Tuesday 31 January 2012

India

VOLUME 1 - CHAPTER 4 –PART 1

Most of the large armies in the world were created to fight wars, but for much of its history the British Army was intended for the most part to control and guard the Empire. A large and restless part of that Empire was the vast continent of India, which always required a considerable part of the army to keep it under control. So at this point in my story the North Stafford’s were dispatched to India, and I believe it was the large military base at Secunderabad in central India, that became their home, and was to remain so from the 1920s until they returned to England at the outbreak of the Second World War.

A glance at a map of India gives immediate clues to the reason why the British Raj created a power base in the central state of Andhra Pradesh. This princedom had once been the largest and most powerful state in India, and the location of Hyderabad its capitol, was a strategic one being well placed in relation to other important centres, such as Madras, Pondicherry, and the great ports of Bombay and Calcutta. Secunderabad was situated about 25/30 kilometres North of Hyderabad and was the Indian equivalent of Aldershot, being entirely military. It was created by the British Army for its own exclusive use, and would not have existed otherwise. Once the regiment arrived at this base it was to remain there for a number of years, apart from the requirements of operational activities.

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Being now in what could be viewed as a settled environment, and part of a very large and well organized military structure, the battalion soon found that it had many activities available to it which quickly led to a way of life and a standard and quality of living that they had never imagined by the troops. For the average Englishman it was an exotic life to say the least, and for many Europeans this vast exotic land was a game of chance, it could provide rich rewards, but it could also mean an early death from disease or some other product of an alien environment.

My father now took advantage of the opportunity to study, but in his early years in India it was his physical prowess that became the magic key to future success. Already a pugilist of some skill and experience it was not long before he was winning bouts in the boxing ring representing the regiment. His value and talent in boxing and other sports were soon recognized and from that time he was to enjoy something of a privileged position which brought him accelerated promotion and improved job opportunities.

It was as early as 1923 that corporal Bishop represented his unit in the Secunderabad Garrison boxing tournament, fighting as he always had in the 'Fly Weight' division. Even at this bottom end of the boxing spectrum the competition was fierce, and there was many a budding champion ready to give his all to prove himself. It was a large garrison and the boxers were soon to become well known and to hold a special place in the opinions of their fellow soldiers; those that brought glory and credit to their regiment attained the status of heroes and such members of the regiment were always well cared for.- By this time he even had a nick name by which he was recognized, they called him 'Chota' which in the Hindu tongue means 'Small'.- Eventually Billy fought in the final of the British Army In India Boxing Tournament, losing the final bout on points to a man who had also been a professional. - Dad was to tell me that by the time he reached the final in this competition he had already dislocated both of his thumbs and could not punch properly. Even so he managed to stay on his feet until the end of the fight, and had even scored enough points to make the final decision a close one. - Such courage and such values made him a man to be admired, and though I never felt great affection for him, I did respect him and felt determined to live up to his standards.

It is true to say that success breeds success, and now events were moving in the right direction; sporting achievements yielded other gains. The battalion sports stars were vital to the reputation of the unit and they had to be looked after and rewarded; which is possibly why my father was given a job in the orderly room, and a promotion to sergeant. Now he did not have to spend all his time on drill and spit and polish and all the other mundane chores which are a large part of a soldier’s life. There was plenty of time available for training of course, as much as he wanted, and it soon became apparent that there could be further advantage if he was to diversify into other sports. As a good all round sportsman Dad was to become involved in hockey; eventually winning his badge as a referee, and in rugby, playing as scrum half for the battalion team.

By the time 1926 arrived the future was looking rosier than ever, and to improve matters even more the powers that be realized that my father’s seven year period of service was fast coming to an end and that they had to ensure that this very valuable member of the unit must be persuaded to continue his service. It may be jumping to conclusions to say that this was the reason for further improvements in his circumstances, but there was little doubt that he received special treatment about this time in his career. He was given the opportunity to study and soon qualified as a Warrant Officer Class Two, and a further promotion to Staff Sergeant. He was befriended by some of the officers, which was a very unusual occurrence, there being very strong and marked class divisions in the British Army, and still is. However, some of these socially superior beings did behave quite well towards him, and this must have helped him to make up his mind when it came to deciding whether to sign on for a further seven years service.

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ANOTHER NOTE HAND WRITTEN ON THE BACK OF AN ENGAGEMENT PICTURE

Taken in May 1928; on leave from India for six months - It was taken on the occasion of my engagement before returning to India. I returned in 1932 and got married on 16th May 1932.

Aged at engagement Billy 26 years & Mary 17 years - Married ages – Self 29 & Mary 21

(Note my father was born on 19th January 1903 which would have made him 25 years and 5 months when he got engaged in May 1928, and 29 and 5 months on his wedding day which was 16th May 1932.)

There was no end to the advantage of being a good sportsman. Some of these things were worth doing simply because they had social advantages to them, such as golf and horse riding, and Dad did all of these things. However, there was one sport that was not only a social advantage it was a game that he grew to enjoy very much, a game he was to excel at. It was tennis, and this game now began to open many doors for him.

Strangely it was an accident that resulted in him being introduced to the gentlemen's sport of tennis. It seems he had received a very bad kick to his right knee whilst playing rugby and the Medical Officer had told him that it would probably not be wise for him to continue playing a physical contact sport. Initially he was introduced to the game by one of the officers with whom he had made friends, though it is possible that the officer in question, being a keen player had seen this as a chance to make the young NCO into a worthy opponent against whom he could practice and improve his own game. It was not long before my father found that he had a natural aptitude for the game, and that it would be a great advantage if he could improve his skills.

Monday 30 January 2012

Becoming a Pukka Sahib

VOLUME 1 – CHAPTER 3 – PART2

Life in the army may not have been easy, but it had more excitement and adventure than the average civilian life. There was always something new and interesting just around the corner, or so it seemed to my father. After a short period at Gibraltar, the Regiment was required for a more active role as a peace keeper.

Turkey being an ally of Germany lost a considerable amount of territory at the end of the First World War. This loss of territory soon led to a confrontation between them and one of their traditional enemies Greece. Not for the first time these two countries were ready to fight over disputed ground and it was Britain who was expected to keep the peace.

Over a lengthy period of time the Turkish Empire had been slowly eaten away, and they had little left apart from their mainland territory which lay between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean. This did not prevent Greece from attempting to take advantage of their enemies defeated status. They had always insisted that portions of the Western coast of the Turkish mainland belonged to them, so what better time could there be to take it back. It could be argued that much of this country had been Greek before the coming of the Turkish Empire, but history had marched on and it now seemed something of a lost cause except in the memories of the Greek Nation.

Seizing their opportunity and with the aid of French and Italian forces, they took possession of the port and province of Izmir immediately after the defeat of the Central Powers in 1919. Naturally the Turks confronted this invasion as soon as they possibly could, and it was apparent that it was only a question of time before hostilities broke out.

I am not sure of the exact date, but at one juncture a small British force was rushed to the point of confrontation. This force included the 1st Battalion of the North Staffordshire Regiment, which was sent to guard a bridge across a ravine with a small detachment of its men. On each side of the bridge stood a large and belligerent army, both determined to win the area for themselves, and both equally convinced that right was on their side. This small British force would not have lasted very long had either of the two armies decided to advance. Fortunately Britain was still seen as a powerful nation, and both sides in this dispute decided that they could not afford to have the British Army as an additional enemy. No attack took place, and once again the British Army had saved the day. The complexities of this situation is not part of my story, so all I need to say is that after a time the British units were withdrawn and an uneasy peace settled over the disputed territory ; though history records that in 1922 battle was eventually joined, resulting in the defeat and ejection of the Greeks and their allies.

From the time my father joined the battalion it had gone through an unsettled period being moved from one posting to another quite rapidly. Such circumstances did not allow regimental life to develop or individuals to make progress in their careers, but thanks to his determination and hard working approach, Dad certainly appeared to be doing better than most. In the regular army at that time it was not unusual for a recruit to take ten years of service to gain a stripe. The lowly rank of lance corporal was quite an achievement making the fortunate soldier one of an elitist group. Often called the backbone of the British Army, the Non Commissioned Officers were the ones that led in the heat of action, and usually suffered the highest casualties. The speed of promotion was naturally dependent on the quality of the man, and considering that young Billy had earned his first stripe after only about three years service it was beginning to be apparent that he had qualities which placed him above average.

Life and practical experience is the best teacher it is said, and there is no doubt that my father had learnt to become a survivor. It is also my impression that he had discovered that if you make yourself useful to those in authority they often make life a little easier for you. It was only a short step from this view to the awareness that if it is possible to make one self indispensable then one is in an even better situation. Starting from rock bottom one can only go up and that is what Dad set out to do.

The traditional home of the regiment was near a small village called Whittington which was about 4 or 5 miles from the cathedral city of Lichfield. This base camp had been the headquarters of the North and the South Staffordshire regiments for a long time, and was an ideal location being on the edge of a common which was often used for military training and exercises. Though this was the home of the regiment it was rare that it was in residence; its very existence resulted from the active duties it was called upon to perform so periods at home were few. New recruits were constantly being trained and dispatched to the active unit, and that continuous round of training made Whittington Barracks the last place that most of the old hands wanted to be. It was always considered a mark of superiority to be chosen for service with the Battalion, a posting to the depot was usually considered to be a sign that you were not quite up to scratch.

This continuous service was the usual thing in the British Army, which brings to mind that story of the Welsh Border Regiment. In the 16th century they had been posted to the West Indies and were not called home for over 70 years. When they did eventually return home, when they disembarked from their ship they were found to be still wearing the tarred pigtail that the Army had sported when they had left England. The Army had dispensed with this form of hair style a number of years before their return. So to commemorate this unusual situation the regiment was allowed to retain the black ribbon worn on the back of the uniform to protect the tunic from the tar in which the pig tail was coated. Such little things often make up our traditions, many of which are now being lost it is sad to say.

Soldiers go where the army sends them, and they remain at their post for as long as they are needed. Sometimes they are constantly on the move, but as with the Welsh Border Regiment, there can be occasions when they remain in one place for a long time. In the 1920s the North Stafford’s were posted to India, and there they remained until the outbreak of WWII. This stability allowed army tradition to take over, and life for the men became more relaxed and even enjoyable.

I found this picture of my father which was one of three he had kept for romantic reasons and which he never showed to anyone. The note he had written explains his reasons for keeping it and it reveals a softer side to his nature which normally he never allowed to show.

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ANOTHER NOTE LEFT WITH A PICTURE OF HIMSELF IN UNIFORM

(He has the rank of corporal and his cap badge is that of the North Staffordshire Regiment)

This picture of me is taken at Secunderabad, India on 2nd December 1924. I was then nearly 22 years old. It was taken by a German who used to take portraits and paint them for the Nizam of Hyderabad of his many wives in his harem. I sent this photograph to Walter Jones (my late wife’s brother) instead of a Christmas card. I married Mary in 1932. She had this photograph in her possession. I said “How did you come to have this.” She said very shyly “I fell in love with it and asked Walter to give it to me.” This seemed romantic, but it is true and I would never have revealed this if Mary was alive. That is why I have kept this particular photo.

Life in India proved to be far superior to that enjoyed by the average citizen in Britain and my father was to spend some years developing a liking for it. There were aspects that required some adjustment such as the hot climate and the presence of diseases such as Malaria and Dysentery but if these hazards were accepted life in general had many benefits.

Sunday 29 January 2012

My Father joins the Army

VOLUME 1 – CHAPTER 3 – Part 1

My father had heard about a soldier’s life, it was part of his family background; he had thought often of joining the ranks when he was old enough. Life seemed to have very little to offer at this point and he may have thought that the army might provide better prospects? The problem was that the minimum recruiting age was seventeen and six months, and so he was still too young by a year. If only he had been old enough the opportunity was available, the army had reduced to something like it's old pre-war numbers, and they were now all regulars with a professional approach to a soldiers trade. Life in a regular peacetime force was said to be well worthwhile, and the army was looking for suitable recruits. It would be a life that was organised and adventurous, and though there was no war to fight, there was still plenty of action awaiting the soldiers of the British Army

It seems strange to think that only a few months after the largest war the world had ever known had ended, the British Army was short of men. Just about all who had served in the war wanted out, but there were still troubled places in the Empire. And one that had recently erupted into full scale conflict was Ireland with the Irish rebellion erupting yet again. The recruiting offices had hardly shut their doors when they were back in business again, looking for yet more cannon fodder, and thanks to the downturn of the world economy, and the rise in unemployment, there were plenty of willing recruits such as my father.

How did a boy of sixteen with the face of a cherub manage to talk his way into the army? Maybe the army was prepared to take just about anyone without asking too many questions, and possibly his Grandmother aided and abetted him. It is impossible to say, but the fact is that young Billy succeeded in deceiving the recruiting office in Bethesda Street in Hanley and took the Kings Shilling. Now he was Private Bishop of the 1st battalion, North Staffordshire Infantry Regiment.

After 27 years service in the army, with most of those years spent in his county regiment, my father and our family in general had reason to feel we belonged to it. I also spent a brief period in the regiment, - but that comes later in my story. - With this feeling in mind, it seems appropriate to outline some of the regiment’s history. It came into being in 1705 and in 1751 it became known as the Staffordshire Regiment and was designated the 38th of foot. In 1756 a second regiment was formed becoming the 64th of foot. Looking at the history of the regiment I have often wondered why it did not attract more attention from the public than it did. So much has been written about other units of the British Army, and so many of these units have become legendry. The record of the Staffordshire Regiment is second to none, so is it any wonder that this question has puzzled me. I once read that probably the most courageous and outstanding engagement ever fought by any unit in any army, was the breaching of the Hindenburg Line in 1918, and this operation was carried out by the North Midlands Territorial Division , and it was the North Stafford’s that spearheaded the attack. This action alone should have made them the most famous regiment in the British Army, but it does not seem to have done so.

By the time my father joined the regiment in 1920 the North Stafford’s had become The Prince of Wales’s North Staffordshire Regiment, and of course since 1870 part of the regiment had become the South Staffordshire Regiment. When the Second World War began more units were formed, and it was at this point that my father was propelled upwards and onwards. He became a commissioned officer and his first duty was to form a new unit; eventually he was reassigned to a special unit, which was designed for rapid re-supply of the forward troops. - I joined the 1st Battalion in 1950, and was with them when they were went to Trieste as part of a force sent to defend that important port from the threat of take-over by Marshal Tito, and his communist forces; but again I am anticipating later events in my story.

It was always difficult to get my father to talk about himself, and especially when it came to his years in the army. Looking back to the time when he joined up, it is not necessary for him to tell us that he would have gone to the regimental depot to do his basic training, and that the first few months may not have been very enjoyable. The one circumstance that might have alleviated the trauma of adjusting to army life, was probably the fact that he was based close enough to home to get week-end leave, which would have allowed him to go home and see Harriet his Grandmother. - I am sure this must have been the case because I also followed the same path, and exactly the same circumstances applied to me though some thirty years later. - The only mention of those early months was a reference to an early leave during which he decided to go and seek out his older sister Anne. Dad was to always keep in touch with his sister, though they would not see each other very often during the very different lives that they led.

Aunt Anne was a remarkable woman with the same determined sort of personality my father had. She was to achieve a much higher level of education than most other young woman of her generation and she put it to good use. Compared with her brother her life was to prove much more satisfactory, she was to enjoy many advantages which a superior position in society was to provide. She married well and enjoyed a life which my father could only envy from a distance. An intelligent woman she always knew the reality of the situation, and never attempted to change the differences that kept her apart from her brother and her father’s other family. This may have been the case, but that does not mean that she rejected her brother; in fact she always insisted that he visit her and she him over the years, and they always had a strong affection for each other. However, their very different lives allowed few opportunities for a close relationship, and it is sad to say that they met very rarely.

It is certainly interesting to note that on the occasion when my father went to see his sister shortly after joining the army, her greeting had not been a very approving one. Many years after the event he was to tell me with more than a little chagrin that when Anne had opened the door to him and seen him standing there in uniform, her first words had been : "You silly fool, can't you find anything better to do with your life than join the army ?" To many, joining the army appears to suggest that the person concerned had failed to make the grade in civilian life, (Unless of course one is in a position to join the ranks as an officer and a gentleman; though sometimes even then the person concerned is thought to have opted for a military career as a last resort.) There is little doubt in my mind that my father was one of those who, finding life almost impossible, had taken refuge in the protecting but stifling folds of army life. His half-brother Albert was also to find himself in much the same sort of circumstances, and followed his half brother into the army. These facts as I outline them are not intended as a criticism, I am simply relating events as I believe them to be.

Bearing in mind that this is actually my story, I suppose this would be an appropriate place to record that this was to be my fate as well. The one major difference between my father, Uncle Albert, and myself, was that they were to be fortunate enough to make some success out of such a life ; a military career may have had very limited prospects for many, but in their case it did prove beneficial. In my case fate was to be far from kind, but that comes later in this story of mine.

After a period of training but as yet still a raw young recruit, young Bill joined a draft which was destined for the battalion in Ireland. This was more like it, the training over and only adventure ahead; this is what a young lad might have thought, though he was soon to find out that it was not going to be much fun. Landing at Belfast the reinforcements had a long march to their first destination; Dad recalled that even for a fit and healthy young man it was a long, hard, and exhausting march. It was winter and very cold and wet, and this experience was to be a traumatic one which remained for ever etched in his memory. He recalled that on reaching their destination and being allocated a billet, all the men wanted to do was sleep. “I was so tired I didn't even take off my great coat and all the equipment I was weighed down with, I just staggered to my bed and fell upon it. When I did the thing collapsed in a heap of iron and springs on the floor, but I was just too far gone to care, I just lay in the middle of the heap and slept." It was a cruel trick that the old hands had played on the youngest recruit who was so obviously finding it hard to cope. Typical of course, they were hard and without much sympathy, it was the sort of cruel humour that one might expect from such men in such a place and at such a time.

Looking back there seems to be nothing that one can say in favour of the attitudes and behaviour of the men with which my father was serving, but then one has to take into account what life was like in those days. Such treatment of a young lad seems today to be brutal and uncaring, but looking more deeply maybe it did serve a purpose. It would have certainly made the person involved more determined to fend for himself, and it was yet another way in which that individual could be tested. How young Bill behaved under such trying circumstances would decide how he might fit in, and fitting in was perhaps the most important skill of all for those who would be part of such a close knit society.

Listening to stories about Ireland in the 1920's it was my impression that often they did not equate with the official history of events at that time. There are a number of sources of information about such events; there is of course the news media and then there are official records. Additionally there are occasional individual accounts, and how varied these different accounts can be. Often it seems we find them at odds with the official records, when we take the trouble to investigate. A distortion is not always intended of course; it might have been that the issues involved were just too complex to be clearly understood, or possibly the writer lacked sufficient detail, and so resorted to stretching the truth. Reporting an event is not an easy task, difficult enough if attempted by an eye witness, but infinitely more so when based on the experiences and descriptions of others. Let it also be said that it is only human nature that we should colour events, and try to portray them as we wish them to appear; few of us have no axe to grind as a rule it seems.

Looking at events in Ireland during the period 1920/1921 through the eyes of a young recruit, one gets the impression that there was no real animosity between the soldiers of the British Army and the Irish people. One might even go so far as to say that even the Republicans, and the IRA which had come into being in 1919, did not consider that their fight was with the men in khaki. The powers that be might have a different view, but down at the intimate level where ordinary individuals faced each other, there seemed to be almost a reluctance to cause hurt to the ordinary man. Such an impression does not sit well with the official record of the events of the time, but maybe some factors have been ignored, or maybe not given credence. For example, many of the men on both sides had been comrades not long before, fighting and dying together in the mud of France and Belgium. It is surely hard to believe that they would now so lightly cast aside those bonds of comradeship and set about destroying each other.

Duty is deeply ingrained in soldiers with the intention of making them obedient to orders. Once this is achieved they can be depended on to carry out orders in every situation. In Ireland however, I believe the Irish and the British soldiers often tried to avoid actual confrontation. I have heard it said that the only time a degree of ruthlessness was revealed, on either side, was where the Black and Tans were involved in the conflict. An examination of the history of this force of paramilitary police might explain why this was so. However, now is not the time to examine this particular subject, though it does have a bearing on this story? What I wish to stress is the fact that whatever the degree of hatred and opposition between the Republicans and the British Army, it is a fact that some level of magnanimity must have existed between the two sides. If this had not been the case this narrative would never have been written, because my father would have been dead and I would not have existed at all.

Shortly after arriving in Ireland new recruits were allowed some freedom; though it appears that more care might have been taken to ensure that they understood enough about the local conditions to ensure safety. Young Billy with the boyish countenance and innocent expression found himself plodding along a country road, and he felt fortunate when some fellows in fancy looking uniforms stopped their truck to offer him a lift. In spite of the black caps and police type jackets, and the tan coloured jodhpurs, it is possible that my father did not know that these men were members of the previously mentioned Black and Tans. Had he known and realized how unpopular they were, he might have had enough sense to refuse their offer of a lift. However, the fact is he jumped in the back of the lorry and settled down to enjoy the ride, though it was not to be a long one. Not far away the Irish rebels, who were now calling themselves the Irish Republican Army, had set an ambush for this very vehicle that had picked up my father. The site of the trap was carefully chosen, it was on a sharp bend where the road had deep ditches on both sides. When the lorry rounded the bend the driver found himself confronted by a barrier with a group of armed men behind it.

Everything seemed to happen at once, the men at the barrier began to shoot and the vehicle skidded to a halt, those in the back instantly leaping out. Danger is a wonderful stimulant to the human mind, and in a flash my father thought to himself that this was his baptism of fire. He must have also wondered whether it might not only be his first but also his last such experience. He did not have time to feel frightened but he knew he had to get away or share the fate of the other passengers. Following his instincts her took to his heels running back down the road towards the sharp bend. It was then that he discovered that these IRA men were not new to this game, and they had occupied the ditch on the bend so that they could fire up the road towards the back of the ambushed lorry.

Quite clearly in his memory Dad has a vivid picture of the rifles pointing at him as he ran towards them. It must have taken him a minute or two to cover the distance to the bend, and he must have been very close when he followed the road round the corner in front of the waiting marksmen. He will never know why they did not kill him as they so obviously could have done. Was it because he was in khaki and just a young lad with whom they felt they had no quarrel? Was it sympathy for a young boy who looked too innocent to die, and was so clearly without any understanding of what he was doing or why he was there? We shall never know, but what we do know is that those Irishmen held their fire until the scared youngster had got clear of the guns, and then they continued with the business of ambushing the truck.

Looking back my father often wonders why he did not have the sense to dive into the ditch at the side of the road, but then it is always easy to be wise after the event. He also admits that from that moment onwards he was never able to feel any antagonism for the Irish. Fortunately he was never ordered into action against them, and admits that he was relieved that he was never called upon to oppose or harm them. Over the years that he was in the army he was to meet and make friends with many Irishmen. It is possible that some of them were to benefit from the good will that my father felt towards them as a result of the above incident.

Life in the army, in any army, is not a bed of roses, so we can say without doubt that pleasure and good times would have been in short supply for a young fellow like my father. On the other hand one has to say that his early years must have been good training, for the hard knocks and the physical pressures that army life offers. He was good soldier material; he had courage, and a stubborn nature. Generally speaking, he liked the life, though he did once admit to me that he found the discipline and lack of fairness hard to live with. This had led him to consider leaving the army in those early days. There were very few rights and entitlements in the army, but one of them was the right to buy yourself out if you felt so inclined. This sounds all very democratic but as you might expect the British Army was not at all keen on having its soldiers take advantage of such a scheme. To make it difficult they always took plenty of time considering such a request, and they did all they could to change the persons mind. They also made it a very expensive knowing that few would be able to find enough money to pay the considerable cost. In my father’s day a private soldier earned only a few shillings a week, so when you consider that it was about one hundred pounds to buy your freedom, it can be seen that the financial aspect was the one that prevented most from taking this step. It was this high cost that led to a well known army expression delivered by an imaginary young recruit writing home to his mother and saying: “Dear Mum, sell the pig and buy me out." To which the fictitious mother replied: “Dear Son, the pig is dead, soldier on."

Once over the difficult early days my father began to adjust, he soon began to realize that if one toed the line and kept ones nose clean, then the army could be almost tolerable. He also enjoyed periods of leave and it was a great feeling to arrive home with money in his pocket and no worries about the future. He felt he had escaped the depression and the spectre of unemployment; it certainly boosted his confidence knowing that he had the army to take care of him. When he visited his friends he could not help making comparisons and it became more apparent each time he saw them that as his life improved theirs got worse.

Unemployment was massive and increasing, and life for most people was grim and not made any easier by the country wide strikes that became a permanent part of daily living. The more my father saw of civilian life the more convinced he became that he was better off where he was. This feeling was reinforced by some of the things that happened to his unit on returning to England. For quite a period the army found itself providing guards for all sorts of industrial premises, and they were also to become a strike breaking work force when the authorities thought it necessary. In particular Dad remembers the battalion guarding Liverpool Docks, and also acting as dock workers loading and unloading ships in the port. The 1920's and 1930's will always be remembered as the period of 'The Great Strike' and there is no doubt that such bitter memories will never be forgotten. Those tragic times have burnt scars into the memories of the people, and those responsible must for ever bear the guilt for having let it happen.

It may have taken quite a time, but gradually the army became like a family to those who could adjust and get used to its ways. It provided a feeling of security and a feeling of belonging, something which had been missing in my father’s formative years. There was also adventure and comradeship and opportunities to see places and do things that would have been undreamt of in the ordinary way. So this was to be the future for Bill Bishop, and he was also to discover that the longer one held to this specialized life the more difficult it became to think of returning to the life of a civilian.

I have never heard my father talk about a sense of achievement, though I am sure he must have felt he was successful. Slowly but surely he demonstrated his worth, promotion came, a reward for his hard work and determined effort. If it is meant to be it will happen; life is a lottery, as we all know. A military life especially has its risks, and there were times when it could have all come to an abrupt end.

Early in the 1920's the battalion was sent on garrison duty to Gibraltar, not a bad posting they mostly thought. A sunny climate and some experience of foreign parts. Not too many duties to perform, and plenty of time to relax, and swim in the warm blue waters around 'The Rock'. It was this fondness for swimming that led to one of the occasions when young Billy's career nearly came to a premature end. Perhaps it was the fact that he had never lived near the coast and had little practice as a swimmer, but the fact is he was not very good at it. Good enough he had thought to accept the challenge of swimming as far out as the other more experienced swimmers did. - For young men the motto is never admit you are scared or can't do it. - Being new arrivals our young Staffordshire lads were not aware that the straits between the Mediterranean and the Atlantic were subject to very powerful tides and currents. They were to discover later that more than one young fellow had lost his life in the waters around Gibraltar.

The swimming party were having a grand time, and Billy found the clear water so refreshing after the hot barracks. He did not notice that for an inexperienced swimmer using the breast stroke he seemed to be making very rapid progress as he swam out from the shore. Eventually he decided he was perhaps a little too far away from his pals and turned back. Gradually he began to realise that maybe he was in trouble, try as he might he could not make any impression on the distance between himself and safety. It was quite a while before he was once more safe on the shore, and during that time, which had seemed a lifetime, he had swum to the point of exhaustion. Nearing the end of his tether, and feeling completely exhausted, he had accepted the ghastly thought that he was going to drown.

Being young and fit undoubtedly contributed to his survival, but he would never have made it on his own. As luck would have it, and fortunately for him, there were other men in the swimming party both older, wiser, and much better swimmers. It is possible that the more senior ranks in the party knew that they would be in big trouble if one of the younger men had drowned. Anyway, he was a comrade, and a soldier risks his life for his brothers, they were not going to leave him to drown. When the other men saw he was in trouble, several of my father’s comrades went to his aid, swimming out to where he was struggling and gradually towing and escorting him back to dry land. Dame fortune had smiled on him, as she had done in Ireland, and was to continue smiling for some time to come. It must have been a nice change for someone who had been so lacking in good fortune in his early years.

It is with some emotion that I write of my father’s near drowning, because I had a similar experience when I was in the army some thirty odd years later. How he must have felt at that fateful moment comes readily to my mind. When I write about it my own memories come flooding back; such dramatic events are so vivid they are never forgotten.

Saturday 28 January 2012

The Bishop Family

VOLUME ONE – CHAPTER TWO – THE BISHOP FAMILY

Today they say that education is freely available to all, though I could certainly take issue with that opinion. We know that the English have paid lip service to the idea of education for the masses over quite a lengthy period, but it must be said that some progress has been made, especially since the 19th Century. I am sure that most would agree that not even today is education really free, and looking at the question as a whole it is obvious that there are many levels and grades of tuition. Of course the lower the standard of education the cheaper it becomes, and this means inevitably that the majority are provided with low grade tuition. This proves to be a trap in which those who are unfortunate enough to be caught find that qualifications and opportunities are restricted, and very difficult to achieve. In more recent times the education system has tried to make amends for this state of affairs, but the real needs have mainly gone unheeded. For the majority of children there are still not enough teachers, and many of those we have are of poor quality. Modern methods do not provide enough discipline, which makes the job of teaching almost an impossible task. No wonder so many teachers give up trying, and become apathetic, and apparently just go through the motions.

