 
## A Tinkling Cymbal

Or

## A LIFE

in

## 50 Episodes

By Phil Tamarr

Contents

Foreword

Hints

Part A

Part B

Part C

Part | Title | Episodes

---|---|---

A | Education | 01 to 26

B | Career | 27 to 45

C | Retirement | 46 to 50

Afterword

### Foreword

It was the year 1936: a time of recession and unemployment although my family's poor situation was exacerbated by my father's recurrent bouts of insane behaviour following meningitis. He was a Master Compositor at the time and worked for a leading West Country daily newspaper. Depending upon his particular mood-swings and my tantrums my father would exhibit boisterous behaviour. My brother, six years my senior, would often rescue me from him as he swung me around.

At that time my mother could not earn a regular income owing to her husband's mental condition...It became too much for her and she applied to the National Children's Home organization in order to hand me into their care. So, I found myself aboard a Western Nation omnibus on its normal route from Plymouth (the family home) to Newquay where the NCH had an orphanage. It accommodated 50 children: 25 boys and 25 girls and was situated on the Pentire peninsula and was not far from the Fistral Bay beach and the River Gannel which proved to be suitable places for recreation in the summer months.

A report concerning me in March 1936 stated: "Boy said to have defect in speech, is dull & difficult to manage." However later that same year in June a Dr Hunter wrote a note for the file that: "I consider boy's backwardness is due to lack of opportunity to learn rather than inheritance. In a suitable environment he will rapidly improve."

I'll leave it to the reader to judge whether or not his optimism was justified.

HINTS and Explanation

To view this biography: the contents page lists the three parts comprising this work. Turn to part A, B or C to find the chapters against which is the start page no of each episode. There are 50 episodes and by reading the names of each eg 01homeboy it'll give some idea of its content. If you want to read another episode follow the same procedure. Or, return to contents or exit, as you please.

Explanation

The book title is a quotation from Paul, my favourite philosopher while the first pic on the title page is my school cap on winning a scholarship to Newquay Secondary (grammar) School. The second pic is of an IBM 360 computer which was the 'touchstone' of my perceived prosperity.
Part A - Education

01 homeboy

02 xmas

03 paedo

04 ncho

05 crosscntry

06 snatch

07 sportsday

08 bedwetter

09 caning

10 infirmary

11 afight

12 scholarship

13 kindness

14 sunday

15 incourt

16 evacuee

17 porage

18 fistral

19 scrumping

20 etc1

21 etc2

22 foster

23 education

24 bullying

25 hooligan

26 grandma

Episode 1

Homeboy

Matron sat as she normally did: upon a comfortable chair slowly pushing linen through the rollers of a wringer. I entered the laundry room and stood in front of her and eventually she looked up and noticed me She was a frightening person to us, children, and remained so, to me, until the age of ten, I should think. At first sight this might be explained by her stout figure and stern appearance as I never saw her smile, or indeed laugh, not even a chuckle. Such was the madam in charge of our destiny. And, if she was forbidding to us, woe betide tradesmen who crossed her path. One such was this baker who, on a particular squally day came upon our crocodile on its way home to dinner from the Council School, a mile or so away, at midday. He had asked me to direct him to someone in charge.

So, while the other boys trooped in to dinner in the boys' wing, I had lingered in the laundry, to where I had directed the baker. It was the warmest place to be in cold weather, such as on this particular day. Matron sat there impassively passing clean sheets through the rollers when the tradesman approached.

"Not very nice weather, ma'am," was something like his opening remark, and as there was no reply he continued: "I 'ave some pasties, ma'am. Thought they be just the thing for the kiddies in this sort of weather. They were lookin' really starved, ma'am."

He probably should have used 'hungry' though it would have made no difference to the outcome. Matron eyed him coldly. She finally rasped: "Thankyou, but we have all the food we need, my man."

"They're free ma'am. I'm not askin' for a penny. I just took pity on the poor kiddies." He insisted, adding: "Keep 'em for teatime, then."

But Matron would have none of him or his free food. She half rose and raised her hand indicating the exit. "As I said I don't want your pasties. Now, you can see I'm busy."

The tradesman slunk away. As he opened the exit door, he looked back across the laundry noticing me standing there. Was he crestfallen or just sympathetic? I don't know. Suddenly Matron noticed me:

"How long have you been standing there?" she demanded. "I thought to help bring the pasties in, Matron...." I replied, leaving my thought incomplete. Later I would recount what I had seen expressed in fairly unflattering terms. Yet memories are short and it was not long before there were other things to worry about.

The above incident happened when I was around ten years of age. The war (WWII) had been going some two years, which might explain our pinched faces on which the baker had taken pity. Our diet, in my memory, was never very wholesome consisting for breakfast of two slices of bread scraped with wartime margarine and a cup of cocoa. That had to last until midday dinner, which was a bit more substantial comprising two courses, a main dish followed by a sweet, perhaps prunes and custard.

Prunes, eh, in wartime considering they are the kind of dried plums grown only in sunny climes such as California, South Africa, Australia et al. Maybe stocks were being used up because they were considered one of the most nutritious fruits available, dried as they were, weight for weight, and economical to freight. A memory attached to prunes is the age-old rhyme of, 'tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar-man, thief', though one would be lucky to get to the last-named. What was missing was rice; we got tapioca (frog spawn) or semolina and, of course, lumpy custard giving rise to my first nickname, simply because I used to lick the plate clean, mine and my table-mates.

Between the pasty incident and my arrival at the Home, about five years had elapsed. Apart from migrating from cot to a proper bed in a dormitory, I recall leaving the local infants school to join the first class of the Council School. I could not wait to start joined up writing, but my first efforts caused my desk companion, a girl, to complain to teacher. She told me, kindly, not to be so impatient. Was it a mixed school then? No, girls normally had their own council school though it took a little while after Primary School, which was mixed, before every girl was placed as there were fewer of them.

Episode 2

Xmas

In a previous chapter I had mentioned Christmas in connection with shopping. In common with children throughout the country we looked forward to Christmas with the fervour of the deprived since the season stood out as a time of plenty. The memory will be with me forever of sitting alongside other boys in our nightshirts and covered with a blanket upon the lino covered floor of the corridor, seen as a protected place, during an air-raid, and scarcely waiting for the wailing of the siren to finish before starting to chat with my immediate neighbour about the prospects for presents. The corridor joined the lobby with the hall; above us were the first floor bedrooms and conceivably might have protected us from a direct hit however unlikely the event.

As the aircraft engines droned above us we speculated as to their type. In the early years the only sounds we heard rose and fell in a regular pulsating rhythm, and invariably one would not be far wrong in identifying them as German though I never could say exactly which type. A continuous heavy droning, on the other hand, would be identified as a Wellington, Hampden or Halifax whereas Beaufighters, Blenheims with their slightly lighter note might be confused with each other but never with their heavier brethren, and the four engine-ed Lancaster was a cinch for recognition as also were fighters.

Looking at a map of the south-west coast of England, one might forgive a stranger suspecting that people living in Newquay should rarely, if ever, hear German bombers, except perhaps the distant, faint roar of massed formations attacking Plymouth some fifty miles away. However I recall reading a book about the blitz called Duel in the Dark by Peter Townsend who claimed that German radar stations transmitted beams of radio waves in the direction of their target eg Plymouth though pilots could lose the beam owing to having to take evasive action to escape British fighter aircraft, but, through the ingenious scheme of Professor Lindemann who, unsportingly, would transmit his own beams, the bomber's radio receiver had difficulty differentiating between the English and the German beam with the result that enemy bombers could head for home in the direction of the Atlantic rather than the English Channel.

One such lost soul in the form of a Junkers bomber was heard one night directly overhead and heading for the River Gannel from which direction we heard the ear-splitting whistle of falling bombs followed by the crump of a big explosion. Downstairs in the corridor we heard the sound of shattered windows and falling glass and the next day were told to dress in the upstairs corridor so as to avoid the shards of glass which bespattered the floors of the rooms whose windows took the force of the explosion, but whose blackout and heavy curtains prevented the windows imploding.

However it was perhaps apocryphal the story later related that Lord Haw-Haw boastfully proclaimed that a heavily armed supply ship had been destroyed when the only ship the pilot could possibly have seen would have been the ancient schooner Ada, permanently moored in the River Gannel estuary... It would seem, if the story was correct, the Junkers pilot swore his stick of bombs made a direct hit on this camouflaged ship seeing ammunition going off in all directions which the local farmer's sheep might have disputed had they survived. It did possibly provoke a loud, continuous stream of blue language as the farmer contemplated his lost flock and the enormous hole in his field.

Christmas arrived at last and we went to bed swearing to be awake when Father Christmas arrived and so we were but only after having been awakened by the heavy tread of gumboots in neighbouring rooms and only half-wake as the red-swathed, bearded figure surrounded by a posse of Sisters passed each bed distributing toys, filling stockings with apples, oranges, sweets and nuts. Santa had come and gone as in a dream. Though we realised it was no dream as we took down our stockings to disgorge their contents on to our beds and to start munching the rarely-seen goodies.

At the breakfast table there were more presents from well-wishers to each child as well as special fare for Christmas morning but having gorged ourselves hours earlier few could appreciate bread spread with butter and jam and the cocoa was still plain old-fashioned cocoa. This would change with the arrival of the Americans who supplied us with real chocolate powder.

Whatever day Christmas happened to be, there was always in the Methodist institution a prescribed visit to church. It was an imposition upon children eager to play with new toys but the disciplined regime soon reasserted itself to have the children present themselves to the world in their Sunday best, and the service itself while joyful in the singing of popular carols became excruciatingly long as the sermon dragged on.

On a normal Sunday it was the custom to have tea before the evening service at six o'clock when the canny amongst us would secrete our piece of Sunday saffron cake (a Cornish speciality) away to be brought out surreptitiously at sermon-time along with the removal of tie-pins when we would set to picking out the currants placing them on the shelf holding our hymn books. After assiduous counting and whispered mutterings of how many, I stuck them altogether stuffing the sticky result into my mouth and swearing I had half as many again as my neighbours. Purpose? None, except to while away the sermon.

A highlight of the Christmas dinner was Sister bearing into the long dining room, the Christmas pudding aflame topped with a spring of holly. As at Saturnalian feasts, the Sisters waited on the children and eating the plum duff one needed to take care not to swallow the silver three-penny and six-penny pieces (our pocket money!?) sprinkled into the mixture at curing time. Washing up was also done by the Sisters who were likely pleased to get away from the noisy proceedings.

When the meal was over and the dinner things cleared away, trolley loads of presents would be wheeled in and distributed. These were parcels sent by relatives and stored away for just this occasion but the Orphanage, possibly using our pocket money, would have bought presents for those children who, for one reason or another, had received nothing.

One particular parcel-unwrapping incident stays in my memory; it was upon opening a parcel to reveal a spinning top and seeing the words, 'Made in Germany'. It was simply a curiosity and I wondered about it. Now, I know in 2018 that Germany is the No 1 exporter this exportise started decades before. Out of curiosity I checked to see if other boys' toys were similarly marked which proved to be the case. So that year was probably 1938 for that label was entirely missing from toys the following year. Another phenomenon that year ie 1940 was the absence of a box of goodies such as bars of milky way, mars etc.

After several hours spent playing with our toys, came the inevitable call to clear up putting paper, string and other wrapping stuff away in preparation for the Christmas party held not in the dining room but in an Annexe equipped with stage, a piano, many tens of chairs and trestle tables. The parquet floor was ideal also for classes in ballet, dancing and other indoor party activities. By the time we children arrived the main auditorium of the annexe had been decorated and tables laid and laden with places for fifty children, equal numbers of boys and girls with a separate table for all the Sisters and helpers presided over by Matron at its head.

An older boy, such as myself, at the age of eleven, would have been quite familiar with the Annexe. I had already attended a lantern slide show given by a former missionary in China, an itinerant theatrical group had acted a play, a teachers' training school had given a display of choreographed dancing. I would have attended choral practice sessions when girls and boys under the direction of a visiting conductor would be coaching us in a selection of hymns and ballads for a forthcoming concert in Indian Queens, a small town not far from Newquay.

Sadly, although having attended every practice session to date and looking forward to the charabanc trip in a few days, the matron was to brusquely tell me the trip for me was off. At the time it provoked buckets of tears upon the first telling; there were more tears on the day and at the time of the charabanc's departure, one afternoon.

On the occasion Matron seemed quite vexed which I thought was directed at me though decades later going through documentation about my residence at the Home, by virtue of the Data Protection Act, I came across the real reason. A part-cost of the trip had to be paid for by my mother, who had initially agreed to it promising to pay the five shillings, her contribution, by an agreed date. But, her money was not forthcoming.

This revelation provoked a pang in me as, from the papers, some of my mother's financial problems began to dawn on me, mainly her problem of finding the regular maintenance payment to maintain me in the Home, which is perhaps the reason why pocket money was not forthcoming although even when my mother ultimately got ahead of the payments, I still got none. That old axiom did occur to me,It's an ill wind... The coming of war changed my mother's fortunes: with men leaving for the armed forces, women filled the empty places and before long, she had been hired at Devonport Dockyard and was soon a foreman earning as much as seven pounds a week. Paying the five shillings was a doddle, and she got to paying several periods in advance.

I digress. The Christmas party in the Annexe was a splendid affair with jelly for each child, petite sandwiches, saffron buns and of course Christmas cake besides crackers and lemonade. After the feasting, the children returned temporarily to their respective wings while the sisters cleared away the tables, folding the trestles and placing chairs around the auditorium ready for games. This was the occasion for boys and girls to sit beside their favourites. This fraternisation, by modern standards, was very tame and innocuous. Sought-for proximity to someone of the other gender gave you away although there was no holding of hands, no overt touching even, and kissing would have been considered bad form.

You showed your affection by preference in various games such as wink. I would wink to Nina to sit on my chair which her captor, standing behind her chair, would try to prevent. Having captured her, I would cheat in my desire to prevent her being captured or, even better, she would ignore an inviting wink. Usually the games were much more boisterous like Musical Chairs. One of the Sisters had invented a game version of Oranges and Lemons which became a favourite. Blind Man's Bluff gave scope for invention though Matron's disapproving stare belied the Christmas spirit.

As the evening wore on, the youngest children would be gently coaxed away and led or carried away to their beds. As the number present gradually shrank, it was time for more intimate games such as the afore-mentioned 'wink'. Charades were very popular. Matron's retirement loosened everyone up and notwithstanding what I said earlier, I managed to steal a kiss from Lilian, or, more likely, she kissed me. The party went on till midnight, I think, and I may have telescoped the memories of several parties into one. The Christmas party at the age of fourteen would be my last one at the Home for three of us had been fore-warned that we would be making a move.

Episode 3

Paedo

Near to Newquay was a Royal Air Force Coastal Command station, and one day, an officer called at the Orphanage with some credentials which nobody bothered to check out. He held the rank of 'flying officer', and he offered Matron to teach us kids how to swim - for free. He came along with a junior ranker, a bombardier, whom, after the one appearance, we did not see again. Flying Officer Smith (not his real name) took a party of us to Towan Beach where he was acquainted with a small, secluded pool. My first experience was being coached to float which consisted initially of his hand supporting my back, face up, in the water while he asked me about my favourite recreation. After a while, triumphantly, he told me: "See, you're floating!"

Indeed I was floating but not for long as I realised his hand was no longer holding me up, and I promptly sank, whereupon, he told me that I was to practise floating like that until it was mastered, and only then would he teach me the strokes of swimming. So I practised with much floundering. Then, floating triumphantly and hollering to catch his attention, and approval, having done what he asked me, I noticed the front of his bathing trunks was sticking out in grotesque fashion. I stared at it fascinated until another boy splashed me as a distraction and brought my awe to a spluttering finish.

At the time it was puzzling and nobody enlightened me about it. The realisation was to come to me after going out with him. It was my turn to accompany him to the cinema followed by a visit to an ice-cream bar, while all the time he was asking me some mystifying questions. However the real denouement came when he asked Sister if he could change back into uniform, using a small bedroom normally reserved for isolation cases. He stripped to his underpants. He asked me to close the curtains and to come nearer. He took my hand and placed it on his penis which had grown to an enormous size. He told me I could stroke it. It pulsed under my hand, and he gently asked me to move to one side, when, glancing at him, momentarily, I saw his eyes were shut while his body quivered. Then, in an instant, still squeezing his penis, and having moved just in time I watched awestruck as spurts of liquid (semen) erupted into the air landing on the window, yards away.

When it stopped he asked me to take his flannel and wipe the 'cum' from the curtain, the bed, and other places, distant from where he stood. As he did so he wiped his penis with a pocket-handkerchief while I, dumbstruck, sat on the bed, to be ordered soon afterwards, peremptorily, to go below to Sister and advise her he would have to be returning to camp. That was my sole experience with him. Another boy, Douglas, was taken out, as was Peter who was invited to a meal. I think he preferred older lads as they had more conversation. Several words such as masturbation were new to me and he explained that all it meant was 'wanking'.

However there was one boy who was a particular favourite, who has already been mentioned, Peter. It surprised us all, his choice, as the boy suffered from bed-wetting. He was continually in trouble and I had experienced some of it myself when the three of us, Peter, Derek and I were banished to the attic. Was it a co-incidence that we turned out to be the brightest? It was a regular thing with Peter of a morning to see him with sheet in hand making his way via the terrace, that is, out the back door, up the steps onto the terrace, along past the windows of the ground floor, when one would spot him, passing the windows of the boys' wing then along past the windows of the girls' wing, watched by them, then down the small flight of steps and into their back door, which to the left led to the laundry, whereas, on our side, turning to the right was perilous, as without forethought, it would precipitate one into the coal bunker.

The laundry was Matron's preferred place. It was warm and she could see what was going on. The sheet thing would come later, of course, after breakfast. Peter, often stinking from having had his face rubbed in his urine soaked sheets, would wait while the Sister on duty would tell him where to dump the sheet. On his return, he would have to go via the pathway, which brings me to another curiosity. Normally the terrace was forbidden to us, the children. Yet Peter was told to use it; to further worsen his humiliation?

Yet, he was the boy Flying Officer Smith chose to take out, properly bathed, of course. It was even more surprising because Peter had an endemic problem in that he wet his short trousers too, which he was not allowed to change. Nobody wanted to sit beside him at school. Or, walk with him in the crocodile to school, church or Sunday school. At mealtimes he had his place and everyone else had theirs' so the smell of days-old urine, re-soaked and dried, then re-soaked and dried, made him a pariah. His nickname, naturally, was 'stinker'.

Yet, to say again, it was he with whom the Fying Officer chose to go out, not once, but several times. To be befriended by Smith who appeared to enjoy his company so it could not be just down to kindness, was galling to me, to many of us, and especially because he refused to discuss his outings or to divulge anything they had talked about. I felt doubly hurt in that I had reason to think that my associating with him had made me unpopular with everyone else, but it made no difference. The strange thing was that Peter wet his bed less often. In fact I realised that it was a week since I had seen him taking his sheet to the laundry. The Flying Officer was also rumoured to be behind the Sister's changing his mattress for a new one. Eventually the Flying Officer was posted away, but Peter stayed dry.

He and Derek would accompany me to Penzance as both had, two years later, also passed the Scholarship. At first we had all lived together with an ex-miner and his wife though within a few weeks of arriving in St Just I would be told to move to the Manse where the Reverend Williams and his sister resided. Later in life I would realise the reason: I had begun to notice a, as yet unexplained smell, similar to that attached to the flying officer when the ex-miner was sitting near me. Also weirdly at bible-class when a few youngsters attended the house of a local lay-preacher. However I would stress that these manifestations cropped up years later when my own effusions after sex lingered long enough to associate them with past experiences. Evidently the presence of innocent boys excited some adults.

Years later though I cannot recall the circumstances a story surfaced regarding this Flying Officer. It seems he had been an AC2, the lowest rank in the RAF when, in a local pub, he overheard some officers complaining about their lack of success in hunting U-Boats. Outside he waited for the officers as he had an experience to tell them. It seems he was called to the bridge of his ship crossing the Bay of Biscay by the captain. Staring through binoculars he told the captain that a submarine was in trouble. In German it was signalling to another vessel that it was stuck on a sandbank.

The C.O. at the base took him seriously the upshot being that the station bagged two U-Boats near where he had sighted them as an ordinary seaman who had picked up German by serving on a few ships out of Hamburg. The AC2 got promoted to Flying Officer and it would explain why he was seen often in serious conversation with a group captain during, for instance, the Armistice ceremony at the war memorial and at other public events. One example of his derring-do was when we boys spotted him having a word with someone who turned out to be the harbour-master whose permission was needed.

Soon after he approached us and asked us to form a circle within which he changed into his trunks and then advised us to proceed to the other pier and watch the look-out. Meanwhile he had climbed up onto the lookout promontory of the pier and waved to us. Then with hands on his forehead peering to see the 'coast was clear' he dived into the sea between the two piers. In seconds he broke the surface and crawled to the steps where we were situated. We huddled around him while he towelled down and dressed. People came from all over to greet and congratulate him. He was our hero: our Flying Officer.

Sadly one day in St Just before I made my move to the Manse I was interviewed by a detective. It seems the police were holding an officer in custody and this chap was collecting evidence. It was a sad day for me and I shed a few tears for him. My memories of him were happy as he had enriched my life. When I hear of paedophilia cases in the UK the tone seems utterly condemnatory towards the perpetrator which in my case was misconceived. It did not affect me in a negative way nor later in my relationships with others whether adult or smaller. Nothing is black or white in life: that is my view, even now.

Episode 4

Ncho

It was the year 1936, a time of depression or recession as we call it nowadays and unemployment. The family's plight was bad enough but it was made far worse by my father's recurrent bouts of insane behaviour following meningitis which was normally a killer. Released into the community after showing signs of recovery he started slowly to degenerate, according to my brother, six years older than me. Depending on his mood swing and/or my behaviour or tantrum my father could be boisterous in his physical reaction towards me and my brother often had to rescue me from situations that threatened to get out of hand.

At the time my mother could not earn much owing to her husband's mental condition forcing her to watch him closely. In the end it became too much because although her mother, our gran, helped out she also had to look after her ailing husband. So, my mother applied to the National Children's Home in order to hand me over into their care. It was a longish process involving psychiatrists, doctors, the Home's admin staff and others but eventually I found myself aboard a Western National bus on its normal route from Plymouth, my home town, to Newquay where the NCHO (O for Orphanage).had a residence for 50 girls and boys (in equal number) situated at Pentire overlooking the Fistral Beach and the River Gannel.

A report concerning me in March 1936 stated: "Boy said to have defect in speech, is dull and difficult to manage." though later in June a Doctor Hunter considers: "...boy's backwardness is due more to lack of opportunity to learn rather than inheritance. In a suitable environment boy will rapidly improve."

Readers can judge for themselves if the doctor was unduly optimistic. My earliest memory is being assigned a washroom number, 4, and a locker in the footwear room. Sometime later I recall being in the communal lavatory and complaining to matron that I did not make the mess so I was not going to clear it up; it was spilt water. Her reaction was violent and I found myself physically dragged along the cloakroom, the length of a corridor into the large communal dining room then through the connecting door into the girls' wing. Soon a blubbering boy, me, was waiting outside her office as I heard rummaging around and muttering something about a cane.

Girls slowly proceeded upstairs looking at me pityingly. Then suddenly another sister dressed in a white apron, the cook, appeared with a cup of tea and uttering words of comfort to matron. Having settled her boss she quietly left closing the door and told me to skedaddle: "No! Through that door." She pointed to a door normally locked but which would allow me to re-enter the boys' wing without passing in front of matron's window. She was Sister Lilian and Irish and for the first time I had listened gratefully to the lilting tones of Irish blarney.

The Matron might have gone on beating me but for dear Sister Lilian, the soft-hearted cook and under-matron, who arrived with that cup of tea for Matron. As Sister Lilian ushered me away, I could still hear her soothing voice: "Quite right too! He has been asking for a good lesson ever since he came here. He'll be quieter in future, you mark my words. Now get this cup of tea down you." Her words were my first experience of Irish soft soap.

Such sentiments were absent in 2018 in the Brexit negotiations concerning the Irish border. The Eire Irish had asserted themselves yet they had lost something unique in the process, in my view.

Episode 5

Crosscntry

Careful study of my former school record cards on the subject of physical training is a catalogue of unflattering comments. However in one branch of such activity, whilst escaping the notice of any gym master, I excelled though not because of my athletic talent. Once a month of an afternoon the class would make its way under our own steam whether by bike or on foot to our sports ground situated at some distance from the school. I recall walking to the end of Edgecumbe Road, Newquay and proceeding under the railway viaduct past Trenance Gardens on my right. Leaving the main road where few cars ever passed along I'd turn right and walk up a winding hilly lane surmounting the top of which one would spot the school pavilion. The sports area was expansive enough for football, cricket and punishment hikes around the perimeter. On Sports Day there'd be an additional marquee for the serving of tea to parents who came to watch their sons perform.

The memory of my first outing spurred me to do the necessary five mile run and arrive back first and have the advantage of a warm shower and not thinking of the changing bit when my first strip and dress proved somewhat embarrassing as, surrounded by boys in various stages of dressing one thing became clear to me that I alone did not wear underpants. And, though the atmosphere was wreathed in steam (and somewhat 'miffy') my shortcoming was evident for all to see. What could you expect of a Home-Boy.

It had been so good feeling the warm showers taking away my sweat after the run, drying myself surrounded by my classmates chatting and joking and then suddenly realising the harshness of the rough grey trouser material and its roughness against my skin and genitals. So, on subsequent occasions of my cross country run I was on my way home before some of my classmates dawdled their way back to the pavilion. This industry on my part escaped the notice of our gym master who was intent, it seemed to me, on toadying to his more affluent pupils.

Occasionally I would be caught up on my home by boys on bikes who would tear down the hill and across the main road so as to give themselves some impetus onto the hill t'other side of the road. Nobody bothered to watch out for traffic on the main road. There was none in those years of 1942 to -44.

After my transfer to Penzance Grammar the new PT teacher gave himself a similar high profile towards boys of affluent parents. He seemed to despise me and showed it on one unhappy occasion because I had him to thank for a particularly unpleasant nickname. On the first gym session in the purpose-built gymnasium the PT teacher examined our kit to check it out. He singled me out ordering me to hand over my gym-bag and making great play of its provenance removing its contents in which the word 'piebald' was used. That became my nickname.

Back to Newquay Secondary; occasionally the assistant head would take PT in the assembly hall. One activity I enjoyed was climbing a rope which dangled down from the rafters being stowed away on a black peg when not in use. Boys would take it in turns to climb and one achievement was to climb to the rafters and employing a special foothold make one's way slowly down. I was impatient for my turn and evidently showed it for just as I had completed the climb and was about to touch the rafter the assistant head shouted: "Touch it and you earn yourself a hundred lines!" I curse myself even today for my cowardice in not touching it.

