The following story captured my imagination to such a degree that it influenced my decision to become a St. Clair.

This story was transcribed by L.W. St Clair July 1995 from a 40 minute recording made by Ernest St Clair: “The St Clair Story” As narrated by Ernest St Clair c.1978

"This is the story of the St Clair family. My name is Ernest St Clair and I am one of a family of six sons and three daughters. My father was “Professor” James Chadwick St Clair, society entertainer. My mother was Alice Margaret Cunnion. James Chadwick’s father, a wholesale flour merchant, was born in 1831 and died in 1883, age 52, in Liverpool. His name was Alfred Aser Hughes. He married Mary Chadwick.

My mother, Alice Margaret Cunnion, was born on 11th December 1861. She was the daughter of George Cunnion, an estates farms manager, and Margaret Cunnion, formerly Simmons, she was an hotelier, and my mother stayed until she was sixteen when she married my father, James Chadwick St Clair, in 1878. My mother was born in Norton, a pleasant suburb of the Northern Yorkshire Port of Middlesborough. All of my parent’s family were born in Lancashire.

At the time of their marriage my father was 22 and my mother 16 years of age. Their first home was in the north Lancashire village of Arkholm, a small village in the headwaters of the valley of the Lune, tucked into the north east corner of Lancashire, abutting upon Yorkshire and Westmoreland, 14 miles from the nearest township and railway station. There, Amy Madelaine St Clair was born on 24th March 1879. My mother disliked red-headed people and her first born, Amy Madelaine, was a fiery red-head. She grew up to be a stately, devastatingly attractive, young lady. Their first son, Alfred St Clair, was born in November 1880, also at Arkholm. They were both christened at the ancient parish church of Arkholm.

News of his father’s impending demise brought my father and mother, and the two children, back to Liverpool, where, on 11th February 1884, their son James William was born.

My grandfather, my father’s father, was interned in the Kirkdale cemetery, Fazakerly, in the undenominational section, being of course a Methodist. He was one of the first persons to be buried in that new cemetery, the first body interned at that cemetery was an 11 month-old girl. After the open-air country life at Arkholm, where my father earned a living by entertaining the elite, the wealthy, the aristocratic, in their large country houses at the many parties that they had in those Victorian days. When he returned to Liverpool he did not stay there very long but moved to Waterloo, then a very pleasant sea-side town with miles and miles of golden sand and sand hills, just 20 minutes by steam train from Waterloo Station, South Road, to Exchange Station in Liverpool. There on 10th December 1885, Wilfrid John was born.

The next to arrive was myself, Ernest St Clair, on the 22nd January 1893, at number 19 King Street. News of my arrival spread like wildfire, the church bells rang out. The chorus was taken up from Waterloo to the surrounding villages and towns, then gradually all over the country the church bells rang out. That same year, the Liverpool overhead railway company opened their new electric railway from Dingle to Seaforth Sand, at that time of course the nearest dock were Canada docks. Mark you, the fact that it was Sunday morning, when I was born, might have had something to do with the church bells ringing! There was a sequel, however; news travelled fairly slowly in those days you know and on my eighth birthday, 22nd January 1901, the news of my arrival had reached Windsor Castle and Queen Victoria passed away.

At that time a lot of building was going on and there was a sandy area directly behind our home at 19 King Street. Whilst I was still a toddler, a gold chalice disappeared and my parents came to the conclusion that I had taken it out with a little spade and used it to make sand pies and inadvertently buried it. It was never recovered. This was a commodious house, very high ceiling, very nice front garden.

The next to arrive was Frank Chadwick St Clair in October 1895. By this time the family numbered eight and we moved, as the family increased, into a larger home. We removed to 27 Ashdale Road, Waterloo, a very large house with a commodious front garden. There my sister Mary St Clair was born on 1st may 1898. She was always known as Maisie. A delightful golden haired, golden natured girl.

What a wonderful place that was, the Waterloo of those days. Where the elder boys would go swimming and the small fry paddling. I remember we had our miniature shrimping nets and simply paddle along in the shallow pool and scoop up enough shrimps for the evening tea, whilst the boys themselves often could catch flukes and edible crabs on the many rocks that were strewn over the beach.