My observations on the education system are directed at the methods used in England because it was there that both my father and I suffered from the effects of such a system. It is still a fact of life in England, that the higher the level of wealth, the greater the availability of good education, and the opportunities it provides. Then there is the question of power, privilege, and friends in high places, additional advantages that usually accompany the possession of wealth. But all this is known to the reader, and so I will move on with my narrative.

When my father was a school boy the standard of tuition available was strictly limited, but council schools were by now in existence, and it was to one of these that my father went. A further advance in the much vaunted educational system about that time was the decision to increase the school leaving age to fourteen years. My father was fortunate to be able to take advantage of this improvement, but such small gains were more than cancelled out by the fact that, when he left his dubious seat of learning, (the year was 1917 or there about,) almost four years of war had decimated the already limited standards of the teaching fraternity.

Another result of the Great War was to be felt in the work place, it was not only women who were now expected to take up much of the burden or the work force, but even children were expected to do a man’s work. The effects of the Great War had brought society forward in some respects, but had pushed it back in others. Often working conditions were little better than in the days of Charles Dickens, and this was even more evident in the Potteries. In North Staffordshire most of the employment was related to the pottery industry and the coal mines. Both of these industries had shocking reputations, they had improved little since the beginning of the industrial revolution. .

It was into this sort of environment that the diminutive Billy Bishop ventured when he left school. He had wavy brown hair and what could only be described as a baby face, though people were soon to find that his cherubic appearance was a deception. Those that did not know him were usually taken in by his 'butter wouldn't melt in my mouth ' demeanour. There was a greater respect for authority in those days, but even in this area the innocent looking Billy was not averse to cocking a snook at those in high places. This included just about everyone from his perspective. Where his equals were concerned his actions and attitudes were even more extreme. Many were to discover that it did not pay to trifle with him, though it is certain that many were tempted to try. Deceived by his small stature and apparently inoffensive appearance, he must have been considered an easy target. Defending himself became an integral part of his life, and with much practice he became experienced and a dangerous opponent.

Living with combat as a constant part of life was a source of great difficulty for someone small in stature. It was all very well to have a fierce spirit, and to realise that attack is the best form of defence, but in the beginning my father found victory was often hard won. How could a little fellow turn the tables? The answer in my father’s case was to learn to fight with skill, to be better at it than the other fellow. He joined a boxing club and soon discovered that he had some natural ability. He was fast on his feet, had a hard punch, and could think faster than most of his opponents.

By the time he was sixteen he had become a semi-professional boxer and was earning small purses in professional tournaments. One of the highlights of his career about this time was a bout with the famous Tut Wally, a well known and popular local boxer. My father did not tell me of this fight, but when I heard about it, and asked him for the details, he admitted that regrettably he had lost on points. There was no shame in losing to an older and more experienced opponent of course. His lasting memory was, he told me, his disappointment in not winning the handsome purse that went to the winner. - For the unenlightened I should explain that Tut Wally was a leading fly-weight boxer in the North Midlands at that time. He had won many fights and was a well known figure in sporting circles. It might also be appropriate to mention that my father never told me about this highlight in his sporting achievements; I happened to meet the famous Mr Wally in later years and he told me that young Bill Bishop had given him a hard fight and had proved to be a worthy adversary. - One usually enjoys the things that one is good at, and so my father was to continue to use his fists to improve his prospects for some years to come. In addition he was now finding that physical confrontation held no fears for him. In fact he tended to take the fight to the opposition, and sometimes when it was not really necessary. In fact I think it would be fair to say that my father was beginning to enjoy his ability to dish it out.

It can be seen that my father began life with few privileges, and though most would accept that such a beginning, (for which he could not be held responsible,) would explain the way in which he developed. It is also clear that society would have shown very little sympathy for him had he broken our rules or laws. There was little mercy for those who got into trouble, and even less effort made to try and understand the reasons for such transgressions. From the little I know it is clear that Dad got into many scrapes, and even allowing for exaggeration it is certain that many of the tales I have heard are true. However, he did not lack in intelligence and it was his innate common sense that always came to his rescue before he had gone too far. Most of his sins were small ones, and once we recognize that he was guilty of very little that might be described as serious offences, then it is possible to derive some amusement from his escapades.

Billy was hard working and determined to earn enough to make life a little easier for his grandmother. After trying one or two jobs which he decided were unsuitable; usually because they did not pay well enough. He eventually found that the choice available to those that lived in the Potteries was employment in the pot banks, or a job in the coal mines. Probably it was the rate of pay that decided him, but when he discovered the best pay available was to be found working in the pits, he decided to become a miner.

If ever there was a hard and dangerous way to earn a living coal mining was it. Billy was already a pretty tough nut but if anything was guaranteed to harden him even more it was the life of a coal miner. They were hard men and they needed to be. He soon became a good miner though he never really liked the life. In addition to the worst aspects of it there was also the fact that it was shift work. Many men hated returning home in the morning and trying to sleep during the day. But needs must when the devil drives, they just had to make the best of it. At least the money was better than most other means of employment. How long this mining job might have lasted is hard to say, but it is certain that one way or another young Bill was not destined to hew coal for very long.

The first step in his withdrawal from the life of a collier was probably when he was banished from below ground. Being small and very young, (He was about fifteen years old when he started the job and almost sixteen and a half when he finally left.) it was certain that he was going to have problems with some of the other men. His tender years and cherubic face almost guaranteed that before long he would have to defend himself. Maybe his new found and rapidly growing confidence in his ability to defend himself had developed to the point of arrogance. Maybe he was gaining the reputation of being a trouble maker? Whatever the reason it eventually came to the point where one of the older hands decided that he was going to put this young upstart in his place.

The team of miners had stopped work and were sitting near the coal face having their snapping (their lunch). How the incident started we will never know, but it was at this moment that an argument broke out. Maybe a superior place in the pecking order needed to be established? Whatever the reason, the older man attempted to chastise the cheeky youth, who at the time was sitting on top of a loaded coal wagon. Moving forward the senior hand attempted to drag the young miscreant from the truck, but before he was able to accomplish this, the fiery young Billy acted. There was no time to think about what he was about to do, it was pure reflex. Picking up a large piece of coal he smashed it down on the head of his would be attacker. Maybe the old hand had friends in high places, a friend of the foreman, or a pal in the manager’s office at the pit head. Or possibly this act of violence was thought totally unacceptable in the work place. Whatever the reason, it was decided that Billy should be banned from work below ground. Now he would be demoted to a job on the surface, and this was a more serious matter than it first appears. Surface workers were paid only a fraction of the money paid to those who worked at the coal face.

Life must have appeared to be against him, which it often does for many teenagers. They very rarely consider that it might be their own behaviour which is at fault. Whatever the circumstances the only thing my father could see was that matters were going from bad to worse. It must have been depressing for him, no matter how he tried; life seemed to be getting more difficult as each day passed. He was battling against the odds and losing; in fact it was probably his very determination to fight at the drop of a hat that was causing him so much trouble. Viewed from a distance, as we are now doing, it is difficult for us to fully comprehend the reality of his situation. Life was hard, and the people were hardened by it. I doubt that any generation had a harder row to hoe than my father’s, though every generation might say that.

I have often wondered why my father became a coal miner, and my impression is that it all came down to money. The work was hard and well paid jobs were scarce, and this appears to be the dominant reason. There was another reason I discovered, he was distantly related to the Jones family, and when you consider that he worked at the Glebe at Fenton, then it becomes apparent that Tom Jones might have been instrumental in finding him employment.

A job at the pit head was better than no job at all, though it was something of a come down to find that he now had to serve the elite, the superior beings that worked at the coal face. His job was to collect and organize the small wagons which were required in a steady stream by the contract teams underground. This was not a popular job as the slightest delay would usually result in repercussions from the competing teams. Billy could look after himself, but no one individual was powerful enough to defy the demands of a whole team of tough miners. Sooner or later this new job would bring conflict with others more powerful, and so it proved.

Most of the contractors were men to be feared, and the one feared most of all was Tom Jones. It was not long before the situation dreaded by anyone doing this sort of job came to pass. A supply of wagons destined for the Jones team were taken by another team, and trouble was bound to eventuate. - My father once admitted to me that as a youth he had been very much in awe of Tom Jones, and on this occasion Tom was to live up to his intimidating reputation. - The absence of the required coal wagons soon resulted in the appearance of my Grandfather Jones with a face life thunder. On finding out why his wagons had not arrived on time, he said: “Here young Billy, I have an axe for you, if any bugger touches the wagons that are marked for me, you cut their bloody fingers off. And don't worry about the team that took them last time, I shall see to them myself right this minute." And with that he stamped off back to the pit head. I suppose it was some comfort to have relatives like Tom Jones around who would listen to your explanations, and what is more accept them as the truth. It is certain that had the offended party been anyone other than Tom Jones, the repercussions would have been much more extreme, of that one can be sure. Anything that affected the livelihood of men who have such an arduous occupation would receive the same response. It was not going to be long before my father decided that the life of a miner was not for him.

It was about this time that Billy began to visit the Jones household, walking over from Hanley to Fenton when he had the time. The daughters of the house were of great interest to a young fellow, especially the youngest one who was blond and very pretty. Mary was to attract my father for some years until he became brave enough to pay court to her and finally ask for her hand in marriage.