Episode 6

Snatch

Our daily diet began with breakfast comprising porage and two slices of bread scraped with wartime margarine washed down with cocoa. Dinner was more substantial thought meat such as beef, lamb or pork was had only on Sunday; generally our weekday dinner was toad-in-the-hole (sausages in batter), steak and kidney pie or duff, shepherd's pie, corn beef hash, macaroni cheese and similar standard British fare. It was quantity that was lacking as the accompanying two potatos and a vegetable such as cabbage, carrots, parsnips and others from the Orphanage gardens was meagre. Pudding was tapioca, semolina, macaroni or similar milk pudding. Tea was breakfast minus porage but with jam.

The meals described above might appear adequate, if not generous; it would keep us from starvation. Yet my abiding memory was having a distended stomach which one sees in newsreels about under-nourished children, or those suffering from malnutrition. The inadequate diet was made even worse by the practice carried on by older boys of 'snatching'.

Your meal would be in front of you, but before starting to eat, there would be the ritual of 'grace' spoken aloud by a Sister. For example: 'Bless oh Lord this food to our use and us to thy service', was the favourite of Matron, while a Sister's grace might be more prosaic: 'For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful'.

Yet in the environment of 'snatching' such grace seemed to us younger kids as pretty empty of any meaning when, after opening one's eyes, your food was no longer there. To counter it one would leave eyes open a crack running the danger of being seen by the bully all too ready to point us out to Sister, so we might lose our food through punishment. The bully could not lose.

This practice was particularly loathsome at Easter when chocolate eggs would disappear from under one's nose. Complaint was even seen by Sister as something hateful as I have seen Sister accuse the victim/complainer of greed. Yet had she examined everyone's mouth for vestiges of chocolate, or, their person, whether or not the victim had, in truth, wolfed it down, as the bully would counter-accuse, then the truth could easily have been established.

It seemed that Sister and the bully formed a team against which the victim had no answer. It was not such a problem at Christmas. And, strangely, one's birthday appeared sacrosanct. Although in this event one's goodies would be put in storage by Sister and subsequently brought out at a later date, when 'snatching' was permitted.

Not all older boys bullied the smaller fry and the trick to escape 'snatching' would be to sit at a table where such a paragon presided. One such was a Richard, in my memory, who would not allow it. Moreover were he to see an incident, he would take steps to persuade the bully to return the booty. Even the bullied small fry would then listen to a bully's wail that he was keeping the food safe from 'snatcher', or was playing a prank. "Wasn't I, Pearse?" meanwhile poking me in the ribs so we could both enjoy the joke.

Food however inadequate could also be used as a means of punishment such as deprivation. This incident is typical: I was eight years of age and perpetually hungry. For some reason one day I was late going to bed, probably there was a chore still to do. Blacking and polishing all the shoes was a particular onerous and time-consuming task. Or, perhaps I had to clean out the bathroom, or the toilets. Or, perhaps I was busy fetching coal for the Sisters' sitting room. Whatever the reason, I was late and maybe a little cold, and had slunk into the kitchen for comfort from the range still warm from the day's cooking. As I leaned on the brass plate- warmer, dangerous, as once I had slipped and ended up with a burnt wrist. It was the work of a moment to lift the lid of the large black cooking pot to see what was gently simmering.

It was porridge for breakfast. I picked up the wooden spoon laden with the thick, glutinous mess and stuffed it into my mouth: again and again. The gnawing pain of hunger dissipated somewhat. Then, hearing a noise from the direction of the furnace room some yards away, I left, and, as it was dark managed to slink along the corridor in stockinged feet and up the stairs, unseen and unheard, or so I thought. The furnace room by the way was where the older boys would gather to yarn when the small fry had retired upstairs for the night. But, nobody had seen me else there would have been a holler.

Quietly, I undressed and crept into bed, and was soon asleep. I was awakened by having the bedclothes torn from my recumbent body and being roughly shaken and told to sit up. I did so half-asleep managing to hit my head against a brass knob of the bedstead. It was a stinging blow, and I saw stars and tears burst involuntarily from my eyes. Still recovering from the rude awakening, Peter A????? came over to quiz me; he took one look at me and called out: "Here's the culprit, Sister. He's crying. That shows he did it."

It was absurd. I laughed out loud, in disbelief and anger. Yet Sister took my outburst as guilt, and I was forced to go downstairs, in my night-shirt, and stand outside their sitting room. In the passage the linoleum was cold and draughty near to the outside front door. There was central heating, of a sort, the fire being in the furnace room, which the older boys were responsible for, when they felt inclined. But, it was the initial shock of leaving a warm bed and going downstairs that made standing there at that time of night unbearable.

There were warm blasts of air when the sitting room door opened for a Sister to leave, and return. On one such occasion I heard the radio on for the news and Sister Dorothy say to her colleague, memorably: "German troops are marching down the Polish corridor." It meant absolutely nothing to me at the time, and mystified me for many a month, although the individual words did take on a sinister significance in the light of events. And, Peter A????? who had landed me here, later left the Home to join the Merchant Navy and was torpedoed, and returned a hero.

Every now and then, the Sisters would call me into the sitting room, make their accusations, which I vehemently denied, until they wanted to turn in, and I was sent to bed. Unknown to me, my punishment had been decided: No breakfast until I owned up. Indeed, thereafter, it was also no meals until I owned up. I was forced to stand against the wall for breakfast, dinner and tea, and a plate of porridge, from that fateful day, was placed before me, on the floor. Inevitably it became dried as the liquid evaporated. I was literally starved. It was so bad that my stomach swelled. But I would not yield. I'm sure I would have died rather than admit the truth.

Sister also told the other boys to make sure I found no food elsewhere. I was allowed a drink of water, that was all. So, the advantage lay with Sister Muriel; she could just wait until I cracked; and, it was holiday time. How did it end?

The Reverend Foxon 'saved' me. Not directly, but he, a minister from Newquay Methodist Church, was making a visit to the Home. He and Matron came suddenly through the connecting door between the girls' and boys' wings. My plight was suddenly overt. Sister Muriel ordered me to sit at table having got another lad to remove the dried-up bowl of porage. A plate with bread and margarine suddenly was placed in front of me. Meanwhile the Reverend Foxon went quietly about his task to persuade the boys to make their mark on his petition against the demon drink; it was Guiness, I think.

Finally the paper carrying the names of all the girls and the boys who had written their names came to me. I pushed it away refusing to sign. Had I been asked to explain I would have burst into tears but I was not giving Sister Muriel that satisfaction. Later as both Foxon and matron disappeared and the other boys left the room and I was the only boy remaining she uttered an angry complaint to me: "You got away with it, this time. But, you just wait; I haven't finished with you, no, not by a long chalk." Yet, she would never carry out her threat. On another occasion the doctor was called out to examine a boy with severe bruising. It seems he threatened prosecution but his hand was stayed by the assurance of matron that the offender, my nemesis, would be dismissed.

Years later I discovered she, Sister Muriel, had simply been sent back to Harpenden, the NCH Head Office. Yet, reflecting on the incident at a later date years later I concluded there was a flaw in my character. I had triumphed though my obstinacy boded ill for the future. However her departure had also spared me from another charge, that of theft from her purse but I shall describe the incident that had led to such a misdemeanour under 'sports day'.

Episode 7

Sportsday

At Newquay Grammar preparations were in hand for the School Sports Day, sometime in June. Mr Day, the assistant headmaster, had run off hundreds of programmes on the school Roneo. Each form was allotted so many programmes to sell in advance in order to swell the school treasury coffers, and they, priced at a shilling each, would also give admission to the ground. The school playing fields were situated some way distant from the main buildings. One went out of the school into Edgecumb Road and followed it towards the viaduct by turning right into Trenance Road. Just after going under the multi-arched viaduct, a beautiful granite structure, one turned left up a longish hill, hellish returning from a cross-country run, and at the top of the hill one could see the school cricket pavilion and our playing fields.

To digress a little, some boys had their own cycle and the intrepid ones would race down the hill, and, without braking for the cross-roads sail across trusting to no traffic at the junction. In the forties that was indeed the case and I saw many boys hurtle down the hill to get enough momentum for the opposite hill, sometimes with a whoop of joy, derision, exultation, joie-de-vivre. Ah, the confidence of young spirits!

Our form master drew up his list of names of boys in his class against which he challenged them to estimate how many programmes they would sell. Most had quite modest aspirations and Mr Day was canvassing the boys who had zero against their names and after much mental arm twisting, he put the question to me. He would not have asked me at all if the others had been more forthcoming and it was a sign of his desperation that he still had fifty plus left and no chance of more takers.

So I offered to take the fifty. He was surprised not to say flabbergasted and half-heartedly asked: "Are you sure?" To which my response was that I passed many bungalows on the way home and it would be no problem backed up by other boys only too pleased, no doubt, to have the pressure taken from them all. "Oh, yes," I declared, "I shall easily sell fifty." so I took possession of a bundle of programmes.

As I had surmised I had no problem, at first, selling programmes with few refusals and soon had many shillings jingling in my pocket. Perhaps my confidence turned into hubris for my sales came to an abrupt halt at the house of an elderly man who invited me in. He was a retired sea salt and was soon showing me pictures of clippers, him aloft on topsails, dolphins flying along and spinning sea stories by the dozen. Tea and cakes arrived which I consumed standing up listening.

Most enthralling were his exploits in the Great War as he called it. There was a battle near the Falklands. It was all heady stuff, but when his housekeeper arrived with an offer of lemonade, it struck me to ask the time. I had to be off.

Ii was not until later in the surgery which matron had designated for homework that I realised I'd left the remaining programmes in the bungalow. Returning next day there was no answer to my ringing. I wondered if I had called at the wrong place. It did start to look pretty dilapidated which I had not noticed the previous day. Unfortunately my check sheet was with the programmes so I had a problem especially when handing my change into Mr Day later, I could not verify my sales by producing the rest of the programmes, and, stupidly, I failed to tell him the truth feeling a bit shame-faced about the whole episode. It was a lot of money, fourteen shillings, and without the programmes to show for the missing money, things looked bad.

Mr Day marched me to the headmaster's study, where I blurted out the truth. Neither man believed me or appeared not to and I was told that unless I brought the money in next day, the Matron of the Orphanage would be informed. She was none too sympathetic when I felt compelled to tell her casting her mind back to the excuse I had made for arriving late on that particular day. Much later, years afterwards, it occurred to me that had she paid me the pocket money which Head Office assured me was due to every child, I would have had enough to cover the debt. Here was Matron casting aspersions when she herself was keeping our pocket money from us. Life is certainly unfair, at times.

Sports Day came and went with me under a continuous cloud. In one-way the absence of any pocket money worked to my advantage. Though hot, very hot, I never could buy an ice, or a cool drink. They would certainly have noticed if I had as the other boys watched me like a hawk, and I could listen to their chatter about how devious a thief I was, being too mean to spend, even a half-penny for a lump of fruit ice, or to spend some on my 'mates'. They meant themselves. Yet despite my showing no increase of wealth or their seeing no sign of any spending, I was still regarded with suspicion.

One day on my way to school, on an impulse, I rang what I thought was the bungalow concerned. It failed to work. So I rattled the letter flap and a woman came to the door when I explained my predicament. She shook her head. But then I saw the same elderly gentleman, hovering. My heart leapt and I shouted to him:

"He'll remember. Don't you, sir!"

But he gave me a blank look and she leapt in with:

"Don't listen to anything he says. He talks a lot of nonsense." I appealed to her:

"Don't you remember serving me lemonade?" She stared at me declaring: "I see so many boys. One looks like another." She turned her head to tell him to go back inside and as she did so, I nipped round the back to the garden and my luck was in for the conservatory door was open, and on the wooden bench lay my bundle of programmes and check-list, exactly as I had left them weeks before. As I picked them up, I noticed a rectangular patch where they had lain. Some housekeeping! By the time I had returned to the front, the door had closed; she thought I had left.

Triumphantly I confronted Mr Day that morning in class but the moment of triumph was short-lived as I waited while he examined the sheets closely looking up with a grim smile after turning the sheets over and announcing that they were from the previous year. It was true. Yet, I might have proved otherwise for what had happened was that the Roneo operator had used some of the last year's sheets since the information to be printed was identical apart from the year which was only on the back page. It was wartime so the paper shortage called for economies hence the erroneous date though that knowledge was unknown to me, as well Mr Day had realised.

I was stunned. The master tore into me reciting his distaste for my appearance at the school, his forebodings of the event which now were being amply justified by my scandalous behaviour in robbing the school which had gone out of its way to make me welcome, but, which members would hang their heads in shame at the way they were being repaid, and much more in like vein. As I hung my head in distress he seemed to relent by saying that he would give me a week to bring the missing money to him otherwise the head would be officially informed and steps would be taken.

It is so easy to rail against the unfairness of life, its injustice, and the seeming malice of adults and the pettiness of fellow-pupils et al. Yet, even then, I knew what I had to do. It was to procure fourteen shillings otherwise expulsion. You do what you have to do. I did just that.

My opportunity came that weekend hearing the name of a Sister called in the otherwise empty house for the children had left on a field trip, and, being a Saturday, I was catching up chores by first making beds. Coming out on the landing of the top floor I heard the clattering of footsteps leading downstairs, first onto the lower landing watching Sister as she hurried along to the little flight before the final stairs to the ground floor and towards whoever was calling her.

I was about to return to the dormitory when I saw the open door of the Sister's room. In a flash I was inside where I spotted a draw having been pulled out but not replaced. Inside was her handbag and it was the work of moments to unclasp the catch, undo a purse inside and remove a folded orange coloured note, 10/-, a half-crown, a shilling and a sixpence piece. All was done in a few moments.

Tenterhooks is not an accurate description of my state of mind the rest of that weekend especially the Sunday when I had to change into my church clothes leaving my trousers with the stolen money inside to the whim of a Sister who might decide my day trousers needed laundering. Had anyone taxed me with questions about Bible readings, sermon contents, details of notices declaimed to the congregation et al I would not have had a clue for my entire being was entirely wrapped up with my plunder and the peril of being found out. But, the Sister concerned seemed not to have noticed the missing money on her return and I prayed she would not before I had the chance to hand it to Mr Day.

But, that waiting was as nothing to the little drama to unfold at school. It seemed to me that Mr Day confident of his purpose wanted to extract as much triumph out of my discomfiture as possible having arranged that the senior boy would be present after class that day. That scene is still vivid in my mind. Teacher's desk was raised onto a platform so that he looked down on me. Was that a smile on his thin lips? He bade the monitor, Williams, to close the classroom door. Having done so he returned to stand waiting for Mr Day to speak who duly asked me if I had the money.

I handed over the ten shilling note followed by the change counting it out on the desk. It was Mr Day's turn to be stunned. He stared at me then at the money then back at me. The words that passed from him to me were: 'You slimy bastard; you stole that money; admit it!' But, if that was his thought no sound came. He looked at Williams. I looked at Williams. Was that a look of disappointment, or incredulity? I was dismissed. I felt cold all over without any sense of triumph for I knew his thoughts were justified. I had escaped by the skin of my teeth.

All the way home I mulled over the events of the day worrying about the money I had stolen to pay for the 'missing' programmes. I could see no end to my troubles. I had resolved one problem only to land myself into another. A favourite saw of Sister Dorothy's came to mind: Out of the fat and into the fire. Yet, on my setting foot into the house I was assailed by the latest news that Sister Muriel had gone. She had been there in the morning but by noon she had left. It was her money I had stolen. My good fortune seemed too good to be true. I fretted for weeks until having heard nothing it lapsed so that there were days when other concerns drove it from my mind. Finally it was forgotten.

That day also saw the disappearance of an older girl, Joan, under a cloud though this time she was the victim. She was often to be seen in the boys' wing entering via the back door to deliver some message from Matron to a Sister. Once, when I was smaller and was being dried with a bath towel by an older boy she passed by and he called her. As she looked he dropped the towel exposing my nakedness to embarrass her.

Rumour had it that she used to yarn with the older lads in the furnace room late in the evening. But, the incident I have already mentioned re the porridge now took on a sinister overtone. I learned much later that Annear who had accused me of being the boy who had stolen the porridge, had actually seen me, but could not reveal it to Sister for fear of incriminating himself for Joan had complained of him, which he denied claiming he was not present. Whether that attack was a rape I do not know, but, certainly Joan was leaving on account of her pregnancy.

Episode 8

Bedwetter

Nowadays bedwetting is seen as a psychological problem and treated benignly in institutions. But in those days that was definitely not the case. In this respect I suffered only a little compared with another boy Peter who regularly had his urine-soaked sheet rubbed into his face. Now I joined him. After reveille a boy at random was delegated to ascend the stairs to inspect us as we were dressing. Usually success would attend this 'nosey-parkering', and the cry almost invariably would go up: "He's wet his bed, again, Sister." The duty Sister would give us a scornful and reproving stare – understandable perhaps as it was more work for her.

The face-rub would usually follow, but not always. Some Sisters were more indulgent. However it was unpleasant especially as the smell tended to linger long after the offence. Perhaps they honestly believed it would bring about a 'cure' bringing the miscreant back to 'normal' behaviour. Eventually I was told to take my things up a flight of stairs to the attic. There, to join the other bed-wetters. We would sink (and stink) together. I joined Peter and another boy, Derek, I think his name was.

One incident arose from my stay in the attic. Sister Muriel was on duty, and one evening she called upstairs for us to switch off our light. I went to the bannisters and called down that I was waiting for a night-shirt promised earlier. Sister ascended the stairs and seeing a night-shirt on the floor asked: "What's this on the floor?" It was my wet one from that morning which she ordered me to put on. I protested it was wet, in vain, for she began beating the naked parts of my body with the flat-side of a hairbrush, her favourite punishment. Sobbing in pain and vexation, I picked it up and gingerly, delicately placed it over my shoulders, it wasn't quite so wet, just damp, and slid between the sheets. But the discomfort of a damp night-shirt was too much, and I tore it off, and slung it away, anywhere.

Unfortunately, too late, I saw the silhouette of Sister Muriel in the doorway, and the sodden, smelly garment caught her as she was leaving. But the expected punishment did not occur through the unexpected arrival of Sister Dorothy who had brought my clean night-shirt up, apologising for her forgetfulness. Her colleague said nothing, but as I donned the warmed-up nightshirt, I noticed looks exchanged between the two, one glance from Sister Dorothy especially resting on her colleague's hairbrush, before, in a flash I was in my bed, the light switched off with a kindly good-night from D and a niggardly one from M.

That incident brought me closer to Taylor. We had long conversations with each other and with Richards, and, it later turned out, we three would go on to higher education. Soon, after my bed-wetting ceased, I was able, at last, to leave the attic, as did Richards. Never again would I join in the barracking of Taylor, although his 'odour' still persuaded me to keep my distance. He was probably the brightest boy in the Home, yet it was an adult who was to bring that fact home to me, at a later date, when the dictates of war brought servicemen into our community, at Newquay. He would also be a victim, like me, and others, of what is now termed, sexual abuse, though at the time it was more a sexual awakening. But it was to affect Peter, most of all.

Episode 9

Caning

Punishment was a factor in schools, all schools. Nowadays it goes under the heading of corporal punishment supposedly meaning chastisement of the body and the instrument of such chastisement was the cane. It was administered freely and without compunction by masters and teachers generally for a range of offences. One offence was my stealing the headmaster's gooseberries along with another boy although in this case the offence fitted the crime. However it was also used in another way and I shall now describe such an incident.

Our mathematics teacher had been called up for military service, and a fierce spinster replaced him. Owing to an increased intake of pupils at the school, some of our lessons were shifted to an annexe some way removed from the school. This annexe was in peacetime the school tennis pavilion where the courts were given over to horticulture for the duration of the war. I think mostly potatoes were planted because I rarely saw anyone tending the site eg weeding, hoeing etc.

It was clear Miss Hooper was not going to have any nonsense. When she set homework she meant it to be done, before the next mathematics class, no matter what the curriculum was, and she showed no mercy. In this respect, it was fortunate for her that the Annexe was several hundred yards from the main school buildings in Edgecumb Road, because otherwise the screams of children being soundly thrashed might have, even in those days, raised some eyebrows.

The incident concerning me came about when someone snatched my satchel. At the time I thought it had been taken in the hope I would be thrashed for not giving in my homework. But, the boy could not possibly have forseen the consequences. Not wishing to be seen as the culprit, he 'gave' it to someone else who was about to throw it away as if it carried the plague, when the teacher called for order. Not knowing what to do, he promptly sat upon it. But the incident had been seen though teacher's next step was rather subtle. She picked up the pile of exercise books handed in, glanced up briefly at me and then commented:

"There's an exercise book missing. I know whose it is. I also know because I saw somebody steal his satchel. Where is it?""

There was silence, but there were also grins on the faces of the whole class aside from me. Teacher had made a comment which I cannot remember and perhaps that explained the sheepish grins. She called to a boy on the front row to her right, next to the window, saying sharply:

"Ït's funny, is it? Come out here!" The boy promptly complied. Suddenly she slapped him across the face, shouting:

"Where is the satchel?" I doubt if he knew. Not everyone had seen the horseplay. Teacher shook her hand in some pain before striding to a cupboard. She opened it and withdrew a cane ordering him to hold out his hand. He got six swipes, and was dismissed back to his seat. She ordered the next one out for the same treatment, shouting:

"Where is the satchel?"

The boy sitting on it, turned round to me in a blank appeal, but I purposefully ignored him whereupon another snatched up the satchel and thrust it at me. In the front the beatings continued while I removed my mathematics exercise book and hurried to the front. Teacher smiled grimly. Was it disappointment on her face?

Months later in the playground a new boy in the form made some derogatory comment about me whereupon Carruthers, my former tormentor, told him to shut up. He demurred whereupon Carruthers barked:

"Hell's Bells, Derek! Just do what I say – and don't argue." He is the only former fellow pupil whom I remember because of this favourite oath. Apart from recalling him in terms of his oath I have no recollection of any talk with him, or, indeed with any of my classroom peers. Years later I responded to a BBC programme using the name Carruthers instead of my own. I got a phone call from the BBC presenter and had to confess my 'joke'; he did sound disappointed.

It seems a popular name for writers wishing to portray a character with a public school ethos. Such a story is 'The Riddle of the Sands' where Carruthers and his friend save England from invasion. However my personal encounters with such gentlemen have always been negative for the men themselves seem to think they form an elite and the world owes them a living. A striking case concerns a dealer in the Far East who is a successful trader but who has a run of bad luck culminating in the bank's auditor discovering the bank has no assets. It might have come to light months earlier but all the directors got their jobs by whom they knew not what their know-how in banking was.

In 2018 I read in the Times that not a single broker is good enough in the stock exchange: why? Because the Brokers Club is open only to public school entrants. Such people do not mind that the UK is a banana republic provided their imcompetent selves are in charge. It's little wonder the UK languishes in 6th place in terms of GDP. In contrast I read a book, 'The Innovators'. It seems in the 1950's being the incipient era for computers, Stanford University decided to seek talent visiting schools in part of California. As a result their agent got permission to pay a call on parents of a boy showing promise. They suggested a range of better schools offering to pay half the fees; the parents agreed. Their surname was, Jobs.

I wrote to a number of universities enclosing a SAE for reply. Not a single one bothered to reply. And I know why: Universities are seen in the UK as centres of elitism whereas much talent in Britain's past has come from very low origins. I speak of Thomas Newcomen, George Stephenson, Michael Faraday whose background was most decidedly not academic but each made their contribution to the UK's prosperity and also to the wider world.

Episode 10

Infirmary

It was soon after Christmas. Each of us had our new toys playing happily on the dining room tables. It was a Saturday and I had been given more chores than the others to make up somewhat for not having much to do weekdays. The room was full with all tables occupied so when it came to finding one free my choice was limited. Having been to my locker and removed my torch in pieces needing to be reassembled, I looked round for a spare space. There was space I thought near to the window which looked out on the terrace. Peter was there already but he was reading, so I plonked my stuff down. Looking up at me blocking his light, he pushed my bits to one side, and a piece fell on the floor, which I picked up, but my bobbing up and down, seemed to upset him, so he pushed the whole lot away. I pushed him, and then his fist knocked me to the ground. His clenched fist had caught me full in the left eye, and I screamed and broke into painful sobs, and soon the duty Sister was on the scene telling me to go the surgery to bathe my eye which felt already puffy.

The eye deteriorated, and soon Matron was treating me, but later I was being seen by a doctor who recommended Matron that I should see a specialist. That meant a trip to Truro, and soon after I was admitted to the Infirmary where the nurses, sisters, matron and other staff made up for all the love I had missed hitherto. I was no longer a Home-boy. I got a lovely welcome from the sanatorium wing where the children were recovering from polio, tuberculosis etc. I used to play games with them such as ludo, snakes and ladders and other similar games. For some reason the windows always had to be wide-open making it cool, if not cold, but I hardly noticed, being very happy.

There were also British servicemen there, one of whom, an aircraftsman and his wife, visiting from Dram, in Scotland, took me out with them, and seemed to enjoy my company. They especially liked the way I tucked into sausages, which allegedly were stuffed with more bread than meat. And then there were the Americans.

One morning, the sanatorium was closed to me. With matron's permission I took a set of chess to the Common room, but there was nobody there. I should explain by this time the Matron had kindly allowed me the use of a wheelchair as the distances in the infirmary were very long. In this way I was able to reach the American Ward over the bridge. They were always pleased to see me.

"Hey kid, what ya got there?" And I showed him.

"Aw, chess. Would ya like to play, kid?" So we played, but adults quickly get bored. I did not mind too much. It was good just being there, listening to their different way of talking, their drawl. Sometimes their chatter was like a foreign language. Later, years later I realised it had other overtones. Nonetheless, my opponent ameliorated time spent with him by going to his locker and taking out a brown looking slab marked 'Government Issue" (if my memory serves me right); there was also a lot of small print which I disregarded. He said: "Here y'are, kid. See ya round."

It was the cue to be on my way. I grinned thanks to my benefactor who returned to his comic. Yet I do remember that slab of thick, milk chocolate. It was the GI's so-called 'iron rations' – and, delicious.

Apart from such handouts to us kids from kind servicemen, both British and American, we saw very little confection; not even our ration, which the Sisters (I found out later) exchanged for sugar, but none of us saw much of this either. To sate our sweet tooth, some of us would criss-cross the golf links looking for golf balls to barter for chewing gum or other goodies. At the same time, we came across items made of thin rubber and normally knotted, which were of course discarded condoms. But I'm digressing as the eye specialist in Truro Infirmary who inspected my eye regularly kept me there for nearly two months. His treatment consisted of hot steam using a lint-covered wooden spoon dipped into a hot 'boracic' solution. There were also eye-drops administered nightly, after removing my patch and changing the dressing.

