Josiah Wedgewood

Volume 1 - chapter 14 -Part 2

It may have been from the local newspaper that I discovered that the famous Josiah Wedgwood was taking on staff, so I thought, ‘nothing ventured nothing gained,’ and I took myself off to the new model factory they had built out in the country near Barlaston. The personnel officer was a middle aged lady who was well spoken and dressed in tweeds. She had an office in a small detached building which meant that I did not enter the main factory, though I could see it was very modern with large areas of glass to allow good lighting. I had an extensive interview with the nice lady, during which she asked me for details of my hobbies and my home background. I was glad of this because my lack of educational qualifications was all too obvious, and for the first time in my life I became conscious of the importance of such things.

At the end of my interview the lady told me that there was a job in the decorating department for which she thought me suitable, and it was mine if I wanted it. I was to be a general factotum, but in time I would learn the various decorating processes, and could eventually become a departmental manager. It sounded good to me so I accepted and arranged to start the following Monday. Today I look back with the benefit of hindsight, and with much more understanding of the way things were, but at the time I had a much different impression of my situation. I had a job with a famous company, I had prospects, there appeared to be no need for reading, writing, or arithmetic, I would be able to prove my worth without any certificates or qualifications. In reality I was just to be a boy in the factory employed to fetch and carry, I was not a member of the staff, and I had no artistic skills to offer. It is certain that the kind lady, who gave me a job, had no illusions about my future prospects, or the lack of them.

The pottery industry was notorious for its unhealthy working conditions and minimal wages. Employers made huge fortunes at the expense of their workers who were often talented and skilled. Apart from those who cast things of beauty on a spinning wheel, there were dippers that applied the glaze, not a simple task; there were engravers that created pictures on copper plates, used to print the decorations applied to the tableware and other items of clay. There were also the myriads of working girls that painted and decorated with superb skill and great artistic talent, creating things of beauty that made a fortune for the people who employed them. It is hard to believe that all these workers provided their skills for a measly wage, while in other situations artistic skills such as theirs commanded handsome reimbursement in other circumstances. At least where Wedgwood was concerned an effort had been made to provide healthier working conditions, though the wages they paid were very little better than the wages offered by others in the industry.

The modern model factory where I took up my new employment was about 5/6 miles south of the city, set in a country setting. Much of the surrounding land was owned by the Wedgwood family, which ensured that it would remain the way they wanted it to be. The location had been chosen with great care with both the railway and canal running passing close to the factory. A short walking distance away they had built their own little railway station called Wedgwood Halt, and it was here that many of the workers arrived for their days work. A large proportion was from the Potteries, but there was also a small number that came from Stafford and places to the south. A row of houses had been built for those who were valued by the company, and a short distance to the east was a long narrow artificial lake which had been stocked with a variety of fish, including the anglers delight, the Pike. It was an impressive layout, and for most of us who came from the smoke laden and grimy city, it was a delight.

With the winter approaching I began my new employment by joining those who commuted by train each day. I would leave the house about 7am and catch a bus to Stoke railway station; about 7.40am the throng of workers would board the Manchester to Birmingham train which deposited us at Wedgwood Halt ten minutes later. We usually had ten minutes to walk to the factory where we clocked in at 8am, and here in lay a problem. Quite a crowd of us left the train, and at the end of the platform there was only a small picket gate through the fence that surrounded it. Those that brought up the rear would sometimes miss the 8am dead line for clocking on, and so there was always a dash for the gate. The young chaps in the crowd being short on sense would open the carriage doors before the train had stopped and would take a running jump, using the platform as a sprint pad.

With youth and agility this worked well enough, so I became one of the jumpers, trying with the others to be first through the gate. It was a risky thing to do, which was highlighted for me one winters day when we arrived on the train and did our usual thing. It had snowed and in the night the layer of snow had frozen into a sheet of ice, when I landed on it at speed my feet skidded from under me and I landed flat on my back. The other two or three fools who followed my example also went down like so many skittles, though we were lucky enough to get away with just minor bruises and no major injuries. I was lucky that day because I was wearing the thickest overcoat I had ever had, which cushioned me from the impact. It was in fact my father’s officers great coat, which had been dyed a dark brown and had civilian buttons attached. It was a quality coat and I thought very smart, I always felt good in it, and on this day it proved a benefit to me in a way I had not anticipated.

A tableware factory, or pot bank as we used to call them, was a women’s world with about 80% of the work force being female. I had little experience of the opposite sex to this point in my life, and was to find that working with so many women a revelation, and an education. My immediate boss was the manger of the painting and decorating department, which employed maybe fifty girls. There were those who painted in enamel paint, mostly on prints which had already been applied, and then there were the free hand painters who worked on designs other than printed ones. There were other groups of girls who did work with a brush; they were situated in other parts of the factory. There were liners who worked with a wheel, there job was to put colour bands and lines on various items by spinning them on the wheel and applying the brush to the spinning plate or saucer. It sounds easy, it looked easy, but it took much skill to do it correctly.

There were the guilders that did the same sort of thing in gold rather than colour, and there were all the other departments as well. There was a man who was manager of the printing department, and a middle aged lady who managed the burnishing department. In charge of all the painters and decorators was a Mr Reid, and was the one to whom I looked for my orders; most of the time Mr Reid left me to my own devices knowing that I would be kept busy by the demands of everyone who worked in the decorating department. My main job was to move the ware as required, from department to department, and finally to the warehouse where the finished product was stored. Everyone could use my services, but I did have the advantage of being free to roam the entire factory without looking out of place, or being asked what I was doing or where I was going.

Nearly everything was moved in trays with sides that were about eighteen inches high, or on steel racks which held wooden boards on which the hollow ware was placed. Both these receptacles could be picked up on a hydraulic jack, which had small wheels. The forks of the jack were pushed under that container, which was lifted clear of the floor so it could be wheeled easily from place to place. I was not supposed to spend my time loading and unloading, but I often earned myself considerable good will by helping to do so. My willingness pleased everyone; it was not difficult for me because I was obliging by nature. This gave me an advantage when I did things that were against the rules, often people would turn a blind eye because I was in their good books. For example, the heavy steel trolleys were supposed to be moved only at a walking pace, but when they were without a load, they could be used like a scooter. With their smooth running wheels they would glide along and could be accelerated to a running pace. I soon became expert at scooting around at a very fast pace indeed, and was often seen doing so, though no one every told me off for doing it. There were no brakes on these machines of course, and to stop them the trick was to spin the steering handle, which had a small double bogie on the end of it. This had a braking effect, and I soon became expert at stopping within a whisker of things.

Because I went out of my way to be helpful, those that wanted me would show some patience if I was not around. This was very helpful because I often stopped to watch what was happening somewhere in the factory, and I had time to watch and learn without worrying that someone was getting steamed up looking for me. One place that attracted my attention was the workshop where a new glaze dipping machine was being developed at the time. In the past the only way to apply a glaze to pottery was for a skilled dipper to do it by hand. Now a machine was being developed that would do it automatically, though it was proving difficult to get it to work to perfection. The glaze had to be applied to an article thinly and evenly, with no thick deposits or areas lacking in glaze at all. The machine was designed with a circular conveyor with slender prongs on which the pottery was placed. Turning slowly the conveyor carried the items through a short tunnel which contained jets that sprayed the glaze. The excess liquid fell into a sump from where it was pumped back into the spray tanks to be used again. It was a simple idea that should have been straight forward, but when I left the factory some six or seven months later, the engineers had still not made it work to perfection.

My time at Wedgwood’s was only short, but it was not all dull and boring, there were moments of interest and excitement. There was the strike when the work force downed tools for better pay and other things that I never knew about. The management kept vital parts of the factory going, like the kilns, and other such things. I was told by Mr Reid that I was not a member of the union and so should keep working, which I did, though it did not make me popular with my fellow workers.

There was the day I was sent to get the figure of a bull from the sample room, where samples of just about everything that Wedgwood had ever made were kept. These originals were priceless, and so was the bull which was covered in the signs of the zodiac, and was about 9/10 inches long. I had to climb a flight of stairs on my way back to the decorating department, and near the top the rubber heel on my shoe came loose and caught on the edge of the step. I fell with a crash knowing that the only thing that mattered was the precious bull. Clutching it tight in my arms I curled up tight and bounced like a rubber ball, saving the bull but suffering a number of bruises.

Some of the products made were very valuable indeed, so much so that even a single item if rejected, or not required by the buyer, was destroyed. I often got the job of destroying these lovely pieces of work, and could never see the sense in it. Why not sell them I thought, even if only to members of the staff, they would at least earn something and would not be entirely wasted. On one occasion there was a consignment of wall plaques being made for the ‘Big Game Club of South Africa’. They were almost ready for delivery, when a cancellation arrived, and several hundred of them had to be destroyed. They were the most beautiful things you ever saw, being plates about ten inches in diameter each with a marvellous picture of a wild animal in the middle. They were all there, lions, elephants, giraffes, every big game animal, and around the rim of each plate was a thick rich decoration in heavy gold. I cannot imagine what they would have been worth, but it must have been hundreds of pounds for each one, and I stood at the rubbish chute with a hammer, breaking each and every one of them before throwing the pieces down into the rubbish wagon below. Did they ever try and recover the gold that had been wasted? They certainly saved the rags that the guilders used to clean their brushes; these rags heavily impregnated with gold residue were sent back to the suppliers so that they could be burnt and the gold recovered.

There were two or three boys like myself who fetched and carried, but I was the only one working in the decorating department. We were the only employees who were allowed to move about the factory, everyone else had their place of work and were not expected to leave it. The girls of my department were considered of a better class than those who worked in what we called ‘The Clay End.’ We heard stories about these ‘Amazons’ of the dirty end of the factory, which made me more than happy that I did not have to go into their territory. One day a rumour winged its way around the workers, that the boy doing my job in the clay end of the factory, had been found in one of the remote stock rooms. He had been tied up; his trousers removed, and wet clay packed around his private parts. You can imagine how I felt when a couple of days after this story had made its rounds, I was instructed to go to that same stock room to collect a replacement plate for one that had been damaged in the firing process. Away I went through the glazing department, past the ovens where the pieces formed from the wet clay were fired into biscuit. In the vicinity of the casting and moulding departments, there was a lift which I had to take down into the bowels of the factory where the stock rooms were.

I was seen entering the lift, and in a flash two young women were into the lift with me. They were big brawny girls with arms like weight lifters, and I knew immediately that they meant me no good. As the lift began to descend they made their attack, one grabbing me from behind, while the other pressed the stop button for the lift. To them it might have been a joke, but to me it was deadly serious, and for the first time in my life I found myself using violence against the opposite sex. Their intention was to shame and embarrass me, but for a young man that would have been the ultimate in degradation, and I would have died first. It is a memory to laugh at now, but at the time I took it very seriously. Breaking from their grasp I punched like a boxer, and I was not gentle about it, which soon made them give up on their attack.

