OLD fingers that had paled with cold stretched from the lady, sitting in powdered reverence, at the end of a pew by the black throb of the ancient radiator.

Slowly, it warmed the church, where, between two candles, sat the homely and whiskered priest, whose deep breathing stretched the red Cross stitched into his robe, as he offered his homily on death and remembrance.

Yes, goose pimples spread on English flesh with the natural ease of winter leaves falling on a rugby field. We talk of the weather, yet we have never been able to cope with its moods. Do your buttocks still warm to the memory of the grand radiators, which were as much part of our beloved England as the steady rhythm of drips in the bus shelter?

See and hear them again, those stout concertinas of iron – grumbling and rumbling, puffing and gasping out their heat in the old schools, hospitals, parish halls, barracks, pavilions, offices and factories. Invariably, they were stationed beneath an iced widow, which rattled in its slots, releasing wicked gusts of chilled air.

There was something endearing in their very inefficiency. It was part of life, like seeds in raspberry jam.

They were very much in evidence when I was a cub reporter. On countless occasions, I was dispatched by the paper to some hall or other to hear a lecture on the evolution of the surgical boot, prayer chants from the Andean foothills, or some such cultural delight, only to find the master of ceremonies on his haunches, bleeding, twisting or slapping the sole radiator, in the thin hope that her life would return – while offering prayers to the Almighty and apologies to the faithful, shivering in meagre rows in their mufflers, mittens, bonnets and trench coats.

I hear him again now. His voice carries the optimism of the congenital fool, as he calls through frosted breath to the secretary, who is reading out last month’s committee minutes to thrill the assembly.

“Soldier on, Agnes. Be of good cheer,” he exhorts. “We’ll have her going in a jiffy. Perhaps you could lead them into some light physical jerks while we wait, but nothing too energetic – just in case.”

New radiators are slim, slick, quiet and soulless, faultlessly governed by some invisible clock, so their very efficiency slips into the routines of life.

But what has happened to the reassuring clanging of pipes that heralded the advance of heat? How can you sit on them with their nasty, sharp edges? And where do you dry your wellies? The civilised chap should be able to rest a teapot by his steaming socks on a sympathetically designed radiator. And on what can the party girl now warm her stockings and undies?

Sitting on a radiator, feeling its heat rise through your upper thighs and into your hips, was a pleasure to compare with sucking a dunked biscuit – Heaven in Birkenhead. “Don’t sit there, you’ll get piles when you’re older,” said the Jeremiahs, but in sly moments they, too, sat on the radiators, reading the racing tips in the paper. There was always a stretch of radiator which was hotter than the rest and the heat from it could penetrate your clothing suddenly, persuading you to move along to a more temperate zone.

Of course, these radiators were found in domestic houses. But public buildings were their natural habitat, so you could warm your bottom in a spirit of socialism or Christianity. And gin-breathed Spiritualists in community halls enjoyed comforting their cheeks on the resident radiator, before a spot of communing with the dead. Honesty requires me to admit that they were not as reliable as these new heaters, which blend-in with all the other wall fittings and hum with the cold promise of advertisements in a shopping catalogue.

For the workings of the old radiators were known only to one master, usually the stalwart caretaker blessed with a splendid English name – Stan, Tom, Bert or Norman. Such a man would never stray far from a cup of tea. He was not to be hurried by the shrill tones of authority. His brown overalls were fitted with a large pocket, home to his hammer, a ruler, the Daily Sketch and a green tin for tobacco and cigarette papers. He would tap the radiator seductively and then listen closely to her responses, sometimes stroking her curves like a lover. It always worked. Winter’s coming stirs memories.

LISTEN to David Charters on his picture podcast at www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk