a true gentleman - courteous, contented, kind and well groomed.
On a couple of occasions in recent years, I have driven Dad around Gildersome and Morley. He wasn't particularly sentimental and it was difficult to tease out tales from his younger days, but he enjoyed revisiting places which had been important in his life.
We knew that the woollen mills in Gildersome had long since closed - we hadn't quite expected that all seven would have disappeared almost without a trace. But there were some places where we could feel in touch with the mill era. He relished having lunch at Woodlands off Gelderd Road, built in the 1870s as a local mill owner's mansion and now a boutique hotel.
And we drove past the Baptist Church, which now has a good claim to being the grandest building in Gildersome. My father wasn't religious, but he - and I - have rekindled a link with Gildersome Baptists in recent years.
I've made my career as a BBC journalist and, when reporting on a visit to Martin Luther King's Baptist church in Atlanta, happened to mention my family's roots in Gildersome's Baptist tradition. The minister David Newton was listening and got in touch. We've stayed in touch. He passed on the congregation's good wishes when my Dad celebrated his ninetieth birthday - it was great to maintain that Gildersome connection.
By the time I got there, he had left academia behind. I came across him only occasionally - attending a seminar he gave when he, as I recall, unilaterally changed the subject to the haunting death of his older brother, Frank, in Bulgaria towards the end of the Second World War; I chaired a meeting at which he spoke, calling for the release of the East German dissident Rudolf Bahro; and much later, in 1991, I interviewed Edward and his wife Dorothy about their years in the Communist Party, and the audio is posted elsewhere on this site.
My own association with Morley Library is restricted to attending stamp club sessions there, rather unwillingly, as a child. My father was on Morley council at the time Thompson was writing his book. My father was an independent, which usually meant Tory but in his case Liberal. He never came across E.P. Thompson, but much to my surprise talked of attending Workers' Educational Association classes - one on history held at Morley Grammar School, and another during the war which he attended with his mother (a JP and National Liberal) at the unlikely venue of the Gildersome Conservative Club.
All this is incidental, but out of a web of such tenuous links, affinities and association are built. And I am more than a little chuffed to discover that E.P. Thompson taught in Morley.
CUE: Fifty years ago, in the era of Martin Luther King, black-led Baptist churches were at the heart of the civil rights movement. They played a crucial part in reshaping the United States, and continue to attract millions of African-American adherents. On his first visit to the American south, Andrew Whitehead joined worshippers at what was once Martin Luther King’s church, in Atlanta:
‘Fried green tomatoes – it was a great film, not so great to eat. Catfish is edible only in really spicy breadcrumbs. Avoid grits for breakfast – though shrimp’n’grits is good for lunch. And go to a Baptist service: If you are courteous and friendly you'll be welcomed and it’s truly an astonishing experience.’
A friend’s emailed advice when he heard I was heading to Atlanta, my first experience of America’s deep south. He was right on the shrimp’n’grits – wrong on the fried green tomatoes – and I steered well clear of catfish however cooked.
And going to church? Well, I’m a non-believer, I don’t go to church.
Not entirely true. My wife once said, a touch accusingly: for an atheist, you spend an awful lot of time in churches. They are often so magnificent. Their doors open. Such a good way of communing with the past.
More than that. Faith is so tied up with identity, community, you can’t be interested in today’s world and uninterested in the public expression and private meaning of religious practice.
There’s a personal back story too. In the north of England mill village where I grew up, the Baptist church once loomed large. It was where the mill owners worshipped. A squat Victorian edifice - still black with soot stains.
Both my grandmothers went to church there; my uncle was a deacon; my father attended the Sunday School; my parents married there in the Coronation summer of 1953. There must be a bit of Baptist in me. Strange to say, though I grew up a short stroll away, I entered the church for the first time only a few years ago – as part of my personal communing with the past.
At the time Gildersome’s Baptist church was being built, in the mid-1860s, Atlanta was burned to the ground. The most emphatic aspect of the pro-slavery south’s defeat in the American civil war. Atlanta rose from those ashes. It is now the premier city of the southern states – home of Coca Cola and CNN. The site of the 1996 Olympics - and of the grave of America’s most renowned Baptist, Martin Luther King.
My first morning in Atlanta – jet-lagged and up much earlier than makes sense on a Sunday – I stumbled across the city to the district once known as ‘Sweet Auburn’. City guides say that in the 1930s, when Michael King - as he was born - was growing up here, this was the richest black locality in the world. Solid, respectable, and deeply religious.
The Ebenezer Baptist Church was at the heart of the community. Its founding pastor had been born into slavery. The old church, the one where both King and his father preached, is now largely a tourist attraction. The new church across the road, opened fourteen years ago, is vast and impressive. Where the older churches were a touch dark and enclosed, this one has space and light.
As I walked in the lobby at 9 o’clock on a Sunday morning, it was full of activity. Outreach stalls. Mission stands. A service underway in the main auditorium. I craned through the glass doors. I hadn’t intended to go in – it feels an intrusion if you are not there for worship. But an usher - besuited, bow tied - opened the door and beckoned me in.
It was the early service, the church wasn’t full, though there would have been perhaps four- or five-hundred present. I didn’t spot another white face. The pastor was delivering his sermon – persuasive oratory about the church's new mental health ministry, tackling stigma and providing support.
The choir was magical, even for someone usually unmoved by gospel music. Twenty or so men, middle aged or older - in matching suits, and striking pale yellow ties - swaying as they sang.
If I thought that sitting at the back I could be inconspicuous, that's not how this service works. I want you to turn to the person next to you, said the pastor, and say: have you welcomed Christ into your life? The woman to my right grabbed my wrist, smiled and asked just that. ‘I can’t honestly say I have’, I said, and posed the same question back. "Yes, I have", she replied.
The final hymn, the congregation all held hands, swaying to the rhythm, and in the final verse, we raised our arms aloft. There was an energy, a joyfulness, which I found moving, and humbling.
I can see why the church looms so large in the lives of the congregation. It has helped take them from darkness to a better place, it does that - after a fashion - every Sunday.
This report prompted an email from David Newton, which I post here with his permission:
Fame is such a fleeting thing, but it was nice to get some on last week's From Our Own Correspondent.
I was driving to work yesterday (I commute from Filey to Gildersome 3 days a week) and was listening to the podcast, when you declared yourself to be going to Atlanta.
"Been there." I thought, "Wonder if this guy will get out of the worlds worst airport." (My wife had her bags searched and her toothpaste confiscated before security would let us OUT of the airport)
You made it and were heading to a Baptist Church. "I'm a Baptist." I thought.
You recalled the northern mill town Baptist Churches, "Oh yes we have loads of them up here."
Your grandparents and uncle went to the Baptist church and your parents were married there in 1953. "That makes him about my age."
Then you said it..... "At the time Gildersome’s Baptist church was being built,"
Hey that's us, I'm the minister there. I'm on my way to work there.
So at our church meeting (the time when the members get together and decide what we want to do) last night I played them your clip, thinking they would be pleased to have got a worldwide mention.
Wish I hadn't.
How many 'Whiteheads' do you think they could name - Why is The Vicar of Dibley so accurate?
Anyway, thanks for the mention. Any time you are back in Leeds call again. I don't preach like Martin Luther King, nor his successors, but the people of Gildersome are the friendliest I know, and their good hearts are making the world a better place, step by step.
God Bless
David
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