It was not often that I left my usual work area, but when I did there was often an adventure around the corner. At the other end of the factory the social structure rose with a superior type of worker in the warehouse that housed all the finished products. At one end of this warehouse was a door into the office wing where clerical people moved in a world of their own, and management had their offices. This sacred domain was off limits to the plebs in the factory, and I for one never passed into those hallowed halls. I did occasionally take items into the finished warehouse, and on one such occasion I came to the attention of the haughty Mr Smith, who was manager in this superior place of work. He may have been in need of an extra pair of hands at the time, so on observing me he promptly instructed me to carry out some work for him. I could not refuse such an august personage of course, but he was a pompous individual who was far from popular, and I was not going to help him if I could get away with it. In reply to his instructions I said very politely that before I began the work he had given me, I had to report to my immediate superior Mr Reid to let him know where I was.

Being mostly foot loose and fancy free my claim to need Mr Reid’s permission was a fabrication, but the superior Mr Smith had no option but to let me return to my own department to get permission to work elsewhere. I knew that all the departmental managers were empire builders, and jealous of their own authority, so it came as no surprise to me when Mr Reid reacted with great indignation. Accompanying me to the place where Mr Smith awaited my return, my boss waded right in with all guns blazing, and I stood to one side while these two giants of the factory floor vented their spleen. Having broken the rules Mr Smith was bound to lose this dispute, so I was free to go my way without having to work for him, I was never asked again to do work outside my own department.

Wedgwood’s did not pay well, but they did many other things to make the work place a more enjoyable place to be. For example, they had an excellent canteen which was situated in a separate building alongside the main factory. At one end of the main eating area was a special seating arrangement for staff and management, at the other end was a stage for entertainment, which were organised on a regular basis. Once or twice a week the diners would be entertained by a talent show, made up of employees who had something entertaining they could do. The personnel office organised these concerts, and they advised every entrant that the best performers would be selected for a grand show, which in a few weeks time would be broadcast on the radio. During the war the BBC had introduced a daytime broadcast called ‘Workers Playtime,’ which toured the factories of Britain, and these dinnertime concerts had proved very popular indeed. Because they were liked so much the show was continued after the war, and it was to be broadcast from the Wedgwood Canteen a few weeks after I began to work there.

It should have come as no surprise when the Personnel Manager, the lady in the country tweeds, sent for me one day, and after pointing out that my records showed I played a musical instrument, asked me if I was willing to appear on their concert in the canteen. My preference was to play for my own pleasure but under the circumstances I had little option but to agree. I duly appeared on the stage, and played a selection of popular songs of the day. My efforts were received with great enthusiasm, the favourite melody being ‘Blue Moon,’ which had everyone singing, and shouting for more. Needless to say, I was oneeveryone singing, and , and played a selection of popular songs of the daymentedgewood h were organised on a regular of the chosen few who were asked to perform for the radio broadcast a few weeks later.

No longer was I a nonentity, now everyone knew me, and most had friendly things to say, which made life much more enjoyable. Most of the clerical staff we males in those days, and these socially superior beings had formed a male choir which was funded by our employers. The leader was a gifted pianist who did not work for the company, but he knew music and trained the choir to an impressive standard. One of the results of my appearance on stage was that one of the staff, who was in the choir, approached me with an offer to join their happy throng, and this I did. For me it was an added pleasure to a life that seemed to have little to offer, we were given time off from work to practice in the canteen, which had an excellent grand piano. I enjoyed the music, singing second tenor, because my voice had broken and was a little low for the top tenors, but not low enough for the baritones. We were not bad, though I say it myself, and our rendition of ‘The Soldiers Chorus’ was great stuff, or so I thought. When I think back, I have to confess that almost as much as the music, I enjoyed the refreshments provided by the canteen. My particular favourite was the jam tarts that came with the fresh made sandwiches, and of those my particular favourites were the lemon curd tarts.

Christmas 1948 was not far away, and a further feather in my cap was to be my appearance in the concert to be held at the Trentham Gardens Ballroom, which had been hired by Wedgwood’s for their grand company ball. The star of the show was a famous radio personality Richard Murdoch, but according to the rumours around the factory, my accordion and I were almost as popular, because I was willing to play requests on demand, which pleased everybody. On the day of the big event I was told to report to the personnel office, where I was placed in a taxi and dispatched to Trentham. The decorating department were informed that I would not be working that day; I was required to stand guard at the ballroom. It is true that the decorations, an impressive display of flowers and potted plants were being installed during the day by Wedgwood’s, but I had no part to play in this arrangement. All I did was sit around and wait for the celebrations to begin, and looking back now I realise that I was being treated as someone special, though the penny did not drop at the time. The dinner, dance, and concert were a great success, and I have attended few such grand events since.

Before I turn my back on my time at Wedgwood’s it might be of interest if I mention one or two people that became my friends, but who passed from my life when I departed the scene. Firstly there was a young man named Les Booth, who was a typical working lad two or three years older than me. Les was a ‘Place Setter’ his job was to place the ware to be fired in the electric tunnel kiln, and then to remove it when it emerged at the other end of the tunnel. There were a number of these ovens in the factory which were new, having been installed by the Swiss Manufacturers only a few months previously. Les was a hard working lad, with no bad characteristics that I could see; he was what I would describe as ‘Salt of the Earth.’ In a very short time we became firm friends, and when I was invited for another of my regular holidays at my Aunt’s hotel at Rhyl, I invited Les to share it with me. My fondest memory of him was an occasion when we were walking along the promenade with my Aunt and Uncle, on a hot sunny day, and he was asked to get ice-cream wafers for all of us. Off he dashed through the busy throng, then skidding to a halt some 20/30 yards away, he turned and yelled at the top of his voice: “Dust want four penny uns or sixpenny uns?” Well, the look of embarrassment on my Aunt’s face was something to behold.

Next I would like to mention a young lady named Anne, who was one of the most talented artists I have ever seen. She came from Stafford and worked as one of an exclusive few who painted the famous Wedgwood plaques, which displayed a hand painted picture of fruit displayed in a bowl or other such receptacle. The work that she did was perfect and had she been a famous artist her work would have commanded considerable sums of money, but like everyone else who worked at Wedgwood’s she worked for just a modest wage. It was my job to supply Anne and the others with the plaques to be painted, and before long she was looking forward to my visits. She would encourage me to stay and talk to her, while she painted, and this I was more than ready to do. She was a lovely person with a gentle nature, and I liked her very much, it was also an attraction to watch her work. She painted quickly and with confidence and it was an endless source of fascination to watch the picture she was working on take shape in front of my eyes. Seeing my interest and admiration she occasionally amazed me with a demonstration of her ambidextrous skill, when she would take up a brush in each hand, and paint with both hands simultaneously. Anne was a well built girl of about 20 years of age, and though I now suspect that she had been attracted to me as a member of the opposite sex, I for my part was never physically attracted to her.

The world in which I worked was a female world, but they had never played a part in my personal life. Women were all around me, and I was happy with this situation, they were pleasant to be with in the most part, but I never felt any great attraction to them until now. I suppose it was bound to happen eventually, and one day I realised that a young lady was having an effect on my feelings and emotions that I had never experienced before. The young lady was about 19 years old and her name was Peggy Derbyshire. She was slim and very pretty with long wavy black hair; being the summer of 1949 she wore full summer skirts of bright colourful designs, and white diaphanous blouses which were often off the shoulder, and very fetching. I never knew what her official position was but I knew she was a member of the office staff, and might have been the secretary to the senior manager who ran the whole decorating department.

Part of her duties was the supervision of work done by the painters; she would collect their work sheets and calculate their earnings. I would sometimes help her to make her collection, and then one day said she would take advantage of a large empty basement where she could work in peace and quiet away from the office. She asked if I would take a chair down for her, and on later occasions, I would fetch and carry for her at her request. Gradually I spent more and more time with her in the basement, where I would stand at her side mostly in silence, just looking at her profile, the texture of her skin, and the slenderness of her neck. She hardly seemed to recognise my presence, and we spoke very seldom, and though my heart would be thumping like a drum, we never touched or did anything of an intimate nature. We were not secretive about our friendship, spending the lunch hour together walking in the sun outside the factory, and even holding hands in public.

If I had remained at Wedgwood’s for any length of time, there is no doubt that Peggy and I would have grown closer and more intimate, but it was not meant to be. She was several years older than I was, and told me that she had a boy friend at Stafford where she lived; in fact I seem to recall that she was engaged. Then one day she asked me whether I wanted her to be my girl, and if I did, she would finish her other relationship. Of course I desired this lovely girl, but I was just a silly mixed up teenager, who felt amongst a tumult of emotions some guilt about the young man from whom I was stealing this beautiful girl. It is strange the way fate conspires against us, and then offers a solution to our dilemmas. That weekend a message arrived at home offering me a job with my Uncle Bill in his auto-engineering business; I would have the prospect of living by the sea with my aunt and uncle, along with the security of a skilled job learning to be an engineer. I had never in my life felt such confusion about what I should do, but even at such a young age I knew that a relationship with the lovely young woman at work would upset so many lives, it would not be a good thing for either her or myself.

The following Monday I told my sweetheart that I was required to leave my job and move away from the Midlands, and the same day I handed in my resignation. I don’t know why but the friendly personnel office was not involved in my resignation, it was dealt with by the decorating manager. I had never met him until now, and wished I had never met him at all, when he came to see me in a very unfriendly manner, and told me that I would have to work a longer notice before I could leave. My resignation had been written by my father, so the belligerent manager wrote a reply to him which I duly delivered. Being in a sealed envelope I did not get to read it, but I believe it was not couched in very friendly terms, and to make matters worse, he had written the note in red ink, which was considered to be in the worst possible taste. My father’s reply was short and to the point, though again I never got to read what he wrote. I do remember taking his reply to the manager’s office and standing in front of him while he read it. The colour of his face, and the expression on it, changed several times during the few moments that it took him to read it. Whatever the contents, my father’s reply was effective, and I worked only one week before leaving.

On my last day Peggy came to me and handed me a small gift to remember her by. It was a hand-stitched verse in a frame with a picture of a sprig of heather above it. The verse went something like this

A piece of sweet heather

To remind you each day,

To help you remember

A friend far away

This verse had a place on the wall of my parents lounge for many a long year, but I don’t think anyone but me knew where it came from or why it was there. I shall never forget this young woman who was what you would describe as my first love; though it is somewhat amusing in this modern day and age, that I could think of her in this way, and yet I never kissed her not even once.

I become a working man

Volume 1 – chapter 14 –Part 1

I wonder how the world saw me when I left school. They did not see me the way I saw myself, though I might have thought they did, we all tend to believe that others see us as we see ourselves. Like so many young people I imagined, or had the impression that I was going to be an asset to society, it took quite some time for me to realise that this might not be the case. If the world in general looked at me at all, it certainly did not see the person I thought I was. The fact was that I was quiet, modest, and shy, and to make matters worse, I had this idea in my head that my worth would be instantly recognised, without any effort on my part. I was so good at everything or so I thought, they will all want my services, how amusing it is to look back and remember the naivety of youth. My state of mind was in a way a protection from the harsh realities of life, how applicable were the sayings: ‘Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread.’ And: ‘When ignorance is Bliss, it’s folly to be Wise.’

