“The building is over 100 years old but when I was born, it wasn’t Preston Hospital it was the Workhouse…”
Ian McSally unearths a family history tied to Preston Hospital near Billy Mill revealing memories of hardship and resilience.
Into the glowing hearth I watched the coal gas jets spurting out from incandescent fossil rocks. The costly ceiling lights were off, and the dark corners of the living room had lost their shape. My grandad sat beneath the standard lamp and blew into the edge of the newspaper to separate the pages. His big rough thumbs split the leaves in a manner of him splitting bricks a few hours earlier. I nestled into the orange rug and lay amongst the burn marks grown from sparks that had evaded the mesh fire guard.
“Where was I born grandma?” I asked, staring into the grey, rising smoke.
“Eh?”, said Grandad, momentarily half able to hear half a word. He picked up his vinyl wrapped glasses case, worn to the metal on one end, and took out his readers.
“Billy shut up and read the paper”, my grandma scolded. “You were born in Preston Hospital.”
“Yeah, that’s right”, I confirmed and pulled my feet under my dressing gown. “Were you born there, grandma?”
“Good God no!” my grandmother replied. She pulled back the fire guard and lit her cigarette from the flames. She leaned back in her chair and puffed away on her Embassy Regal. With her dentures laid on the arm of the chair atop a Man-Sized tissue, her soft wrinkled cheeks made odd, flowing shapes.
“Why weren’t you born in Preston Hospital grandma?” I asked, furrowing my brow mid-question.
“There was no such place when I was born. I was born at home in the back bedroom of your great, great grandma‘s house.”
“But grandad said Preston Hospital was over 100 years old.”
My grandad leaned forward from under the standard lamp and its light played down on his back. I pulled away from the fire and its glow washed his face orange.
“It is 100 years old Florrie, the lad’s right”, he said then returned to his crossword.
As my grandad licked the end of his pencil, my grandma answered, “Your grandad is right. The building is over 100 years old but when I was born, it wasn’t Preston Hospital it was the Workhouse. All I can remember of that horrible place is grown men picking cigarette ends out of the gutter to get tobacco so they could roll their own.”
I tried not to look confused when thinking about rolling or whatever.
“So, what happened in the Workhouse grandma?” I asked.
“If you were poor and you couldn’t look after yourself, you were sent to the Workhouse. You had to do backbreaking work, to earn your bed and food.”
I stared back over the orange rug to Grandma’s chair, the one with the high wingback to shield her from the draughty metal windows. “What was that like Grandma?”
My grandfather laughed showing his dentures were correctly fitted. His beaming and booming smile and laugh filled the room. “Marriage!” he shouted putting the crossword down.
“Billy Rigby that’s terrible, and don’t interrupt!” my grandma shouted.
“It’s not terrible Florrie; it’s just seven across.”
Ian McSally 22nd July 2025
For more memories of Preston Hospital, and also the Jubilee Hospital, join the Facebook Group Tynemouth Jubilee & Preston Hospital Staff & friends group