At sixteen years of age Billy had other things on his mind; girls were mostly out of reach, and earning a living much more prominent in his thinking. Making a living was vital, and it was not getting any easier. The 1914/18 war had ended and there were thousands of men looking for work; they had fought for a life fit for heroes but they were not going to find it. Slowly the smashed up economy and the worn out industry ground to a halt, unemployment mounted and the standard of living slid downwards, eventually ending in the massive strikes and hunger marches of the 1920's and 1930's. Half the world was in ruins, and as always it was the ordinary man in the street that suffered.

Youth is forever optimistic and it is a good thing for the human race that it is. Billy kept after every penny he could earn, taking additional jobs when he could find them. He was willing to do anything, and so counted himself very lucky when he managed to get a part time job as a stage hand at the local Theatre Royal in Hanley. He worked hard and made a good impression, so after a time the manager promoted him to a spot light operator. He really enjoyed this work, sitting high up in the 'Gods' as they used to call it. It was not a difficult job but it did require an alert mind, it was necessary to play the spot on the main characters on stage as and when required, one also had to take great care of the carbons and adjust them so that a bright light was always forthcoming.

Always conscientious, and enjoying the comfortable position he had, it was certain he would not have done anything to jeopardise this desirable situation. Being on the edge of the show business world was also another novelty; he was being paid and at the same time seeing all the best entertainment without charge. They say that one should always be wary when things go too well, and this good fortune appeared to be against the usual run of events. What could possibly go wrong? The trouble was that the job was too easy, too comfortable, and it only took the combination of a boring show and a period of long shifts at the colliery, to cause our hard working lad to fall asleep at his post. The bright white light slowly dimmed and faded away as the tenor stood centre stage singing! The next singing that Billy heard was still in his ears, but it was caused by a swift hard cuff round the head from the irate manager.

It is not surprising that my father lost his position of responsibility on the lights, though he was not thrown into the street, possibly because he was usually hard working and reliable. Maybe it was his boyish face and innocent expression that earned him another chance? Perhaps the manager was more understanding than most and listened to some glib explanation, though the actual truth may have not be sufficient I would have thought. The truth of the matter will never be known, but the outcome was that he kept his job, becoming a general stage hand.

Once again there was a loss of income, but at least he still had his extra job and he so he was able to continue to enjoy being around the theatre and the fascinating people he found there. His job now was to move scenery with the assistance of one or two other young chaps, and this sometimes meant that they had to be close at hand in the wings ready to make rapid adjustments at a moment’s notice. This was great fun, watching the action from so intimate a location; Dad would have been happy to have it continue indefinitely, but once again the exuberance of youth was to be his down fall.

For several weeks there had been a popular play running at the theatre, and in one scene a character lit a cigarette then threw it down on the stage, usually towards the wings so that it could be picked up ensuring that it would not cause a fire. Naturally the young stage hands, who were all smokers in those days, were eager to claim the cigarette and smoke it. On one particular night the decision had been hotly disputed and had not been resolved when the moment came to recover the desired Wills Woodbine. Such a scene is best left to the imagination, but it is not difficult to see in the mind’s eye, the two antagonists falling in a struggling heap at the feet of the actor, who was in the middle of one of his most dramatic speeches. This must have been highly amusing to the audience, but far from it for the unfortunate actor, and subsequently the two young stage hands were dismissed on the spot.

The final curtain had come down on my father’s life in the theatre, and as it turned out, it was the final act that ended in his decision to follow his father into the army. Looking at the facts I can see a pattern emerge, one that was to repeat itself some thirty years later, when I found myself in a similar predicament. At the age of 17½ I was at a dead end, with no idea where I was going. I was not sure that a military life was right for me, but with no other prospect in view, I took the course that seemed to be traditional in my family. I joined the army.

The Paternal Side

VOLUME ONE – CHAPTER TWO – PART 1 – THE PATERNAL

I have been told that I am like my mother in looks though in personality I have much of my father in me. I spent most of my childhood, the formative years, without the presence of my father. Being solely in my mother’s company I was bound to develop the Jones character, and reveal some of their talents, and many of their weaknesses, which were part of my genetic inheritance. In later years I was also to discover that my similarity to the maternal side of the family included physical aspects as well. I have been told that I not only look like my mother, but I walk like her. However, as time passed I also found that my father had contributed more than a little to the persona that I found myself to be. By no stretch of the imagination could one say William George Bishop was the ideal father or family man, though he can hardly be blamed for that. It must be said that perfect he may not have been, but I found that his virtues were greater than his faults. He did his duty by his family, as he saw it. In retrospect it is my impression that we were not a family with a man at its head. My father was a man with a wife and children who were a segment of his life. His actions were therefore always designed to meet the needs of his own future, his future being ours as he saw it.

For most of us family origins are something of a mystery, and like Pandora's Box best left unopened. From what I can gather it is rare that good things are found when curiosity urges us to explore our origins. Understandably, most family histories record only the acceptable events, the seamier side and more undesirable aspects often being omitted or discreetly discarded. Maybe it is because I have no wish to be disappointed that I have never attempted to explore my family history. Whatever the reason, the fact is that I have very little to tell regarding the Bishop family tree.

My paternal grandfather was a Staffordshire man and when the fact that he had a number of relatives who lived in the Potteries is taken into account, it is more than likely that he was also a native of the 'Five Towns'; the name given to Stoke-on-Trent by the writer Arnold Bennett, one of its famous sons. From what little I know of him, Albert Bishop was a much different type from 'Jones the Soldier', though he was similar in one respect. He was adventurous and not tied to the place of his birth, and also he became a soldier of some years of service. I shall probably never discover how it came about, but he chose to join the 'Royal Horse Artillery'. The depot for this elite body of men was the Royal Arsenal at Woolwich in London, which is how he came to marry a young lady of respectable family from that part of the world.

Maybe it is an instinct in fighting men to ensure, before they put their lives in danger, the continuance of their line. Whether this is the case or not this is what grandfather attempted to do, leaving his young wife with child when he departed with his unit for service in the Boer War. A male child being traditional in these cases I suppose one must say that he failed in his endeavours, the child being born a girl and christened with the name Anne. She was not to see her father until her returned from the wars of course, and so it was that she was several years old before our returning hero saw the results of his efforts. Anne had red hair and was much loved, but that did not prevent her father from trying again very soon after his return, and this time he was successful being rewarded with his first son.

On most occasions I have felt no regret in not having discovered more about my ancestors, but I have to confess that when it comes to their military adventures I do wish that I had more details. In grandfather’s case the only thing I have is the inscription on the campaign medal he received. There may have been other medals, but this particular one is the only one I have. This medal is made of silver and is known as the 'Queens Medal' it having a portrait of Queen Victoria on one side. - There was also another medal awarded to veterans of the war in South Africa which was known as the 'Albert Medal', or so I am told. - Across the ribbon are bars, the top one having on it the words 'South Africa 1901'; below this title is to be found other bars which bear the names of campaigns or major battles in which the holder took part. Those names always excited my imagination they seem to ring with the spirit of those times. What heroic deeds must be hidden within them? Grandfather’s medal has six engagements recorded upon it, they are: 'Belfast' - 'Diamond Hill' - 'Johannesburg' - ‘Driefontein’ - 'Paarderberg' - 'The Relief of Kimberley'. Being a treasured possession I sometimes show this mark of valour to those who have an interest in such things, and I have been told that the presence of six engagements makes this particular medal a rarity. It seems that most of the 'Queens Medals' have anything from one to three or maybe four bars to them; the presence of six is unusual. A possible explanation is the fact that he was a gunner, and the 'Royal Horse Artillery' was renowned for its mobility. I believe that after firing their guns in some engagement, it was not unusual for RHA batteries to limber up and gallop off to some other pressing battle, leaving the infantry and other slow moving units to finish off the job.

When I think about it I regret that I was not able to know, my grandfather, and all I have to remember him by is this one medal. When I turn it on edge and read the inscription : 88733 Driver A. Bishop - 'O' Battery., I feel strongly that Albert is a grandfather in whom I can feel considerable pride, I only wish that he could have known of my pride, and known that his memory is not forgotten. While I or anyone still remembers him he lives on, in our hearts and minds.

It must have been a great relief to finally return home to the depot in London; and what better way could this home coming be celebrated than by an addition to the family. Having survived a war it would have been reasonable for grandfather to have imagined that the fates were about to smile on him, but life has a nasty habit of lulling you into a false sense of security. Early in 1903 he was to get his wish when his first son was born. My father was a tiny baby and was to remain small in stature all his life. A small baby does not ensure an easy birth, and so this moment which should have been cause for such celebration became a moment of tragedy. My grandmother died giving birth, and when one thinks of bad omens, I suppose it could be said there could have been no more ill fated a beginning for a child than to lose its mother at the outset. If this tragedy was an omen then it proved to be an accurate one; there was to be no mothers love for my father, in fact from what I know there was precious little love in the early years of his life. Maybe it was that, and the disciplined life he found in the army that made him a stern and unbending father.

Again I must record that the details of my father’s early life are not known to me, but it is not difficult to imagine how life must have turned out for my grandfather and his two motherless children. Until recent times I had believed the following but I now know my impressions were wrong. Being an army man my grandfather had no home for his two children, and no one to look after them. Anne his eldest was passed on to her mother’s affluent older sister, and my father taken to the Potteries to live with his father’s sister. Life is a lottery and on this occasion Anne won the prize, she was to receive a good upbringing, a happy life with a good education and all the benefits that come from a home with sufficient means to provide them. My father on the other hand was to find life a fight for survival. His aunty May was a cripple who lived alone, and even as a boy, it was my father who looked after his aunt rather than the other way around.