The education system that controlled me carried me to the end of its conveyor belt, and ready or not deposited me without further protection into the disinterested bosom of society. It was all neat and tidy from their perspective, they had a system and it worked, a careers officer arranged a job for each school leaver. We were not just dumped like so many unwanted rejects, we had a purpose and this was clearly demonstrated by our inclusion in the work force. We had been trained to obey authority without question; it never occurred to us that we had the right to question decisions, so I went obediently to the job that was assigned to me. The system had no interest in finding jobs that were suited to each individual, we were just so much grist for the mill, or to put it another way, we were shovelled in to the industrial furnace like so much coal.

I began my working life as an apprentice auto-electrician, which on paper did not look too bad. In reality I soon discovered that I was to be a labourer and general dogs-body, I fetched and carried, swept and cleaned and did every dirty job that no one else wanted to do. What I did not know of course, this was the way employers usually treated so called apprentices. Under the guise of an apprenticeship they would extract years of cheap labour from poorly paid young people, telling them that they were doing them a favour by providing them with an opportunity to learn a trade. It could be argued that if it took years to train someone, the employer was entitled to his pound of flesh in return, but in reality it usually did not need years to teach a bright pupil. This was to be demonstrated to me after only a few weeks in this job, when the man that ran the battery shop decided to leave. It was decided that I would take his job over, and in a few days I was given a crash course, before finding myself on my own running an important part of the firm’s activities.

My place of work was in Longton, five minutes’ walk from the Town Hall, and opposite the best fish and chip shop in town. The shop belonged to my Uncle Bruce, my mother’s oldest brother who was a nice man, which encouraged me to become a regular visitor to his shop. An even greater attraction was the excellent fish and chips, with which I was provided free of charge by my kindly uncle. A free dinner was a very big attraction, because my pay was very small indeed, and my pay packet was handed over to my mother, which left me with very little to spend. I was allowed pocket money and money to buy my lunch, so didn’t feel any objection to handing over my wages. Like all young people I didn’t give much thought to the cost of living, even so I realised that my parents were not making much profit from the small amount I was earning. I was also aware that I never went short of anything I needed, for example I went to work in a smart new boiler suit from the very first day, and that must have been quite an expense.

It had always been my impression that my role in life was to help others, now however, I was beginning to discover that I was the one that needed help. It was hard to get used to and I never completely lost my old habits, for example I always tried to repay my uncle for his kindness. One day I saw he had an electric fan in his shop which did not work, so with my new found knowledge of electrical contrivances, I generously offered to fix it for him. Taking it back to my place of work I thought to myself that I could get the advice of my fellow experts if I could not fix it myself. On examination I discovered that this would not be necessary, the problem was simply that it had become glued up with grease from the continuous deep frying at the shop. After careful cleaning it not only looked as good as new, but it ran as good as it had ever done. My uncle was very impressed with what I had done, though I did not reveal just how simple the solution had been.

Virtue is its own reward, or so I have always found, feeling well rewarded when I did what I conceived myself to be a good deed. Like the day when I set off home from work, walking the short distance to the bus station in town to catch my bus. When I was nearing my particular bus stop, I came upon an elderly man who was busking with an accordion. I stopped for a moment to listen to him, deciding that although his instrument was not bad, he himself was not very musical. He was doing his best to produce a melody with his treble hand, but wisely he was leaving the bass well alone. I knew I could show him how to improve without too much effort, so I thought to myself why not do him a favour. Without thinking that I might cause offence I spoke to him and offered to help, and he accepted my offer without hesitation. Taking up his instrument, I began to play his melody adding the appropriate bass accompaniment, which impressed the old man greatly. My playing also attracted the passers by and to my amusement they began to shower the begging bowl with coins, which pleased the busker very much. A few minutes later I saw my bus pulling into the depot, so I had to dash away, but it appeared to me that the old man had made more money in five or ten minutes than he had made in several days of his own feeble efforts. All the way home on the bus I sat in a glow of satisfaction, so pleased with myself for my noble deed.

Here you can see me playing my accordion in the garden, and I am still dressed in my boiler suit which I wore to work.

To the best of my knowledge I had only worked for my employers about three weeks when the problem of the battery shop came up. In that short time they must have decided that I was capable of doing much more than skivvy around the place. So, with mixed feelings I now found myself in charge, and the sole operator of, an important department, within the company. The work was not difficult, but it was arduous and involved some risks, though I gave that no thought when I began. There was plenty of work and I found myself going home dirty and exhausted at the end of each day. The job consisted of setting up new car batteries, reconditioning old ones, servicing those that were in use, and recovering materials from old batteries that had reached the end of their lives. New batteries were straight forward, all I had to do was fill them with battery acid and put them on charge. Servicing was not difficult, new acid, a cleanup, and a charge on the electrical charger, and they were as good as new. Recovering materials was a messy job, with the old cells having to be removed by melting the pitch that held them in place and then the lead had to be melted down for re-use. Then the battery cases had to be cleaned and saved for use in making reconditioned batteries. The worst job of all was the manufacture of the reconstituted battery, which involved the assembly of new cells with the appropriate plates and dividers. The new cells had to be set in place with super heated pitch, and then lead connectors and terminal posts had to be made by pouring molten lead into suitable moulds. Once filled with acid and charged, you had a new battery which was worth almost as much as one produced by Exide, or one of the other manufacturers.

For maybe three months I did this job without any trouble, it was not enjoyable work, but I was glad that I was no longer a basic labourer at everyone’s beck and call. It was important work I was told, and I was doing it well, ‘oh’ yes, plenty of pats on the back, but no mention of an increase in pay. I never had much idea what I was paid, but it was not more than £2/3 pounds a week, nor did I know how much money I was making for my employer, but it must have been quite a sum. With the usual acceptance of the working man in those days, I would have probably gone on being exploited for a long time, but another factor came into play. I did not realise it, but the battery shop was constantly full of fumes from the large quantities of sulphuric acid involved in the work. After a while they began to have an effect on my skin, especially the exposed skin of my face, and when I developed ugly skin blotches and swellings, my mother insisted on a visit to the doctor. It did not take him long to discover the answer to my problem, and when he explained it, my mother decided that I would resign immediately. No discussion or opinions from me, or anyone else for that matter. Where my health was concerned my mother would make the decisions.

Giving up my job after only a few weeks did not seem like a promising beginning to my working career. I had only been out of school for two or three months and already I was one of the great unemployed, something of a sin at a time when one was expected to keep a job for years. Changing jobs often labelled you as a rolling stone, someone who could not stay the course, as they used to say. At least I was well and truly off the conveyor belt and could decide for myself what I would do next. No help from my parents of course, my mother was willing to tell me what I could not do, but she was singularly lacking it advice about what I should do next. My father’s attitude I have already described, so I do not have to say that he was no help to me either.

It was 1948 and I had no idea what I should do with the future a total mystery. I was fifteen and a half years old, with no education, and no prospects or opportunities. I had two brothers, Paul was now eight years old and Douglas was 2 years old. My parents had no money, as far as I knew, so there seemed little option but to paddle my own canoe.

Another picture taken in the garden though why I was still wearing my overalls I have no idea. Possibly it was in the afternoon after I had arrived home, and had not yet had time to change.

The war ends and Rhyl attracts me

Vol 1 Chapter 13

Thanks to the war, most of us were living from day to day, with no thought for the future. Children especially have this approach to life even under normal circumstances, but during wartime adults think and act the same way. My mother was a classic example of a person who approached life by ignoring it, by taking the least line of resistance. She had very little adjustment to make when adapting to this wartime mentality. She rarely ventured far from home, except for trips to Rhyl to stay with her sister Nin. Mind you I do remember a day out to Rudyard Lake, one day in spring; it would have been about 1943/44. I was ill with Mumps, and was still having great difficulty swallowing, when my mother decided that I was well enough for a day out. We caught the bus to Leek a small market town about 12 miles north of the Potteries, and then changed to a local bus which would take us another two miles or so to the lake which was a very popular beauty spot.

I was not in a good condition to enjoy myself, but I do recall being distracted by a brawl in the market square at Leek. We were sitting in the local bus waiting to depart for Rudyard, around us were numerous American Servicemen looking for a pub or some other form of amusement on a Saturday afternoon. Much to our alarm a fight began between a group of white Americans and another group who were black. Within a few minutes a jeep full of American Military Police arrived, and they wasted no time restoring order. Their methods appeared both violent and uncivilized, wading into the fighting soldiers with long thick batons, similar in size to a baseball club. It was quite a shock to the local people to witness this sort of behaviour. Those of us on the bus were especially shocked as the mob of fighting men milled around us. I had a window seat, which put me up close and personal with the scene around the bus. I shall never forget how close some of these combatants were to me, and how frightening it was to see real live violence first hand. There was no attempt by the MPs to calm the situation, they just hit out indiscriminately with all their strength, and the damage they did was extreme. The blood and the injuries were not a pretty sight, but it has to be said, that they stopped the fight very quickly indeed.

With the excitement over and the market square cleared, the bus departed, chugging its way to Rudyard through a peaceful landscape, with nothing around us more dangerous than the odd bumble bee, or maybe a black and white bull I saw in a field outside the town. When we arrived at the lake we found that the most popular entertainment was to take a row boat out for an hour, but I was not well enough for that. To pass the time we went to a tea shop instead, where somehow my mother managed to coax a soft boiled egg out of the staff for her unhappy son with the swollen glands. Normally this would have been a treat indeed, but I could not enjoy it with swallowing such a painful task. At the time I thought the experience of being so hungry and not being able to eat the most unbearable torture I could imagine.

I may not have enjoyed my visit to Rudyard Lake very much, but it did provide me with another destination that I would visit again. There were many attractive places in and around the Potteries, and I enjoyed most of them thanks to my trusty bicycle. I can recall sightseeing at Wetly Rocks, picnicking in the woods at Weston Coyney, and picking bilberries on Barlaston Downs. I discovered chestnuts at Stone, in the woods along the road to Stafford, and historical sites were also included in my adventures, like the stocks at Caverswall. Most of these places were only a few miles away and well within my range, and most of these journeys I made alone.

In May 1945 Germany surrendered and the whole world went wild with joy. I suppose we imagined that overnight our lives would change, and happy times would return; well I can remember having that sort of feeling at the time. Even for the adults it must have been a disappointment that Japan did not give up the fight immediately, but showed what fanatics they were by continuing the war against overwhelming odds. Rationing continued, and did so for some years after the war ended, but finally there was a reason to celebrate, rationing or not. Out came the flags, and bunting was strung from house to house, and street parties were held all over the country. All semblance of control disappeared, and there were demonstrations of euphoria; the celebrations we much more subdued the following August when the war really ended with the defeat of Japan.