I asked the Sister for a black patch, but she refused telling me she wanted no pirates wandering the corridors, which was precisely why I wanted it as part of my persona vis-a-vis the kids in the Sanatorium. After visiting the American ward, my jaw now moved ostentatiously from side to side, showing off my chewing gum habit long after I should have got rid of it. I might have caught all sorts of infection, but looking back at my time in the Home and in hospital, I remained free of chicken-pox, whooping cough, impetigo, measles, ringworm, mumps which forced other children into isolation for weeks.

Recently I listened to an investigator talking about plague in the middle ages. It seems some villages escaped the Black Death because of some natural immunity. I wonder in this age of the genome project, whether I was genetically immune.

My stroke of bad luck (or bad judgement), re my encounter with Peter's fist, took another turn when finally the specialist told me, or my guardian, that the infirmary could do no more for me. But, there were still months of pain in front of me, and, ultimately a damaged eye. I could not read with it, and the only letter that my left eye could discern was the single one at the top of the eye-testing chart.

Moreover the eye was very sensitive to infection and was always watering, which Moorfields later discovered was due to a blocked tear duct. A regular infection I contracted was conjuctivitis, or pink eye, against which the eye drops, Predsol-N, was prescribed. After Moorfields operated to unblock the tear duct, this vulnerability was reduced, and my only problem was occasional fogging, which dexamethasone cleared instantly, but I would have to wait three more decades for that development. Long before then, an Australian researcher had discovered a cure for TB. I mention this because sadly I had to say farewell to my friends in the tuberculosis isolation ward.

Before leaving the Infirmary I will recount an experience of enemy action. Two aircraftsmen, blue-boys with a flash on their sleeves, invited me out to the movies. One of them occupied the same ward and we both had similar treatment involving a lint wrapped wooden spoon dipped into a hot boracic solution to steam the bad eye. En route to the NAAFI for a meal, beforehand, an enemy aircraft swooped low over the town. There had been no warning siren otherwise we would not have been on the street. The plane made several passes over the town and one of the airmen said he thought it was lost and trying to find its bearings, perhaps after a raid on Plymouth, which was under nightly attacks, at the time. We heard a far-off 'crump' as if the plane was jettisoning its bomb-load, and then the sound disappeared.

We carried on to the Naafi. I do not remember the film, but on different occasions we went to see, 'The Black Swan', 'Nine Men', about a tank crew lost in the desert, and 'One of our Aircraft is Missing' though I have to admit that the last two being A for Adult films, perhaps I saw the trailers only.

Another friendly face was a trainee nurse who seemed to get a kick out of making sure I was clean after my weekly hot bath. I hated it and would contrive to be finished before she arrived on the scene to check all parts had been thoroughly scrubbed, and doing the scrubbing should she not be satisfied. Since I was an eleven-year child of (apparent) innocence, I was embarrassed deeply when my willy would swell and stick up, not from her touch but through contact with hot water, especially when she added hot to a tepid bath.

Tears involuntarily fell from my eyes when she insisted on soaping this stiff little devil, but later, after she had emptied several bowls of cold, actually luke-warm, water over me, in the act of rinsing my hair, it quickly resumed it's normal shrivelled state to my great relief. Years later in my dreams she climbed into the bath with me, but, then, I also regretted my naïve inactivity.

My experiences in the Infirmary remained with me long after my stay there. My relations with adults also took on more significance after unwittingly biting into the apple of life. A comment from a GI addressing his midriff:

"Get down, Bonzo!" Remembering it my face would flush as I recalled my naivety at the time. I recalled catching Alice in the altogether. But did I catch her by chance? I wanted to collect a bath towel from the airing cupboard. Alice was the trainee nurse who helped to bath me? And, looking back, I wince at my naivety, but it must have given her some amusement.

She must have been little more than fifteen but enjoyed a normal home-life. She asked what I thought of her figure and I must have looked stupid as the only figures I knew were in arithmetic. Other memories emerge, even today, and I can make little sense of them. One memory lost is my return journey from Truro to Newquay. I cannot remember who collected me. Was it Matron? or, one of the Sisters? Long after my return, I would stand at the Orphanage bay-window looking longingly when a steam train passed on its way towards Par. That longing would be fulfilled in a totally unexpected manner. Until then I had some academic catching up to do at the Grammar School.

Episode 11

Afight

If there was one boy who crossed my path but who seemed anxious for my company. it was Peter. It was his fist which damaged my eye and I should have avoided him but the Home was a community and there were few boys of similar ages and/or temperaments so perhaps it was inevitable that he and I would be involved in one way or another. However being a year older than me and Matron anxious to place him in a job that would ease her problems our liaison would soon end. He was also suspected of slipping out at night but only rumours reached me.

Before Peter disappeared from the Orphanage, under a cloud, it seems, I do find some pleasure in recording the following incident. I mentioned the golf-balls stolen from the hotel storeroom. Peter promised to keep them until the hullabaloo had died down, but he never did. And the money soon was dissipated so much so that his main activity was to hang around the links looking for lost balls which was an activity pursued by an evacuee from a hostel in the town taken over to house evacuees from Plymouth, London and other cities. It seems Peter and an evacuee spotted the same ball, a fight broke out, stopped by some golfers, and a challenge was confidently issued by Winter.

He asked me to be his second, which I agreed to do on returning from school. The place for the fight was to be the first tee by the entrance from Crantock Road and it was to take place upon the actual green. Peter was bursting with confidence. He had cowed many boys, including me, though I'd never seen him fight Douglas, nor Malcom though the fact that no fight had taken place usually meant that most were afraid to tackle him. Like John, he had, after leaving the council school at age 14, been working with the gardener which had hardened him, and he was a tough lad, no doubt about it. But he suffered from the over-confidence of the bully.

Yet, when I saw his opponent for the first time, his confidence seemed justified. He was smaller and lighter than the stout, though heavily muscled Peter, but within seconds of the fight actually starting, it was clear Peter had a real fight on his hands. It was a bare-knuckle encounter and it became clear the evacuee was sparring with Peter who plodded while the other guy danced and landed punch after punch which Peter brushed away as if they were gnats, but after a while there was a puffiness around his eyes, his nose started to trickle blood. A few punches later, one of his eyes began to look blue; it was already half-closed.

I learned the evacuee's name. It was Mick as his second was, every so often, entreating Mick to give him what for; and, what-for was given, no question. Then his mate shouted: "Go on, Mick. Close the other eye."

All this time, as the other second, I stayed silent. Even had Peter been pummelling the hell out of his opponent, I would not have raised a peep. At football matches, I manage to bottle my excitement and it was the same here. The fact that Peter, my own tormentor, was being slowly destroyed in front of me did not raise any hint of satisfaction in me. I suppose he was our, the Home's, champion and it did not look too good that a despised evacuee was beating the living daylights out of one of us, despised as we were by the local community, though contemptuous as we were of the evacuees.

Strange is it not, there is always someone perceived as worse off than you. And in our case, it was the kids despatched to the far corners of England to escape the bombing, which, by 1945 had largely stopped. I refer to the evacuees, who should, in theory, have returned home by now, but were still in the hostel.

In our case, for one reason or another, we were orphans whereas they, the evacuees, were family castaways, untrue as that was, in many cases. My feeling now was to stop the fight yet having no idea how. I had seen a boxing match once where one corner had thrown in the towel, and then looked for my satchel where I had a towel because of gym practise. I found and undid my satchel and took out the towel and threw it onto the grass, that is, into the ring.

Nobody paid any heed except that the other second looked at me for the first time. He looked at me and then at the towel. Then he turned his attention back to the fight, which was nearly over as Peter was bent over, his hands trying to ward off the blows. Then Mick's foot got mixed up with my towel and he fell. His second looked at me accusingly: "Wotcha do that for?"

But it did bring the whole sorry business to an end. Mick was exhausted, not getting up. He said nothing at first then getting to his feet he stood over the kneeling Peter and said triumphantly: "Had enough, eh!" Then addressing his second: "Come on titch!" And they were both gone via the turnstile gate into Crantock Road, shouting triumphant catcalls and ya-boo names long after they had disappeared from sight.

I took my towel and went to a standby tap provided for golfers, as this happened to be the halfway point of an eighteen-hole course. I had seen several golfers, but seeing the fight in progress, they had just picked up their golf-balls giving this green a miss, doubtless reporting back to the clubhouse.

I tried to hand my wet towel to Peter but he was crying and did not pay any attention to me. So I dabbed his forehead streaked with blood from his nose, which was quickly drying. Finally he took the towel but then had second thoughts so I took it back, and he took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped away, got up and started to walk on the grass parallel to Crantock Road. I retrieved my bag, went through the turnstile and walked along the road. I kept pace with him on the other side of the hedge and for a while all I could see was his head bobbing up and down. I decided to leave him to it and walked home not waiting for him.

His sobs, I later discovered, were not from pain but at being humiliated, in front of me, but he need not have worried about my retelling the story. There was nobody to tell it to. I went into the bathroom, to my no-4 place, washed up as usual and carried on to wards the surgery to start my homework. My recollection of Peter stops there. Soon I was involved in other things which banished other thoughts from my mind. It was very worrying and as often in life, our troubles are often self-inflicted. This was to be no different, for I had handed my form teacher the perfect reason for the school to be rid of me.

Episode 12

Scholarship

The reader will, I'm sure, permit me to reflect on how seemingly small events can change one's entire life. Moreover the event could so easily have not happened. I'll explain. In the educational world of 1942 children of poorer backgrounds were afforded the chance to take the Scholarship. A child who made the grade was offered a place at a grammar school.

My particular day nearly did not happen as it was windy and cold. The crocodile left me behind, in a hedge which cordoned the golf links from the road along which we kids trudged to get to school. I was already a straggler, and a severe gust of wind filled my coat and wafted me into the hedge. As the crocodile proceeded on its way I battled on, as best I could, arriving late to school whereupon I was roughly ushered into a classroom, frogmarched in fact, told to sit and be quiet until the presiding teacher gave the word.

It was the Scholarship, and I had not even known it was taking place. I have a memory of waiting, examining the contents of my desk-top, where pen, ink, pencil, blotting paper, ruler and my number lay, waiting for the teacher to give the 'off'. Looking back upon that memory, I speculated that it was the Grammar school regime that enabled me to escape much of the routine governing the routine of other kids because my meals were eaten at different times to the other children because of my homework commitments.

Moreover, at this time I was shabbily dressed as being somewhat taller the Sisters had difficulty in finding suitably sized clothing, normally supplied by Head Office, elsewhere. Children at the Council School started to call me Granny because my jersey was rather too large for my meagre frame and hung on me like a smock around my knees. It was stretched even more by other kids pulling the garment as they cat-called, 'Granny'.

An incident stands in my memory relating to the scholarship exam. I was late for school, as usual, and was making my way across the playground lined with boys to find my particular class. The assistant head spotted me.

"Here comes Granny!" he shouted, adding: "Thinks he's going to Grammar School." Laughter greeted this sally, whereupon he added:

"Granny School more like it." More laughter! Meanwhile having found my place I stood in line, blushing somewhat, while the master in passing called:

"In place! Can I get on, Granny?"

Weeks later my form teacher passed me a note received from the assistant-head's office telling me to report there after school. I stood there leaning against the wall listening to children outside chasing each other exhilarated in finding themselves free. Through a crack between jamb and door I envied the kids climbing over the iron cannon concreted into the playground but too soon the kids left for home and a quiet descended over the school.

I shifted uneasily against the wall wondering where the assistant-head was and how long I'd have to wait. The outside door opened but it was the caretaker. He spotted me. I told him of the note and he asked me to leave it with him before I disappeared home because he was sure nobody now would turn up let alone the assistant-head. But I kept the note explaining that matron would not believe me otherwise.

One day the Matron took me into town to be kitted out for Grammar School, and grudgingly told me I had passed the Scholarship which entitled me to a free place with free books and equipment. It seemed very generous as I cannot recall an occasion when I was asked to fork out for anything, or, more likely, they thought it not worthwhile asking me. I looked back at that exam and tried to remember any of it. I could not, except for an exercise where pupils were asked to provide words to fill in blanks. The passage seemed to suggest frostiness to me and in the appropriate place, I chose the word 'crisp'. It, subsequently, years later, became my answer when anyone asked, of a cold day, how it was weather-wise, and my answer would come sharply, 'crisp'.

Months later I would reflect that the assistant-head having recalled his unkind comments to me was evidently embarrassed to tell me of my success in passing the Scholarship. One particular item of clothing was my cap (see pic) which I wore proudly especially while staring down older boys pushing their butcher's or grocery bikes up Mount Wise as I walked along the pavement on my way to the County Secondary school. One day, Lilian, a pretty girl hurried to catch me up as she lived in the girls' wing of the Orphanage and always left for school at a different time as matron tried to discourage contact between the boys and girls or perhaps that was the policy of the NCHO.

After walking with me for a few yards without talking she spotted this lad pushing his bike up the hill. He stared at her and she asked me for my opinion of him. Frankly I was speechless. I had no idea. I must have mumbled something though I don't recall what and we parted she towards her school at the right turning before the railway station. I watched a boy brushing down a poster just ahead of me om hoardings on my right. It warned of diphtheria which at the time was a killer and mothers were urged to bring their children for inoculation.

Months later after settling in I was approached by another boy in our class and told of the delicious goose-gogs to be had. I was flattered and eagerly joined him as we walked down Edgecumbe Avenue past the school. He turned to his right and I kept up with him as he pushed open a gate along a narrow lane. Soon we were filling our pockets with the gooseberries growing in profusion. My satchel slipped down and I noticed he did not have one but my pockets were ample enough.

Above my line of sight I saw the gate open slowly. A little dog entered the garden followed by a man; it was the headmaster. Before long we were trooping back the way we had come minus our stolen goods and standing outside the office of the head on the half-landing. Punishment was postponed as we were told to go to our classroom for the first lesson of the morning. This incident as described seems innocent: a simple case of 'scrumping' and being caught but, as I was to discover, it was not as simple as it appeared and I shall refer to it in another incident in this section. In the incident, 'Trenance', described in part 2, Delinquent, it takes on a farcical twist, in my opinion. At the time, after school, my punishment was six strokes on each hand which were delivered, I thought, with particular relish to the Home-Boy who had disgraced the school whereas my companion who went in first had disgraced his parents, a fine distinction to which I was becoming accustomed.

Episode 13

Kindness

In another incident, I mentioned Sister Muriel whom, for reasons already mentioned, I disliked, even feared. This was exacerbated after another incident. It was bedtime; I had undressed and was about to cover up with my night-shirt when Richard called me over. He was already in bed. Then Sister Muriel suddenly appeared for lights-out. Neither of us had heard her. Hitherto, she had called up to us not wishing to mount the additional flight of steps. On seeing me naked she went berserk rushing over to grab me by the arm, stopping momentarily to let me pick up my night-shirt before telling me to go downstairs and stand outside the Sisters' sitting-room.

Eventually she appeared herself and went inside to recount my 'sin' to Sister Esme, the senior Sister. I thought to hear the word 'rude', or was it 'lewd'. Anyway, she left while Sister E. called me in and without asking me to sit, proceeded to lecture me in a manner which later I recalled as a 'birds and bees' chat. It was completely over my head, and on returning upstairs to bed, I resolved to give Sister Muriel an even wider berth than hitherto especially after her remark when not having heard any corporal punishment, she declared: "You got away with it this time, boy; but you just wait!" That was her goodnight wish: her perennial threat.

Looking back it is sometimes difficult to separate incidents: it's a bit like looking through a telescope where, because of the magnification, scenes seem to be adjacent but in reality are widely spaced out. So it was with events concerning my nemesis, Sister Muriel: events which concerned me. At one time I was having some money trouble at my new school and in my desperation had stolen cash from the Sister's purse but the expected hullabaloo never arose because of another incident to do with another boy.

On arriving back from school one day I was besieged by boys telling me she had left the Home, for good. It seems she had beaten up a boy in her anger so badly that a doctor had to be called to attend him. After examination of his bruises and weals he had advised Matron, so I was told, that he would have to submit a report recommending prosecution. Matron secured a promise that he would not take action if she were summarily dismissed. Later, much later, I discovered she had simply been carpeted by Head Office at Harpenden who had assigned her to another Home.

But, it's an ill wind etc for in her place came Sister Gladys. Yet if Sister Muriel was, in our childish minds, all bad, Sister Gladys was the opposite though neither temperament (to my mind, in retrospect) seems really ideal in the bringing-up of children, especially orphans. Sister Gladys was kind. She read stories from Kipling and Enid Blyton. She always remembered our birthdays. She made us hot 'toddies' when we were sick. Once, at her own expense, she took all of us older boys to her home in Truro. It was a train-ride away, and on arrival and having walked from the station through the cathedral city, we were looked after by her sister who treated us to home-made cakes and lemonade.

Not only do I remember her kindness, but also recall at times our abominable treatment towards her. On a nature walk we would lag behind, hide from her, throw stolen tomatoes at her, then disappear. I recall that more than once we had her in tears, perhaps out of vexation, but, more likely, from concern for our welfare. Let any adult take twenty plus kids on a ramble surrendering any form of discipline, and there will be trouble! For the children's own welfare rules should be laid down and discipline enforced. Again, on the plus side, and, for the first time our birthdays were marked by a tea-party with cake and candles.

Sister Gladys was generous, to a fault. On one occasion, in the run-up to Christmas, she had everyone of us including smaller children in the kitchen helping mix the ingredients to make the Christmas pudding. Wartime meant shortages, and with a shortage of flour, she decided to add more breadcrumbs. For weeks stale bread had been hoarded, and she put the smallest to work crumbling it. At the same time, she got all the other ingredients ready, the candied peel, sultanas, raisins, dried egg powder, some flour, milk and so on. Sister Gladys went by the recipe inviting each child to add 'their' ingredient until it came to the breadcrumbs. According to the recipe several handfuls of such were needed, and she increased the number to make up for a child's hand. Yet still there were a lot of leftover breadcrumbs. Bearing in mind, the child had already asked plaintively: "Is this enough?" and having been told: "Carry on! Crumble it all up!" Sister Gladys was simply in a quandary of her own making.

At this stage of the mixing, the Christmas pudding was mixed and ready for curing, then for the oven. Each child involved had seen his dish emptied, except the two who had done the breadcrumbs. It was an enormous amount and Sister Gladys hesitated. Their lips, however, were all of a-quiver, and all of us could see they were about to burst into tears whereupon Sister Gladys told them to empty their remainder into the mixture. At that point someone called 'bedtime' and everyone trooped from the kitchen unaware that we had witnessed about the worst pudding mix ever, but that was some weeks ahead. In the event, it did prove an awful pudding most of which was left on children's plates on Christmas Day, though strangely enough, as a bread pudding, on subsequent days, it tasted rather nicer.
Episode 14

### Sunday

Without going too deeply into the organization which cared for me between the ages of five and sixteen, I should mention that the NCHO is Christian which is a good reason for children in their care to go regularly to church or chapel, both being Methodist. At Newquay this entailed a three times a Sunday attendance at one of two churches. One was a small chapel in the town centre attended in the morning each alternating Sunday; the other was much larger and at some distance away. It was invariably the place for Sunday School and evening service. The edifice impressed me from the outset with its wide gravelled approach path and cathedral- like interior.

Evening services were generally well attended especially in the war years and were thronged to bursting point when certain preachers' names appeared on the notice boards outside. In full song when both balcony and floor were packed mighty music was wafted into the outside air. Sermons could be electric as charismatic preachers held forth on evangelistic themes, and, on special occasions such as on the news of the D-Day landings. One particular charismatic preacher was the Reverend Foxon whose services always were electrifying and even my pastime of picking currants from cake during sermons was forgotten when he spoke.

However one amusing rhetorical flourish occurred in Sunday School as an Elder spouted Bomber Harris' fire and brimstone speech where he opined that they who sow the wind shall reap the whirlwind whereupon a wag next to me muttered that therefore God must be on our side (Whirlwind being the name of an allied aircraft).

Although church going was often a chore there were times when I looked forward to the evening service such as during the balmy weather of double summer-time September when darkness was postponed. Returning from six pm service at the congregational church could be charged with electric suspense at the prospect of witnessing enemy action. Gathering outside the church waiting for Sister to stop nattering was fraught anxious as we were to be on our way. Yet any delay might be beneficial in the prospect of observing any spectacle the horizon had to offer that evening such as searchlights showing up in the distance from the vantage point of the golf-links which overlooked the Fistral Bay.

Walking through the town delicious smells wafted towards us, of fish and chips, the acrid odour of vinegar, of cooking not improved by the stale whiff of empty beer glasses left around, but nonetheless magic. We'd hurry on being slowed by Sister who could not keep up. At last we reached the wicket gate leading into the golf-links our ears and eyes straining to catch any sight or sound of the familiar sounds of action far out to sea. Was it too early to spot the probing fingers of light bouncing across the distant clouds on the far horizon?

Searchlights of ships in convoy under attack were the first indication of enemy action; aircraft engines might be dimly heard (or imagined), but, louder than any motor was the crump, crump of bursting shells. Was that the whistle of bombs? Yet, there was no mistaking a huge explosion which we heard one evening. At such times we would exchange meaningful looks with our peers, even Sister herself was drawn into our cabal as we thought to witness the activity many miles distant. Not that we were allowed to stand goggling for Sister was hungry and wanted to reach home as quickly as possible for her first duty would be to see our needs were catered for before she could contemplate settling down.

Crowded in the kitchen munching our round of bread laden with dripping from a previous roast and sipping cocoa we whispered excitedly about any recent spectacle, or to otherwise chatter as kids do. Soon enough we were hurried up the wooden hill to our various dorms where excited chatter still accompanied our undressing, and soon after Sister would be telling us to hush and get to sleep.

In all my visits to evening service the golf-links was the invariable route on the way there and return for the alternate route favoured by Matron was evidently not popular with her staff. Matron had power over us kids but not over the Sisters, at least on the boys' side. The girls also attended Sunday Service except that they invariably attended the chapel in the town centre which is perhaps the reason we never saw them.

A hazard not mentioned was that of flying golf-balls though, on reflection, one can understand why golfers, when balls were in short supply, would prefer to wait while 'those thieving beggars' (us) continued on their way. Yet we weren't pariahs to everyone. Occasionally in town a stranger might stop our Sunday crocodile and offer to buy us all an ice-cream, but, invariably he would be thanked and his offer declined.

Once in 1939 while walking through the town someone spotted a shiny new store which had just opened; it was Woolworths. There must have been a shortage of merchandise for the entire shop front was filled with galvanized buckets and mops though later that Christmas it had more than made up for its earlier poor showing as the smell of roasting peanuts hit us on taking our sixpences into the store to spend. Their slogan: everything 6d or under. I bought a torch for precisely that, and still have it.

Sunday School was less of a duty for another reason, a prize for attendance. On completing a year's attendance a child would be presented with a book. One particular occasion stands out for me when I was given a garishly covered book entitled, The Battle of the River Plate, whose author's name is sadly missing from memory. Much later I saw a film of the same name. It recounts the clash of a mighty German battleship with three Royal Navy cruisers. On paper the Graf Spee out-gunned the Exeter, Achilles and Ajax and should have blown them out of the water before any of the cruisers got within range for their largest calibre gun was six inch whereas the battleship had eleven and eight inch guns or their metric equivalent.

The odd thing about this action is that it starts in 1938 at the Spithead review where Captain Langsdorf, the Graf Spee commander, actually met at a naval exhibition in Portsmouth, the (then) Captain Harwood when he fronted an exhibition of world sea-lanes. Langsdorf noted the activity around the mouth of the River Plate whereupon Harwood drew him, together with other German officers, into a fierce discussion of tactics when one of them casually, if, injudiciously, commented that a raider (as in world war one) would have easy pickings wherupon Harwood's quick rejoinder advised him not to forget the destroyer escort which would accompany merchant ships heading for the UK. Harwood made a joke of it but it seemed to have made a deep impression upon Langsdorf already named as Captain of the Admiral Graf Spee.

Fast-forward to the approaching end of the Graf Spee's tour of duty in the South Atlantic when Langsdorf got the idea that a fitting climax to his already impressive list of sunk merchant ships would be to make a killing at the River Plate where any destroyer encountered would be blown out of the water six miles away. Imagine his surprise when his lookout spots not destroyers but cruisers. Moreover Commodore Harwood has already split his force so that they attacked the Graf Spee from different angles thus splitting the battleship's fire. With insufficient time to deploy his guns to decisive effect the result was that despite damaging the Exeter forcing its withdrawal, it was the Graf Spee which needed the safety of Montevideo to effect repairs. More bluff and double bluff ensued with the result that the Graf Spee was scuttled while Langsdorf committed suicide. Harwood was promoted to Rear Admiral and awarded the Order of the Bath. Later I read that Langsdorff's only battle savvy was on torpedo boats.

A post-script concerns HMS Ajax many of whose crew were Canadians. The Canadian government honoured the men by naming a new industrial town after their ship. Staying with my niece near Toronto, her guy, on an early morning cycle ride, took me past Ajax a few years back, and its impressive war memorial.

To return to Sunday School another benefit was the annual outing and here again my memory is tinged with the approaching war for on our way back from the outing the charabanc met many khaki camouflaged Bren-gun carriers, lorries and other vehicles speeding towards Plymouth for embarkation to France. Initially the Tommies gave our bus a cheer but subsequently we made quite a ghastly hollering ourselves on passing them.

Such outings were also characterised by the distribution of huge round saffron buns and bottles of lemonade. And, we liked the idea of riding in a 'charabang', with the stress on the 'bang'. Decades later a young French boy staying with the family showed us his mother's dictionary wherein a bus was given the meaning, char-a-banc, a horse-drawn carriage; its date 1885.

Yet another pleasant Sunday School routine from age 13 years brought the welcome prospect of meeting girls who appeared not to mind our woeful reputation as Home-boys. Perhaps dressed in our Sunday best we were a match for other likely beaus, or, more likely the latter had better things to do on a Sunday afternoon so that for the most part the girls made the best of a bad job. Two years had elapsed since the utter naivete of my hospital experiences for now I enjoyed sitting next to girls, knee to knee, especially in Bible reading groups where on occasion the Elder would ask us to huddle closer as if what she or he had to impart was for our ears only.

At times of harvest festival attending Sunday School meant a bonanza of an apple, a pear, gooseberries and other farm produce brought in by locals to adorn the dados around the walls of the church. Later Americans would add their own contribution of peanut butter, spam, tins of pineapple of which one or two might find themselves tucked into shirts (or blouses). It was stealing, of course, but it was getting caught that, in our minds, was the real crime. It would need little imagination to believe that stealing apples was as bad as raiding the offertory plates which carried real money. Americans would toss in pound notes without a second thought. But how to get at it!