I am not sure whether Albert was still in the army after the tragic breakup of his family, but he was certainly still living in London. It seems that after a year or two he met another young woman from some locality in North London, and decided to marry again. Maybe it was the need to provide a home for his young son that prompted this further partnership, but whatever the reason it was to prove an unhappy choice. My meagre source of information was only sufficient to confirm that my father’s stepmother and her relatives did not possess high standards. Further than that I cannot say, but my father intimated to me that they showed little interest in the young boy who appeared from the Midlands to live with them. Young Billy, as he was usually called, (his Christian names being William George,) was not wanted, and the heartless way he was treated soon made this abundantly clear to him. When his father was absent the treatment he received was bordering on harsh if not actually cruel. Beatings were not uncommon in those days, but little Billy received more than his share. It is more than likely that after several years of this sort of treatment he was not sorry when his father decided Billy would be better off living with his Aunty May in the Potteries.

The above description of my father’s birth and his early life is wrong and I discovered this when he died. He had in his personal effects the following photograph to which he had added a few words which revealed something of the real facts about his beginnings.

THIS IS WHAT I FOUND.

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THIS IS A PHOTOGRAPH OF W.G.BISHOP AND HARRIET BISHOP.

(My grandmother who reared me from three days old)

It is the only photograph of my grandmother I have and the only one I think in existence. I loved her very much and she loved me. I cannot recall a time when she beat or had to chastise me. I often even now remember some of the things she tried to install in my mind. This photo was taken when I was about 6½ years old. It was taken because I was being sent to London to my father and stepmother. Because I understand my grandfather died at work and grandma was unable to keep me. I well remember all this and my unpleasant stay in London. After a stay of about 1½ years I was taken back to my grandma travelling in the guards van from Euston to Stoke. My grandma sent the money for my train fare. We were united again.

Grandma died at home in her bed two days before my 14th birthday which was on 19th January 1917. I was then working I was then working in the office at Johnson Bros. That morning before I went to work I had a chat with her and she said “It is you birthday in two days and you will have some cake for that.” When I got home that night she was dead. I know now what she meant; she meant funeral cake of course.

Why have I done this little obituary to her memory? It is just a tribute to her and the love she gave me.

After a year or two another son was born and named Albert after his father, and for a time the family continued to live in London. Finally Grandfather returned to his home town, and after a few more years he died. I never discovered what happened to the family relationship, but my father did tell me that his half-brother also arrived in the Potteries to live with him. He also told me that his younger brother Albert was prone to bad behaviour, and at one point he was sentenced to a period in a Borstal detention school for wayward boys. When their father died Billy became responsible for Albert, and made it his duty to keep the rebellious younger brother on the straight and narrow. Often he had to resort to an application of physical punishment when Albert proved difficult, or when he appeared to endanger the family name. My father continued to look after his brother until they were mature young men, assisting him in joining the army, and even claiming him to the same regiment as brothers were entitled to do.

In some respects his grandparents were not a suitable substitute as parents, especially for someone like young Billy who had learned in a hard school how to look after himself. He was now quite convinced that it was ‘every man for him-self’ and that everyone should be seen as opponents in the battle of life. To begin with Harriet was not a young woman and to make matters worse, she was also crippled, having a hip joint which was defective or damaged by disease though I have to say that my knowledge of this is vague. Such conditions were hardly conducive to a successful upbringing, but it must also be said that the position was not all bad. Though she could never control him, Aunty May showed that she did love him, and though she tried to be strict with him, she was always kind, having a soft heart which she always found difficult to hide.

My father was short of stature, growing to be 5 feet 6 inches at maturity. Although short he was stocky and strong, and was always fit and athletic. Like many such men he made up for his lack of height by presenting to the world an aggressive and sometimes belligerent disposition. This stance was not an assumed one, but simply his natural character. Without doubt the circumstances of his childhood contributed something to his belligerent nature, but whether it did or not, it is certain that his pugnacious character aided him in his efforts to survive. Without such aggression his small stature would have made him a target, and his life would have been a misery. It is one of nature’s rules that the strong the courageous the stubborn and the determined survive. Fortunately, my father had all these qualities; he was a survivor from the very beginning. In addition he was also an individual of single minded purpose, which possibly was a factor that worked against him at times. It is my impression that he had other qualities that were suppressed by his more dominant characteristics, though circumstances certainly had something to do with it as well. From his early days young Billy had found that life was hard and people could be cruel, and so his motto became ‘Give no quarter, and expect none in return‘; it seems certain that this was the philosophy to which he adhered all his life.

Friday 27 January 2012

My Father was stationed in India

Volume 1 – my life begins – chapter 1 – the maternal name is Jones – part 3 – Mary becomes Mrs. Bishop

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My father was stationed in India for a period of maybe 15/16 years, and the system was to serve I think it was four years at a time before taking accumulated leave back in England. It was during one of these leave periods that he married my mother, and after a honeymoon at Blackpool, they returned to a rented house until it was time for him to return to his post in India. They married in 1932 and the following year I was born, with my father away he was not to see me until his next leave when I was 3 years old. The next time he returned to India my mother and I were with him. Life in India was a privileged one but my mother never settled to it, and when I became ill with dysentery that was all she needed to steel her resolve.

She declared that we were to return to England, and strong though my father was, he had no option but to agree to her demand. This wedding group was taken on the steps of the Fenton Town Hall, where the reception was held; thanks to the influence of my maternal grandfather, who had been a city councillor for a number of years. The only people I can identify in the wedding group are my mother’s mother who is to her left, and her sister, my aunt Nin second to her left, and her father, Grandfather Jones, who is on her far left. I was interested to see that my father was in his dress uniform, which had a crown on the right sleeve, just below the elbow; which indicated that he was a Warrant Officer. He was on leave from India, and after the honeymoon he returned, leaving my mother with her parents.

clip_image004This picture of the happy couple shows the crown on my father sleeve much more clearly. It took him twenty years to reach the highest non-commissioned rank of Warrant Officer First Class, but once the war commenced in 1939 it took him only six years to reach the rank of Major.

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After the wedding they went to Blackpool for their honeymoon, where the following photograph was taken. It appears that the English weather has not changed much over the years, when you see them in their raincoats which are bespattered with raindrops.

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Finally I include a picture taken in 1944 which shows me at the age of 11, and my brother Paul who is 4 years; Paul was the best of us, but sadly he died at the age of 23, in 1963. The youngest of the three boys that my mother had was Douglas who was not born until 1946.

Thursday 26 January 2012

Acceptance was the usual state of mind,


VOLUME 1 – MY LIFE BEGINS – CHAPTER 1 – THE MATERNAL NAME IS JONES – PART 2

it was for my mother and her family; they accepted their lot in life and saw themselves as just so much grist for the mill. It must have been so! How else could you explain the lack of rebellion? The unhealthy living and working conditions were to play their part in reducing the quality of life for all of them; even more fatal to the possibility of a happy and rewarding future was the lack of an education or any chance of getting one. There was talent in this family in abundance but mostly it never saw the light of day, and even if the opportunity had presented itself, the life that I describe even denied them the confidence to use their talent. This curse still hangs over the working class people of England to this day, and if I see my own life as a casualty stemming from the circumstances that I describe, then what I write will hopefully reveal the reality of it.

None of the Jones boys lived to a ripe old age, though it would be unfair to blame their working conditions alone for this fact, though it is certain that the life of a coal miner contributed to a shortening of the life span for many of them. With the wisdom of hindsight I now know that the health of the Jones family was affected by the physical make up that they inherited. They all, the boys in particular, suffered from narrowing of the arteries, and an excess of cholesterol; though the fatty diet of the day did not help matters. They all suffered from weight problems, and high blood pressure, diabetes ran in the family as well. Today it would be accepted as a recognised fact that all these health problems were genetic in origin, though the way people lived played a part.



Bruce was the eldest of the three boys in the Jones family, followed by Tom, Walter and finally Victor. Bruce was a good athlete and played a trial game of football for one of the top city teams; I once saw a picture of him in the club strip and was quite startled to see how much like him I was at the same age which was in the late teens. I knew all of the Jones family having lived in the same locality as a child but I did not know much about their lives and so cannot describe their circumstances. I saw what happened to them but can add little to it having been told little and with some of them nothing at all.



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Bruce, was a solidly built man with blond hair, later in his life he lost his right thumb in the pit and thus left such employment while still reasonably young. He died in his early sixties, I believe from thrombosis. He was the eldest of my mother’s brothers, and the one that they used to tell me I looked very much like. In 1919 when he was in his early twenties he was following the family tradition as a soldier, and this picture shows him in uniform just prior to being posted to Russia where a British Force was supporting the White Russians against the Communist revolt.

Walter like all the Jones boys was a powerfully built man, who had his father’s dark colouring, and the same skill with words. It was Walter that took his father’s place after his father died, becoming guide and mentor to most of the working men who lived in his locality at Fenton. When WWII began he became a supervisor at a large munitions factory near a village called Swinnerton, not far from the Potteries. The effects of coal dust and the chemicals used in the manufacture of explosives were thought to have damaged his heart and respiratory system, and he died in his early sixties.

clip_image004A picture of Walter

He married and had two daughters Beryl who was dark and a little older than me, and Alwyn who was fair and a year or two younger.

Tom, whose appearance was much the same as his brother Bruce, also worked as a miner. The family health problems resulted in him becoming severely incapacitated, and it was sad to see a strong man vegetate and fade away. He finally died from a massive heart attack in his early fifties.

Victor was the youngest of the boys. He was more slightly built, though dark like his father, he was good with figures and soon gained promotion at the Glebe. At the time of his death he had reached the post of Assistant Manager, and was much admired by the men who worked for him.

He arranged for me and a young friend of mine to visit the pit when we were about 12 or 13 years old, and that visit was more than enough to confirm in my mind that life below ground was no better than an early departure for Hades. He was only fifty-seven years old when he died suddenly, and I never discovered the cause, though I must say that in his later years he became a heavy drinker.