The residents of Broad Street agreed that the person best qualified to take charge of our street party was my Aunty Jin. She was well known and respected, the daughter of the councillor who had been responsible for building the houses in which we lived. What was even more important, she was known to be the best cook in town. For a number of days the neighbours came knocking on her door at number 99, with whatever they could afford to contribute towards the feast, which my Aunt now began to prepare. I found the scene at my Aunt’s house impossible to resist, I had never seen so much food in my life. There were mountains of sandwiches, and not just dripping or margarine, but ham and salmon and all those wonderful things we had not seen for years. There were savouries and pastries, jellies and trifles, a feast fit for a king, enough to feed the five thousand, or so it appeared to me. My aunt excelled herself, but could not have done so without the vital ingredients. Where had all this food come from, much of it not even available legitimately or legally since the war had begun in 1939? At the time, no one asked this question, and who cared any way, the important thing was that everyone had given their secret reserves in a spirit of community love. When you think of the years of deprivation they had just experienced this was truly a wonderful thing.

On the day trestle tables were erected down the middle of the street, and out of the houses came tablecloths, cutlery, everything required for the feast. The benches were soon full of people, I don’t know how many, but it looked a considerable number. Everyone was determined to enjoy themselves which they certainly did, every face looked happy, and the children could not contain themselves in their excitement. The food was the main attraction of course, but there was entertainment as well. Aunty Jin, who was a thin wiry lady of elderly years, appeared in a large raincoat in which she had stuffed a cushion to enhance her feminine charms. Prancing up and down around the tables, she clowned about causing all sorts of hilarity. I for one had never seen anything like it before, this dignified aunt of mine acting like the class buffoon, but we loved it. I had my part to play also, it fell to me to provide music on my accordion, and this also was a great success. I had played in public before and being in the presence of friends I soon began to relax and enjoy myself. Soon we had a full-scale concert going, with many of the audience joining in and singing all the old favourites, which I made sure to play.

I was still taking music lessons at this time, and my teacher being asked, occasionally, to provide music for various entertainments, selecting me for this honour a couple of times. On one occasion I attended a performance of the ‘Messiah’ at a local church, and during the intermission stood before the alter, with my music stand in front of me, and played ‘Barcarolle’ from the Tales of Hoffman. That was the only time I ever used music when I played, usually I played from memory, and eventually I abandoned the music all together. Usually I was very popular when I performed, and fondly imagined it was my skill that made me so. I have to confess I never asked for, or received payment for my services, and that might have had something to do with it. Another performance about this time that helped to deflate my ego was one that I gave at a meeting of ‘The Grand Order of Buffalos.’ After I had played a little girl who was about 7/8 years old, was called on to sing by her father, who was the president or some such important functionary. She had a squeaky thin voice, and I couldn’t believe it when she fetched the house down, and encores were called for, from her, not from me.

It never occurred to me at the time, but when Germany surrendered in May 1945, I should have expected my father to return home from Italy soon afterwards. Being an officer and part of the supply system of the army, he probably had a lot of loose ends to tie up before he could leave his post. He did tell me, at a later date, that he was offered a promotion to Major Quartermaster in the newly formed Mercia Brigade. This was to be the new military area covering the North Midlands, and his position would have had considerable benefits attached. He would have had his own private house away from the usual military establishments, and there would have been a place for me at the prestigious public school in or near to Lichfield, called the King Edward School for boys. My father never had to explain his actions to anyone, particularly to his son, so I never discovered why he decided to refuse this impressive offer. Whatever his reasons, before the end of the year arrived he had been demobilised and returned home.

Shortly after the Japanese surrender in August, my father’s brother Albert arrived home, and looking back it is strange that he should have travelled all the way from the Far East, arrived home before my father did. When the war began Albert had become a band sergeant, and transferred to the South Staffordshire Regiment, serving under General Slim who was the much respected leader of the Fourteenth Army in Burma. I never knew anything about Albert’s experiences during the war, but I do recall that he came home via the USA, arriving with goodies and luxuries I had never seen before. He had tins of pipe tobacco, which he had bought for his brother, and the biggest box of chocolates I had ever seen in my life. It was called a ‘Candy Cupboard’ and must have had two or three lbs of confectionary in it.

Albert did not stay with us long; he had his own home and wife awaiting him, at Gailey just South of Penkridge. One further memory I have to recount before I continue with my narrative was the unconventional method he used to dissuade me from smoking. Coming into the parlour he found me examining the tins of tobacco meant for my father. Realising what a temptation they must have been for a boy of 12, he asked me if I wanted to try a pipe. There was a rack of pipes on the mantel piece over the fire place, and inviting me to select the pipe of my choice, he commenced to fill it with the excellent St Bruno flake from the tins. Needing little encouragement I was soon puffing away with great enthusiasm and before much time had elapsed I began to feel the effects of the tobacco. The lesson Albert taught me may have been unconventional but it was certainly effective. I had never felt so sick in my life, and never touched tobacco again until I joined the army myself in 1950.

Not long after Albert departed, my father arrived home, and life began to change radically for all of us. I have mentioned previously that my mother had her third son Douglas in July 1946 so it is clear that the first thing my father did when he arrived home was make his wife pregnant. I suppose the next thing in order of importance was to get a job, and this he did by becoming an accounts clerk at the offices of the MEB (Midlands Electricity Board.) After 27 years in the army my father was finally a civilian again. I have already mentioned that after Douglas was born, we moved from Broad Street, Fenton, to a new Council house at Blurton. A few months later we had moved back to Fenton to another council house at 101 Stanier Street, which had a back gate immediately opposite the back gate of my Aunty Jin’s house in Broad Street.

Another memory I have of the end of the war, was a huge picnic that was organised for all the schoolchildren of the city. This took place after Japan had surrendered, and the large and very popular Trentham Gardens was the venue. The whole of this area was originally part of the estate of the Duke of Cumberland, and Trentham Park, which was adjacent to the Gardens, was another popular destination for summer picnics and other outings by city dwellers from all over the Midlands. The main attraction was the Gardens which had been developed to attract visitors, and it was not often during the summer months that you would find it quiet. Entry was through some very large and ornate gates where turn styles had been installed. For a small fee you could enter and enjoy all the pleasures that were provided.

The first thing the visitor found was some very impressive formal gardens, and a large artificial lake which was over a mile long, and several hundred yards wide. The original stables were still accessible, and over a mile away, on a ridge covered in woods was a statue of the Duke, which looked out over the countryside all of which had once been his. Developers had bought the estate and added many more attractions. There were beautifully made rowing boats which one could hire for trips on the lake, plus a motor launch which took sightseers for a trip down the lake, without the physical effort of rowing. The lake was stocked with fish and good fishing was available, from a boat or from the bank, not to mention two islands part way down the lake. A real novelty was a miniature railway, which had several engines, exact replicas of famous engines still in use on the rail systems of Britain. The rail track ran the length of the lake, and near its terminus there was a station where passengers could alight for a visit to the modern and attractive open air swimming pool, which was set in the woods just above the lake. In the summer this magical spot was always crowded with visitors, who often spent the whole day swimming and sunbathing. This location transported the working class people, who were the main customers, from their usual grimy homes, in both mind and body, to a place that to them was akin to a visit to Hollywood, or the South of France.

Perhaps the most impressive attraction of all at Trentham Gardens was the enormous ballroom, which held regular dances and entertainments, drawing people from all over the country. It was also a popular venue for private functions because it could accommodate such a large number of people. In addition to dancing, there were large kitchens, which provided a range of food, from snacks and buffets, to full dinners of the highest quality. During the day the guests could play tennis or bowls, and there was even a very attractive archery range, for those that enjoyed that sort of thing. I describe this place in some detail because it features in my story again at a later stage.

In the meantime let me return to the school picnic during which time most of the schoolchildren from Stoke-on-Trent enjoyed a warm summers day in this beautiful setting. On entering the main gates we were given a bag of sandwiches, and a bottle of fizzy drink each. It must have taken considerable time and planning to transport all these children and to provide refreshments for them, but as is often the case on such occasions, small but important things can be forgotten. Our bottles of pop had metal caps, and no one had thought to provide some means of opening them. So here you had literally thousands of children of all ages, wandering around on a hot summer day, frustrated because they had a fizzy drink and could not enjoy it. Some of the older children found a way of getting these frustrating caps of the bottles, but many still had their unopened bottles at the end of the day, when it was time to go home.

This occasion of the inaccessible drink bottles remains in my memory because I can recall what fun I had with two or three other boys, as a result of our predicament. We were sitting on a park bench nursing our rapidly warming, and much shaken bottles, when I noticed that the arms of the bench had a row of small spikes on them. Thinking I might be able to make a hole in the cap, through which I could drink my mineral water, I upended the bottle and drove it down onto one of the spikes. The result was a very small hole, which produced a fine jet of liquid, which squirted for some distance under the pressure from within the bottle. My pals followed my lead, and for the next half an hour or so we sat and sprayed passersby with our drinks of various flavours. I can still remember that my drink was Vimpto which was a very popular drink at the time; it was dark red and tasted of ripe cherries. Having shared my popular beverage with numerous passing children, I then wandered off to find a water fountain where I had a long refreshing drink of Adams Ale, as my father used to call it; or sometimes Corporation Pop.

When the war ended in 1945 I was 12 years old, and within a few months some goods were available once again, including new bicycles. Needless to say, a new bike was one of those things that a boy just had to have, and before my father arrived home from the war I got what I wanted. Another thing that appeared on the market was pianos, and my mother decided she would get one of those as well. Apparently some enterprising manufacturer discovered a supply of piano frames somewhere in Europe; they were of German manufacture I believe. By making the cases himself he was able to market new pianos under the name ‘Brinsmead’ and for the grand sum of £115 one could be ours. My mother had an emergency fund provided by my father, and so I had a pianoforte to play, with music lessons included. I had been having music lessons on the piano accordion, so it was an easy matter to change over to this new instrument. When my father arrived home a short time afterwards he hit the roof when he found most of the reserve fund had been spent. I can hear him now angrily demanding an explanation, to which my mother calmly replied: “God will provide.” My father’s response was something like: “I am the one that is providing, not God.”

I think it was on my birthday that I became the proud owner of a new sports bike. You can imagine it, blue with drop handlebars, a narrow racing saddle, a Sturmi-Archer five speed gear change, and all the bells and whistles. My old bike was a standard black sit up and beg machine, with a spring loaded Terry saddle and no gears. A good bicycle mind you, but not a patch on my new one. How my confidence soared when I speeded along so effortlessly on my new steed. No destination was beyond my reach, or so I thought. It was not long before I persuaded a couple of my friends that it would be a great adventure if we were to cycle to Rudyard Lake. This we did, though to achieve my goal I had to provide two of the three bicycles we used.

For a boy with no bike my old ‘Phillips’ must have looked like a real treat, and one of my friends named Raymond Biggs was more than happy to have the use of it. Our outward trip went very well, and we made good time along the quiet country roads. We enjoyed our visit to the lake, and then set off to return home via a different route. Being leader of the expedition I had worked out an alternative which would take us up out of the valley in which the lake was situated. The plan was to head around in a circular direction to the West, across Biddulph Moor and back home again. The first mile or two was a steep climb up a twisting lane through the woods along the Rudyard valley. After this hard start we were ready for the thrill of the downwards run out onto the open moor, with its rocky outcrops of sandstone, and its solid stone walls round every field. Such walls are a feature of this part of the country, and are to be found everywhere from the Midlands all the way to Scotland.