My opportunity arose when I was given the honour of taking the plates down the aisle. The reader may be asking himself if I was thinking straight, that the honour surely outweighed the small amount of lucre I could steal. Yes, yes, yes! But, outweighing shame, even that of heavenly retribution, was the thrill of doing better than my peers. We two stood in the entrance lobby both hands with a pile of three plates waiting for the organ to begin, and, as its sonorous music boomed out we began the long walk down the aisle between the pews towards the altar where the minister stood in front of the table with its ornate candles.

He took our plates from us placing them on the altar table, pronounced the blessing and thanked us for our services looking at me directly and inviting me to see him in the community hall after the service. Having secreted a half-crown from the bottom plate which I had palmed into the top pocket of my suit it was with crimson cheeks and sweating hands that I turned to make my way, with my companion, walking the red carpet almost missing the two little steps back to the choir boys' transept. I was already ashamed of my action on account of the blessing and dedication of the offertory plates not to some faraway missionary charity but to the welfare of the St. Dunstans Home where blind ex-servicemen lived.

It was the one and last time I stole from an offertory plate for my punishment was my own conscience. It turned out the minister wanted me to act as Elder in the Sunday School that afternoon owing to the indisposition of another. You can imagine my relief accompanied by joyful smiles as I agreed.

A final reason for enjoying Sunday School was temporary freedom from the Orphanage, and, in particular, Matron whose church uniform was even more forbidding than the normal dark blue dress surmounted by a white collar with white cuffs, starched and detachable. On Sunday she wore a dark blue topcoat, black stockings and a silk, dark patterned blue wimple covering her hair and reaching down to waist. Looking up wimple in the dictionary it seems to have been used by nuns so perhaps it was awarded by some religious order.

I'll conclude this account of Sunday School by weighing up the pros and cons of the Methodist ethos for the children in their care by feeling that it was beneficial not least because of the people involved who made it the pleasant environment it largely turned out to be. It was conceived in the Victorian age when men and women of the time looked upon the English people as blessed but with a duty to take the message to the world, and by gum, they certainly did that.

Episode 15

### Incourt

It is the usual complaint of children, nothing to do. In the boys' wing of the Home it was customary to send the boys out to a rectangular shaped field surrounded by a wire fence. It was quite a big field and one could play football, cricket, rounders etc, but after the seasonal games had been exhausted, we looked around for another diversion, such as digging a pit and covering it with some corrugated sheets of iron, begged, borrowed or stolen. Since our field was overlooked by the Orphanage, such activities had to be circumspect to avoid detection, as they were forbidden, perhaps because the field did not belong to the Orphanage, or, that being unseen Sisters could not see us so we were not available for any chore they might dream up. We were forever dreaming up diversions or escapades.

One escapade involved a boy entering a sweet shop on a nearby parade and as the doorbell rang the lady proprietor would descend from upstairs. He'd ask for something he knew the shop did not have and leave. The lady would return upstairs leaving a boy who had hidden under the counter. He was free to help himself. But it was too easy and soon palled. So, having exhausted this shop escapade and others involving phone boxes, house-knockers tied together etc we looked behind the Parade of mostly empty shops and arrived at a discovery. One property at the end was devoid of life and not overlooked. Standing on another's back I saw a window at ground floor level - a slightly open window.

The fact that the shop, being on its own, might be an opportunity to explore behind the other properties without being seen, even from the shop was an open-sesame. Once over the wall of the end of terrace property, one or two of us peered into the window after clambering up onto the window-ledge. Amazingly the window catch had not been closed and it was soon raised and we clambered in. Inside was a veritable Aladdin's treasure trove. There was a magic lantern with slides. There were tennis racquets and balls, badminton sets, golf-balls in brand new condition, various indoor games such as draughts, chess, and the usual children's games. And it was not long before the objects found a new home.

One particular welcome find was a collection of cigarette-cards. You will appreciate that without nicotine addicted dads we Home-boys were at a disadvantage in collecting these cards which were placed in every packet ot ten cigarettes by manufacturers keen to encourage a collecting craze and hence sell more packets. It was temporarily suspended at some time in the war though they were still collected. We quickly came to realise that the Sisters were obliged not to smoke as a condition of service so we could only look on wistfuly as other kids at school exchanged cards to make up a set. But now, we had loads of cards of 'our' own, and, from the peacetime years, which were eagerly sought after. Now, we could get to know the famous footballers, cricketers, tennis stars, golfers, boxers et al and join in the bargaining and card swapping sessions from which heretofore we had been excluded.

The golf balls were also a real prize as they were in short supply on account of the war, so the older boys would offer them to people on the golf-links, especially Americans, one of whose favourite occupations was golf, so they fetched a nice price. However in the end there were too many of us involved for the appearance of so many new objects not to arouse suspicion allayed by claiming they were the usual rewards for winning games. However, Matron was never to hear about these new possessions until she was paid a visit by the owner of the Esplanade Hotel. It was hard luck for us, in 1944, that the end of the war was in sight, and the hotel owner decided to see what might be of use when his hotel was given back by the Government. It had been occupied by men from one of the three services, but who had moved out, probably to be nearer the invasion ports.

What amazes me now is the vindictiveness of the owners in deciding to prosecute which meant a court appearance for everyone involved, although not quite everyone. For some reason best known to myself, as the known ringleader of the whole escapade, I did not let on that Peter was also involved: very much involved because he had taken the lion's share of the golf-balls, yet his come-uppance was coming though more of that later. I was terrified it might affect my scholarship, but it did not, and we were all bound over after a promise to be of good behaviour in future. Later I discovered that the law protected juveniles so the press were barred from reporting court proceedings. In the light of attempts to remove me from the grammar school my court appearance should have meant instant expulsion but nobody seemed to care about my absence to attend court so I got away with it.

It could not go on for ever: the war I mean. Evidently the owners of the Esplanade Hotel thought so for they descended upon their property which was still occupied though most servicemen had moved north to be nearer the invasion beaches. It was not long before the proprietor discovered his storeroom had been broken into and set in train the events already described. After the court case had come and gone, our Sisters must have been astonished that 'out of the blue' arrived this invitation from another large hotel. It was a near competitor. Actually the initial approach was informal. Children from the hotel on holiday looked out of their windows overlooking our field. At the time there were a number of boys of a similar age, in the eleven to thirteen age bracket. There was Malcom, Peter, Douglas, John and the three grammar school lads, Derek, Richard and myself as well as a number of other boys whose names escape me.

Our games of cricket were knock-abouts, where someone would stay in until he was bowled through the usual means of hitting the wickets, catching, stumping, running-out. Even so those lads in the hotel looked green with envy. We watched them as they stared at us for although they had all the gear, they did not know the district well enough to know where to go. Their hotel had been occupied since 1939 and it was now 1944, both parents and children had been away nearly five years.

We played up to their longing, for instance, a bowler would stare in their direction while rubbing the cricket-ball on trousers, tossing and catching and generally teasing onlookers staring from hotel windows. The batsman would play a practice shot, mark out his crease and perform the several things batsmen do. It must have driven them crazy, those toffs on holiday from their school but with nothing to do because both Mummy and Daddy were too busy. A day before they were due to return home, it must have got too much for a window opened and we could hear them shouting at which Malcom prompted us to ignore them!

None of us noticed someone standing outside the wire fence shouting. We looked at each other trying to ignore him but curiosity eventually caused us to walk towards him. He spoke: "I say old sport. What do you think of a cricket match between you and..." gesturing towards the hotel? That was how it came about, a cricket match between the Homeboys and the hotel lads.

It took place in the afternoon and they came with all their gear which is where we got shown up for apart from a worn cricket ball and a couple of proper bats, none of us owned pads and other gear. We watched in awe as their opening batsmen approached us fully padded wearing proper caps of their school. Their gear took over, supplying stumps, bails, balls and, of course, scoring pads. At the start of their innings, they won the toss of their coin opting to bat first. One of the parents came over to act as umpire joined by several other adults who just watched.

We soon learned the boys' names, which were quite different to ours. There was James, their captain, Robert, Robin and Lazenby whose Christian name is lost plus others I have forgotten. I think they were quite surprised at our bowling performance especially at Malcom's; he was a natural. They were all out for less than a hundred and with the first ball, Malcom hit Robin for six, that is, the ball fell outside the fence without first bouncing.

At this point I would like to recount some curious practices which they brought from public school. The first decision which went against Robin by the umpire went like this. As bowler he stood at the wicket catching the ball and shoving the wicket with his leg shouting: "Howzat!" But the umpire, someone's dad, turned him down at which he went into a sulk. Another dodge was where Robin asked to speak to Malcom who left his crease to listen to him whereupon, his bails were whipped off. That "Howzat!" was also turned down.

After someone called 'lost ball' after a skyer, the umpire called for another ball into play which provoked much muttering. The game was halted when the umpire was called away and Malcom, our captain, refused to carry on until he had returned, which he did briefly to excuse himself, and since no other adult would take over, at a stage in the game where the Home-boys needed just a dozen runs with five batsmen still to play, the match was brought to a halt.

There was little meeting of minds or small-talk although Malcom had struck up a good rapport with Lazenby, their vice-captain, who brusquely intervened when Archibald commented to someone putting pads back into capacious bags: "I say, old boy, just check for fleas before..." He did not finish as Lazenby told him smartly: "Hold your tongue Archie until you've summat decent to say." To Malcom he said: "It was lucky for us that the game ended when it did. We must have a return match."
Episode 16

### Evacuee

We often complained about our misfortune, yet soon after the War had been going on for some months, we began to notice new arrivals at school, and it was not an altogether pleasant experience. The arrivals were evacuees from Plymouth, Bristol and London. Looking back it would seem our Sisters and Matron had no need to forbid us going anywhere near them. It was our natural reaction for invariably they were smelly and dirty, and their vernacular when intelligible was crude, ungrammatical and often threatening.

One such newcomer in particular gave us the 'shits', to use their word; that was Yvonne. She was a terror; a bundle of ferocity. She had an entourage of brats and held court such as Boadicea might have done in Ancient Britain. These brats were at her command. Her speciality was ragging or, to use their term, scragging. Presumably in the hostel where the evacuees lived, she had exhausted all the possibilities there so turned her attention to us. For a while after their arrival, nothing happened. Our crocodile would reach the safety of the playground and we were safe. It was the same for the return journey. It lulled us into thinking we were safe from attack. But, like a general, Yvonne was waiting for the optimum time and place; she had evidently made her move as our crocodile was straggling up the hill to return home, one day.

We passed the cemetery and turned left into Pentire Road and, suddenly, there were war whoops as she and her gang fell on us. We took to our heels which is exactly what she wanted for her brats picked out their victim and surrounded him. It was Titch. By now we were too far away to see what was happening and could only wait to see what was happening to Titch. He appeared, running and trying to fasten the belt around the waist of his short pants - and he was weeping, bitterly, but would not tell us why. He had been humiliated.

It seems her technique was to get her brats to catch her chosen victim and waiting until he had been brought under control, she moved in to pull his pants down and reveal... What? His willy, of course. I watched once as out of the blue she pursued this young guy; he was another evacuee, not one of us. She told her brats to let him go and then ran after him bringing him down with a rugby tackle. Seconds later her hands grasped the back of his trousers and with a yank, they were down whereupon a naked bottom appeared and with her right she grasped his winkle. Some crude expletive erupted from the lips of this she-devil. Then she let go. His braces rebounded and his trousers once again covered him. He was just another notch on her score card.

Yvonne's hair was short and curly and she always wore a gingham dress. Her mother must have bought a job lot for sometimes she wore blue, and at other times, red or green. An older evacuee once called her, 'knickers' on account of her cutting them short. He thought, being twice as big, he was safe. He was not. One of our favourite chorusses at the time was, My Bonny lies over the Ocean, where someone substituted her name. It was crude and only sung at a safe distance. The last two lines went: Why-von-ee has all our devotion/ cos she's got a see-you-en-tea.

Yet tough as she was, our Malcom proved she was vulnerable. I had stayed behind to see the assistant-head. For once, I noticed she was on her own waiting outside the gates which had been closed by the caretaker, though not locked. It was his way of telling everybody, go home and give him some peace. Yvonne waited and waited, and it dawned on someone that Yvonne was hoping to see Malcom who also had yet to appear. Catcalls such as, "Got it bad, have you, Yvonne!" or "Malcom says to tell you he's waiting behind the cycle shed."

Yvonne was always on a short fuse and she rushed the gates to get at her tormentors on the other side. To my astonishment she climbed them dropping down on the other side when she proceeded to chase us. I disappeared behind the cannon and she followed, and then, stopped. No longer interested in me or anyone else she approached the cannon and lovingly touched it. "You can climb on it. Yvonne." Someone called which she did. She was astride the barrel, Malcom having been completely forgotten. A genuine Tom-boy! Meanwhile Malcom slunk past her and out of the gates, but he need not have worried. She was temporarily, at least, otherwise engaged.

It was Malcom who was with me when one day we were told to return home from the Gannel to fetch the Sisters' tea. On our return journey we had company: two evacuees who cat-called us seeing as we were too laden down with metal teacan and hot water jug to carry out any retaliatory action. Fortunately they were too far off to overhear our whispering because I had conceived an idea and Martin smiled in anticipation of the treat to come. We entered the narrow downhill path taking us towards a stile on our left which we had to clamber over.

Thereafter we planned to keep to the side of the field to our right before reaching, via a downward slope, a break in the hedge at the bottom of the field which, via some rocky steps, would take back to the stony strand where the two Sisters awaited us. The two urchins had followed us and had not stopped their heckling and had even crept closer to us thinking they were safe but they were wrong. In a flash I had placed the hot water jug on a stone slab and grabbed one of the lads. He screamed for his mate to help him but Malcom had also used the same slab and threatened to chase him.

Meanwhile I frog-marched the lad towards a fresh cow-pat but suddenly I realised his real fear: it was the cows. Two Fresians had slightly moved away ever chewing their cud as I pushed the screaming lad towards them. He was terrified not of the cow-pat but of the cows themselves. Malcom made ready to run after the other evacuee who had fled back to the stile and was over in a trice and, having had my fun, I released my evacuee and he was soon gone. Soon we had handed over our tea-can and jug to the waiting Sisters and were off to some fresh devilry.

Episode 17

### porage

I was eight years of age and perpetually hungry. For some reason I was late going to bed, probably there was a chore still to do. Blacking and polishing all the shoes was a particular onerous and time-consuming task. Or, perhaps I had to clean out the bathroom, or the toilets. Or, perhaps I was busy fetching coal for the Sisters' sitting room. Whatever the reason, I was late and maybe a little cold, and had slunk into the kitchen for comfort from the range still warm from the day's cooking. As I leaned on the brass plate warmer - dangerous as once I had slipped and ended up with a burnt wrist - it was the work of a moment to lift the lid of a large black cooking pot to see what was gently simmering.

It was porridge for breakfast. I picked up the wooden spoon laden with the thick, glutinous mess and stuffed it into my mouth; again and again. The gnawing pain of hunger dissipated somewhat. Then, hearing a noise from the direction of the furnace room some yards away, I left, and, as it was dark managed to slink along the corridor in stockinged feet and up the stairs, unseen and unheard, or so I thought. The furnace room by the way was where the older boys would gather to yarn when the small fry had retired upstairs for the night. But, nobody had seen me else there would have been a holler.

Quietly, I undressed and crept into bed, and was soon asleep. I was awakened by having the bedclothes torn from my recumbent body and being roughly shaken and told to sit up. I did so half-asleep managing to hit my head against a brass knob of the bedstead. It was a stinging blow, and I saw stars and tears burst involuntarily from my eyes. Still recovering from the rude awakening, an older boy Peter came over to quiz me, took one look at me and called out: "Here's the culprit, Sister. He's crying. That shows he did it."

It was absurd. I laughed out loud, in disbelief and anger. Yet Sister took my outburst as guilt, and I was forced to go downstairs, in my night-shirt, and stand outside their sitting room. The linoleum was cold in the passage, and it was draughty near to the outside front door. There was central heating, of a sort, the fire being in the furnace room, which the older boys were responsible for, when they felt inclined. But, it was the initial shock of leaving a warm bed and going downstairs that made standing there at that time of night unbearable.

There were warm blasts of air when the sitting room door opened for a Sister to leave, and return. On one such occasion I heard the radio on for the news and Sister Dorothy say to her colleague, memorably: "German troops are marching down the Polish corridor." It meant absolutely nothing to me at the time, and mystified me for many a month, although the individual words did take on a sinister significance in the light of events. And, Peter who had landed me here, later left the Home to join the Merchant Navy and was torpedoed, and returned a hero.

Every now and then, the Sisters would call me into the sitting room, make their accusations, which I vehemently denied, until they wanted to turn in, and I was sent to bed. Unknown to me, my punishment had been decided: No breakfast until I owned up. Indeed, thereafter, it was also no meals until I owned up. I was forced to stand against the wall for breakfast, dinner and tea, and a plate of porridge, from that fateful day, was placed before me, on the floor. Inevitably it became dried as the liquid evaporated. I was literally starved. It was so bad that my stomach swelled. But I would not yield. I'm sure I would have died rather than admit the truth. It went on for three days. Sister Muriel who ran the operation told the other boys to see I got no food elsewhere; I was allowed water, nothing else. How did it end?

The Reverend Foxon 'saved' me. Not directly, but he, a minister from Newquay Methodist Church, was making a visit to the Home to urge us ie the staff and children to sign his petition against the demon drink which I think was Guiness. Coming through that connecting door Matron, whether aware or not that a punishment was in progress, seemed, through a silent exchange of glances with Sister Muriel, to have decided to end the business. I was ushered to a table and food placed before me which I wolfed despite warnings to take it slowly.

Whether the petition was placed before me or not, I did not add my signature. After the Reverend and Matron had left Sister Muriel issued a warning to me: "You got away with it this time, boy. But, you just wait!" The threat hung in the air but I had triumphed. It was Sister Muriel who would be sacked but that was in the future and for another incident. Yet, there was an odd outcome if that is the right word. Peter had accused me and could have provided damning corroborating evidence but did not do so because had he done so it would have destroyed his own alibi. Joan had accused him of preventing her leaving the furnace-room that evening because she herself had been disciplined for staying too long in the boys' wing after delivering her message. He denied restraining her but nine months later his guilt was all too apparent because she was forced to leave on account of a pregnancy.

Episode 18

### Fistral

In the summer months and especially during the long holidays our destination would be to Fistral Beach. As a crocodile we'd wend our way slowly to the Pentire Road; here dutifully we'd stop to allow our Sisters to catch up then proceed downhill between holiday cottages to the entrance to the beach. Any upcoming leavers would need to stand aside if twenty plus boisterous boys were not to brush them aside. Then came the final leap onto the glorious white sand. The Sisters needed to keep us together until they had decided where to site their deck chairs. Then safely in place they would allow us to disperse.

Should the tide be out the possibilities were manifold especially were we carrying fishing tackle, either home-made or bought. With regard to the shop item, I was once equipped with a set bought by my mother who had turned up recently, out of the blue, and asked Matron for permission to take me out. It was a surprise to me although evidently my mother had planned her trip, long before. Anyway, she had asked me if there was something she could get for me, there and then. I dithered between a torch and fishing tackle. In the end, she decided for me, which is how I came to be carrying this pristine new fishing line. It comprised a square of wood as one might use for the string to fly a kite. To the brown string were attached lead weights, a float (removable) and a hook though the only fish to be caught in the rock pools of Fistral Beach were inedible; we called them (incorrectly) codfish. There was a larger fish with a very wide mouth, which we named, again incorrectly, 'mallard'; both fish were blennies as I was to learn later.

As a form of recreation it was cruel as often the hook, baited with the soft insides of limpets, caught in the mouth or gills of the fish and could not be easily removed, and we inflicted terrible suffering upon these poor creatures, though often the victim was killed, which, perhaps, if unintentional, was kinder. When a 'mallard', with its wide mouth, would swallow the hook whole, the recourse to remove the hook was to smash it on the rocks to kill it, then cut it in half. But kids are not squeamish, and though lots of gooey stuff would be the result, it was done quickly because otherwise we could not continue fishing.

On picnics to the River Gannel, on the other hand, the fish caught were edible, though we were not allowed to bring them back home, although here the technique was not to catch them with hook and line, but to saunter bare-foot along the low-tide river hoping to tread upon a baby sole, turbot or other tiny flat-fish. Then, gingerly we would place both hands fore and aft of the fish before lifting the foot then transferring the catch to a bucket. However, on one occasion our haul was of bigger fish so we gave them to a boy who lived on his father's schooner, the Ada, moored in a creek, just off the main channel.

Fistral Beach was a paradise for children even though bathing was forbidden to us. Probably, it would have meant that the Sisters themselves would have to be able to supervise us in the water. Once on the beach, they would find themselves a comfortable spot, delegate older children to mind the young lot, and retreat into a book, or, hire a deckchair and take a nap. I recall nothing which ever caused them to regret this complete lack of attention. Kids are remarkably responsible, and possess all the qualities of self-preservation which adults are supposed to monopolise.

To a ten year-old, for example, which I once was, the sand stretched for miles though in reality, at the lowest low-tide, perhaps only a hundred yards separated the sea from the dunes. Even in wartime, when there were two parallel rows of barbed-wire enclosing a no-man's land of anti-tank mines, there was still ample space for games of all sorts. When playing rounders, cricket, football and other ball games besides quoits et al, I do not remember once losing a ball to the barbed-wire. In theory this was impregnable though after a short while, the sea air being very corrosive, gaps opened up in the wire inviting foolhardy boys to climb onto the framework holding the barbed-wire. It was even rumoured that games of dare, which today would be called chicken, were practised though these stories were more apocryphal than reality, in my opinion. Yet, there was a rumour that the number of actual mines laid was small for two very good reasons: the first was that in 1939 the UK had so few landmines but the second was more plausible: studying a map it was an unlikely place to launch an invasion.

Apart from fishing there was the temptation to strip off and plunge into one or two of the larger rock pools. There was no possibility of being caught because the Sisters would never trust themselves to jump from rock to rock as was our wont. Although none of us could swim, nobody came to grief apart from clothes accidentally dropping into the water. However our inability to swim was, as an unforseen consequence of the War, about to come to an end. A couple of servicemen turned up at the Home one day offering to teach us boys; I'll describe what happened in another incident.

Stories had begun to surface about tunnels in prison camps in Germany and we decided to emulate them by building one in the recreation field. Having been sent into the field the Sisters tended to forget us: Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes. Despite our proven capacity for mischief, not even the long experienced Sister Dorothy seemed to suspect that boys having been left alone for hours were up to no good. True, rules had been laid down and one concerned tunnelling; it was forbidden, but, in time people relax. We knew that our new tunnel must be hidden so some thought went into its construction.

Moreover operations had to be kept secret from the younger fry which meant waiting until they had been called to come in. Also materials had to be on hand for immediate use, so, long before we started we went in search of corrugated iron sheets, bricks and so on. Spades and buckets as used on the beach were robust enough for digging out the earth. Every few yards of tunnel got covered with an iron sheet which was overlaid with turfs already cut. This proved very effective for when a Sister came out to call us in, coming into the field itself, she should notice no evidence of our activities.

One end of our field was terminated by a wall and our idea was to tunnel into the building which at the time was vacant though we did not get that far as one of the younger kids found our tunnel and the spoil-sport went running to Sister before we had a chance to deal with him either by bribery or intimidation. We heard Sister Dorothy calling names but it was muffled and she disappeared getting no response and, triumphantly, I pushed up the flap to get out, but met resistance. Derek tried too but could not budge the flap.

It was pitch black in the tunnel and the air was getting fetid. Derek and I both pushed against the flap to no avail. Beads of sweat rolled down into our eyes. The fact I can now tell the tale means we got out but not through our own efforts. It was the nipper who had told on us. I turned my back towards the flap exerting all my strength, and the flap gave way, but I fell backwards almost into Titch's arms, for it was he who had taken away the stone covering it. What had happened was that Sister had trod on the sheet of iron that formed our flap driving it under the earthworks and inadvertently trapping us in the tunnel.

In the Seventies, I wanted to show my family where their Dad used to play some thirty years before, but the field had disappeared under a sea of chalets. The Orphanage must have been sold for it was then the Tregarn Hotel though the buildings appeared the same from the limited vantage point that passers-by can see.

On my retirement I returned on my own and met a man who had been hired as an electrician for the Tregarn Hotel, formerly my Home. He passed on the sad news that because the electrics no longer were fit for purpose and that the plumbing was also too old-fashioned plus other problems connected with 'thirties' buildings a decisionhad been taken to demolish the hotel.. Two years later, it was indeed no more; just a site for redevelopment. My former Home was gone for good.

Episode 19

### Scrumping

As Summer began to wane so thoughts among us turned towards the prospect of 'scrumping', or picking apples without permission, or, stealing them. Living in the country almost there were a number of small farms close enough to the Home to be seen from windows that fruit was ripening. On the way to the River Gannel one passed a high wall behind which where the most luscious Cox's Orange Pippins. Fortunately they could be got at simply by standing on another's back as the branches over time had extended to the wall and beyond.

Another small farm backed onto the Home gardens and although orchards were surrounded by high wired fencing it proved no problem to energetic boys. Pears were often the objects of our desire which is how I became acquainted with the Williams variety long before they became a supermarket favourite. The presence of a dirt road separating orchard from farm evidently prevented the owners of the orchard spotting us stealing their apples and pears though there were some near misses. On one occasion I was spotted crawling through a hedge my shirt stuffed with fruit which impeded my escape though it was not too hard to outrun my pursuer. We children were never invited to help with the seasonal picking; I wonder why!

As a child I could go to church and sing the praises of the Good Shepherd and pray fervently for His blessing reciting the ten commandments yet a few hours later I'd be breaking one of them by doing the above, and not thinking for a moment I was doing anything untoward. As befits a Christian organisation church attendance was mandatory and perhaps that was the root of the matter for if one is compelled to go to church out of someone else's sense of obligation, one is not necessarily given to much self-criticism or reproach. Besides we lads were forever hungry for the wherewithal to eat let alone having a sense of adventure and taking risks, and in doing what is forbidden both by the Church and by the authorities. In consequence we were always on the lookout for an opportunity for adventure and if the latter was blended with food so much more the incentive.

Such an incentive presented itself as we waited for the Sisters to rejoin our crocodile after Sunday school. A few of us were looking over the wall separating the church grounds from a row of shops whose rear entrances we could see when somone spotted a tin of salmon on a ledge outside a grocery shop. We eyed the chasm between the wall and the shops looking for a possible way down. It might be possible after climbing over the wall to balance on one of the broad reinforcing struts, and, encouraged by my peers, I clambered over onto the strut. It was wide enough to walk across, kneel down and pick up the tin, and, soon I was back again with the lads needing someone to hold the tin while I climbed back over the wall. Easy-peasy except that Peter who took the tin from me would not surrender the tin of salmon.