To complete the family picture I must mention the three girls, the oldest being Jane; her father called her Jin. She was the oldest of the Jones children, with the appearance of her mother, but the personality of her father. To my mother Jin was a place of refuge, a rock to which she could cling in times of trial and tribulation. I shall have more to tell about her as the story progresses.

Then there was Elizabeth, nicknamed Nin by her father. She also figures large in my story, and hopefully she will become better known in due course. Mind you revealing my aunt Nin will not be an easy task, she was a complex character to say the least. Physically she was strongly built, and dark with brown eyes like her father, she also had his intelligence and aggressive personality. At the age of sixteen she became ill with goitre, and the treatment at that time was to have the thyroid gland removed. She recovered completely, but it has always been thought that her mercurial and unstable temperament was the result of the absent thyroid gland.


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Mary about the time she became engaged.

Finally the youngest in the family was my mother Mary. She took after her mother in both appearance and nature. She was fair, and with the same gentle personality that made her popular and well liked by all that knew her. - Many who had dealings with Councillor Tom Jones found that their path was often made considerably smoother if they first applied for the support of his wife.- Grandmother Jones was one of the few who could coax and soften her otherwise uncompromising husband. My mother also revealed similar qualities when dealing with my father in later years. To end my recollections about the Jones family, it might add some interest if I include an article I wrote about my mother. The pictures it contained reveal more about her than any words I can write.

THE ARTICLE I WROTE ABOUT MY MOTHER.


Having decided to learn about digital imaging, I wondered how I could practice this new skill. A picture is worth a thousand words they say, and I have found this to be true. In recent times I began to write memoirs, my recollections of life as I remember it, but mere words do not reveal the pictures I have in my memory. So I am now attempting to describe, with the aid of my newfound skills, the women who turned the cup of life into a draught less bitter for me to drink. (If my efforts are not as good as they should be, remember this is my first attempt to provide pictures.) I have four ladies in mind, there are others who qualify for the title, but it is these four that I know something about, so they are the ones I shall describe.

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The first Mrs. Bishop that I knew was, of course, my mother. Being her first born I would have expected to have inherited her birth certificate, but due to circumstances that did not happen. My best estimation is that she was born in 1911, and moved from a little Welsh village to Stoke-on-Trent while still a very young child. This is not a family history, so all I shall say to add substance to the picture is that, like many Welsh people, when she was about 16, which would have been in 1927, she sang at the Eisteddfod.

This picture was taken about the same period as the one shown previously. I have seen, and looked for, a full length photograph of my mother in a party frock, but could not find it. I did find this head and shoulders of her wearing the same dress, so I assume she had a number of pictures taken at the time. They were taken at a studio, and sent to various family members and friends. To the best of my knowledge this picture was taken when my mother was about 19 or 20, and it is the earliest photograph I have of her. I have been told that I look like my mother, but to say that is to flatter me very much.


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I  have included picture number 3 because when I found it in my box of old photographs I do not remember ever seeing it before. I would say that it was taken about the same time as the others, and it is clear that it is a studio picture in which she has been posed by the photographer. The lifting of the skirt suggests a boldness that I doubt my mother would have displayed unless instructed to do so.

The pictures I have included give a good impression of the way of life, the way people lived, the clothes; it can be seen how the old was giving way to the new. In just a few short years, since the First World War, life had changed so much, and in the next few years it would change even more, thanks to the Second World War. I need say no more but leave the pictures to tell the story as they undoubtedly do.

Wednesday 25 January 2012

Being a Welshman,

VOLUME 1 – MY LIFE BEGINS – CHAPTER 1

Being a Welshman, like many of his breed my maternal grandfather was a strong and aggressive individual both in mind and body. When compared with his fellow countrymen he was considered to be a tall man being over six feet, but like most of his compatriots he was dark and strong featured and had a way with words. His name was Tom, and I have been told that he came from a good family who originated in South Wales, though when that was I don’t know. His father Edwin was for a time the manager of various coal mines; one of them being a pit called the ‘Old Moreton Hall’ colliery. Where these collieries were I do not know, though some research might reveal more. They say the youngest in a family is usually spoiled, so maybe that is the reason he was also said to be the 'The Black Sheep' of the family, running away in his early teens and becoming something of a bad character. What is more certain is that he joined the army, serving as a regular soldier for a number of years. By the time he joined the ranks he was already living in or close to the county of Shropshire, so it was with that county’s light infantry regiment that he served. I know little more about his time as a soldier, though I have been told that he was awarded a number of medals; I know nothing of the circumstances under which these awards were won, though most of his ribbons would have been campaign medals, earned by his service in the Boar War and the Boxer Rebellion. The regiment’s depot in those days was at Oswestry, so that is where he probably began his career as a soldier.

Often I have wondered what sort of a man my grandfather must have been, but mostly I can only rely on hearsay and stories told over the years. For example, I can recall as a boy of some eight or nine years of age, talking to an old man who lived in my neighbourhood who said he had served with my grandfather. I listened with some pride and satisfaction to some of the exploits that the old man described, and always it was Tom Jones who took the leading part. It is still clear in my mind that the story teller was a great admirer of my grandfather, which is why he probably embellished the stories more than a little. If even a small portion of these stories were true it certainly gave a vivid outline of the sort of man my grandfather had been in his younger days.

The regiment had served in South Africa during the Boer War, and Tom was to prove his bravery on more than one occasion, and not only against the Boers. When they were not fighting the enemy they were fighting each other; in those days men judged each other by their manly virtues, according to their standards my grandfather stood out head and shoulders above the rest. It was Tom who stood against a fierce and bullying fellow soldier who had the reputation as a cunning fighter and hard man. They stood toe to toe and fought it out until one man could no longer toe the line, and that man was not Tom Jones, or so I was told.

One story that found favour with me was another heroic deed that took place on the troop ship taking the regiment to China. A man fell overboard and our hero dived into the sea to rescue him, an incident which for ever made granddad a hero in the eyes of his colleagues, and also in the eyes of his grandson.

It would be so easy to romanticize the memory I have of my grandfather, but my intention is to be accurate and honest, which is why I have to record that I also heard stories that reveal a darker side to his nature. In later years he was to experience a religious conversion; one of the great number of people who were saved by the evangelical movement founded by John Wesley. Before that time I believe that there was a period when he was both a drunkard and a man not averse to using violence.

According to a tale that I overheard, Tom had a little cottage where he lived alone. In the days of which I speak it was usual in warm weather to have all the doors and windows wide open, and seeing the road passed by within a few feet all the world could see you, and you of course, could watch the world pass by. I have very few details and the story was told long ago, but I am given to understand that it was not uncommon for hawkers and beggars to ply their trade, a common sight in those times. Nor was it uncommon for Tom Jones to have been seen enjoying his ease in a state of complete inebriation. On the day in question an Italian organ grinder came along, and in accordance with the methods such people practiced, he had with him a little monkey. Such an animal was not just a novelty; it was trained to beg for money, often running into the houses with a begging bowl. To further improve his financial position the beggar, or if one wishes to apply a kinder description, the itinerant musical entertainer, would have also trained his monkey to steal by picking up anything that could be easily moved. And so the stage was set for what was to follow.

The impression we have is that Tom Jones was not a man to be trifled with at the best of times, but when drunk he was undoubtedly more belligerent. What happened next was almost inevitable. When the monkey appeared in the room and when it attempted to remove some small item that was to hand, it was dealt with in a most uncharitable manner. (It is assumed that charity was the objective of this little interloper?) A swift and forceful boot was placed behind the poor animal, which sailed out into the road before the startled gaze of its owner. I suppose most people would react with some sort of protest and that was especially likely when considering the excitable temperament of the average Italian, who, whether guilty of an act of dishonesty or not, reacted with a show of righteous indignation. Obviously this foreign visitor was not familiar with the type of Celtic temperament with which he was dealing, and so he very unwisely confronted my grandfather. Knowing what we know there is no doubt that such an action was bound to result in the violence which followed. The unfortunate Italian was soundly beaten and ejected into the road in much the same fashion as his monkey had been.

It goes without saying that such behaviour would not, and should not, be tolerated under any circumstances; though I suppose it is possible that a degree of provocation could be claimed. Whatever the truth of the matter, it was inevitable that a representative of the law would be called, and I suppose it was just as inevitable that the said constable found himself subject to the same sort of treatment. Having been set in motion the dignity of the law, and the police force, would have to be upheld, even if it required several constables to achieve it. There could only be one outcome though it is said that at least two bodies of reinforcements were required to demonstrate the power of those in authority. Grandfather dispensed his own code of justice all his life, drunk or sober, and the fact that society might not always have agreed with his assumption that he had the right to do so, such differences never seemed to stop him, or even discourage him.

When I reached the age of three my mother and I were to finally join my father, who was a soldier serving in India, but when it is realized how far reaching was to be the influence of my maternal grandparents, it is most important that I attempt to fill in a little of their characters. My knowledge is bound to be scanty in this area as I write of a time before I was born. Without the aid of research I rely exclusively on my memory and the descriptions of people and places as they were represented to me over the years. Aided by a little imagination a picture can be created, and so I rely on the perspicacity of my readers, to flesh out the characters I am describing.

Being from a coal mining family it is hardly surprising that Tom Jones eventually became drawn back into the industry that he knew. It must be presumed that on leaving the army he settled in the locality of his old military base which was Oswestry in Shropshire; which is where my grandmother came on the scene. They lived just over the border on the Welsh side, at Preesgweene which was not even a village but just a few cottages and the inevitable public house, known as the ’Cross Keys.’ A short distance away was a canal and close by the road which ran from Wrexham and Ruabon to Shrewsbury to the South. A short distance on the other side of this main road which incidentally was on the English side of the border lay a small village called Saint Martin’s, and my grandparents had numerous relatives in this village and also in the location of Ruabon. I have few details of this period but I know that he married and proceeded to produce the numerous children that were usual in those days. Being the son of a man who managed coal mines, it was to be expected that he should turn to the same business to earn a living.