Like all young lads we had little awareness of possible danger, so it will come as no surprise that we let our devil may care state of mind run away with our common sense. We charged off down the hillside racing each other with reckless abandon, this was more exciting than pedalling sedately along like old ladies going to a picnic. With the much better bicycle I was soon in the lead, not realising that my companions were obliged to take ever increasing risks trying to keep up with me. The country lane we were following was still very winding at this point, and when we came to an unexpected hairpin bend in the road, disaster struck. Raymond on the older clumsier machine found himself unable to brake or manoeuvre quickly enough to get around the bend, so the accident that was inevitable happened. Hearing a crash I turned to discover that poor old Ray had gone headlong into the stone wall. The bike could go no further, but its rider sailed on through the air, taking a headlong dive into the field. Luckily my companion was not badly hurt, suffering only a couple of bruises and a somewhat dented pride. The bicycle was not so lucky; it had a slightly buckled front wheel, and bent handlebars. After some repairs it was possible to get the damaged bike moving again, though riding it was not going to be an easy task. Feeling sorry for himself and somewhat shaken Raymond declared that he could not make it home on the damaged bicycle, so once again I found myself obliged to shoulder the responsibilities of leadership. Being leader I had to ride the damaged machine home and my happy outing turned into a difficult endurance test. It was quite some time before long distance rides were considered again, though a year or so later I began to venture forth training for my next big venture, a ride of 73 miles all the way to Rhyl to spend a few days with my Aunt Nin and Uncle Bill.

When I formed the plan for this more adventurous venture, I had in mind a similar trip to the one we had made to Rudyard Lake, which ended so disastrously. Researching the route we would use, I persuaded the same two friends to travel in the direction we would take in readiness for the big adventure. We went on several explorations, each one a little further until we almost reached Nantwhich. You might think this was showing an excess of caution, but I would remind the reader that the war had only just ended, and there were still no signposts to direct the unfamiliar traveller on his way. From the very beginning my colleagues showed signs of reluctance to face the risks of such a long journey. I tried various incentives to gain their co-operation, including the attractions of a free holiday at Rhyl, but eventually there was no holding them, and they pulled out.

Having said I would make this trip, there was nothing would make me change my mind. Apart from anything else, I could not lose face; I had a reputation to uphold. On a Saturday morning in the summer of maybe 1947, I set off at the crack of dawn, which was about 5 am. It was cold and on the downhill run from Fenton to Stoke I had no work to do, so for this early part of my journey my knees knocked against the crossbar of my bike. This was more than enough incentive to get me working hard, and I found myself flying along empty roads at a very good speed. Out through Newcastle I sped, and it was not until I reached the long slow hill called Keel Bank by the locals that I began to slow down. Looking ahead the road appeared flat, which made me stop and examine my machine, thinking that something was catching and slowing me down. No, all was well then looking back the way I had come, I could see that I was actually climbing quite a steep gradient.

Later I learned that this hill was notorious in the winter for trapping vehicles unable to make it to the top because of ice and snow. I read in the local paper that a farmer living adjacent to this piece of road, made a handsome profit every winter by towing stranded cars to the top of Keel hill with his tractor. The story went that he never asked for payment for this service, but the people he helped were always so grateful for his kindness, that they never failed to give him a large reward. In 1949 a new university was established at this location, and gradually the road system was changed. Maybe the farmer lost his lucrative winter earner when these changes took place?

On I went at a smart pace, and it no time at all I found myself approaching Nantwhich, where I had to take a road skirting the town, setting me on my way to Chester. In later years I was to make this journey many times, and should mention that at this location there was a large public house called the ‘The Red Lion’ and it became one of the places we would use as a refreshment stop, when travelling this route. Not on this occasion of course, and I pressed on feeling good, with no interest in my packet of sandwiches or bottle of cold Ovaltine, which I imagined would sustain me on my long journey. Every place was strange to me as I moved along; though I noticed landmarks that would become familiar to me when I repeated this trip many times in later years, though not on a bicycle.

The road I was following appeared to be through open country, I did not know that I was passing close to a number of villages. Most of my previous visits to Rhyl had been made by train, which I was to use many more times, until I became the owner of my first motor vehicle. For as long as I can remember the train we used was the daily service from Derby to Llandudno, which ran in both directions as a passenger and postal delivery service. To begin with it did its work stopping at all the small stations, but later it became an express which called at the main station only. I can hear the announcers’ voice even now, as the train stood in the various stations. Informing us that this train from Derby, called at Sudbury, Tutbury, Longton, Fenton, Stoke, Alsager, Kidsgrove, Crewe, Tarpoley, Tarvin, Beeston Castle, Chester, Queensferry, Flint, Hollywell, Prestatyn, Rhyl, Abergele, Colwyn Bay, and finally Llandudno. My cycle ride did not follow the railway line, but I did pass close to Tarpoley, and Tarvin, on the road to Chester. I also passed a large stately country inn called the ‘Beeston Arms’ and it was at about this point that I decided to drink by flask of cold Ovaltine. I was not thirsty you understand, it was my plan to do so at this stage of my journey, so that is what I did.

The weather was fine and there was no wind to speak of, and I continued to make good speed. There was no way I was going to stop to eat sandwiches, but the cold drink I gulped down while still on the move. This proved to be a mistake, because when the cold liquid arrived in my hot stomach, I began to get stomach cramp. Already bent low over the racing handlebars of my bike, I stayed in that position as I pushed onwards towards Chester. This was the half way mark on my journey, and by the time I got there my cramps had ceased, and I went barrelling on down the main street, under the Roman wall with its large clock, which said it was 7am or there about. After a sharp turn to the left I passed the racecourse and set off out of the city towards North Wales. The main road used by most of the traffic was the inland road, which was new and reasonably straight, but went up and down like a switchback. The old coast road was flat, following the railway line through villages that were long established and that was the way to go for a boy on bike. It was also the preferred route for a large tanker, which overtook me on the straight which ran past the aircraft factory at Broughton, a couple of miles outside Chester. This tanker was big, heavy and slow, with a large round sign on the back which warned other traffic that its maximum speed was thirty miles per hour. It was a dirty looking machine covered in a black residue, from which I concluded that it was carrying tar, or pitch, or something of that nature. Putting on my best speed I closed up behind, finding the vacuum it created a great help. It was a risky thing to do, but I was a boy of 14 with all the reckless ignorance that this class possesses. With my front wheel only inches away from the back fender, I was delighted when I realised that I was being sucked along the road with very little effort on my part. I was travelling at something like 25 miles an hour at least, and yet I was almost freewheeling most of the time.

For the next 20/25 miles I enjoyed the advantage I had, but I never dropped my guard, being well aware that any sudden change of speed would endanger me. Passing through Queensferry, Flint, and Hollywell, I knew I was near to Prestatyn, which was only four miles short of my destination. It was time I decided, not to tempt fate any longer, dropping back, I allowed the tanker to slowly pull away and disappear into the distance. I did not own a watch so time was not something I was able to record on my epic journey, but I am sure it was not yet 9am, when I wheeled my cycle into the back yard of Plas-Collen, at Bath Street, Rhyl.

Being the summer, it must have been the school holidays, when I made the big ride to Rhyl. For at least a couple of weeks I enjoyed all the pleasures of the seaside, doing all the things that a boy liked to do. Now the war was over the holiday makers had returned with a vengeance. The town was packed with a happy throng, determined to have a good time. The beach was one of the towns’ attractions being the best on the coast of North Wales, and more than two miles in length. The beach was crowded with visitors and there was hardly an inch of sand to be seen all the way from Splash Point at the East end of town, where the promenade began, all the way to the mouth of the Clwyd River at the West end, where it ended. There were deck chairs everywhere, rented at 6d a day, and the whole town was doing a roaring trade. For half the year the town was empty with everything closed, apart from a little maintenance work and refurbishment. With the arrival of the Easter holidays, it all changed and until the end of the August holidays all the locals were flat out making enough money to last until the next season. The price of everything went up, another reason why locals made sure they were earning and not spending, but the holidaymakers did not know that of course.

For the working classes in Britain life had been grim for as long as everyone could remember, and I don’t think it has improved all that much to the present day. The one bright spot in most of their lives was that couple of weeks holiday each summer, and to make sure there was room for everyone, different areas took their turn. For two weeks the accents of the visitors confirmed that they were all from Birmingham, and the South Midlands. Then it would be the turn of Manchester and the industrial towns of South Lancashire, and so it went right through the summer. For me it was exciting to be at the seaside where everyone had a good time, and even my aunts’ two dogs enjoyed it.

To be precise only one of the dogs derived pleasure from the summer visitors, the other hated the whole world, and did so all his life. The pair were what I would describe as a canine version of ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ one being the complete antithesis of the other. Their names were ‘Butch’ and ‘Kitch’; both were mongrels, or should I say crossbred dogs. They were only puppies when they arrived, but where they came from I never discovered. ‘Kitch’ was at one end of the spectrum, being disproportionate, ungainly, with a scruffy coat and an ugly appearance. He looked like a bad assembly of a number of breeds, from whom he had inherited all the worst features. To match his appearance, he had a seriously disturbed personality, being bad tempered, unpredictable, and suspicious to the point of neurosis. ‘Kitch’ rarely went outside, when he did he usually started a fight with some other dog, and when he did he was likely to lose it. The only people he ever made friends with were his owners and me.

The other dog was everything that his partner was not, having all the attractive features of the breeds from which he had originated. Butch was not a big dog, but was neat and well proportioned, with a short glossy coat of black and white. He was mostly of the mastiff breed, with a handsome square head, and a wide deep chest. To match his appearance he had the bull terrier personality, being fearless and ready to fight all comers. At the same time he was always friendly and likeable, spending much of his time around town, enjoying the company and attention of the crowds. Butch had an air of confidence, and never once appeared to doubt him-self, this was another of his many attractive qualities. Another thing I admired about him was his good behaviour and his willingness to obey orders. With Butch around you knew that you had a brave and willing comrade who would never let you down. I have often thought of them as typical examples of the people one meets in life. It usually does not take long for qualities and characteristics to show, though unlike dogs, people can sometimes be very good at hiding their true colours.

On the subject of the devious nature of some members of the human race, it might be appropriate for me to mention a man who was living at Plas-Collen about this time. We knew him as Ernie or Ernest, though I for one was never sure what his surname was; we were to discover that he had a number of aliases, but at the time we accepted him without question. The personality of people is a complex subject, something we shall never understand fully, but it is clear that the mixture of traits of character can sometimes make a person unfathomable and even dangerous. Ernie was a short squat fellow with black hair and glasses with heavy black frames. He was an ugly man, though he undoubtedly had charm, or what might be described as a magnetic personality. Where my uncle met him I do not know, but probably it was in a bar, or some other such place. With his glib tongue Ernie had talked my uncle into giving him a job, as a salesman. It is my guess that he offered to work for commission only, but negotiated as part of the deal, free board and lodgings.