His come-uppance came not from me but from the tin itself for having borrowed a tin-opener he chose the furnace-room to open the tin. It exploded spraying him with stinking fish. How we kids chortled, behind his back, of course.

Going to secondary school had its advantage in that I enjoyed longer holidays than those attending council school. Being the only boy left in the Home had its advantages, as, towards the end of the two years that I was alone, I became bolder especially after dinner time when Sister Dorothy and her two colleagues retired for their nap. I learned to make toffee, for instance.

There were ample ingredients to hand including syrup, butter, sugar and other things; I also could make use of the kitchen range. Soon after the United States entered the war, the larder boasted new exotic foods like processed cheese in long, square tins, powdered chocolate in enormous round tins. This last item nearly caused me to choke as I foolishly put a spoonful of the stuff in my mouth causing the cloying powder to stick to my throat. Fortunately, I was able to vomit it out rushing to the cold water tap. I had very nearly suffocated myself.

I would make a tray of toffee and often have enough left over to share with the other lads when they'd returned from council school. One great favourite with kids and staff alike were pineapple chunks though once an enormous tin had been opened there was little likelihood of any leftovers. Owing to the Americans' generosity particularly the nearby US Army hostel in an adapted hotel vacated by the Tommies to make way for the GIs, food was more plentiful though it never replaced the standard fare, fortunately because US processed cheese was no match for old English cheddar even though the former was plentiful while cheddar was rationed.

Despite the generous extras arriving from the Yanks children were still harangued by Sister or Matron to finish up every last scrap of tough gristle or, slushy fat left on their plates at dinner using the argument of our brave sailors risking their neck to bring us that very piece of unpalatable gristle and other un-delectable scraps. In later years our children got away with left-overs because neither my wife nor I wanted to enforce such a regime. But what we could do was to lead by example or experience especially in avoiding dangerous natural hazards such as electrics.

One of the hazards is bare electric terminals and wires carrying heavy current. I recall that back in the Home we kids were exposed to hazards not pointed out to us such as electric switches. I look back nowadays with a feeling of being protected by some guardian angel when I think of our prying fingers unscrewing electric light switches. People die from electrocution. Yet, I would unscrew a light-switch and touch the contacts and feel the frizzle of current in my finger and arm. None of us ever came to any harm although sometimes someone would stand, not on linoleum, but on the red quarry tiles which were laid onto the porch and corridor. Perhaps the light switches were protected by fuses of low amperage deliberately to protect kids though I doubt it.

Episode 20

### Etc1

Being a Scholarship boy and an orphan meant leading a lonesome existence at the grammar school. Tet opportunities for friendship crop up and for a while you enjoy the companionship of friendship. I was an outcast although unknown to me there was another boy who had a normal family existence but was also shunned although the reason for this though apparent to my classmates was transparent to me. After a while boy struck up a friendship with me. He had suffered from infantile paralysis and had to wear calipers and was shunned by his classmates. We were both shunned so kept each other company. Like Bernard he was Jewish, which was also another reason to cold-shoulder him but being a Home-boy, away from real life, these ethnic differences were completely unknown to me.

On one occasion his parents had given him money for his birthday and he invited me to help spend it after school. He made for the arcades which were out of bounds for me as they were in town which I was told to shun returning home via Mountwise. Bernard bought ice-cream and later on we had chips and played the pinball machines until he had enough, or, more likely we had run out of his money given him for his birthday. He saw me to my bus-stop in order to pay my fare back home which was not far but he was trying to make up the time for me. The bus duly came, but horror of horrors sitting in front was Matron. I began to walk, but she had spotted me. Needless to say I landed in hot water. She forbade me to have anything to do with him but what sticks in my memory to this day is her anti-Semitism because her reason for her ban was because of his ethnicity.

With prejudice of this nature is it any wonder that I had to plough a lonely furrow. Even in the Home attempted liaisons with fellow orphans were sometimes fraught as for instance Peter who stank from his urine soaked pants. Yet, the scene was forever changing and owing to the war and postings abroad boys got deposited at the Home while a one parent ie Dad was posted away overseas. So, a new companion appeared. His name was Bernard and as well as having his Dad away he also appeared to suffer some complaint requiring regular treatment. His lips and mouth took on a purplish colour, after treatment by Matron in the surgery and after it he would retire to his locker where he would pore over cuttings from newspapers which his father sent him. He invited me to join him and we both began to pore over these while standing at his locker.

The cuttings were about the North African campaign so the year must have been around 1942. The name, Tobruk, appeared in the newspaper cuttings so it might have been during the time it was besieged by Rommel, the German commander of Axis forces in North Africa. Another town mentioned was Benghasi, although I do not recall names of people. Nor did Bernard tell me about his personal circumstances. It was exciting to follow the campaign even by proxy and there were moments of despair intermingled with times of triumph as the fortunes of the eighth army ebbed and flowed. But, one day he was no longer there. It seems he was told not to go to school one day as evidently by early 1943 the Allies had triumphed allowing officers and men somke leave. It seems his father had arrived back from North Africa to collect him. I went to his locker, which was open but all the cuttings had disappeared. It was a blow.

Soon after joining Grammar school Matron saw fit to send a few of the older boys and girls to attend the St John's Ambulance Brigade and once a week we would study fractures and splints, concussion and its after effects, bleeding and pressure points on the body. First of all came the theory and next, the practical application. Having been taught and (hopefully) having assimilated a lesson over several months there came the opportunity, or the trial, depending upon your interest, of an examination. I must have reached some acceptable grade for I was asked to be one of the official uniformed St John's cadets at a forthcoming football match between Cornwall and Plymouth Argyle F.C.

My designated position was a corner post from where I had a splendid vantage point to observe the Plymouth left winger take a corner kick and watched fascinated as he placed the ball, observing his muddy boots, and, saw and smelt his sweat as he walked towards and almost touched me then turned, ran and booted the ball into the Cornwall goal area. It was a heady experience of testosterone at the gallop and especially when players clashed, fell writhing on the ground or surged towards the goal-mouth. From that moment I was an Argyle supporter although disappointed later when finding out that Plymouth, in third division south, was far removed from the first-class game played by the likes of the Arsenal, Preston North End, Blackpool et al.

Looking back I can see that the provision of milk in schools was an early harbinger of the Welfare State. Had it arrived earlier it might have spared me, and thousands of other children, the agonies on visiting the dentist, in particular, from those early drills and extractions. It was a small comfort to bear away in one's handkerchief ones molar while the mouth filled with a mixture of blood and saliva aside from one's probing tongue. The dentist would advise on keeping the mouth closed for a while, and, even wrap a bandage around it to that end. In comics you would see this parodied being intended to arouse laughter though the victim was nearer to tears.

In contrast to these experiences was my only surgical operation, namely the removal of the tonsils, carried out at Newquay's cottage hospital. The pad of chloroform, the ensuing oblivion, waking up spitting black blood is an episode rather like a dark memory, unlike the dental experience.

A memorable daily routine springs to mind: that of us children at the Home queuing up after breakfast for the surgery where Matron would administer a spoonful of medicine to each child. You might hear the words: "Open mouth, swallow!" It was an example of a production line. Years later, when the surgery would be my homework room I had the opportunity to read the labels on some of the medicines given reflecting upon my remembered likes and dislikes. In the former category was, California Syrup of Figs, against constipation while Cod Liver Oil given daily as a supplement was, 'Yuk!'

Illness severe enough to confine me to bed was almost unknown to me despite earlier medical reports showing me as underweight. There were occasional visits by doctors to examine children and I suppose their recommendations would be sent to Matron who would communicate with Head Office leading to actions such as my tonsil removal, mentioned above. Other medical conditions such as the onset of disease would erupt among a group of children necessitating the setting aside of a dormitory for the purpose of isolating those affected from the majority.

One dreadful disease was whooping cough. It was pitiful hearing the victims' racking coughs as they fought for breath. To treat ringworm the victim needed all his hair removed. I recall other minor epidemics such as measles, German measles, scarlet fever, chicken-pox; I was told not to pick up a toffee thrown by a friend from his isolation dormitory. Doors were normally kept closed so as to preserve the isolation and it was a sign that the worst was over when a door was left open. Nonetheless the toffee incident highlights the Sisters' strictness. Would such severity be manifest in hospitals today I venture to suggest that MRSA, C-Difficile would not be so rampant.

My particular bugbear was colds. My pockets were normally stuffed with rags, in lieu of handkerchiefs, to wipe my painful nose. In summer hay-fever would blight my life though these minor afflictions did not persuade Sisters to keep me in bed though once or twice I must have been having bouts of influenza. Later on in life I discovered that the cold virus to which I was susceptible also innoculated me from all the other infections which bothered other boys such as impetigo, chicken pox, measles, whooping cough, ringworm and others. It seems a virus is bad though it can also protect. In the middle-ages whole villages and towns were left derelict on account of the plague though in the midst of the ravages of the Black Death one village might be immune and suffer no deaths.

Episode 21

Etc2

Being an orphan has its compensations; they are not many but one is the generosity of a patron towards us. At one time some kind soul paid for us Home-boys to see a recently released film. It was 'Lady Hamilton'. I was still immature enough to be mystified by the appearance of Nelson, whom I thought to be dead. The first film of the double bill was called Floating City and was about the newly launched Queen Elizabeth. One particular film stands out in my memory of those times of rare visits to the cinema. It was 'Incident at Oxbow Creek' with Dana Andrews about a posse hunting for cattle rustlers and coming upon a group near where the crime had taken place. Later I learned about Hollywood melodrama and I suppose this one fits the genre; it had a powerful effect on most of us.

Although our freedom was restricted in the Orphanage, we children broke bounds as often as we dared and more often without Matron or any Sister knowing about it. They generally got to know when things went awry. On one occasion of an escapade, some benefactor had paid for us to see a movie at the local picture house. There were two in Newquay the more down-market one was near the harbour whereas a more select cinema was located in the more affluent part of town which was the venue for the film, The Keys of the Kingdom, about a missionary in China.

Matron took all her children to it apart from us, grammar school boys who at the time of the showing were at school. On the following Saturday, Matron handed over the picture money to me so that Derek, Richard and myself could go on our own. We decided to go through the town which was during school-times normally forbidden. On the way we passed the Harbour cinema and could not forbear to look at the stills outside and barely contained our excitement for they showed Humphrey Bogart in a war film, Across the Pacific, and we decided there and then, that Gregory Peck was no match for Bogard and Mary Astor, so that was the film we were going to see.

The reader might reasonably conjecture from our waywardness that discipline had not impacted upon us to the extent of blindly obeying orders. Yet wiser counsel might have been to accept that we should not have followed our own inclination but to confirm the trust placed in us in this our first opportunity to go somewhere independently. This was brought home to me the next day when Matron chose to chat to me about the film we should have seen. My answers must have puzzled her though it seemed not to occur to her that I would dare disobey her and watch another film.

But, that foolhardy escapade led to my missing out on a treat although at the time I accepted Sister's explanation. One afternoon after dinner the children were told to put on their Sunday best; all, that is, except me. I watched through the dining room window as two camouflaged American buses stopped outside on Pentire Lane by our gate and all the boys and girls trooped out together with the Sisters. They were off to a party. The only people who did not go were Matron and myself though in that time she did not commiserate with me, for, I discovered later that one of my two companions that day had snitched, and this was my punishment. I took the blame as eldest boy.

One bizarre result of seeing the war film was the notion of wanting to duplicate a parachute jump. We did not need to look far for a jumping off point and Sister Dorothy's umbrella would serve as a parachute so we mounted the fire escape overlooking the gardens until we reached the topmost point where escapees would be expected to leave the building from the first floor in order to hurry down the iron structure to the garden. One obstacle was bothersome, the escape platform was directly above a high and wide privet hedge so I would have to, after climbing over the hand-rail, make sure I did not drop vertically.

However I was to be denied the privilege of jumping, at least of being the first. Titch, another boy, had got wind of the scheme and threatened to tell if he was excluded. It was probably he who suggested drawing lots. Lacking the wherewithal for a proper draw, we lighted upon a jigsaw of Hampton Court. There were pieces with blue sky, a lot, and so we took these together with a window piece throwing the lot into the umbrella shaking them around when with closed eyes, we each selected a piece. Titch won by picking up the odd piece ie without any blue on it. Soon after, the four of us climbed the steps again, Titch climbed over the rail and I handed him the umbrella quite noisily as I felt miffed that I was not to do the stunt. Not being 'grammar', we were sure he had cheated. He had a self-satisfied smirk which seemed to confirm it.

He jumped. There was a swishing sound as the umbrella turned inside out and he landed just beyond the hedge in the cabbage patch. There was no time to exchange words for the bathroom window opened and Sister Dorothy appeared wanting to know what was going on. Titch was lucky for the hedge had partly broken his fall which explained perhaps why nothing else was broken. The scratches on his legs however remained long after the episode was forgotten. Soon enough the break was over and I returned to school where my diligence was beginning to pay dividends in gaining attention from teachers.

Madamoiselle Josephine was especially impressed with my French. Having married and settled in England she had escaped the Occupation of France by the Nazis. I can still recalll her "vite, vite!" as she encouraged us to hurry in to resume our seats in class after our chort break in the playground. What we all hated was her endless supply of posters of a farmyard, a typical town scene, a harbour etc and her pointing out with a long baton accompanied by: "Qu'est-ce que c'est que-ca?" What is that? when the baton rested on an object. The class had to know all the animals on the farm in good French before she went on to the next scene, when the whole thing would be repeated. It was rewarding sometimes in being her star pupil but also a handicap, when, having stated firmly to the class that monsieur (me) knew something that another did not and I proved on giving my answer that it was not the one that madam had expected.

I had finished my last term at Newquay Grammar School coming top of my class in the pre-Christmas examinations though my overall percentage was low, in the order of 68%, which does not appear to reflect too well upon the form, as a whole. However it was the first term of the new school year and at the close of the previous year on the basis of the summer examinations decisions had to be taken. In theory it was up to each pupil to decide the course of his academic career up to the age of sixteen when he would be eligible to sit for the School Certificate. Today's equivalent would be O levels or GCSE.

One kind teacher at the time confided in me the educational facts of life that Grammar schools were in a competitive environment and although they took the ablest potential pupils within their catchment area, there were limited university places which behoved headmasters to examine the academic record of their pupils with an eye not only to the brilliance of the pupil but also the financial potential of his parents. At this time in the 1940's, all education, apart from scholarships, had to be paid for by parents. So by the end of the third year, there would be an academic audit of pupils with a view to their matriculating for university thus dividing the third form into goats and sheep.

The goats would go on in their fourth year to study the calculus, physics, chemistry and other subjects with a view to pupils going on to take the Higher School Certificate and matriculating for Oxford or Cambridge. So the brightest pupils had already been creamed off into 4A by the time I started in form 4B. This might explain the low marks obtained after the Christmas examinations. Even so, prizes were awarded for the top three pupils irrespective of marks so by the time the school broke up for Christmas, I had the prospect of appearing among the prize-winners the following summer. But it was not to be as the Home authorities at head office in Harpenden had already decided to send us three grammar schoolboys elsewhere. My exam results and report were so good that I was bound to be awarded a prize.

It was a prospect I looked forward to as hitherto both the headmaster and the assistant-head had viewed my presence in the school as a necessary evil being obliged to take me on the instructions of Oxford University whose scholarship I had taken and passed. All grammar schools at the time set examinations under the aegis of either Oxford or Cambridge, in England. Attending Newquay's previous school prize-giving, one could not fail to be impressed by the ceremony of going up to the platform to receive a prize from the head, or his nominee, himself. I wanted to be one of the recipients; to see in print the head's recommendation against my name on the flyleaf of the prize book. Perhaps to exchange a meaningful glance with the head, or, with the snooty assistant-head to the unspoken effect that even Home-boys could win prizes. But, in the event, it was not to be.

During other holidays from school or perhaps at weekends in the summer months, whatever the weather, trips would be organised. The two commonest excursions were to the Fistral Beach or to the River Gannel. If the girls were off to the former, then we would make for the beach, but first sandwiches had to be prepared. As the trip would take place invariably after dinner, the sandwich filling would be jam, fish or meat paste, marmite, thinly spread with margarine of course. We never had butter, even our ration. The Sisters had butter exclusively. Not that we missed it. What you have never had....

The sandwiches would be wrapped in greaseproof paper and packed into a basketwork hamper lined with a table-cloth, but, inevitably sand got in so that we had to perforce cultivate a taste for sand (SANDwiches seems rather apt), not to mention wasps, flies, sand-hoppers et al while we were munching away on the beach. Hot tea would be made later by two boys being sent up from the beach, later in the afternoon. It is then that the Sisters' tea and sandwiches would have been prepared and taken down, which is why two boys were needed.

Making the sandwiches inevitably fell to the lot of the older boys. There was no sliced bread in those days. My technique copied from an older boy was to start cutting the loaf at a corner, about half-an-inch down, then saw away turning the bread for the next corner until hopefully, after circumnavigating the loaf, the knife arrived at about the same level of the first cut. There was a learning curve when people had not only to endure door-steps, but uneven door-steps, or should that be door-stops. Nonetheless some skill needed to be employed as Sister would give out a fixed number of loaves and each boy would be entitled to four sandwiches ie four rounds cut in half.

It would be a mass production exercise. My wife after watching me cut sandwiches once using the technique described, commented that I had lost my skill over the years whereupon I retorted I never had any because to while away the time doing this boring chore it was customary to yarn over this and that. One such occasion springs to mind when the local cinema was showing Charlie Chaplin's, The Gold Rush.

We got so engrossed on this occasion that we forgot to add the filling so it was marge, marge and more marge, and as we left our picnic site on the beach, that day, we saw the seagulls wheeling for most of our effort had been buried in the sand. Not that all of us had seen the film. That treat fell to Bernard whose father had sent the money especially for that purpose. As we hacked away at the bread and spread the margarine we listened avidly to his recounting of the hilarious antics of Charlie Chaplin at his best. One of us should have gone into the larder to fetch the filling but each of us were so engrossed that we forgot this essential extra.

As we left the beach the seagulls circled over where we had sat as much of the tasteless bread we were supposed to eat but without any filling was simply buried in the sand.

Episode 22

Foster

The Reverend Frank Williams and his sister who had arrived at Penzance station to collect us after our train journey from Newquay had returned to St Just on being told about the delay. The station master had promised to telephone the Manse upon his receiving definite notification of its arrival. It was therefore after dark when we finally set out, crammed into the back of his little Austin 7 which I was to learn later had been a present from his brother-in-law who was the owner of Farleys, the baby rusk manufacturer. It was about seven miles to St Just in Penwith and before we had arrived, we were half-asleep when the car drew up outside one of a row of ex-miners' terraced cottages.

Awaiting our arrival was a tall woman in her fifties with greying hair pulled back into a tight bun; she was the picture of efficiency. She showed us all into her kitchen and invited us to the chairs around a table. Then she busied herself to cutting rounds of bread and dripping, and heating up cocoa. Evidently she had been appraised of our monotonous diet and wanted us to feel at home. Seeing we were catered for, the Williams withdrew promising to return the next day. After the meal and seeing our weariness the lady showed us to our beds, mine atop the first flight and the other two sharing a specially created bedroom in the attic.

On the following day, Miss Williams called round to see how we had settled in. Her brother was the minister for the parish of St Just and district, a very wide area whose bounds we would discover during the time it took the bus to reach Penzance. The National Children's Home, looking for someone suitable could not have done better than in acquiring the services of the reverend's housekeeper. From scratch she found out about the school bus and its times and, what is more, learned from the headmaster of Penzance Grammar School the names and addresses of a pupil who was willing to look after us and see that we reached the school, that first day.

There was much to do as the term had already started but Miss Williams had urged Mr Rising, the headmaster, to ensure that necessary textbooks, exercise books et al would be ready for us so that minimum disruption occurred to the classes each of us would soon be joining. Miss Williams had been a school-mistress herself before she had given it up on the death of her brother's wife in order to become his housekeeper. Nonetheless she did not neglect my two companions though unknown to me their future would not be in St Just or Penzance.

Not having seen my two former NCH chums for some time, Miss Williams confided that both Derek and Richard had left for the NCH Orphanage at Harpenden. I was now living with the Williams and started to really enjoy life for the Reverend was unlike the regular ministers I had hitherto come across. I began to accompany him on his trips to far-flung parishes helping to distribute the hymn books, to stoke the boiler perhaps, check the water in his car radiator. We had long discussions about his sermons and why he had chosen a particular theme. He had been a keen rugby player. He had lost an eye when having caught a fast ball, on one occasion, a loose lace had whiplashed into his eye. So, in that one respect, the loss of sight in one eye, we had something in common.

When I told him about the school's introduction of rugby, he guessed the reason at once. In modern parlance, Penzance Grammar wanted to go up-market believing football to be the more common sport. He had a great fund of stories about rugby players and their shenanigans, both on and off the pitch. It must have been a lonely experience for him in St Just as he was a gregarious man; he once commented that he could tell more stories about sinners than of saints, but that he dared not repeat the former in church while the latter sent his listeners to sleep.

On occasion on the way to a parish church he would slow down asking me to look out for a break in the hedgerow and having spotted it turn into a lane driving along at slow speed a rutted track while the springs bounced us almost out of our seats until after a mile or so we would see farm buildings looming in front of us. Should there be a gate I would get out to open it shutting it behind me even though in a few minutes we would be back; that was the law of the countryside: shut the gate.

The farmer might have spotted the familiar little Austin 7 and be waiting for Frank to get out and greet him, but, more often he would knock on a door of the farmhouse. Often the reason for Frank's visit was someone's not having been by him in the congregation for a while. The visit would of necessity be brief because he always liked to reach the chapel early but Frank's solicitude would have its reward in vegetables, fruit, cheese even eggs, the latter being handed to me to look after the eggs being each wrapped in something so the box could withstand a gentle knock.

I began to notice the different ways of address. Fellow ministers would greet him by his first name whereas in the chapel itself it depended more often on someone's status. To the bellows man he would be Mr Williams while the usher would greet him as Frank while at a farm the hands would touch their caps whereas in the house or cottage a cheery bonhomie would greet us: "Sit yourself down Mr Williams, and you young fellah." That, from the wife while the farmer would say something like: "Good to see you Frank!" Returning to the Manse was always a joyful occasion and there would be hot drinks and toasted cheese, a favourite with Frank.

One special trip which stands out in my memory took place in 1947 just prior to my leaving the Manse for good. Our direction was the coastline near St Michael's Mount but this trip had nothing to do with his parish nor was he visiting a neighbouring parish to appear in the pulpit as a guest, and very welcome, speaker. No, this trip was purely for pleasure although I would not be witness to the experience being used in a sermon at some later date, for he and I were off to view a battleship which a few days before had struck a rock just off Cudden Point not far along from Mount Bay.

The battleship, HMS Warspite, had been built at Devonport in 1913 and had fought at the Battle of Jutland in 1916 also seeing service in WW2 in the Mediteranean, but, had reached the end of its illustrious career, and was on its way to be broken up on the Clyde. Sadly it was not under steam but being towed which explains why it hit some rocks after one of its tow cables snapped during a violent storm. The evidence for that storm struck me forcibly because of the white-capped waves as I stared into the wind over that bleak cove.

By the time Frank and I, in his little Austin 7, reached the site there was quite a gathering of people already there. Frank had brought his binoculars and I noticed that a few people had set up their tripods for filming with both still (mostly) and movie cameras. Frank, in the know on these matters, pointed out to me several reporters even naming their newspapers.

On the return jouney he told me about the smuggler whose nickname was given to the cove, one, Henry Carter, who had made his headquarters there. After years of out-running (and out-gunning) revenue cutters (fast sailing ships) in the 19th century on his duty-busting trips between the Continent and Cornwall, he was finally cornered, and, after a protracted siege, his fortress was taken. Over the entrance to his hideout was the title: 'King of Prussia', evidently one of his destinations for his smuggling voyages. Ever since the inlet had carried its name, Prussia Cove, even on the respected ordinance survey maps.

Gear was the buzz-word for the proper clothes for this-or-that activity and it was evident I lacked that gear especially in PT (physical training). Needless to say, by the next PT lesson I had, through the good offices of Miss Williams, got more suitable gear and she explained about the allowance that she had received from the Orphanage. It was meagre. Even so she managed to give me some pocket money though it was in bronze rather than in silver. Still I could manage to buy a comic though when I learned she disapproved, I desisted. It was no big deal. She was kind and great fun too and spent much of her own cash taking me to Penzance; our first trip in fact included the other two boys who were still around. I recall going to newsagents in the town enquiring in vain for an evening paper, but it was a Bank Holiday and there was no issue. Sixty years on, I am still unsure as to when newspapers do not appear.

However my desire not to involve Miss Williams in needless expenditure occasioned a row with Mr Latimer who asked for five shillings of each boy for an outing to Marazion Mount though my motive to refuse may have been reinforced by the perception that my absence might be welcome. I told the master that I did not have the money hoping for a ready acceptance a thought too simple in execution for the master acquiesced though with the additional chastisement of having to write four hundred lines: "I must do better, in future." These may not be the exact words but the lines took me hours minimising any pleasure in staying behind.

That same master once said to me on giving a wrong answer: "There must be something wrong with your eyesight." That something wrong came to light when walking along the shore of Cape Cornwall, one Sunday. I looked up towards the top of the cliff and asked my guardian about the man standing there. She told me with some amusement that the man was a tall chimney, one of many around the district for it was a former tin mining area. The upshot was that I went for an eye-test.

One of my misfortunes in attending Penzance Grammar was that its curriculum was set by Oxford University whereas Newquay's was set by Cambridge. For example the head insisted I take Latin in which subject I had missed three years. I brooded on my misfortune. Miss Willaims understood and seems to have been so concerned that she wrote to Head Office with the result that an officer came down to visit the Manse. While not apologising to me for the hiatus in my education, Mr Wilson, the officer, told me to do my best and that even were I to fail, he would organize things to enable me to retake the examination. In the meantime, he put forward a wonderful proposition that, in the Easter break, he would arrange for me to visit him in Highbury, and stay with him and his family.

My excellent patron, Miss Williams was concerned that the fortnight break would cause my schoolwork to suffer, and she was right, but Mr Wilson was as anxious that I should visit London for I can still hear his words as he rhetorically assured her:

"Nonsense, Joan. He can take his schoolwork with him. Can't you, Ronald?"

I certainly could. For over a fortnight, I never turned a page of any book to do with school; but all about that later.