My mother bought a bicycle shop, with a showroom directly opposite the Waterloo station, at 83 South Road. The workshop was a No.1 Bath Street. In those days the patent cycle with pneumatic tyre cost 20 guineas each and the highest wage a clerk or an engineer got was £1, so they were very, very expensive. This was in the year 1895 and the first issue of the Crosby Herald came out on a Saturday, it’s a weekly edition of course, and it had a large advertisement of “J.C.St Clair Cycle Shop”, “CTC agent” etc., etc.. My father decided that a little advertising wouldn’t do any harm so he cycled from Crew, in Cheshire, to Waterloo on the macadam, and other rough roads, in four and a half hours on a penny-farthing “bone shaker”. This feat was recorded in the Waterloo Herald. Seen by the local magistrates, my father was hauled before them and fines two shillings and sixpence for “furious riding”

My father and my eldest sister Amy used to cycle occasionally from Waterloo to Liverpool. It was at that time that an American lady named Mrs Bloomer invented the voluminous pantaloons which enabled ladies to cycle without having their skirts entangled in the spokes of the wheels. The route, of course, took them through Seaforth, Bootle and down Scotland Road, there they were greeted with catcalls, “the so and so brazen hussy”, they were pelted with rather over ripe tomatoes and other missiles.

In those days, in every watering place and on the fronts at promenades, at the various seaside resorts, there were a kind of basket-work chair on wheels. Two large wheels, the basket-chair itself and the small wheel in front to which was attached a handle and the bath-chair attendant plied for hire and pulled elderly people along the promenade and back again for a fee. My father, being of an inventive turn of mind, adapted the idea, to instead of being pulled by a man, the front wheel was omitted, the handle from underneath the chair from the back axle brought forward into an arc and fastened with a swivel under the saddle of a bicycle. Thus my brother Wilfrid John would often take my mother for a ride through Ince woods, we smaller fry followed on little tricycles and small bikes.

At the turn of the century those halcyon days finished and the family moved to Liverpool in 1900, to Oxford Street, Abercromby Square. This was indeed a glasgow, a green and pleasant place. Abercromby Square itself was a delightful garden, surrounded on three sides with magnificent Georgian houses and on the east side the imposing side of the high church of St Catherine’s. Oxford Street where we lived was on the north side of the square. The east side of the square was St Catherine’s and it’s flanking houses. The south side was Cambridge Street and the west side Bedford Street North. These were commodious houses, each of them had their own private garden in the rear of the house and at the back again was the coach house.

One of our neighbours was the Bishop of Liverpool who lived in his palace on the north side of the square, in Oxford Street. I think he was the only one who had his own stable and horses. It really was an elite place to live in. Owing to the growth of livery and baits stables where cabs, hansom cabs, taking two people, and a variety of vehicles such as horse charabancs, givens carts, could be hired by the hour, by the day or by contract. There was no necessity at all for the residents of the square and Oxford Street to have their own horses or vehicles. All that was necessary was for one of the servants to stand on the front steps and blow a whistle, one for a hansom cab, holding two people, or twice for a four wheeled cab. Some of these vehicles were usually stationed in the adjoining mews streets, or just passing by, similar to our taxis of today.

Each resident, by the way, paid a guinea a year, one pound one shilling, for a key of the gates of Abercromby square which paid for the upkeep of the garden and, of course, the gardener’s employment there. The higher rates levied on the residents helped towards the upkeep of the public parks.

Our own delightful garden, in the rear of our home, was the pride and joy of my eldest brother Alfred who took a keen delight in gardening. There was a rockery at the bottom of a very nice lawn, too small for tennis but just right for croquet. A crunchy gravel path, the Virginia creeper covered boundary wall and the rockery, which glistered in the sunlight with a white rock spar beloved by the Victorians. There was, of course, a great variety of rock plants amongst them, whilst the flower beds themselves were a riot of colour, making the whole garden a really peaceful haven. A net hammock, strung between two trees, added to the restful atmosphere.

My brother Harold Octavious, the eighth son, was born in 1901 and in 1903 my sister Doris, known as Dolly, was born. She was the last arrival in our family.

Before I go on to personalities, I must really tell you of a hilarious incident which took place towards the turn of the century when we lived at Ashdale Road, Waterloo:

I was getting on towards the age of seven. Frank Chadwick would be five and Mary, Maisie, a toddler.
There were no plastics in those days, so the children’s chamber pots were made of enamel ware. As a game I harnessed Frank to a chamber pot with a harness of string, more string became the reign, we filled the chamber pot with earth from the garden and carted it down to a nearby building site. The girl grew tired of this game and returned to the house where Mary was standing on the doorstep. She held in her hand a packet of letters tied with ribbon. She had been exploring and had gone to Amy’s room, opened some drawers and found this packet of letters, all of them addressed to Amy, who certainly did not lack suitors. So Frank Chadwick remained as a horse, the chamber pot became the mail cart and myself the driver and toddler Mary, the post man. We went along the street, stopping at each house, Mary took one of the letters, reached up on her tip-toes and put it through a letter box, came back, I whipped up the horse, by the way, to the next house until all the letters were successfully delivered and, flushed with success, we went home to tea. This was during a quiet time of the day and the episode passed unnoticed, there was no one in the street. We heard of the sequel later when a scarlet-faced Amy received one neighbour after another who sweetly told her “Do you know, Amy, the children must have been playing postmen, but, of course, seeing them addressed to you we wouldn’t dream of reading them!” I’m quite sure that only Amy’s sisterly love prevented our immediate massacre.