It is impossible for me to say how long this arrangement lasted, but eventually cracks began to appear in his facade, in his cover story if you like. The first thing that began to worry my Aunt and Uncle was the amazing attraction that Ernie seemed to have for the opposite sex. Young women were attracted to him like bees to a honey pot, or flies to a piece of rotten meat might be a better simile. Attractive females came knocking on the door in search of him, and one day when I went for a ride with my uncle and his sales man, a young waitress in a café addressed Ernie as an acquaintance, saying: “Hello doctor, how are you today.” The last straw was one evening quite late, when my Aunt on hearing a noise went to his room to investigate and finding a girl in his bed with him, she ordered him to pack his bags and leave.

Listening to my elders talking a few days later, I discovered that Ernie had talked his way into some free accommodation on a large launch. It was anchored in the harbour at the mouth of the river Clwyd, and on tracking him down for business reasons Uncle Bill again found Ernie tucked up in bed with one his numerous young lady friends. One footnote to this story was a meeting we had with friend Ernie some five years later, when I had returned to Rhyl once again to recuperate after leaving the army as an invalid. He was on holiday and staying at the best hotel in town, the Queens Hotel in the centre of the promenade. With the total cheek of the expert confidence trickster, Ernie had decided to renew old acquaintances, so had phone us to invite us to go and have drinks with him at the hotel.

Never one to mince words, the first thing my Aunt Nin did when we arrived, was to ask him whether he had been on the run from a wife and family when we first met him. Bold as brass he admitted it, saying that he had a family somewhere in Lancashire, but that his wife had been a terrible woman, and anyone would have run away from her. He then went on to tell us with great pride that after he had departed from Rhyl at the time that we had known him, he had applied for a job as transport manager, working for the government of an African country on the West Coast of central Africa. He boasted that he was earning an enormous salary, had a large house provided, and was presently on six months leave with everything paid by his employers. That was the last we saw of Ernie, though my Aunt did hear some years later, that he had died in Africa from a tropical fever. I have often wondered whether he did.

These memories are all very well, but I am not progressing, with my story being still on holiday at my aunts’ boarding house. Time passes so quickly when you are happy, and in no time at all I found, to my regret, that I had to say farewell to my second home and turn my face towards the realities of my life in the Industrial Midlands. Having had such a successful trip to the coast, the return held no fears for me, and at 8am in the morning, maybe three weeks after I had arrived, I pedalled out of the back yard of my Aunts house on the way back to Stoke. Again the weather was good, but this time I felt no need for food or drinks, I would be home in no time I thought. I made steady progress, reaching Chester in a couple of hours. Pressing on through the town, I made my way out the other side, confident that there was only one way to go. In just over another hour I expected to recognize the outskirts of

Nantwich, but in close to two hours later I realised that I had no idea where I was. A long time afterwards I concluded that I taken a left hand fork at a junction on the outskirts of Chester, and this had sent me North in the direction of Manchester. I had no map, there were no signposts, and I saw no one to ask the way, though not wishing to reveal my stupidity, I did not try very hard. What should I do? Keep the sun behind me, and head in an Westerly direction I thought, so that is what I did. On through the afternoon I went, pedalling on with dogged determination, and slowly feeling the onset of tiredness cramp in my legs, growing ever stronger it changed my pleasure trip into an endurance test.

How far I travelled that day I shall never know, but it would not be unreasonable to assume that it was well over 100 miles. It must have been about teatime when I eventually recognized my surroundings, I had come to a steep gradient and for the first time in my journey I climbed stiffly off my bike and walked slowly up the hill. Then, much to my relief, I realised that I was on Keel Bank, and not far from Newcastle. When I arrived home no one said anything about the lateness of my arrival, and I was not about to reveal the major error I had made. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, I had proved my worth and made a bold solo trip entirely unaided.

The 11 plus exam and afterwards - the process of survival continues at Queen Street Senior school