One day Miss Wiliams told me that she had been made my official guardian. Although the reverend's wife had died, they both retained a connection with his sister-in-law's family who owned Farley's Rusks, a company which manufactured baby rusks. Their factory was located at Saltash, near Plymouth. The former chairman and his wife would visit St Just in the summer months where they had acquired a retirement place. It was formerly a fisherman's cottage. Upon their invitation I had called once, and so on my way to Cape Cornwall I would drop in and run the occasional errand as it was quite a way from the village. They seemed to like me and they spoke to my guardian about the possibility of persuading his son to take me into the family firm when I left school.

Back home at the Manse in St Just, Miss Williams was sensitive to my bouts of depression and after explaining the cause she would try to cheer me up by making me something special for tea such as scrambled eggs, one of my favourites, though not too often, owing to rationing. Living at the Manse my social life increased as she received often invitations to various gatherings most of which, owing to my homework, I was not able to attend except at the weekend including Friday. There was one house she visited often. It was occupied by two old ladies who loved to sit on a purpose-built circular bench. They would take it in turns to sit facing the square because the opposite view looked out onto open ground laid out as a football field.

From the middle of that field one evening I had shied a stone smashing a window, but at night, so would have escaped detection from either lady's eagle eyes. Apart from their hobby watching people pass by in the nearby square, they were usually agog for the latest gossip. Miss Williams hinted that should I cultivate them (she used another word, I forget) it might be worth my while as they had no near relations. I could only smile at her my thoughts a million miles away from such considerations. One evening owing to their patronage I saw my first play on the stage of the Methodist church hall; it was called, 'Tomorrow's Child' though what it was about totally escapes me.

It was incumbent on me to attend chapel every Sunday in Miss Williams company except when accompanying her brother to another parish. I never saw him preach in the St Just chapel although I was vaguely aware of another chapel nearby but that was the limit of my curiosity. But, one service remains in memory to this day. During a sermon I felt myself transported above the congregation and Miss Williams had to prod me out of my reverie. Probably I fell asleep but when I explained it to her she jested that I had simply changed places with the resident ghost. She could be quite playful at times.

Although I was having a hard time at school I kept it from the ears of the Williams' although I did tell him about my letting off a firework in the classroom and on hearing it Frank boomed with laughter. He had indulged in some escapades at his former college and loved to recount them. They were hilarious. He was also very obliging. Once I had missed the van taking potato pickers to a certain farm and, realising, it was pointless going to school as the whole class was engaged, I returned home. On learning of my predicament, he dropped everything, got the car out and drove me to the farm where the farmer was delighted to see me having given up hope. I had also rescued a day's pay minus the two hours.

Towards the end of my time at both school and Manse my thoughts returned to the end of term exam which, if even average, should be my passé-partout to any profession such was its reputation: it was called: The School Certificate. Yet my new friends', the Trahairs, retired owners of Farleys Rusks, almost promised me a future career in their factory so I displayed a disdainful insouciance towards my fellow classmates and especially to Holmes whose popularity, it seemed to me, stemmed from his reporting on my behaviour as for instance when he quizzed me on my return from Highbury especially at my unwise remark that I had not touched any books for revision prompting Holmes to crack: "That's the Scholarship, lads; we have to work unlike skivers like the Piebald." That hurt because I hated my nickname and Holmes knew it.

Back at the Manse Frank Williams tried to draw me out about the happenings on my final days at school and both he and his sister seemed to regard my reticence as odd remembering their own joyous flings. In their day, there were rags, celebrations, handshakes and hugs and, most important, alcohol although Joan Williams denied any such thing whereas Frank insisted his college had also been 'dry', but that did not stop their pub crawl. I overheard them discussing me in the vein of: is this boy is taking life much too seriously for his own good? Was the lad whom they had taken into their home for nigh on two years quite normal?

Yet, I was not about to leave them quite yet as I had received word that my mother was not ready for me. In point of fact, the agreement between the Home and my mother was that they would keep me in care to the age of fourteen years and they had kept their bargain by two years yet my mother was saying she was not ready to accommodate me. In fact, my grandmother made up her mind for her telling her, I later learned from Hilda, that she would look after me if her daughter, Kathleen, would not, which is exactly what my mother was waiting for and quickly sent word to Head Office that they could hand me over.

Miss Williams made a great fuss of me before I left though in truth she had been under financial stress for some time as many things needed such as clothes had to be bought by her then reclaimed back, which procedure was slow. She had a little celebration when I discarded short trousers for longs. It was surprising in retrospect as her means were stretched even to do the basics though I am fairly sure the reverend would not stand by to see her go short. She was a remarkable housekeeper as we both appreciated and she would surprise us both. Once there was an announcement that eggs were in short supply and that very same evening for tea, we had eggs, and she explained with a twinkle in her eyes of her storage method which kept them in perfect condition for months.

Yet she insisted that although I was going home Head Office would follow my progress until I came of age so I was not to think I was being abandoned. She had managed to get me a warrant to call in at Newquay on my way back to Plymouth. This was a huge let-down for I wanted to see the new set-up but Sister Dorothy, bless her, told me that it was one thing to think such a scheme and quite another - her words - to organize the practicals. I felt cheated as I could, all three of us could, have remained at Newquay to finish our education without the disruption to our lives which Head Office had brought about.

Episode 23

### Education

Our temporary foster parents, the Reverend Williams and his sister had collected us, my fellow orphans and I, from the Penzance terminus on our arrival from the NCHO at Newquay and deposited us with a family. On the following day, Miss Williams called round to see how we had settled in. From scratch she found out about the school bus and its times and, what is more, learned from the headmaster of Penzance Grammar School the names and addresses of a pupil who was willing to look after us and see that we reached the school, that first day.

On that day, which was to be our first at the school, we were listening to the BBC Home Service religious talk programme, 'Lift up your Hearts' when we heard the rat-tat-tat at the front door. Two boys had presented themselves desiring to show us the way to where the schoolbus left. The older of the two, Malcom, latched onto me as being of a similar age, and all five of us duly walked the long road towards the village square, where the bus was already waiting.

On the way I was transfixed by the sight of an enormous grey slag heaps of china clay. They were just yards from the road and were the detritus of former clay workings which employed hundreds of men engaged in excavation and loading onto trucks for transportation by rail and road, both home and abroad, in its heyday before the first world war although mining of kaolin continues to this day.

At the outskirts of Penzance the bus stopped to disgorge its passengers, both boys and girls, as the latter's grammar school was on our way. It was a circuitous path through a plantation, at the end of which was the girls' school, thence we turned this way and that before emerging into parkland which turned out to be the beginnings of the grounds which belonged to the boys' school. They were extensive and Malcom pointed out our destination as we trudged towards it. On reaching the asphalted grounds of the school, he shouted to a group of lads playing football, one of whom, kicked a ball in our direction, which I tried to kick back and missed. He shouted in banter to his mates: "He won't make centre forward." It was Holmes who had spoken. He was also one of the two brightest boys in my form; he also happened to be one of two boys I clearly recall especially on moving into the fifth form. He and Trewhella were the two brightest boys in class.

This school was far larger than Newquay Grammar School, but then it served a far larger catchment area and it was more egalitarian as many of the pupils lived in miners' cottages, or small terraced houses of fisher-folk, or, in the two-up, two-down terraced houses of farm labourers, artisans and such occupations. As I acquired a bicycle and got out and about, Nick, my companion, would yell out telling me where so-and-so lived. I got to know some of the outlying villages of Newlyn, Mousehole, Marazion and other villages very well. The boys from Penzance itself tended to be more bourgeois and demonstrated their contempt for the rustics; so any bullying was diffused among many; I was just one of them.

The headmaster interviewed all three of us, one at a time. He congratulated me on coming top not mentioning my low mark and was sanguine about my prospects. I did not share his confidence as a new subject had already been brought to my attention by my form master, that of Latin and this demonstrates the utter lack of understanding on the part of people for my situation expecting me to catch up in five terms, the seven terms of work that I had missed as I discovered from Malcom: t he had begun Latin at the start of form 3. Furthermore, no extra lessons were offered. Unfortunately the time spent trying to catch up affected my work in other subjects. The head could have placed me in the Art class but the option was not even considered. The comments made earlier about Newquay Grammar applied here also in that masters were looking for graduate material both in terms of ability but, more importantly, parental affluence.

Another problem which the NCH Head Office had not considered was the academic regime of the two schools. NCH officials did not consider that the two schools operated under different rules, one Cambridge the other, Oxford rules; they assumed the syllabus would be the same, or, more likely the possibility did not enter their minds. The worst for me was that Latin would be mandatory even though I had missed three years of study. Dr Rising, the head, was adamant that I would have to take Latin as a school certificate subject when another option, Art in which I stood a better chance of catching up was not offered me. It seems as if Dr Rising wanted me to fail. Readers will soon discover that Scholarship boys were not made welcome and for one very good reason: they brought no financial kudos to the school.

Moreover the Penzance syllabus for history included different periods and themes which would require additional reading so I had to drop the Napoleonic period (Newquay) and take on English social reform. In French the emphasis at Newquay was on speaking and understanding the language whereas at Penzance the syllabus demanded translation of French classics.

My new French master even addressed me as Froggy when I showed off my fluency and syntax although I got encouragement from some fellow pupils who expected to be soon in correspondence with French boys. Peace had scarcely arrived when feelers were out towards making contact with equivalent schools in France. Soon after my arrival, a notice was posted that boys should write their names down if interested in writing to a pen-friend in France, and although I added mine to the few already there, I was never called for interview.

In English literature I was almost back at square one: The books for the forthcoming examination were entirely different to those I had been studying. Whereas Newquay selected authors Sir Walter Scott and Thomas Hardy, Penzance got their pupils to study Geoffrey Chaucer, Milton and Langland. There was one lightening of the load, however, when I discovered my new classmates were studying the Merchant of Venice which was a welcome change to Newquay's , The Midsummer Night's Dream. In both schools however it was normal to have to learn by memory huge tracts of Shakespeare which was not so much of a hardship to me as it was to my contemporaries though memory responds better to interesting material, in my opinion, though I enjoyed that aspect.

Nevertheless my report at the end of the academic year of 1946 looked bad for while just holding my own in French, English Grammar, Literature and History, my exam results for the subjects of Latin, Geography, and Mathematics were woeful and my form master recommended I stay down, in the same class, for the New Year. For me that was not an option as Miss Williams pointed out to the headmaster; she took my part and forcefully argued that I deserved better. She won him over with the argument that Scholarship boys could not normally stay on for another year. As a result of her efforts I was promoted to the new form, VB, and she persuaded him to allow me to drop Latin; the only other option was Art and History of Art.

One oddity which puzzled me was when my house master called me in to his office and told me I was to be a member of the House of Godolphin. He seemed disappointed when I took the news with no visible sign of pleasure ending the interview with a dismissive, what can you expect... My friend, Malcom, belonged to the House of Trelawney although he had no idea who Trelawney was (a Cornish bishop who resisted James II).

Had the School magazine not been suspended for the duration of the war the pupils might have taken their belonging to particular houses more seriously. The head gave a little hint of their significance before the war when, one day in assembly, he paid tribute to our English teacher whose articles, sadly missed by both his house and the school, would appear in a national newspaper; he ended with the words, its gain was the school magazine's loss. I had occasion, later in life, to read about the last Stuart, Queen Anne whose first minister was Godolphin: Was he the man the school adopted to head one of its houses? Or, perhaps he was the trainer who first imported Arab stallions to race at Newmarket.

Back to my life at school, I had a very embarrassing experience at the start of the PT (physical training) lesson in the school's well-equipped gymnasium. After changing into my sports gear, the PT master eyed my outfit with distaste. The outfit laid down was white shorts, white shirt and white plimsolls whereas I wore black shorts, a white singlet and black pumps, all streaked with mud from my last cross-country run at Newquay. "My word, what an outfit! You look more like a piebald than a pupil of this school."

At school, having abandoned Latin I was soon inculcated into the mysteries of Art by the subject master who told me that his was no soft option and I could readily agree after he told me that I had a year to take in the four disciplines: Still Life, Free Composition, Draughtsmanship and The Human Form. How much better had I started two terms before! In the School Certificate, a student would only be obliged to offer three of the four disciplines though it was mandatory that he attended classes in all four. As the Art Master stressed, again and again, his subject was no soft option.

Art was one of the eight subjects that had to be taken in the School Leaving Certificate. In the form VB, mine, the other subjects were English Grammar, Literature, French, History, Geography, Religious Knowledge and Mathematics. One had to obtain a pass in Mathematics and Grammar, and three others. Had I remained in Newquay, I would have had the option of two subjects not catered for by Penzance, namely Handicraft and General Science giving me a better chance.

Meanwhile my trdoubled life continued, especially in class where in form VB I was running into problems. My relations with my classmates were very much on the slide so I adopted a sort of defiance which prompted me to acts of stupidity. One such occurred when I was writing on the blackboard. The class monitor told me to stop. I carried on. He thumped me, but undaunted or, in sheer stupid obstinacy, I promptly picked up the chalk and started writing again whereupon he lost his temper and began to pummel me while I cowered realising that retaliation would be suicide. At some point the form master entered and it stopped though he made it plain that he wished he had delayed his entrance.

On another occasion, I broke away from lads throwing fireworks from our schoolroom, on the first floor, at passing kids, and lit a squib, placing it inside the form master's desk which exploded though it was more sound than light, and little, if any, damage was caused, but it earned me a visit to the head's study who gave me a caning of six on each hand. It was sheer bravado, but earned no brownie points from classmates.

Yet, my schoolwork was gradually improving and confident of my ability I entered a competition to compose a poem on the occasion of a national poetry week which would be celebrated by the school by awarding prizes for the three best poems in four categories, Limerick, sonnet, blank verse and a fourth which I cannot remember. I decided to enter one in each group, one oversight for me being the fact that I had not bothered to find out what exactly was a sonnet.

At the prize-giving, my name was read out along with my effort, and I felt pleased, and I noticed my classmates for the first time, while not nodding in appreciation, were looking less hostile. But the English master had a sting which he used to great effect by saying that I got full marks for effort, but that my effort was not actually a sonnet so had to be disqualified. Instead of polite clapping there were howls of laughter.

Yet I shall always remember that English teacher with appreciation for he knew his subject and two very difficult disciplines improved for me as a result. The two were parsing and precis. Parsing is resolving text into its component parts and is the easier of the two as once one has the knowledge about nouns, verbs etc, it is a simple matter to analyse sentences. Precis, on the other hand, involves reducing a passage by, for example, two thirds while still retaining its meaning. This discipline requires a knowledge of language which can only be acquired by extensive reading. The leaving School Certificate tests a candidate in both and my pass in this subject I owe to my English teacher.

Here must be commented upon the difference between the two grammar schools, Newquay and Penzance. Whereas Newquay, as I explained had sorted the future sitters of the School Certificate into, for want of better terminology, sheep and goats, the latter being more likely to succeed in heavier subjects such as the Calculus, Physics etc. This might be described as an early attempt at 'streaming'.

Penzance, on the other hand, did not divide the pupils so that the brighter pupils such as Trewhella and Holmes, to mention but two, remained in the same form as myself. What happened in Physics was that they went off to their class while I and my contemporaries attended, for instance, Art. There were still two forms VA and VB the whole class simply being divided between the two. In my opinion, Newquay's system was more efficient and had Penzance adopted it, my chances of passing the school certificate might have been much higher.

When the school was preparing to break up for a fortnight prior to Easter, the boys of the fifth took great care to take those books and cribs which would facilitate a final revision as sometime during the final term, the School Certificate would be taken, in June. Holmes felt my satchel and kindly intimated that it was rather thick. It was, though neither of us realised that the buckles of my satchel would not be touched thereafter for I was embarking on a great adventure: I would spend the Easter fortnight in Highbury, London, and my feet, would, in a manner of speaking, hardly touch the ground.

It was the time of the preparations for the Nuremburg trials when the Nazi war criminals held in their cells would have their crimes described in gory detail. The only annoying thing was that I could not read aloud, to shout to my swotting contemporaries what was really going on in the world.

Dr Rising, the head, organised a careers teacher to visit the school to talk to us but my interview was significant only for the memory of crass ignorance on the visitor's part when he suggested I become a teacher. It was not his fault. He did not know me or the school or the fact that teachers had actively allied themselves with bullies to make my life a misery; and he wanted me to become one of them!

I took the examinations one by one over three days. The remaining time at school was the weirdest period of all my time in formal education. No homework was set and I cannot recall how we spent the lessons. Perhaps there were games. It is lost in the mist of mis-remembrance. I do not know why I persisted for the class had thinned out decidedly as some of my contemporaries stayed away, perhaps to appear on the final day. I do remember the final assembly as I looked down leaning on the upper balustrade as the head Dr Rising mentioned the fact that he was losing many of us and I sang the school song with gusto, "Forty Years on....."

Holmes looked at me and smiled while Trewhella's pinched, freckled face just scowled, unforgiving to the bitter end. I smirked back at them. Assemby over, I returned to my classroom, and found it empty though cleared my satchel out leaving some text books behind. They belonged to the school.

My route to the bus station and home was over the road through the turnstile into Corpus Christi Park where fairs were staged on Bank Holidays. Of a sudden, I looked around fearful of seeing Holmes who was supposed to live in one the leafy mansions hereabouts. I walked along the path skirting the green arriving at my turnoff, a gate leading to the right towards the station via a series of pathways running between hedges which surrounded a bowling green and tennis courts and walking downhill through a housing estate.

As I walked I pondered on what my PT instructor had said to me though more of that in another incident. I jingled the few coins in my pocket and wondered if I had enough for a bun, but on second thoughts decided to get the earliest bus to St Just and away from the town that had meant so much unhappiness for me. And, I wondered about the exams just taken. My thoughts might not have been so sanguine had I the knowledge that my mother would read via a postcard whilst I was in London on a job interview trip.

My mother triumphantly if somewhat morosely handed me a postcard on which the word, 'failed' was stamped prominently; it was my School Certificate result. On call-up I was to learn more from the Education Officer about this result which, I discovered, could be affected by indiscipline. Yet, for all the weight I gave to this piece of paper no employer ever asked to see it. The fact that I had successfully passed through a grammar school was everything even to the extent of winning a sought after position in a major company with rivals who had enjoyed a university education but to whom spelling was not of the first significance.

Episode 24

### Bullying

Bullying is age-old. Cicero from Roman times, two millennia ago, relates how he was bullied. At the council school nobody bullied me and my earliest memories of such occurred at the Home. Nonetheless it was clear after my first few days at my new school, Newquay secondary, that I was the odd one out; that spells trouble. I complained to our Flying Officer friend when he took me out for tea. He sympathised and offered an explanation, as follows:

Your classmates' fathers have paid pounds to get their son into secondary education and the Scholarship is closed to them because it's only an option for the least well off; you for instance. They view your presence as an insult to their parents who often sacrifice a lot to ensure their lad gets a decent education up to the age of sixteen whereas the state system educates children to age fourteen years.

It rang so true what he was saying and he told me on board ship in the early days as an ordinary seaman he had a rough time but it toughened him up but though listening to his sage advice I could not help but shudder a little at the prospect before me because in form VB I was running into problems. My relations with my classmates were very much on the slide so I adopted a sort of defiance which prompted me to acts of stupidity.

One such occurred when I was writing on the blackboard before the next lesson was due to start. The class monitor told me to stop. I carried on. He thumped me, but undaunted or, in sheer stupid obstinacy, I promptly picked up the chalk and started writing again whereupon he lost his temper and began to pummel me while I cowered realising that retaliation would be suicide. At some point the form master entered and the monitor stopped though the master made it plain that he wished he had delayed his entrance.

One day Trewhella took my satchel full of books and hid it. I saw where it was concealed but just as I was about to retrieve it, he kicked it towards Mathews who was a real bruiser of a boy. He was an excellent sportsman and once I saw him make a brilliant catch of a cricket ball when most people might have ducked. He took my satchel and as I reached for it he turned his back and fending me off, proceeded to open the buckles not hearing the master enter the room. Having opened it up he taunted me:

"Does the Piebald want his satchel? There, take it!" And, upturning it allowed the contents to fall on the floor; there were textbooks, exercise books, geometry things, pencils, pen, rubber and all the etcetera of a schoolboy's satchel. At once and knowing the master wanted to start the lesson, I scrabbled around picking things up when I heard the master shout: "Resume your seat, Pearse!"

He was averse to hearing my pleas and shouted: "At once!" Then staring at me, and, at the class, he declared:

"I have no time for scholarship boys. They don't know the value of things." Then he addressed me directly:

"Take three hundred lines. 'I must not throw school books on the floor'. Now pick them up!"

Mathews had brought this on me and I ached with resentment though realised that there was little I could do until a few days later when there was a ruction on the bus. It was a scheduled service which took children to school from St Just visiting various villages on the way to Penzance. Mathews and I were on the return journey. Few people, other than pupils, joined the bus on the morning run but it was a different matter around five pm when we children left school walking to the bus station in the centre of town. It was then that the number of seats was limited especially on market days by countryfolk returning home. On one particular day Mathews made a real nuisance of himself throwing his weight around among the smaller kids. An elderly man remonstrated with him to the effect of, 'if I was your father, etc' whereupon Mathews aggressively challenged him. The man appealed to the driver who stopped the bus. He came over and spoke to Mathews.

I conceived a plan which would enable me to identify Mathews as I knew where he got off, St Leven, and composed a letter addressing it to Mr Rising, the headmaster, as though I was an outraged passenger referring to Bigboy, Mathews' occasional nickname, used normally when he was not present. My letter was anonymous as the writer feared reprisals from Bigboy, which, in fact, was true. Things happened quickly for Bigboy (Mathews), returned to the classroom one afternoon entreating the master to allow him to stand for the lesson.

Everyone suspected the reason though nobody apart from me, and, of course, Mathews knew about the complaint from a passenger though it was soon common knowledge. Later, Rising called pupil-passengers to his study to quiz them about rowdiness in general warning each and everyone of us of the consequences. In hindsight it appeared I was running a terrible risk of being discovered and I might have been had Rising known of the incident weeks before when Mathews had emptied my satchel on the floor. Mathews of course became something of a hero for it was rare for the head to cane a boy's posterior; this punishment was reserved for really heinous offences. I had actually done him a favour though that did not really excuse my 'devious trick'.

The ever-present hostility manifested itself particularly when we went potato picking. There were no masters around so I had to ensure I was never alone with Mathews, Bigboy, who certainly seemed to have reason to resent my presence. His hostility would take the form of flying potatoes though the farmer, always on scene, driving the tractor, had already warned him several times about his behaviour. Adults were not so tolerant towards children in those days. It worked to my advantage but there was a time when the farmer was away having his lunch.

There was one master to look after all the boys which included forms IV, V and VI (4, 5 & 6) though he never did any work apart from following the harrow which brought the potatoes to the surface. He left the back-aching work of lifting them and throwing them into baskets, buckets and other containers, to us. He did not even lift the full baskets onto the back of the trailer. Here he regularly called on Bigboy so was less likely to chastise him when he took it into his head to carry out his favourite pastime, thumping small fry - and me.

Yet he needed to get worked up first so the groundwork was laid by his cronies. Something trivial like a joke would be told and I might join in the laughter after the punch-line which would be resentfully greeted by:

"Close your ears, Piebald. It's none of your business."

On the other hand, had I not laughed, the cry would go up: "Piebald's not laughing. He's too stuck up. He needs a good thumping."

I might get up to leave whereupon the cry would go up:

"Who gave you leave to go, Piebald?" Mathews taunted me: "I could stop you leaving, Piebald. Want to try?" The barracking would only stop when the hooter went signalling the end of dinner-break. I was so wound up that when the farmer, on opening the barn door, heard the barracking and said to me kindly: "Would you like to join me on the tractor?" I burst into tears.

But things were looking up because a representative from the NCHO at the head office in Highbury, London had offered to put me up at his home for a fortnight. There was much badinage from my classmates about 'privileged' Scholarship yokels but the advantage was all mine and although coming under fire when I confessed not to have touched my books during the whole fortnight in London I faced their criticism with a smirk. The School Certificate exams came and went and soon my final day was reached when I had gone in late around 10am.

I wondered where everyone had got to and wondered if a meeting had been arranged without telling me. I left the classroom and walked along the gallery seeing nobody and passed the headmaster's study which was closed and went slowly downstairs. At the bottom there was still no sign of life so I left by the side entrance, but my luck was out, for I could not help falling in with the PT instructor, who, pipe in mouth, was striding towards the gate and I could not help but fall in step with him for that was my own destination. At the gate, he stopped opened it and motioned me through. As he walked through himself closing it behind him, he turned to look at me. He said:

"Ït's a bad business, Pearse; what you have to do is get that chip off your shoulder." I was outraged: "Who the hell but you put it there!"

But he did not reply to my retort. He seemed not to have heard it. Then he was off striding down the road, but then suddenly turned round and called:

"You're not the only one who's fed up with that bloody school."

My route was at right angles to his through the turnstile and into Corpus Christi Park where they held fairs at Bank Holidays. Of a sudden, I looked around fearful of seeing Holmes who was supposed to live in one the leafy mansions hereabouts. I walked along the path skirting the green arriving at my turnoff, a gate leading to the right towards the station via a series of pathways running between hedges which surrounded a bowling green and tennis courts.

As I walked I pondered on what the PT instructor had said as I had never heard such words from a teacher. I jingled the few coins in my pocket and wondered if I had enough for a bun, but on second thoughts, decided to get the earliest bus to St Just and away from the town that had meant so much unhappiness for me. Years later at RAF Padgate the education officer would tell me the exam board had a disciplinary bad mark against my name. I never knew such a thing existed.

Episode 25

### Hooligan

Someone judging my behaviour might have confined it to my period spent in the Home but certainly not in the two years that I spent living at the Manse. For its occupants, the Reverend Williams and his sister acting as loco-parentis, were the nicest people in the world and I was treated as one of their own. Yet, my bouts of hooliganism occurred during my stay with them. Perhaps it was the sense of freedom that I enjoyed away from the over-disciplined Home with its stultifying atmosphere where initiative was definitely frowned on and one had to conform to a model child which could more easily be handled by the two Sisters.

How can one explain my behaviour in the context and the surroundings of a loving home such as I enjoyed at the Manse. To this day when I look upon a prank I wonder whether I was not quite all there. For instance, on one occasion, I broke away from my class-mates who were throwing fireworks from our schoolroom, on the first floor, at passing kids below. Having stolen a squib which I when lighted Iand threw inside the form master's desk which exploded though it was more sound than light, and little, if any, damage was caused. It earned me a visit to the head's study who gave me a caning of six on each hand. It was sheer stupidity and earned no brownie points from classmates.