Returning now to Oxford Street, there were some stone steps leading from the garden down into the basement, the domain of the household staff. Each of the houses had this mezzanine basement, that is to say that is was partly below the surface of the ground and partly above, thus necessitating mounting several steps to reach the front door. The kitchen was fitted with enormous coal ranges in those days, together with a clockwork jack for grilling before the fire, a huge hob and an enormous kettle always simmering on it. The steel fender and fire iron were polished to a mirror like surface, the ensemble was completed with a Dutch oven which could be hung onto the front of the fire and bacon, sausages etc. could be grilled.

In the centre of the kitchen was a huge table, scrubbed white, which served as a work table for the preparation of food and other domestic chores and doubled as a dining table for the staff. The basement was also furnished with the usual black horsehair upholstered furniture of that day, a sofa, two or three very comfortable arm chairs and half a dozen wooden chairs. The floor was covered with a kind of close-woven coir mat of various colours, all together quite comfortable.

Our cook, Mrs Mary Burrel, was non-resident. She lived in Pleasant Street, a few hundred yards away and came on duty about 7.30 and departed at 6.30. While she was away, the assistant cook doubled for her. She and the other two girls had their own quarters in a mezzanine area at the top of the house.

A glass panelled staircase gave access to the hall. The front door had a massive knocker, whilst a recessed lever could be pulled to operate, through a series of wires and bell cranks, to actuate spring loaded bell in the kitchen. A member of the staff could glance into the angled mirror and see who was calling at the front door. The same system enabled appropriate bells to operate from the dining room, study, the bathroom, various bedrooms etc. The ringing of the bell also actuated a red and white disk, which moved to and fro, in a glass case appellated with the names of the various rooms.

At this juncture I refer back to 19 King Street, Waterloo, where I mentioned the incident of myself as a toddler losing a golden chalice. It was, in fact, a christening cup presented to me by my Godfather, Alfred Wainwright, who was the shoeing smith and farrier who had his premises next door to the Liver Hotel at the junction of South Road and Crosby Road, Waterloo. It might be of interest to note as well, that the parish clerk at St.Lukes church, in Crosby Road North, was named Chadwick, probably a relative of my paternal grandmother.

Reference to the cycle shop in South Road should, of course, be J.C. St Clair. I don’t think that the married women’s property act had, at that time, been enacted. Thus the premises would come under the name of the husband, James Chadwick St Clair.

Alfred Aser Hughes, my paternal grandfather, died of cancer of the leg at No.5 Stevenson Street, Wavertree, Liverpool, which is off Picton Road. Stevenson Street is parallel with Rathbone Road. No.5 was destroyed by enemy action this last war and a new house is built in its place. My father never spoke of his father, mother or any other member of his family. Information about my father’s birthplace and that of my brother James William and information about my grandfather only came to light this August through agents acting on my behalf. The news that my grandfather was dying was no doubt sent to my father and mother in Arkholm by my uncle Willie Simmons a relative of my maternal grandmother, Margaret Cunnion. My father had not seen his relatives for some years, and he had always used the name St Clair since his seafaring days. I have no doubt that that did not please his mother when she heard about it and, no doubt, in order to placate her, James William was christened just James William Hughes, son of James Chadwick Hughes.

There must have been some connection with Waterloo in father’s mother’s family, that is the Chadwick family, otherwise you’d hardly move to an unknown district. So, the next son, Wilfrid John was also christened Wilfrid John Hughes, only. This fact must have been unknown both to James and Wilfrid. Indeed Jim did not know where he was born. However, the name St Clair was resumed on my arrival seven years later. The same, of course, with Frank Chadwick and Mary St Clair and Harold Octavious and Doris, in Oxford Street.

As my mother, my father, all my brothers and sisters, all their lives were St Clair only, this became legally their name by repute and lifelong usage. This was re-enforced by a statement by John Holden of Bradner-Holden, made before a commissioner for oaths as to the legality of the name St Clair."

Thank you Ernest for making certain these memories of yours were kept alive, and will live on for a very long time to come.