Volume 1 – chapter 12  Part 2
I have mentioned that each year the Education Board held an examination for children reaching the age of eleven years. When my turn came to take this test I did not realise just how important it was to my future; not that it would have made any difference to my chances of passing. This occasion was yet another instance when major events take place in the life of a child, and they remain blissfully ignorant of their importance.
There was to be no higher education for me, but in 1944, my second year at Queen Street, I had begun to realise that how well I did at school was going to matter in the future. In addition to my awareness I also developed a strong desire to prove myself, and to earn the respect of both my teachers and my fellow students. With this new motivation I began to pay attention and to apply myself, and very quickly began to rise in the class standings. By the end of this second year I was top of my class, and what is more I was no longer in the low achievers class 2B2. Earlier in the year I had been upgraded to 2b1 and felt very proud of myself. Having discovered that the top three or four boys in each class would be promoted to a higher grade the following year, it had become my goal to be one of those that earned this promotion each time we sat the annual tests. This all sounds very impressive, but I would remind the reader that the standard of learning was very low indeed. Even so for the first time in my short life I was moving forward, little realising how limited the movement was.
How to fit in was another thing that I was learning, though I was not consciously aware that I was doing it. Not every boy was my enemy any more, I was getting on well with many of them, in fact, there were a few I called my friends. One in particular was a boy named Ernie Washington, who looked much like me, having blue eyes and fair hair, and more importantly, we had many opinions in common. He was sharp as a tack, and we both derived much pleasure from the company of the other. Both Ernie and I got on well with most of the teachers, though that did not always keep us out of trouble.
There was the day for instance when one teacher was demonstrating his talents by thinking up novel ways of making a punishment interesting or entertaining. He decided to beat a particular boy by striking his bottom with a large blackboard ruler. Making him bend over to draw his trousers tight, he struck him with the ruler, on which he had written in thick chalk the letters OXO. Finding the result not to his satisfaction the teacher repeated the process a number of times striking a little harder each time. After a number of strokes he commented that the bottom under attack must now be well marked with stripes, much like a mint humbug. He remarked to the class: “I wonder how you could tell the difference?” Like a flash came the reply from my pal Ernie: “Suck it and see?” The teacher smiled seeing the humour in this quick riposte, but he was not about to let a mere boy get the better of him, and he called Ernie out saying that his determination to get more intimately involved had earned him a taste of the same.
The teacher mentioned above was Mr. Bertie Challinor, a large man who always wore a tweed jacket and smoked a pipe. It was said he had been a pilot in the RFC in the First World War, and that he had some breathing difficulties, resulting from the effects of gas. In spite of his willingness to apply physical punishment to the boys, he was quite well liked, by most of us. The atmosphere in his class usually being friendly and relaxed; he was yet another of the old and undemanding class of teacher we had at the time. Now I come to think of it, we feared him so little that one boy became bold enough to steal his cane, which is why, maybe, he had resorted to using his blackboard ruler as a rod of chastisement. Taking Bertie’s cane proved to be a bad idea, because it resulted in the application of another form of punishment we found was much more painful. He took to walking around the class with his hand in his jacket pocket; in it he held his pipe. With his middle finger inserted in the bowl, he was ready to strike and often did so without any apparent provocation. If at any time he decided that punishment was called for, he would pull his pipe from the pocket, and give the offender a sharp wrap on the head with it. This form of admonishment was very painful I can assure you, and I can attest to this from personal experience.
Corporal punishment was the norm when I was a school boy, and though we did not like it, everyone accepted it. It never occurred to us that some day it might become an unacceptable form of discipline. Although teachers punished us we rarely held it against them. On one occasion I received four strokes on the hands from my revered headmasters feared bamboo cane, but never once wavered in my admiration and respect for him. In fact my opinions of him may have been enhanced by his action. At the time he had gravely explained to me that although I was a House Captain, and a boy for whom he held a high regard, he was obliged to treat me in exactly the same way as any other boy, found guilty of a similar offence. I did not try to excuse my actions, but took the punishment readily, and with almost a feeling of pride. It is possible that I went up in Mr. Garton’s estimations by not pleading my case, because without doubt he would have learned the circumstances of my offence.
The details of the incident, which led to my punishment, were as follows. During one afternoon break, I had been in the playground and in the midst of the noisy throng I had come across a large boy bullying a small boy. The small boy was a cheerful young lad that we had nicknamed ‘Snowy’ White; he had white hair of course, and usually kept out of trouble by using his speed and agility. His attacker was a big pimply lad named Ray Bradbury, who for no other reason than he was bored, or maybe because he enjoyed hurting smaller boys, had Snowy’s arm twisted up his back. Normally I would have ignored the usual school yard scuffling and good natured combat, but this time I could see that there was nothing good natured about it. Snowy was crying out in pain, and his face showed that he was in some distress. This was not acceptable and I told Bradbury so in no uncertain terms ordering him to let the smaller boy go. Snowy was one of my ‘Wedgwood’ boys, and apart from anything else, I felt an obligation to defend him. On the other hand, Bradbury was not in my house, and so had not had any dealings with me before. He might have heard something of my reputation, but being slightly bigger and heavier than I, he decided that he would oppose me.
My father had taught me to box, he had also taught me that if you have to fight, hit hard and attack with aggression. The secret of success was not to give your opponent a chance, and by this time I had gained some experience and knew what to do. Quick as a flash I grabbed Bradbury by the ear and twisted hard, this made him let go of young Snowy. When he did so I moved in fast and hit him with a hard left jab and right hook, and down he went in a heap. You can never leave a situation like this unfinished, a clear result was necessary, so I ordered the bully boy to stand up and apologise. He climbed to his feet, but apology was not immediately forthcoming, so I moved in again hitting him hard on the nose. With his nose bleeding and feeling sorry for himself Bradbury began to cry and to say he was sorry. By this time a crowd of boys had gathered, and this attracted the yard master who arrived on the scene.
There was a strict ban on fighting in the schoolyard, and though I viewed my actions as supporting school discipline, I knew I had broken the rules, which meant trouble. Although my explanation was viewed with some sympathy by the teacher on duty, when he looked at the sorry state of my opponent, he considered it his duty to report the details to the headmaster. Mr. Garton in his turn must have decided that Bradbury had been punished enough, and regardless of his behaviour, no further action would be taken against him. I am sure that the teachers approved of my motives, once they were aware of them, but I had been seen using violence on school premises, and such behaviour could not be condoned. It could be argued that what I should have done is report this case of bullying, and let those in authority take appropriate action. Maybe today that would have worked, but at the time of which I write most would have agreed that what I did was the only way to deal with it. After the event it would have been too late to do anything, and no one would have tried, of that I’m sure. The yardmaster would not have thanked me for adding to his problems, and the boys would have seen me as a snitch, a tell tale. No, I had a duty to do, and I did it in the way I knew would be most effective.
Describing these past events today there is an air of unreality about it, and many who might read it would find it hard to credit that we behaved in such a manner. Think however of similar scenes, described by Dickens, or scenes described in ‘Tom Browns Schooldays. In comparison my words become more real and believable, though it could be said that I compare fact with fiction. Though I would respond to such suggestions by asking the question, ‘who would doubt what I describe when the narrative is based on real experience.’ When I look back it becomes clear that the methods used by the school were designed to use the boys themselves. The leaders chosen to take control were given the power to discipline the other boys. House Captains, Prefects, Team Leaders, all played their part, like NCOs and Junior Officers in the army. In some instances physical methods were used by the boys, methods which would have been impossible for teachers. Undoubtedly a blind eye was turned on many such occasions.
Remembering my days at Queen Street brings to mind a picture of a boy who was finally adjusting to the life he had, fitting in which was the only way to survive. Without being aware of the process, I was becoming part of it all, accepted as someone with a right to be there. Of course it never occurred to me that this niche I had was far from an ideal one, that sort of thinking comes from parents. In war time most people develop a ‘Live for today and let tomorrow take care of itself.’ attitude, only a few far sighted individuals plan for what might follow. Having become a part of the system I began to develop a desire to do well, but not because it was important to my future. If the truth be known, I wanted to look good to those around me, I was learning that one had to earn the respect of others, and superiority was never recognised without a demonstration of proof that you had a right to it. Then there was that spirit of competition that is part of us, driving us to prove ‘I can do anything better than you.’ Pride is such a powerful driving force, and it is enhanced when a person feels a conviction that there are forces within us that cannot be denied.
With this growing desire to do well at school, I ended my third and fourth years with an ever-improving reputation. I was good at sports with football, running, high jump, and wrestling particular favourites. I was recognised by teachers and pupils alike as someone worthy of respect, what more could a boy ask for. There seemed little doubt that when I moved up to the final grade, I would have accomplished that ultimate goal a place in the ‘A’ class. The fact that I did not gain this accolade has always remained one of the greatest disappointments of my life.
At the end of 1947 I had believed that the top four places in my class, 4B1, would be promoted to 5A for the following year. When the results were announced I found to my delight that I had come second, and so departed for the holidays as happy as I could be. On my return to school I joined my old class where we would be informed which classroom we were to go to, and which teacher would guide us to our final destination. - I believe it was in 1947 that the Department of Education changed the name of local schools run by councils and other such authorities to ‘Secondary Modern’ and at the same time raised the school leaving age to 15 years and 3 months. This meant that I would leave school in July 1948. - The proud moment to which I had looked forward for so long had arrived, and then the names of those to be upgraded were called out. I sat in a state of shock as the four fortunate boys gathered their bits and pieces and departed.
In my day we were taught to accept the decisions of those set above us without question, and under normal circumstance I would have been the last to raise a query. On this occasion it was too much to bear, and I found myself standing by the teachers’ desk almost without knowing how I got there. I do not remember my actual words, but the question was why had I been left out of the four promotions? With an air of apology the teacher explained that whoever made the decisions on such matters, had ruled that I was inadequate in one vital subject, and that was mathematics. The superior teaching on this subject would benefit some other boy, but on me it would be wasted.
When I left school I had a little general knowledge, and that was about all. I could read, but not spell, write but without any understanding of English grammar, and in arithmetic I could add, divide, multiply, and subtract, but did not know the multiplication tables. One skill I did learn afterwards and that was finding ways to an answer the slow and indirect way. Whatever I have needed to know since I left school I have taught myself; it was on the job training, with a vengeance.
Did I enjoy anything at school? Yes, all those things I appeared to be good at, such as sports. In most of the academic subjects I achieved better results than most of my class mates, so I left school with the impression that I was a very sharp fellow. I did not realise how abysmally low our standards had been; it was a classic case of: ‘In the land of the blind, a one eyed man is king.’ what a revelation it was when I joined the world of people with excellent vision. It is hard to believe now how deluded I became, but on reflection it was understandable. I had become a big fish in a little pond, and often enjoyed the flattery that came my way.
Once a year the senior boys took part in a school play, the most talented being given parts. Drama was another subject in which I shone, so I usually had a part in this prestigious event. In my last year we produced a murder mystery entitled ‘The Scarlet Thread.’ and I was given the leading role of ‘Butters’ the murderer. Our performance was pronounced a huge success, so much so that we were asked to repeat our performance for the Youth Club, which used our school a couple of evenings a week. I still get a warm glow when I recall that evening, and the enthusiastic applause I received when I ended the play with the final dramatic lines, which I can still remember: “Twas a ghost ye saw this night, the ghost of Jacob Forge, who was hung, (dramatic pause,) hung by a scarlet thread.” There I stood all of 14 years old, dressed in my father’s old raincoat, and a trilby, convinced I was putting Laurence Olivia to shame. Confessing that the man who had been hung for a murder that I had committed had been an innocent man, it was a dramatic moment and I made the most of it as any actor would.
There were other plays as well, I remember one called ‘Eldorado’ which was about a man who spends years, and every penny he possessed, to develop a new variety of potato. In the final scene he enters the kitchen of his house, where he had left the precious potatoes on the table, only to find to his dismay, (and to the great amusement of the audience,) that his wife had peeled them and put them to boil for his dinner.
Entertaining the teenagers of the youth club was not my only experience of the club, I had attended its’ sessions regularly, though not really old enough to be a member. The objective of these clubs was to give teenagers something to do and to keep them off the streets. With this in mind there were a number of classes run for those that were interested, and one was a boxing class. A Mr Davies ran this class and he could be found a couple of evenings a week putting his few volunteers through their paces. When I discovered this activity I offered myself as a willing trainee, and after showing what I could do, he decided I would be worth the effort.
The city council had provided some equipment, and with only two or three other candidates, I found it ideal to go and spend the evening working up a sweat doing all those things you see boxers doing at the cinema. With very few prospects around, Mr Davies often gave me his individual attention, probably seeing in me the only keen volunteer he had. This situation worked to my advantage because he knew his stuff, having been the City Police Heavy Weight Champion for a number of years. I learned to use my feet and to score points with a long straight left hand, which later on resulted in me becoming capable of handing out the punishment without taking much in return.
I had all the thoughts a young boy would have while I was being put through my paces. I would show the world what I could do, and I would make myself a hero. The class in which we trained had a wall of glass windows, and I could look out and see most of the teenagers that attended the club, jiving and jitterbugging in the school hall. To the sound of the big bands of the day, including the famous Glenn Miller, playing ‘In the Mood’ and ‘American Patrol’ the local youth indulged in their decadent preferences. While I did the hard stuff, preparing myself to take on all comers, I looked out at them with a feeling of considerable superiority. It is something to smile about now, but at the time I was quite serious about it. Taking myself seriously has always been an inherent part of my character I suppose you could say.
The highlight of my time at the youth club came when the City organised a series of boxing matches with clubs from other cities. Young though I was Mr Davies decided I was good enough to face an opponent, and on the night I entered the ring erected in the main hall to face a young man from Birmingham. With the thought in mind that my Dad had earned glory doing this, I was determined to emulate him and show I was a son to be proud of. Not that he ever knew about it, because another thing that did not earn his approval was boasting. When I could have told him, I never did, but I might have just forgotten all about it after a while. For the record, I won my bout on points by being careful and keeping myself out of trouble. I could have gone for the big punch but was not prepared to take the risk, so I scored often and kept my guard up. Afterwards of course I felt as bold as brass and thought to myself “That was a piece of cake.” I really am quite good at this.
When I left school is it any wonder that I imagined a promising future stretching before me. I had played many parts, I was a star in the making, and at school they didn’t know the half of it. I had music at my fingertips, and was even showing some skill at the sport played by toffs, tennis. How clever I thought I was, and how soon I would find out how ignorant.
My impressions of the teachers we had at Queens Street do not appear flattering, and I suppose from most boys perspective this would be a predictable view. Looking back now I begin to realise that maybe such a critical stance is not a fair one. Events, that were soon forgotten, come back to me now, and they offer a more sympathetic picture.