It must also have been about this time that his character began to take on a new dimension with the advent of religion in his life. Primitive Methodism was sweeping the Welsh borders about this time and when Tom Jones became a convert he brought to it all the strength and single mindedness that his personality was capable of. It is clear that my grandfather was no weakling, in mind or body, he had strength and he applied it to his thoughts as well as his actions. He had been vigorous in his adventures and even in his misdemeanours, so it was that he was just as forceful in his approach to religion. He applied his beliefs to his family with an unremitting rigidity, such was his unbending personality. He dealt with everyone in the same way as he dealt with himself without fear or favour. An intelligent man with the natural gift for words that many Welsh people possess, it was inevitable that he was to become a lay preacher of the fire and brimstone variety. When he preached it was always exciting and some action was always to be expected, which soon made him a popular figure. He was considered to be quite an entertainment and the chapel was always full when it was known that Tom Jones was to give a sermon. It must be said however, that his popularity as a speaker was not always shared by other officers of the church. Preachers and those who were ordained, considering themselves to be better qualified to expound the word of God, they were mostly of the ’Turn the other cheek’ school of thinking, whereas my grandfather was more: ’An eye for an eye’ sort of man. To proffer a religious opinion in his presence could be a risky business, he was sometimes known to interject and what was even more horrifying was the likelihood that he would not hesitate to question the accuracy or the interpretation of the holy word if it was not to his liking.

When I enquired about grandfather in later years, I found that he was still remembered and spoken of with great glee and considerable amusement. It seems the adventures of ‘Jones The Soldier‘, as he was wont to be called, had provided much entertainment in the locals on a long winters evening, and later it was his religious involvement that became the favourite subject of conversation. It was from this source that I heard a popular story which went as follows : ‘The chapel was full on a particular Sunday evening though on this occasion grandfather Jones was not one of the speakers, he was however in the congregation. At a certain point in the proceedings it fell to someone to read a lesson and interpret it for the benefit of the flock, though in doing so it had been forgotten that among the sheep was also one who saw himself as a shepherd. What is more, the shepherd in question was one who would be determined to ensure that the flock was not led astray. The teachers of this world almost always have the conviction that they are right and not to be questioned, and this breeds in them the absolute conviction that no one would have the temerity to do so. Such an opinion is sadly in error where strong characters are concerned; there is no doubt that Tom Jones would have taken issue with the son of God himself had he considered him mistaken. And so it was that on this occasion the speaker’s words of wisdom were judged and found wanting, in fact they were even thought to be a deliberate attempt to deceive. In his righteous anger grandfather leapt to his feet and yelled 'Liar'! Not a very polite thing to do, and an action which if challenged could have lead to a most embarrassing argument in the middle of a religious service; but this was not to be even a possibility as events turned out. Maybe it had been the suddenness of the outburst, or maybe it was the fact that at the time Tom was at the rear of the chapel, but those who tell the story say that the word was misunderstood by some being taken for the word 'Fire', and in an instant many of those present leaped up and dashed for the exit, followed by the remainder who not really knowing what was happening deemed it wise to follow the example of those on the move.

They say that the chapel could not have been emptied quicker had the devil himself appeared in their midst, though one would imagine that the main participants in this incident would have remained, and once the rush had subsided would have undoubtedly debated my grandfathers actions. What a pity it was that those who recount this tale did not also remain and witness the final outcome; a further chapter of events which would have probably been much more entertaining than the initial incident itself.’

The Jones family were essentially country people, though grandfather himself had always been a soldier and a miner. They were not wealthy, but as with many rural dwellers their lives appeared to have been reasonably healthy and happy. The children appeared at regular intervals beginning with Jane always referred to by all that knew her as Jin. - Their father gave these affectionate titles to some of his children. - Then after a short interval appeared three boys in quick succession. Their names were Bruce, Walter, and Tom, and after another interval came Elizabeth known always as Nin, then Victor, and finally the youngest of the family, my mother Mary.

By the time my mother was born in 1911, - A date I have never been able to confirm, - the family income was beginning to feel the strain placed on it by the growth in numbers, it was also possible that economic and industrial changes in the area in which they lived had also begun to make themselves felt. Even the structure of the railways had changed, resulting in much of the traffic being rerouted through the industrial midlands and the fast developing railway centre at Crewe in Cheshire. Maybe my grandfather’s experience as a miner had attracted attention from some colliery owner? Whatever the reason, history records that circumstances required that the Jones family move on in search of better things.

There appears to be a constant desire in human nature to change, to move on; doesn't ‘The grass on the other side of the fence always look a little greener?’ But there is also the old saying that we can often leap 'Out of the frying pan into the fire.' It is impossible to know how events will turn out; what we do know is that not all change is for the better.

About 25 miles North East of the Welsh border was the Potteries, where industrial development was booming. Part of that development included the opening of an ever increasing number of collieries, and what with the advent of new steel foundries in a part of the city called Shelton there was little doubt that Stoke-on-Trent was going to grow rapidly. Such growth was certain, but if anything could have ensured that it would happen then the arrival of the First World War was to make it a certainty. There seems little doubt that a move to this smoky metropolis was to prove a decided improvement from a financial point of view, but I am sure I can also say that there were many times when those healthy, happy, country children, dreamed and longed for the clean green vistas of the Welsh border and Shropshire. It would have been about 1921 the Jones family moved to Stoke-on-Trent, and I calculate that my grandfather was about 47 years old at the time. - He died in 1939 at the age of 65, and on this basis I estimate his date of birth as being 1874.

The unnatural environment created by industry we now know destroys not only the countryside, but the health of the people who are required to tend it. Some knew it would happen, many did not, but mostly the ordinary people had little choice in the matter. What is clear is that those who were instrumental in creating the monster we call industrial progress, those who were to benefit and grow wealthy from it, they were always careful to ensure that they did not live amongst it's dark and damaging consequences.

Like it or not the Jones family found themselves living in a fast growing part of the city called Fenton, which lay between Longton, (Known to some as Neck End,) and Stoke, to the South/West, and Hanley, to the South/East. It must have been very strange to them but at least they were in a part of town which had not yet thickened. It was mainly a thin layer of development along the side of the road that joined the other centres. Fields and countryside still surrounded most of the houses, but that would change as time passed by. Where the main road divided, with one road leading to Stoke, and the other to Hanley, there was a little triangular area called Victoria Place, and it was here that the new pit where Tom was to work was located. It was called the 'Glebe' presumably because it stood next to the local vicarage and was on land owned by the church. Collieries were privately owned of course, though the procedure for recruiting a work force was rapidly changing. Management had found that the most effective way of dealing with the difficulties of hiring and firing was to employ subcontractors. Generally the contractors were experienced miners who employed and paid their own team, and they guaranteed to produce a certain number of tons of coal a week or in a given period. Tom Jones was such a contractor at the Glebe and for a time his own sons, and one of his son in laws, were his team.

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Tom Jones and his wife about 1935 or 1936.

It is an interesting fact that long years of exposure to a particular situation or a certain set of circumstances invariably leads to a total acceptance. It is this fatalistic acceptance that neutralises the determination to resist, and allows the few to dominate and control the majority, often referred to as the masses. This may be the case but it does not result in a complete lack of progress and improvement; though one sometimes wonders whether we will ever achieve an ideal society at all? I doubt that Tom Jones or any of his family would have understood these observations, and even if they had it is unlikely that they would have agreed with them. Many of the long term effects of industrialisation were not recognized until it was too late, and sometimes even when recognized the conditioning of those involved resulted in them accepting such things as normal and natural. In the meantime the benefits of an improved wage and regular employment blinded most to the dangers of the conditions under which they lived and worked.

clip_image004Living in a large industrial city in conditions of rapid development and growth, there were occasions when talent and ability were recognized or given a chance. For a man like my grandfather who was without doubt an intelligent man, who taught himself a number of skills, including the ability to use shorthand for example, the existing conditions provided new avenues. It was not long before he had become involved in the miners union, and his forceful personality soon impressed those around him, which in turn led to further involvement in other public activities.

← Grandfather Jones having a day in the country; taken about 1935/1936.

Such things must have given the Jones family much satisfaction; such things are progress are they not? By the time that I was born in 1933 my grandfather had become a very well known figure in the city. In 1926 he stood for the council in his local ward 20 and won famously; and followed that with two more successive wins, though this was hardly surprising when one considers that the vast majority of the locals were working class, which ensured that any Socialist candidate was guaranteed a seat on the council. The trick was to be chosen as the candidate in the first place; once elected re-election was almost a foregone conclusion. After 8 years of strenuous activity, he retired on health grounds in 1935. - He had been prominent on the Housing committee, also the Electricity, Estates, and Baths and Markets committees. - He was also a very active man politically, being for a while the Chairman of the Longton and Fenton branch of the Labour Party.

As a member of the city council Tom must have looked back on his life with some satisfaction; from his point of view he had made progress and the rightness of his decisions was surely vindicated? How much I would like to agree with this, but alas I have the benefit of hindsight and must reject what has to be described as nothing but a hollow dream. Of course it is easy for me to be wise after the event, I can look back and see all the damaging and destructive events and circumstances, but the characters I write about did not see clearly, or chose not to see, and to use a well worn expression one could say that they were the product of their environment.

If only the good could have happened without any of the bad, if only the skill and the courage, the determination and the hard work, could have reaped it's reward without having to pay the price which the dark satanic mills were to extract. Sixty years after the events of which I presently write, I saw the face of a miner with tears in his eyes. He was singing 'Jerusalem' with a crowd of his comrades; he was attending a demonstration against the closure of the pits and the loss of his job. The tears were for the recognition that his belief in England had ended; this green and pleasant land for which he had worked would never be his, it was a sham a cruel deception and now finally he knew it.