Apart from Malcom, I was the only boy in my class who lived in St Just; he was very sporty and often played football or cricket so we did not see much of each other outside of school. Entering a small shop in St Just for some sweets, one day, I was served by a boy called Nick who attended Penzance Grammar in a lower form, and whose grandmother, with whom he resided, owned the shop. We struck up a friendship, partly because he was, like me, on his own. He was a bit of a tearaway, his antics making him a joker and he had soon inveigled me into activities from which, in retrospect, out of consideration for Miss Williams, I should have desisted.

Evenings especially, we would be up to no good. One prank needed a bit of wire which I originated through my close association with my former landlady's husband who was a radio ham. Armed with a small length of copper wire, Nick and I would saunter along the side streets of St Just looking for un-curtained windows. Inside might be a couple listening to the radio. While one of us acted as lookout, the other would place his copper wire across the aerial and earth wires. The volume would immediately go down and after a short while, a householder would get up and move towards the radio. Just before he reached the knob, I would lift the wire when it would blare out. Shaking his head, he would resume his seat whereupon, the wire went across the aerial and earth again. The prank was repeated until the man would suddenly click as to what was going on and glance towards the window. It was the moment to take to our heels.

Another evening activity originated from Nick who came up with the idea to fill brown paper bags with water from a stand-pipe and armed with one in each hand we climbed a pile of rubble to spy through a windowless opening upon a small group of youngsters that we observed chatting, below us. Then we hurled the bags not waiting to see the results for as we ran away we could hear shouts from both boys and girls as the bags burst on the ground spattering water in all directions.

One of Nick's favourite 'recreations' was to stay on the schoolbus until it reached its terminus, the bus station in the centre of town. On the way to school and with ten minutes in hand, he visited a local bookshop and lifted books from shelves; that is, shoplifting. He chose the early morning as there were few customers and, it seemed, few assistants. I stole no books myself but he did not grumble at me as he was never short of cash. It was the thrill of it. My school textbooks were paid for by the Scholarship so I had no incentive nor any inclination. Where he stashed the stolen books, I have no idea and wondered what his grandmother thought of his increasing library.

Another activity we indulged in was more prank than felony and it was to wait outside the exit door of a cinema in Penzance. When someone left, one of us would put our foot in the door to stop it slamming shut, and, quickly nip inside. Curtains across the exit covered our entry though we had to watch out for the usherette. I am speaking here of the one time I joined him on this escapade; I ended up with a splitting headache, and did not repeat the experience, but for Nick it was a regular activity..

One prank is something of which I am ashamed to this day. It happened in St Just one evening. There were just the two of us. It was dusk and we were waiting for the fish and chip shop to open and, with no purpose other than to waste time, we picked up stones and desultorily aimed at a post. We were on common land where also a football pitch had been laid out. From our vantage point, crossing the green sward, we could observe the rears of houses which verged on an open square of meadow. Ie it had belonged formerly to a farm.

Nick asked me if I could throw as far as a particular rear room window; it was on the first floor and stood in darkness, as did the whole house. Then out of devilment he challenged me to hit the window. We both threw our stones and though it was too dark to see where they were headed, there was a crash and neither of us waited to see the outcome. We bolted back towards the lights of the road and I suddenly ran into a wire placed at shoulder height and might have been decapitated had the wire been tauter.

Back in the square Nick bought the fish and chips of a boy with double the money.so that when a policeman turned up to quiz us Nick pointed out the queue which was our alibi. Nick was clever and quick thinking. Eyeing the queue of customers the policeman seemed to believe us and he went on to quiz other lads. It seems that the shattered window had frightened an elderly lady inside the room. I felt thoroughly ashamed and decided to give up my friendship with Nick, there and then, but, I found that that was easier to decide than to do. His personality was disarming and he took rebuffs with a smile.

So, he had charm and on his visits to me when I invariably had homework, he would try to capture the attention of the Williams though the reverend was often incommunicado for he took his parish work very seriously, and when not involved in parish duties, he could lock himself away when he was preparing a sermon. Moreover, his sister often had letters to write, or other business to attend to so he tried again to engage my attention. Nick would come into my room and hang about. He picked up a record and read out the title and other details. There was a collection of 78s owned by the Williams, mostly of overtures, such as Poet and Peasant. Next time he visited, he brought over his wind-up gramophone and played one while I tried to concentrate, then another. Eventually he would give up and go home. There were times when both the Williams would be out; then I would tell Nick to wander around the house until my homework was done. I would recall these times when I was confronted with an accusation in the future though more of that anon.

I was succeeding in my attempts to distance myself from Nick when through my own avarice, I put myself into his power. He had a gramophone which he took to bringing along to play records at the Manse; he had the means whereas the Williams had the records. He announced to me that he wanted to sell the gramophone and I saw a chance of acquiring it for myself. He wanted two pounds and fifteen shillings, and, in retrospect, I realised that had I gone to Miss Williams, who held my savings of about two pounds, and offered him cash, he might very well have taken it because he liked to be seen as generous, especially to the Williams.

But, I suddenly recalled that I had the money. Before leaving for his trial smallholding work experience, Peter at the Home had asked me to look after his illicit cash from the sale of golf-balls stolen from the hotel warehouse. It was a fiver and so large in size that I had to fold it up and hide it. The only place was in my school cap and I had completely forgotten about it. So I chose a moment when Nick stayed on the bus to visit W H Smith. In fact I may have prompted it as once when walking back to school I had spotted a sign outside the Clydesdale Bank to the effect they were returning to Glasgow having been evacuated by the war.

So when Nick went into W H Smiths I disappeared towards the bank. They were closed but when I described my predicament the guy there and then changed my fiver for pound notes from his own pocket. He told me to check as the next day they were closing the bank down. By that time Nick had finished with Smiths he and I walked on to school as usual. I could not wait for the evening when I could buy the gramophone from him. I could imagine his question: "Where did you get the money?" I wasn't wrong and fobbed him off with talk of keeping money for a pal.

But what troubled me most was the realisation that Peter would have arrived back at the Home from his work experience at Chacewater to find me gone and also, his fiver. But, having forgotten his existence I wondered whether he had forgotten me; I suspected not but what would he do about it? That gramophone buy was the worst thing I had ever done. The only advantage was that it prevented Nick from disturbing my homework. Instead he plied me with questions and almost forced from me the provenance of the money though I stopped short of the actual truth. In the end I could not take it with me so he got it back for thirty bob so made a profit of £1,5 shillings from the transaction.

Later, much later when I had moved to London I got a letter from a Mr Pratt, who turned out to be the NCH liaison officer. He arranged to see me and we met on the Parade in front of the hostel above a branch of JS where I resided. The Parade led onto a walk alongside of a park in Ilford, Essex. He told me that it had been reported to him that I was suspected of stealing money from a lady staying with Miss Williams.

I denied it vehemently though it was evident Mr Pratt did not believe me and made it clear that until it was resolved, there was to be no further contact with the Williams or the Trahairs. He seemed to be reproaching me for abusing their hospitality but when it came on to rain, he suddenly realised I had no raincoat or indeed any outside coat. He told me to get some measurements and he would see to it that I would be supplied with some apparel, namely a raincoat, a pullover and a pair of shoes. So, another meeting was arranged.

On the second meeting he handed me a parcel and again repeated his accusations which I strenuously denied. Now, having the benefit of a week's reflection I told him something of my life at the Home in Newquay. He dismissed my counter accusations saying it was one person's word against another. At his I bridled retorting that I knew the address of a beaten boy and would contact him if it came to a question of truth.

I could see he was clearly surprised by my words and could only respond that another's mistreatment did not exonerate me. There was nothing more to say except we arranged a third meeting. In between meetings I tried on the clothing back in the hostel. The raincoat was too small in that the sleeve-ends came a long way up my arm, the pullover had holes in it and the shoes were definitely utility of the worst kind. I was mortified: what was the purpose of providing measurements when he had got clothes from their store which were available and not made-to-measure.

On our next meeting I wore the raincoat pointing out its shortcomings but he was dismissive. Anyrate I had remembered my vow made aboard the train between Plymouth and Paddington to put the past behind me and so I confronted Mr Pratt in decisive mode. I was doing well at JS and nothing was going to detract from my prospects because in the meantime I thought through the train of events that had led to these accusations. It must be my old 'friend' Nick and the unexplained money for the gramophone. Innocence, guilt; what did it matter? It was the past and I had vowed that what was past would be forgotten. I was making a new life for myself and succeeding. Nothing was going to derail it.

I reasoned that there would be no further contact anyway with the Trahairs. Yet, in my heart of hearts although the Trahairs were no loss the Williams were and I would miss them. I would miss her friendly correspondence; her remembrance at Christmas, perhaps. In the weeks that followed I even thought to confess all but had not the resolve to take steps. Gradually it receded into the distant past.

Postscript: I found myself in Plymouth, my home town and short of funds. The labour exchange sent me to a factory just off Alexandra Road which I could reach by walking from Tavistock Place. It was a shock to discover the mandatory footwear was clogs within the factory as the floor was awash for much of the time and normal footwear would not have found purchase. But I had another shock coming when one of my fellow factory workers was Peter from my time at the Home, the same Peter who had handed me his money. Yet, he made no move to interrogate me and I came to realise that it was not Peter: his twin brother perhaps. He never sought me out nor had words with me so my fears again receded. Yet, there had been that initial glance of recognition. I searched through my memories of my recent time in the RAF, at Padgate in Lancashire, at Yatesbury in Wiltshire and at my final posting at Leuchars in Scotland for my factory colleague's likeness but found nothing.

Episode 26

### Grandma

There was nobody to meet me at Plymouth, North Road station for my mother was at work, my brother, Arthur was on duty and Grandmother was at the cinema with Mrs Murphy her best friend so I sat on the window sill waiting for someone to arrive and open the door. Looking at the church next door to my right, I realised I had simply exchanged one Manse for another. Grandmother had moved into this, her present abode, after a stick of bombs went astray and half-destroyed her bungalow Arcadia no. 5, in Elburton. An official sent her word to attend the Guildhall where the re-housing department was situated which she found over-crowded and acting on a tip-off, had arrived at Tavistock Place where it was rumoured the vicar had done a bunk. She found a key and straightaway moved in. That is her story. Yet she had been paying rent to Plymouth Housing Department for years so it was likely that each had done the other a favour. Over five decades later, in 2004, on a brief visit to Plymouth, I took a picture of the place. It was painted sky-blue and advertising pizzas.

Gran made much of me plying me with a plate of bread and butter, jam and cakes besides many cups of tea as she pumped me about my journey and the people who had looked after me just a day or so earlier. She seemed as intrigued as I was that her Manse, at Tavistock Place was not so much different to the Manse I had so recently vacated. And my brother was to tell a different story to her version; Arthur was a lad of seven or thereabouts and his gran had been taking him to school when their bus from Elburton had stopped at the top of Tavistock Place where it terminated. Their normal route down North Hill past the municipal library had to come to a full-stop on account of an unexploded bomb; besides there was far too much rubble in the road.

Gran and Arthur were forced to get off the bus and made their way to their destination, Arthur's school, via Tavistock Place. At the end of the Place both stopped to wonder about their exact route to school. It was then that grandma spotted the empty house, next to a church also seemingly closed. Curiosity made Arthur try the door of the adjacent house; it was open although it led through to a small conservatory. Grandma, according to Arthur's account, was immediately alert to the potential of the house and instructing her grandson to stay at number 45, she hastened to the Guildhall. It seems she was given the green light to stay at the house pending enquiries. Five years later, in 1947, on my arrival grandma was still there and had invited her daughter, my mother and son, her grandson, Arthur, to join her. Meanwhile her bungalow in Elburton was repaired and rented out.

It was twelve years before that I had left Plymouth when, as a four year old, I had been put on the Western National bus for Newquay though now aged sixteen that memory had faded. The very next day after my arrival there was one place which I felt compelled to visit, my Aunt Hilda's place at the other end of the town near the Hoe. Gran told me to go in via the rear entrance which brought me into the domain of Olive who occupied the lower apartment. Her welcome was fulsome although I had never met the lady before. But, soon I was climbing the stairs to Aunt Hilda's on the top floor. She seemed delighted to see me. It was an opportunity for her to regale me with her tales of life in wartime Washington, USA, where her husband had a post to do with the Lease-Lend arrangement which enabled Britain to order supplies without immediate payment.

My mother, in contrast, seemed to have absolutely no interest in my welfare, whatsoever. Just one question: had I passed the School Certificate? Fortunately the results would not arrive for several weeks so I was spared that embarrassment for a while. She eyed me suspiciously making comments such as: I hope you don't think you're going to stay here for any length of time, which, my gran on overhearing made clicking noises with her tongue accompanied by comforting phrases: Leave him alone, Kath! He's only just got here.

There was just the three of us for the time being as Arthur, my elder brother by 7 years, was still aboard HMS Raleigh, the onshore building, which housed the artificers, of which he was one being allowed home on occasional weekends. Gran kept house and my mother was technically her lodger, hence, the suspicious mutterings mentioned earlier being a gentle hint to her mother that she would ensure her son, me, would not be a burden on the household expenses. In that connection she quickly ascertained the state of my finances.

In the evening after supper Mum settled down to her crocheting of which skill she was expert having always clients to whom she supplied gloves, table-covers, vase underlays etc. Gran, for her part would sew or read a book or listen to the wireless provided there was a play to listen to. Gran had an excellent library and I soon was deep in the adventures of a pair of adventurous English children who found themselves in ancient Egypt. These stories were to be found in a complete set of children's encyclopaedias inside gran's glass-fronted bookcase. I would not exhaust these tales, and others, in the weeks between arrival and my departure for London, in September, that same year.

It seems an innocuous pastime my reading from that volume yet it awoke dormant passions. Mum eyed the book for a moment and asked me where I got it from being told it came from the bookcase behind her. I caught Gran's triumphant glance and Mum's frown. This was later resolved by my brother who explained that in moving from Elburton to Plymouth when many things were jettisoned for reasons of expediency, my Gran insisted on keeping Dad's (her nickname for her dead husband) old books whereas her daughter was for throwing them out if only to save space. As Mum had expected, in their new home, the books lay there in the bookcase gathering dust, until that evening, five years later, when I chanced upon them. Although the stories were for younger readers they enthralled me.

The following day at breakfast Gran could not do enough for me plying me with porage, toast with butter and tea till I was fit to burst. It would not last. For one thing Gran insisted later that when one had jam on toast the spread had to be margarine. Butter could only be eaten on bread/toast, on its own. For the time being however Gran plied me with buttered toast AND home-made damson jam. She also made a suggestion with which I was only too happy to concur, to go visit my Aunt Hilda, her daughter, who lived the other side of town, but it was near the Hoe so I could kill two birds, as the saying goes.

. I repayed my gran's generosity by very nearly setting the house on fire. Gran was feeling the cold and despite the winter being long gone, she asked me to light the fire in the sitting-room. Thinking to have it going quickly I started sprinkling it with a bottle of lighter fuel. It caught fire and I dropped it hastily on the fender where it smashed scatterring fuel and flames across the hearth and fireside carpet. On hearing me shout she rushed in fetching bucket after bucket of water which dissipated the flames though I was later to learn that sand was the better method as it smothered whereas petrol being lighter than water floated. Nonetheless we were I was able to extinguish it to our great relief..

Yet, apart from the wet carpet there was very little to show there had been a fire and if gran had not mentioned it in a joking way, my mother would not have noticed it. It so happened that she wanted to refill her cigarette lighter and, of course, the bottle was no more. I bought another to mollify her grumble.

Fortunately for me my mother still had a position at the Devonport Dockyard where she was foreman and it would continue until the men returned from wartime service in sufficient numbers to be able to restaff the place with men. In other words, she was absent at work most of the day. She eyed her mother sometimes with a look of envy, at times, or so it seemed to me. It must have galled her sense of amour-propre that her mother who had brought up eight children, five boys and three girls, could still enjoy a lifestyle that could accommodate herself and her first son, Arthur. Grandma, not only was able to draw her national pension but also a small one from the dockyard on the death of her husband, my grandfather plus a rental from her former bungalow in Elburton, just outside Plymouth.

Moreover long before my mother made her own trips to visit her son in Canada, my grandmother had made the crossing in one of the Queens to visit her eldest son, Ron, who was retired from his former business as a dentist in upstate, New York. Occasionally the three of us, my mother busy with her crocheting and gran temporarily leaning back in her favourite armchair and myself, getting through the various books which had been saved from the book-seller or the bonfire. My inquiry to grandma to recount a memory of the USA looking back might well be construed as mischievous for my mother was none too happy listening as grandma reminisced: for instance, as she explained the making of baked ice-cream. It seems in a New York restaurant an ice-cream would be topped with a meringue mixture and shot through a hot oven whereby the meringue took on a hot, brown and baked appearance – and was delicious.

As the years went by grandma was increasingly beset by problems though senility never really completely disabled her. She had memory lapses and might mistake salt for sugar though that was down to poor eyesight rather than from feeble-mindedness. Her patience seemed inexhaustible and never more so than during one episode when I returned home once and found my Uncle Jack ensconced there. His was a sad tale: he had emigrated to the USA but the onset of Parkinson's disease meant a return to England. His wife and daughter, Jacqueline had deserted him but his mother was glad to house him.

It was painful watching him shave with a safety razor; it would take him thrice as long as myself and his mother banned him from helping with washing dishes as he had no strength in his hands. Still his mind was very active and \i listened enthralled to his tales of life in the USA where at one stage he was a contestant in the $64,000 television programme. It seems as a modern man he had split his winnings with his wife but was badly let down by her when he began to show the dread symptoms of Parkinson's Disease. It seems ironic that an exponent of free enterprise such as my Uncle Jack should return to the despised country with its free National Health Service, the UK.

After leaving Plymouth for Bristol it would be the last time that I saw grandma. Later on the death of Uncle Jack another uncle, Uncle Ross would take up residence at Tavistock Place. But this development did not please my mother who departed for Teignmouth to take up residence with a retired solicitor for whom she kept house until he died. Another uncle, Uncle Arthur took up residence upon the departure of his brother Ross and wife back to Gloucester. He and his wife, Kathleen took their place and cared for their mother, my grandmother, until her death when they sold up and moved into a large house which my Aunt Kathleen rented out to students studying at Plymouth Technical College, later university.

This incident about grandma tops any relationship with any member of my extended family with the possible exception of my Uncle Jim. Hers was an exceptional life starting with her life as a domestic on leaving school at age 14 to join Bladon House which was on the estate of Blenheim Palace. At some time in her teens she spent a holiday in Teignmouth, Devon where she met William, a boat-builder who had just completed a seven year apprenticeship. Lilian Timms must have been surprised when she spotted her former beau from Teignmouth who had secured a job as a gardener on the Blenheim estate.

However their wedding took place in Teignmouth his former home though soon afterwards he found employment in Devonport Dockyard as a skilled fitter, so skilled that his services were deemed irreplaceable and he was excused the call-up when it became law during World War One. However that service was not beneficial to his health and he was retired in the '30s; it was at this point that his grandson, myself, helped him feed the chickens for which service he gave me a sixpenny piece. That meeting was the first and the last for he died soon after.

## Part B - Career

27 ingenue

28 firstlove

29 cambridge

30 rookie

31 radar

32 civvystreet

33 farmhand

34 labourer

35 student

36 lagerverwalter

37 aduel

38 endgame

39 rollingstone

40 partsman

41 betrothal

42 partnership

43 systemsanalyst

44 familyman

45 redundant

Episode 27

### Ingenue

My first account of this period was a recitation of incidents but in 2018 I had an insight via a Hollywood film viewed via a DVD: it was 'Double Indemnity'. One scene I paused and rewound realising the two film actors were meeting in a self-service shop though enquiry via the Internet revealed it was the American version of my JS store where instead of cheese, butter, tomatoes etc being weighed out and wrapped or bagged, every item was pre-packaged; the film was made in 1944 whereas my traineeship with JS began in 1947. Doubtless a director of JS also had seen the film or had actually visited the USA because by the time I had resumed my JS career after National Service of two years, in 1951, JS had seen the future transformed. So, my resumption of work as a lowly counter-hand was not necessarily a reflection of my own failings but that of a different retail landscape.

Back in September 1947 I arrived at Paddington and had been met by a JS rep and on the next day, along with my companions in the JS hostel, we began our induction. Since that fortnight's round of lectures, visits, bonding sessions was over seven decades ago, one might be forgiven for having forgotten some of the events. Two things stand out in my memory, the first time arrival at Blackfriars and the enormous lounge into which the trainees were initially shown. There we sat, some lolled, most sat up straight talking, whispering with our neighbours, but mostly silent as most of us were strangers to each other. Not far from me a smartly dressed young man was telling his companion about his latest date and not minding if anyone overheard the lurid details. He was showing off, of course, or, as my guardian would put it, playing to the gallery. In his case the gallery comprised his fellow trainees most of whom were more concerned with what the rest of the day had in store rather than listening to a show-off's latest conquest.

This show off turned out to be Harry with whom I would later share a bedroom in a JS branch of Barkingside. He was surrounded by his 'acquisitions' but had a sad story. He was sent to the USA in 1939 to escape the war and had arrived safely unlike the ill-fated 'City of Benares' which was sunk by U-Boat with the loss of 80 + children which fate deterred parents making the same decision. The war bankrupted his father who was in the import-export trade with the result that Harry had to live by his wits in free-enterprise California. That free enterprise might also be termed kleptomania (an irresistible propensity to steal) and my experience might enlighten my readers.

Out with Harry we visited a department store and made for the export section which was filled with merchandise available to Americans with dollars. It was unsupervised and Harry tried on a fawn camelhair coat and walked out of the store without paying. Evidently it was me he wanted to impress though soon after that incident I returned one evening after work to find both Harry and his belongings gone. My one memory of walking out with him was our chatter in back-slang an example of which is fixed in my mind: 'dilo-woc' ie 'old cow' which we accorded to various members of the public.

However other memories are more relevant: a visit to Peak Freans biscuit factory where we were taken by coach. Even though we had enjoyed a very good midday meal in the staff canteen at Blackfriars, the smell of biscuits and their ingredients in various stages of manufacture made one feel peckish once more. At the end of the tour management had laid on a tea with some of the biscuits, we had seen being processed, as a welcome repast. Or, that the proof of the biscuit was in the eating.

The induction course over I was reunited with my fellow hostelers; five of us being taken by coach to the JS branch at Barkingside. My companions were Irish, natives of Eire, foreigners, although all spoke English with a broad southern accent. One of them had been wrenched from a place where running water and inside water closets were unknown. He was lost and had it not been for his compatriots, I doubt that he would have stuck it for a day; as it was, he returned home long before the six month trial period was over. He was a fish out of water, poor lad.

He may have been a bit simple but that label might apply to me after I fell for a ruse perpetrated by Doherty, one of the lads. He showed me a newspaper ad for a course of self-awareness telling me that he'd like to do it but could not afford the fees though should someone share the costs they would be halved. I fell for it sending the money for the course of instructions over a number of months using some of my savings brought with me. He would 'borrow' the books promising his half-share once his allowance came through. It never did.

I settled in to the routine whereby JS Barkingside was my lodgings ie above the shop, and JS Ilford was my workplace getting between each by bus with long walks at either end. The other lads remained in Barkingside. It was a JS practice to get trainees to travel to a nearby branch though in the Irish lads' case that did not apply, it seems. I did not mind. It was good fun; besides, JS refunded my fare.

For evening entertainment I joined a dancing class also favoured by the Irish lads but who seemed more interested in meeting girls than learning the quick-step etc. There were other diversions such as the nearby Forest Gate roller skating rink and lots of JS club outings either by way of the social club or half-day excursions to local beauty spots.

A young man at the branch invited me to his home when, for the first time, I witnessed what a seemingly normal home-life was outside my immediate family. His wife had her work cut out with two very small children; and the bags of washing and ironing which was entailed. Yet, she cooked a splendid meal and I felt thoroughly at home. He invited me to go pillion on his tandem taking the place of his former girl-friend/wife before the arrival of children made it impossible.

It wasn't long however when I decided to get a bicycle for myself on the hire-purchase, and before long, I had joined a local cycle club enjoying spins to faraway destinations. Exhausting as it was much of the time, it was also exhilarating. And I started to listen to and learn many popular songs played at the roadside cafes where we stopped for a break. My popularity with my Irish fellow lodgers rose when I sang the latest pop song, often Irish. One song haunts me to this day: ......."And the strangers came and tried to teach us their way...." when I was told the strangers referred to were the English. The only dark moment came when someone sat down beside me on a bench and whispered: "Are you thick or something?"

He pointed to a mug someone had thrust in my hands, and then at another table. I followed his eyes to the urn and just beside it a plate holding small change. I felt my cheeks redden under his stare, got up and put a coin, a shilling, to join the others on the plate, and resumed my seat whereupon another lad of my age whispered: "Take no notice! It's Jack!" I learned no more.

Another not so good memory was also around at that time. I had gone to the local cinema and got to talking with a young serviceman in RAF uniform. He was there with his younger brother, and afterwards I arranged to meet the following Sunday. Cycling along that sunny afternoon I suddenly remembered my date and hurried back home but I was an hour late. I never saw him again.

Another diversion was speedway. This was an eliptical cinder track raced around by four riders on motor-cycles. It was noisy, smelly and very exciting, and attended by thousands of people roaring their heads off in support of their particular team. My particular favourite was Harringay Racers, but for Alec it was West Ham. At my next branch, Alec would return from a race letting everyone know of his presence by an ear-tingling shout: "Up the Hammers!" although that was somewhat in the future. Incidentally Alec replaced Harry as my room-mate.

What of my duties in the shop? Each JS branch was distinctive though identical to another JS branch. There was the grocer's counter mostly occupying all one side of a store. The opposite half was shared between the cheese, the cooked meat and the dairy counters.. Each was headed by a man to whom I would be introduced and for the duration I would be inducted into the intricacies of cheese or butter or pies to give an example pertaining to each commodity.

However on Monday trainees would travel up to Charing Cross Road, London to attend the Retail and Distributive School where we would be introduced to the history, geography and science of various commodities such as tea, coffee, cereals, chocolate and one or two others. The aim, I believe, was to educate but also to enable JS to select those candidates with aptitude for further training as buyers and other merchandising roles.

Tea, I found, fascinating as there were so many varieties and origins of the leaf. One would be taken through the planting, maturing and picking phases as well as subsequent drying and division of the harvest into its sale varieties. To this day, 'broken orange pekoe' is fixed in my memory even though what it is has long since faded. The history of tea was steeped in skullduggery in one aspect as it involved an Englishman dressing up as a Chinese mandarin so as to worm his way into secrets of tea production in the hinterland of China itself where, if discovered, six inches of steel between his ribs would have been the end result

One smell I forever associate with Charing Cross Road is that of coffee, Italian Coffee, although that was the closest I ever got to it. Bean coffee was not even sold in JS though that would change as things started to improve after the war and certain foods got more plentiful. Presumably the Italians had their own channels for importation. One so-called coffee bar we frequented always had a brilliant selection of cakes and I promised myself that once earning a reasonable wage, I would return to the place and indulge myself. In the event I did not, but, at the time I kidded myself that I was allaying the pangs of gourmet desire.