Bertie Challinor for example sometimes invited one or two of his pupils to visit him at the weekend; I was one that was invited and I found it an interesting day out. He lived at Meir a suburb a mile or two on the other side of Longton, and to us city kids the green fields and the absence of factory chimneys made it almost a rural setting. What made the location even more interesting was the fact that his semi-detached house backed onto the local aerodrome, and it was quite a novelty to be able to look out of his back windows and see small planes, though there were not many of them, and they were not yet very active. At the time of this visit I was about 12 or 13 years old, which would have dated it about 1945 or 1946. The war had ended, though there seemed to be very little change in conditions. Rationing continued for several years, though it was gradually relaxed as goods became more readily available. Maintaining his usual relaxed sort of discipline, Mr. Challinor soon had us doing various chores around the house, including peeling potatoes and preparing the dinner. I suppose it was very good of him to feed three or four hungry boys, but at the same time it occurs to me that perhaps he thought it was worth it, when he had all his household chores done while he sat and read his newspaper. He appeared to be living alone, and we never discovered whether there was or ever had been a Mrs. Challinor.
Another teacher who went out of his way to improve our lives was Mr. Betley. What he did for other boys I don’t know, but on two occasions he invited me to spend time with him. In my second year I went to his house which was also out past the Meir aerodrome on the road to Blythe Bridge. One of my visits was made on a warm summer day; he decided to take me out into the country in his Austin 12 car. Petrol was in short supply, but he must have had enough to drive a few miles to a farm where he was made welcome. He spent a few hours at the farmhouse while I wandered the fields and had a swim in the nearby river. I shall always remember that day out in the country, how kind Mr. Betley was to me. It was not often that anyone had a chance to ride in a motorcar, or to use a telephone. This was a new experience for me, making a phone call for the very first time. I had to ask for the number I wanted, and then speak to the person at the other end of the line. I don’t remember what the call was about, but I am sure it was made for my benefit only. I cycled home in time for tea, feeling very happy with my ex-army small pack on my back, full of fat sticks of juicy rhubarb from Mr. Betley’s garden, and a giant mushroom the size of a small dinner plate that I had found in the fields out at the farm. I feasted on mushroom and a small slice of bacon the next morning, and it was delicious.
Sometime during the following year, which would have been about 1947, Mr. Betley, who was a scoutmaster, took me in his car to a large scout camp called Kibblestone. This camp was a couple of miles South of Stone, on the Stafford road. It had everything young boys could wish for, an obstacle course, a flying fox, open-air swimming pool, and loads of other things. There were campsites and cabins, one being a special one for King’s scouts. There was a viewing cabin with a large glass window looking out on a copse teaming with all sorts of birds, and squirrels, and other forms of wild life. It was another fine summers day, and we had it all to our selves, and I had another wonderful day out that I shall never forget. Why I was taken to see this camp I shall never know, but maybe the kind Mr. Betley thought it would inspire me to join the scouting movement? I never did. If he had offered these kindnesses today there would have been some who would have suspected his motives. Such thoughts did not occur back in 1947 and child abuse was not an issue at that time, certainly not one that I was aware of.
My time at school did not provide me with academic knowledge, but I was learning something of life. School was structured and organised, just as most places of employment proved to be. I had an important part to play in school life, and felt some regret when it ended. I also had my father who added a feeling of confidence as I rapidly approached the time when I would join the working world.
In July 1946 my second brother was born, Douglas was born at home in our council house at 93 Broad Street. It was only a two bed roomed house, so now we were full to overflowing, and it was time to move on. The council was building new houses on the edge of Blurton, which was a suburb close to the main road running from Longton to Trentham. We qualified and had enough influence to gain some priority, so within a few weeks we were able to move into a smart new three bed roomed semidetached house on the edge of the city. I was now two or three miles from School and used my bicycle to commute each day.
One day on my way home from school, I was passing a parked car, when a man in it suddenly swung his door wide. Being an older car the door opened to the rear, and I crashed into it ending up in the middle of the road. Fate smiled on me that day because a large red double-decker bus was close behind me at the time. When I looked up from the road, the radiator of the bus towered above me and the wheels were inches away. I was shaken but unscathed, and so was my bike, but the car door had sustained a good-sized dent. It had been a near thing, and I was clearly the injured party, so I was taken aback when the man in question launched a verbal attack on me. Demanding my name and address, he made it very clear that I would be held responsible for the damage.
On arriving home I reported the incident to my father, explaining that the man involved was some sort of salesman, who had a car full of boxes and packages. With his rear window obscured he had not been able to make sure the road was clear before opening his door. I also complained that I had seen a similar accident some weeks before, and that the car driver on that occasion had shown extreme concern for his error. He apologized profusely to the man on the bicycle and pressing several pounds into his hand he had pleaded that the matter be taken no further.
In my case I had been quite shaken up at the time, and being young and inexperienced had not asked for details from the other party involved. Having no means of pursuing the matter, the incident seemed to be closed. Some weeks later we moved back to Fenton; my mother was missing her older sister. Shortly afterwards an insurance investigator came knocking on our door to inform us that his company was demanding substantial payment for damage to their clients car. I was at school and my father was at work, and typically my mother refused to talk with this unwelcome visitor. She referred him to her husband at his place of work, the MEB (Midlands Electricity Board) accounts offices in Stoke.
I was never told anything about the outcome of this confrontation, but I believe my father made it clear that we were the offended party. Maybe he threatened to take legal action, claiming dangerous use of a motor vehicle, or something of that nature. For my part I was made aware of how beneficial it was to have a father to defend me. It made quite an impression experiencing the protection of a competent parent.
The return of teachers from the armed forces improved the quality of the school staff, but it was far too late to do me any good academically. I enjoyed other changes that made school a more enjoyable experience. There was Mr. Alan who had returned from the Navy, he loved music and made it his mission to improve our knowledge of the Classics. I cannot remember now what subjects he was supposed to be teaching us, but every day he would take the opportunity to play records on a portable gramophone.
Then there was Mr. Cooper, (Harry to his friends) who had returned from the Army. He was a smart military looking man with a moustache, but he was anything but stern and disciplined. His main aim in life was to take it easy, and do everything he could to relax. His classes were a positive joy for all of us; it was like going on holiday spending time with Harry Cooper.
One of the first things he did soon after his arrival was to organize a camping trip for anyone who wanted to go. With the help of some friends outside the school he arranged transport for about 25/30 boys, plus half a dozen of his acquaintances. About half were to return after a week, and the balance were to stay for a second week. The destination he chose was Benlech Bay on the North East coast of the Isle of Anglesey. It was a summer camp in 1947 if I remember correctly, and I can visualize the scene when we arrived. An advance party had already erected the tents, which were bell tents, probably ex-army. A field on the headland above the village had been selected, and it all looked very well organised from my perspective.
I was one of the lucky boys who could afford to stay for two weeks, though as it turned out we were not as lucky as we thought. What do I remember of that holiday? Not the memories you would have expected, like hot sunny days on the beach and swimming in the sea. I can recall feeling hungry all the time, and spending most of my pocket money on filled rolls at the village snack bar. With no organised activities we had to make our own amusement, and I spent more time talking to the locals than playing with the other boys in our party. I heard about the local millionaire who owned the nearby caravan camp and all the donkeys and horses one could hire for rides on the beach. The story was that this man had arrived in the village a couple of years before, without a penny to his name, but with an old donkey he had acquired on his travels. He was given permission to give donkey rides on the beach, and after a while he had a whole string of them, making money hand over fist. He continued to expand his activities and by the time we arrived he was a much discussed success story.
Another much-discussed local topic at the time was the outcome of a murder trial that had just been completed. Just along the coast was Red Wharf Bay, where a man had recently killed his wife. He was a mild mannered man with whom everyone who knew him sympathized. His wife was an unpleasant woman who had made his life a misery for years, when one day the worm turned. She was ironing some washing and as usual was abusing her inoffensive husband, who was standing on the other side of the ironing board. Putting down the iron she continued her tirade, and without thinking the poor man picked up the iron and struck his wife on the head. It proved to be a fatal blow, and the unfortunate fellow was charged with murder. The public, and apparently the jury at his trial, had such sympathy for the accused, that though they accepted he had committed the crime, they pleaded for clemency on his behalf. The judge agreed it seems for the accused was sentenced to only six months in jail, and having already served that period he was allowed to walk away a free man.
What strange memories I have of this holiday, I cannot bring to mind fun and good times, only local events and the little dramas that befell us. In the first couple of days one of the boys broke his plate; we had all taken the basic requirements needed to sustain ourselves. He was dispatched to the only shop in the village for a replacement, only to return in some dismay with the news that there was not a single piece of tableware to be had in the village or anywhere in the locality. Harry Cooper and his friends concluded that the effects of the war were still being felt in this remote corner of Wales. The upshot of this story was that one of the friends mentioned was in the Pottery business, and phoning home he arranged for a load of crockery to be sent out on the lorry that came to collect the boys returning after the first week. This consignment went no further than the local shop, which then sold it on for a very handsome profit.
A couple of days before our holiday ended the weather broke when a powerful storm swept in from the sea. In the early hours of the morning half of our tents which were in an exposed position up on the headland, were blown down and damaged. It was not worth the effort to move the camp to a more sheltered spot, so we were relocated in the village hall, where we slept on the floor like refugees. I can recall that I felt some smugness at the time because I for one was well equipped to deal with this life of uncertainty. My father had provided me with the camping gear that had seen him safely through his time in North Africa and Italy. The main item being a sponge rubber bed within a waterproof zip up bag, which had strong leather straps to tie it into a roll. It had a soft sponge pillow, and a large hold all at each end in which one could put all ones belongings. I was warm and dry when I slept, and when I had to move, all I had to do was roll it up, and be on my way.
To end this tale of holiday adventure I must mention how glad I was to be returning home to all the comforts it provided. This experience reminded me of my debt to my parents, and how much I took for granted my mother’s care and kindness, and the security that my father provided. With this in mind I took myself off to the village bakery, at the crack of dawn, and bought the first large jam tart that came out of the oven. It was the size of a large dinner plate, and was still burning hot. This was to be my gift to my family for providing me with a holiday and a home to which I could return. I had not thought how I would take care of it on the journey home, and found I had no other choice but to carry it in my hands. For several hours I sat among the tents and baggage in the back of a large lorry, trying to protect my lovely jam tart. I had set myself an impossible task, and inevitably I lost control of my prize as we sped around yet another sharp bend in the road. It was broken into pieces but being in a paper bag was still eatable, so I consoled myself with large mouthfuls of fresh jam tart, until it was all gone. When the truck dropped me, and my equipment, off at Victoria Place, a few hundred yards from my home, my mother was waiting to greet me. Her first question was: “Why is your face all sticky and covered in dirt?”
More often than not I was unaware of the lessons I was learning, though I made use of that learning without realising I was doing it. I learned something the day I had my last fight at school, a fight that should never have taken place, and one that I have always thought of with regret. There was a boy at school named Derrick Lane and though I didn’t know him very well, I was well disposed towards him. One thing in particular I liked about him was that he had pride; he had never bent the knee to anyone, including myself. At the other end of the spectrum was an obnoxious individual whose surname was Beresford, though his Christian name escapes me now. Beresford was ungainly, with a dark complexion, and an ugly face. In ordinary circumstances one would have felt some sympathy for him because he was also deformed, with what we used to call a ‘Charlie’ on his back. I can imagine some thinking of him as ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’, and though he often gave offence, no one ever used physical force against him because of his disability. The problem was he had a personality to suit his appearance, he looked like an evil little dwarf, and he had qualities to match.
In retrospect it is obvious that Beresford hated both Derrick and me, though why it is impossible to say. Maybe his deformity had soured his soul and he hated anyone that was clean cut and had the attributes that he would have liked for himself? Whatever the reason, this nasty piece of work put in to operation a devious little plan to set Derrick and I against each other. I cannot remember what he said now, but he approached each of us telling us what the other had said. It was all highly insulting, and of a nature designed to offend the pride and bruise the ego. If for no other reason than our youthful reputation, we could not refuse the challenge. With more maturity and wisdom we would have talked not fought, but we were boys, and we did what boys did. The gauntlet was thrown down, and a fight was arranged in the field behind the school at the end of the day.
The news spread like wild fire, so that when we entered the field of battle we were accompanied by a mob of boys all eager to witness the forthcoming combat. The unwritten rules for fights arranged in this way were as follows:
If you were willing to lose face, you could back down and make humble apologies at any time before the action began. Once combat had begun one could not throw in the towel until blood had been drawn. If clear and obvious damage had been done to one or other of the combatants the fight could end with an admission of defeat. The action would be continuous and no excuses would be accepted as reason to stop or pause. I had some skill and experience in this form of dispute, and within seconds of commencing I knew that my opponent was no match for me. I confess that I felt some pleasure at the thought that I could take my time, avoid anything Derrick could throw at me, and set about teaching him a lesson.
In later years I found I could punch hard and knock an opponent down, but at this stage in my boxing experience I did not try for the KO as they say. Using mainly my straight left I began to damage this rather nice boy I was set against. I bruised his eye, split his lip, and made his nose bleed, and after some time I began to worry about the state he was getting in to. Derrick had on a nice new grey jumper with a red design on the collar, and the blood from his face was making a real mess of it. The problem was that he would not surrender; I even paused between punches to ask him if he had had enough, but his pride and stubbornness would not allow him to admit defeat.
There appeared to be no way out of our dilemma, and it looked very much as though the brave but hapless Derrick might suffer some serious injury if we did not stop soon. Our audience was mesmerised by the whole business and there was no one amongst them capable of halting this impending disaster. I am glad to relate that there was not a nightmare ending, we were saved by a kindly fate, or at least Derrick was saved. On the other side of the field not far away, were a marl hole and a brick works. The fight must have started about 4.30pm, and the work at the brick works must have ended at 5pm. One of the men who had been working within sight of us, having cleaned up and collected his work bag, he headed our way. It was not his usual route, but having seen the crowd of boys, and wondering about the activity and excitement, his curiosity had got the better of him and he decided to find out what was going on. This was a man who had probably seen his share of pub brawls, and hard knocks. However, when he stepped through the crowd and saw the state of Derricks face, he stopped the affair there and then.
Normally a man like the one I describe would have not considered it his business to interfere, especially when it was just two boys having a silly fight. It is certain that he saw it as far more serious than that; his sensible actions probably saving us from further, and serious consequences. I for one was glad that he put an end to it, and I am sure that poor Derrick felt the same way. When we discovered the cause of our dispute, we became friends and I expressed my regret for what had happened. I am sure that Derrick understood why it had occurred, and recognised that I would have had little choice but to respond to an apparent challenge; such was the code under which we lived.
Volume 1 – chapter 12 – Part 2