My pay was fifty-five shillings a week from which forty shillings was taken for food and lodging so there was not a great deal left over. Shortage of cash persuaded some of us to try and fiddle our expenses, but, led to me and another almost being arrested for fraud. We were refunded our fares by JS so someone hit on a complicated wheeze of buying a ticket at the last undergound stop but one and getting off one stop before our destination. Racking my memory, a half-century later, I'm not able to recall the purpose of these shenanigans though, at the time, they seemed logical, and, fortunately ended with a cautionary warning.

Social life meant also meeting girls of a similar age and though I do not recall my date, the words of a clippie are still alive, "cold hands, warm heart', as I jumped aboard a moving double-decker in Hendon after a dance at the JS social club where I loved to practise my newly learned dancing skills.

At work I learned how to cut huge, round cheeses. First one had to lift a cheese roundel from the cold store leaving it for a while behind the shop to reach room temperature. The first cutting was normally done by an experienced hand who would place the cheese on a large board in the centre of which was a groove holding, at one end a wire long enough to reach around the cheese back to the groove at the other end of the board. Holding it by the attached handle, the hand would tense the wire taut pressing it into the rind of the cheese which would yield and the wire would be pulled through the cheese. At the end of the operation one should have two perfect and equal halves of the original roundel.

At the counter an earlier cut cheese would have been sub-divided to enable the counter-hand to weigh up a customer's requirement, normally a quarter or half pound chunk which would be wrapped in grease-proof paper, placed in a paper bag and charged to the customer. One vital activity would be to cut out the appropriate coupons from her ration book equal to so many points.

For butter a similar procedure would obtain with the additional process whereby one patted the butter in a marble stall suitably covered with a veneer of cold water to inhibit butter sticking to the butter-bats serrated with grooves so as to give the butter a 'nice' appearance. To the tyro like myself, a trainee, the procedure took time as the weight had to be exact, but with practice, one could judge the weight by the physical dimensions of the butter, lard and even cheese.

The cooked meats counter held more variety because there were pies, sausage meats, corned-beef, spam, Scotch eggs etc. Also one need not be so precise as those foods were not rationed except by price which was often just as effective. The JS square pies with various fillings were the most popular and were the first to be sold out. Our cook upstairs often took some square pies with sweet fillings for the second course of the two course midday meal enjoyed by staff at the shop to the tune of 'Workers Playtime' booming out of a nearby radio.

JS stores were distinctive having at one end an office staffed by two female employees who dispensed change for each of the counters sending surplus cash to the nearby bank. This was a chore for the teenage trainee who could be seen during the day taking a secure bag of notes to the bank and sometimes returning with change. I would also be sent out by the manager, dressed in black pin-stripe suit, partly covered by a bib apron, who would tell me to walk by David Greig, the International shop, or Lipton, the Cooperative store and any competitor shop to ascertain prices of certain commodities. He had leeway it seems to reduce by pennies his prices so as make JS the most competitive store in the area.

One such journey is fixed in my memory. I was to ascertain the price of tomatoes at a certain store. Unfortunately, either the manager, or myself, made a mistake, and, instead of turning left I took another road ending up miles from the intended place. I returned empty-handed two hours later. Nobody seemed to have noticed my absence. After creeping back upstairs, via the back door, I tucked into a much needed dinner before returning downstairs to the usual chores. I resumed plucking a guinea-fowl for the cooked-meat counter when the manager suddenly appeared wanting one with an impatient tone:

"Heavens, lad! You're taking a long time with that bird!"

Nobody mentioned tomatoes or their price.

News was coming in about a naval action in the Far East. It seems several boats were on the China station patrolling the Yangtse River as the Brits had certain interests at Shanghai. My antenna picked up the name of one ship, HMS Consort, where my brother, Arthur had been posted earlier in the year. It was an anxious time waiting for news until it emerged his ship had escaped. Another, the Amethyst, had been hit by Communist shellfire and, moreover, was stuck fast on the river bank. It broke out in a thrilling dash for the sea which a film later immortalised.

There is nothing so hopeless as a sixteen year-old's longings and yours truly was enmeshed with one of the girls in the cash office. At the time there was a hit song, called, 'So tired!" And, everytime it was played my whole being was engulfed with dreamy longing. It would remain unrequited because an instruction came for my removal to another JS branch. I was to change counties. From Essex I moved to Middlesex, from Ilford to Mill Hill living at another JS branch not far away.

By this time all the Irish lads had disappeared one by one, lastly, when a pair of them, Doherty and his brother, passed out of my life. My latest move was part of the JS scheme whereby their trainees, after a successful induction, moved on to further their experience in a new locale, with different clientele, and, most importantly, for me, a change of scenery and new colleagues of whom I recall just two, Alex and Peter although there were others. But, it was great having friends after the endless desert of the Home where friends were suddenly no longer there or someone had feigned a relationship for a particular purpose. At age fifteen my moral compass had been surrounded by magnetic fields which disoriented me and persuaded me into activities that in retrospect seemed shameful. Fortunately that period was behind me and I could start afresh; sadly many do not enjoy that opportunity though through the goodwill of my elders it was vouchsafed me.

Episode 28

### Firstlove

New branch, new living quarters which also meant a new branch to reach of a morning. Usually the weather was nice so Alec and I would walk from the Parade down the hill towards the JS branch of Mill Hill though my time at Mill Hill is remembered more for the activities at the Parade where we lived than for the workplace. There was much more of a social life as the inmates enjoyed a wider range of interests one of which was speedway. There were heated arguments on the various merits and otherwise of Harringay Racers versus the West Hammers. Keeping us trainees from too much rowdyism was an older man perhaps in his forties who had a life of his own.

My dancing prowess now came to the fore as there were regular dances in Edgware just a bus journey away at the Express dairy hall, recalling many hours of waiting for dates on the forecourt leading to the station. At weekends I spent also many hours in the saddle once my bike had been transported by the JS van. Out cycling one evening I was stupidly trying to switch arms between the handlebars and came a cropper overlooked by the driver and conductor of a stationary double-decker bus. Another time I was pedalling at a hell of a lick along a straight road and spotted two men walking abreast aiming to pass them by at least a yard but I missed a haversack the outer man carried from his shoulder and hit it, bang.

Fortunately it gave, but for a crazy few seconds I thought I'd lose control though managed to master the bike's side-to-side yawing, and kept going and stopped at a pub perhaps a mile distant and downing a cider which both cooled and calmed me. Much of my time however was spent inside. I would return from work, have supper and settle in one of the easy chairs to listen to Dick Barton. Afterwards there would be table-tennis. Or, I'd just settle down with one of the books taken from the shelf. One author I recall was by name, Edward Thompson. He wrote about his life in India and I was moved though it seemed to be his only book because I failed to find another by the same author, even in libraries.

I got on reasonably well with my fellow lodgers but made no friends, though this complacency vis-à-vis my colleagues was dealt a humiliating blow when, after a trio of us had accompanied a boisterous girl back to her digs from the JS social club, I overheard Peter jesting with the girl who worked in the cash-office. Clearly it was evident each thought there was one too many on the occasion, and, it was not Alec.

On another occasion a trio of us lads passed a group of girls who were laughing and joking and started to look in our direction though through the heavy traffic we managed to elude each other though Peter left us to go in search of them. And, Alec surprisingly opened up and spoke about Peter commenting on his one-track mind as regards the opposite sex. Alec seemed relieved I was not that way inclined. In my case it was down to money whereas it seemed Peter would get a cash supplement from his family. He was a smart dresser putting both Alec and I in the shade. His favourite was a neckerchief usually of pure silk.

JS was very good to me as a trainee issuing me with a travel voucher for my trip home at Christmas that year of 1947. It was a big get-together including my Uncles Arthur and Chris, the latter who arrived with his wife, Gertrude and their two sons Brian and Alan. Yet they were easily accommodated bed-wise as the former manse had three large double bedrooms and a smaller guestroom. My Uncle Chris came down by car and they were often out and about with Chris showing his wife the places which the Wills family loved. The two boys seemed always to be at loggerheads over their pocket money with Brian, the elder, getting a little more.

It seems Alan was somewhat light-fingered so Brian felt compelled to hide his small change as Alan would rifle his pockets. However it was unknown to me at the time and when sitting on the loo I spotted five bob, two half-crowns, underneath the sink, I figured the former inhabitants had left it behind so pocketed it and said nothing to anyone. After a slight tiff between the brothers, they concluded I must be the culprit and accused me of stealing their pocket money. I challenged them to report me to their father more from bravado than anything else, and, to my amazement, I heard nothing more until snatches of talk about Alan left me in no doubt as to the reason for the boys' silence: he was destined for Borstal.

One memory of that homecoming refers to Boxing Day when we made our way to Frobisher Place for an evening's card play in Olive's parlour which boasted an enormous table capable of being extended. There were, I think, nearly a dozen people around that table, namely: Gran, Mum, Hilda and Jim, Chris and Gert, Brian and Alan, Olive and her sister, and myself. Various old favourites were played, for example Pass the Ace and Newmarket. It's recalled especially for Mum's remark when narrating the evening's event to acquaintances, such as, "If looks could kill!" in describing Hilda's glance at her husband, my favourite, Uncle Jim scooping the pool.

One day Mum asked me to pay a call at a department store on North Hill about half-a-mile distant from Tavistock Place. I was to pass a message to the head of the glassware department, Doris. On arrival she and her colleagues were about to go on their break so I was invited to the staff room. Despite being the only male the girls allowed me to chat with them in an amicable way which was largely down to Doris' open and friendly personality. Perhaps she wanted to make a good impression on Arthur's brother because she had seen the man she intended to marry though more likely she did it out of kindness as an open and friendly person.

I don't remember how it came about but that evening I had a date with one of Doris's fellow shop assistants though I don't recall the film as we were, in the vernacular of the times, necking almost as soon as we took our one and nine penny seats in the stalls. It was a bit embarrassing later because, after giving me her address, I wrote to her putting to paper what we had done in the stalls. It was not much different to what I'd heard from Peter's letters, but, girls also declaimed their love letters. It got to the ears of my cousin, Jack Demelweek, who sent me a letter telling me I'd let the side down, or some such remark.

Back at my JS lodgings, we were visited by a group of girls who were invited by our deputy housekeeper. She helped run a girls club and asked Molly, the girls chaperone, whether a visit to JS one evening to play table tennis might be a pleasant occasion. And so it turned out. The lads played the girls, one to one, or in mixed doubles and a very nice time was had by all. Surreptitiously the deputy passed me a hint that one of the girls, Kathleen, had taken a fancy to me, and, if I agreed she could arrange a meeting.

This was the following day. Kathleen and I spent a pleasant evening out but strangely she would not agree to a further date until she had spoken to Molly. It seemed that on an earlier occasion a boy had done something beyond the pale and hence, perhaps as a result, Molly over-zealously guarded her girls from us, lads. So, when the deputy asked if she should arrange another date, I got on my high horse, perhaps, and advised her not to bother. This was not an isolated incident in my experience as there were to be similar occasions involving young women who were of the Roman Catholic persuasion. My wife of fifty plus years is a Lutheran while I was brought-up as a Methodist.

At Mill Hill, my place of work, the porter stopped me to say that Bronwen was asking after me. I'd noticed a new girl in the dinner break and as she had no apron or work clothes figured she was in the cashiers' office. She was very nice with a clear Welsh sounding accent but I had not spoken to her or she to me although at the midday break one normally ate one's dinner in silence listening to worker's playtime, a popular Light Programme on the radio. The trouble with hearing items such as the porter's news was that one tends to want to be on one's best behaviour though in this case my interest was directed elsewhere.

There was a dark haired Irish lass, Eileen, whom I pined for though she was more interested in a charge-hand, and, I could understand why. He was older and had a higher income and soon they were going out together. But, that fact did not bring me any closer to Bronwen with whom I had snatches of conversation and felt things might have progressed had I asked her for a date but a smile from Eileen meant more.

Sometime in the summer, JS organized an outing for the few trainees which resulted in a number of us gathering at Victoria one Saturday afternoon for a weekend break in Eastbourne. I was soon in conversation with a girl of around my age in spite of the badinage from the other lads such as, 'Don't believe a word, he says,' etc. I raised the prospect of seeing her again and got positive responses so I looked forward to the next day, Sunday, and after breakfast made my way to the pier.

But there was no sign of her though I strolled its length and breadth for a couple of hours. The weather was really fabulous but I just felt hot and disappointed much of the time. On my way back home her responses seem to suggest I'd expected her to meet me though an objective reasoning would have told me she worked on the pier by virtue of her closing response, 'Not all of us are on holiday'.

The trip to Eastbourne was a taster for what JS had planned for me and my fellow trainees though I was told my bike could not be accommodated by the delivery van, this time. I could leave it at my lodgings until such time as my tour should end and in the event I did not miss it. Moreover in front of me was the prospect of celebrating my 17th birthday by the seaside, to be precise, in Bournemouth to where I, along with Alec, decamped one Saturday afternoon.

Although I would not lodge in Bournemouth, the actual place, Southbourne, was a mile or so along the coast though I would report for duty at the Boscombe branch which was in the centre of the town. Besides the prospect of a summer spent at the seaside the local JS social facilities were excellent and both Alec and I were made to feel very welcome by all the staff. Bournemouth occupies a position in the centre of a very wide bay and pleasure boats took people across the bay to Swanage and other beauty spots.

I discovered the delights of swimming at Sandbanks which not so long ago was reckoned to be the most expensive place on earth to buy a house. In the post-war 40's I daresay it was expensive too though visitors from the across the bay were there only to enjoy its shallow waters, ideal for families with young tots. On the pier were also trips to the Isle of Wight as well as non-landing excursions to view the island from aboard the pleasure-boat and return. My misfortune one day was to choose to entertain two girls whom I had met on the sea-front by inviting them to a cruise. The sea was choppy and one of the girls was sea-sick so it all ended as a debacle.

My luck soon turned however and it happened on a JS outing to Lulworth Cove where my skills as a rower, learned at Newquay, came to my rescue as I invited a fellow excursionist to see the Cove from the vantage point in the middle of the bay. On our return we had swapped places and I now had the happy prospect of delightful company for the whole of my sojourn in Bournemouth. Alec too found his soul-mate.

Norma liked romantic films so we went to one romance after another and I thoroughly enjoyed them. It helped that many of them starred Doris Day, then at her peak. One of the songs still echoes in my memory, 'It's magic!' It was indeed magic, those idyllic months working at the seaside. Bournemouth had a wonderful variety of entertainment facilities on the sea front such as the Pavilion which generally had a star from the film world such as Alan Jones of Donkey Serenade fame or from the variety theatre.

Another diversion was the ice rink which always put on a summer show though our most frequent venue was The Winter Gardens where concerts were held. We heard Larry Adler as a star performer playing his solo mouth organ which he would intersperse with humerous anecdotes from his Hollywood days. Often there was a classics concert and I became familiar with a name of a conductor whose niece was a woman who would be my future wife's employer less than two decades later. At the moment I was only too happy to fondle the hand of my girl-friend who was giving me problems to do with libido. I shifted my posture several times in my perceived embarrassment regarding an item of my anatomy over which I seemed to have absolutely no control.

I was having a 'holiday' so it was a surprise to me when Norma announced she'd be away for a fortnight, on holiday. It seems her parents wanted to get away to where they holidayed in a place on another coast, Weston-Super-Mare. After a few days I got her postcard, 'Having a great time; wish you were here.' I decided to postpone my annual holiday until after I returned to London.

It was in that connection that Alec asked whether I had made any arrangements with Norma after my return. He was quite concerned over losing touch. I think it was his first girl-friend and wanted to make her his last. Later in the RAF I met him briefly, and, true to his words, was still in touch with her while I had broken off contact soon after moving back to London.

I believe it was around this time that I had a rather unpleasant experience. Wandering along the sea-front I was eventually compelled to saunter along streets that I had not visited before; I was in Westbourne. Passing a cinema and noticing it was showing a film people were enthusiastic about I decided to go in. It was a western, The Streets of Laredo; it was a genre I'd avoided after seeing a second feature called, The Dakota Incident. It was about a posse of towns-people coming across a small party of people who had horses, one of which the sheriff suspected had been rustled, and he arrested them for trial. But, a leading citizen cajoled the posse of cowboys to string them up. His view prevailed although it was subsequently found all were innocent. At thirteen years of age, my view of Westerns was deeply influenced by that one film and I avoided watching any.

The cinema had few patrons that Wednesday half-day, early closing, and I chose a seat about the fifth from the right aisle and after half-an-hour stood to allow someone past me. It was a man and he sat down next to me despite the fact there was a wide choice of seats available. His reason became clear as a hand come across to touch my legs and I shifted my legs to dislodge it, but its owner persisted so that I was forced to get up and move to the seat next to the aisle. My visit was ruined for I was in fear of him moving next to me though he did not and soon after I left the cinema. It would not be the last time and it was not the first but I was shaken by the experience and never went to that cinema ever again.

Soon enough Norma was showing me photos she had taken of her holiday and I was surprised by the attractiveness of her sister, two years younger and still at school. It was the first time that I recall noticing the female shape for clearly her sister was well-endowed. Probably my stare was a bit too long for it was not long after that Norma took my hand and led it via her unbuttoned blouse to her lemon-like breasts. I loved it and soon was as hard as rock. Yet, as the movie came to its close and I withdrew my hand and she rebuttoned her blouse, Norma finally patted her chest twice. I got the uncomfortable feeling, it meant, that's that, let's move on.

Still, I did enjoy her company for she was game for anything, for instance, wandering over Corfe Castle ruins as if it was the most enjoyable experience. We thought to get some privacy by going to the Branksome Chine, or, another of the chines, minor denes cut into the cliffs, but other couples had the same idea so we retreated to the cliff walks where there were a number of niches where we could sit and neck undisturbed. By now I was feeling more ambitious but opportunity was lacking; once Norma took me back home knowing her parents were not there, for once. But, we ended up playing ludo with her sister which was not so unpleasant.

On our final weekend I'd booked a couple of seats at the Pavilion of a Sunday evening. It was magic leaving the theatre in the dusk of a summer's evening and walking, hand-in-hand, through the illuminated gardens passing the mini-golf, scenes of many a game, over the romantic bridges and sauntering by the mini lakes towards the pier for an evening ice cream. Even the fishermen at the end of the pier came in for stares as we sought to lengthen that evening; but her parents' deadline time inevitably approached so I walked her to her trolley-bus stop. It was not the last time of seeing her but it was the last Sunday, for come Wednesday, I would spend my half-day taking the electric train back to Waterloo.

Episode 29

### Cambridge

A letter from my mother awaited me. Inside was another letter holding a card inviting me to a reunion of the NCHO (National Children's Home & Orphanage) to be held in November, in Highbury. It was September 1948 when I returned to Mill Hill from which branch I had departed to spend the summer in Bournmouth. The manager seemed pleased to see me again as, contrary to standing orders, I was always up to work overtime without pay. He placed me under the tutelage of a very dynamic man on the cheese counter. His energy was breath-taking and he was always teaching me some new way to tie knots, one of which has remained with me to this day and I use it when binding objects together or wrapping parcels with a non-slip knot. He was also generous with my services to other charge-hands who needed help, and it was on the cold meat counter that in trying to ape my mentor's speed of execution that I half-executed a finger on my left hand by cutting it when the knife should have been aimed at sausage meat.

The scar is with me to this day though it was the visit to the doctor's surgery that evening which also remains in mind. He takes off the bandage, holds it over a kidney shaped dish and pours a liquid over it. It hurt like hell but apparently it cauterized the wound and he then handed me over to a very competent nurse who cleaned it up, bandaged it and booked me a time for a return visit. I had expected stitches so I was relieved. The year was 1948; decades later I'd wait weeks to see my doctor, or, hours in A & E for emergency treatment: the effect of unrestricted immigration due to the EU's open-door policy; and one reason for Brexit.

Turning up that November for the NCH reunion I was astonished to meet a young man by the name of John W, who had been with me at Newquay and who had left to start work in a market garden to learn the trade. He was at the reunion with his younger brother, Derek, who was one of the two boys who had accompanied me from Newquay to St Just in Penwith to resume our scholastic career at Penzance Grammar. I cannot say I was pleased to see them but they had been orphans as I had been. John had gone out of his way to make life unpleasant for me at Newquay by making much of his slender age advantage of seven days. Another way he found to belittle me was by showing that the smaller fry looked up to him by allowing them to touch him sexually.

But, on this occasion his prowess came in for some humiliation. There was a young woman distributing cakes and Derek hinted to me that his brother would be taking her home. There were discussion groups in various parts of the room and I was drawn into one or two of them. At the latter the group was joined by this young woman, whose name was June, and we had quite an interesting chat about things we had been doing since each of us had left our respective Homes.

She left suddenly asking me not to wander too far away though as the group separated I wandered back to John and Derek who seemed to be the only people present that I knew. John smiled broadly at someone behind me but it quickly vanished when she asked me to walk with her to her bus stop. Of course I fell in with her wish and bidding goodbye to everyone left with June hanging on to my arm. At the bus stop I waited with her for the bus when she suddenly threw her arms around me and gave me such a kiss, I was taken quite aback. Then she was rushing for the bus shouting that we would meet again, soon.

As I walked back to my tube station I was very happy with my lot, but also at the memory of seeing John's face turn sour when June had asked me to go with her. It was revenge of a sort for the humiliations heaped upon me at Newquay. Back at Mill Hill the mail on the following day brought me the first official notification that I was eligible for National Service. The letter had been re-sent from Plymouth and I recall my mother's warning about 'corners being cut off me' but a fellow trainee commiserated for he was in the same boat, in a manner of speaking. Alec had joined me at Mill Hill also from Bournemouth.

The newspapers at that time occasionally carried advertisements from Australia House urging Brits to apply for a £10 passage to Australia. It painted a picture of eternal sunshine, plenty of unrationed food as well as fruits of all kinds. There were beaches for surfing such as Sydney's Bondi Beach, wages and salaries were higher than in the UK and accommodation was also cheaper while young people had a better chance of a house and a shorter time to pay for it. It sounded idyllic and was meant to appeal to a nation impatient with rationing and shortages.

As a result I visited the Strand and was surprised there were no long queues though I did have to wait a while before my name was called. There was no immediate offer of a passage though the clerk postponed telling me and asked me to wait in another room where I met up with Alec along with a few other young men of about the same age. We did not have long to wait.

The reason for the clerk not being in a position to offer us passages was simple: Each of us were of an age when compulsory military call-up was more than a possibility and the two governments had arranged that the offer should exclude men likely to be called-up for military service. My 18th birthday would fall in several months and so I was ineligible

Aunt Hilda wrote to me and suggested I take a trip down to Staines where her sister had made a home living in a bungalow near the towpath of the Thames riverside. A few weeks back I had taken up smoking so was anxious to make an impression by having a brand which would likely find favour, a Virginian tobacco, but, I was to discover that a subtle form of rationing and not by price but by favouritism, in other words, tobacconists could pick and choose to whom Virginian cigarettes would be available. Those not so favoured would have to put up with non-Virginian brands as for example a Turkish or other variety which might taste vile.

Aunt Edie and Uncle Walter were very pleased to see me and when I took out my cigarettes to offer them around insisted I smoke theirs, saying: "Is that what you Londoners are smoking now is it?" As the evening wore on however it began to rain; indeed it started pouring and I faced the prospect of a long walk along the towpath to the train station without adequate cover. Then Walter had an idea and disappeared into his garage cum shed reappearing with a black waterproof which had seen better days for the proofing was badly cracked. But it was better for keeping out the rain than my ex NCH raincoat. So, suitably dressed against the elements I bade them goodbye hearing Edie's parting words: Keep the mac as it's a throwaway. But, like many such things in England, I was to take that too literally

Yet, only in 2018 after reading a book by Ben Fogle did the penny drop because he mentioned an eccentricity of the English is a sound waterproof and many are kept even though a coat may have been replaced long ago. But, especially in the circumstances where a national newspaper is keen to promote a national brand and holds a competition to find such a relic, my 'throwaway' might have come into this category because my mother was not slow in reminding me that borrowed items MUST be returned. It cost me pounds in postage sending it back to Staines but after reading that article by Fogle I can only hope it was justified..

Just after my 17th birthday, JS had seen fit to award me a pay rise and my income went up to £4 per week while deductions for living in and food although a little higher left me nearly two pounds to spend. I began taking more trips and on my free Saturday would often go up to Oxford Street which was the destination for a number of us also living on the Parade, near Mill Hill. It wasn't that we had spending ambitions but the sheer ambience of the shopping centre gave us a buzz and there were lots of people many of them young like ourselves. On one occasion we stopped for one of us had spotted another young chap of his acquaintance who was proudly sporting a badge showing that he was a member of the Communist Party.

Discussion of this and other things had to await our return home but the memory of the incident sparked off an animated debate about Reds and we debated whether any of us honestly believed the proposition: Better dead than Red! Was life behind the Iron Curtain as bad as the Yanks would have us believe? Were we ignorant or innocent? A few, about to be called up, would find out the hard way. They would find themselves in South Korea which a year later would be invaded by the North prompting an American response via Japan.

One weekend that year the Company invited a number of trainees to attend a sort of meeting and the evening before some of us travelled to Maida Vale to take up accommodation at one of the houses in that area. It appeared to be normally occupied by female employees who had vacated the premises for the duration. The company wanted to let us know that owing to the demands of military service, the trainee scheme had been suspended.

My final posting would take me to JS Cambridge which would remain in my memory for one abiding memory. It was midweek when the manager asked the entire staff of the shop to stand outside and customers too readily fell in with his request. . It was a gorgeous day perfectly suited to the event unfolding before our eyes being the day that the former prime minister of South Africa, Jan Smuts, was given the Freedom of the City of Cambridge. The mayor and town council had met his train from London and now accompanied him, along with a brass band, to the Town Hall. The ceremonial way passed JS Cambridge so the shop staff had a privileged view of the proceedings.

Much talk today is about the bad British Empire. Yet on achieving victory against the Boers the Liberal Government invited Jan Smuts and his Boer political party to hold free elections. He along with his party was a staunch supporter of Britain in two world wars and now at 70 plus he was a revered elder statesman. Soon after he would lose power to the Afrikans faction which had no love for Britain or its values but that was a few years away.

My call-up papers had arrived again being re-posted from Plymouth where I would return after bidding adieu to the staff at Mill Hill, both working and living-in branches. Looking back on events such as my call-up I am struck by how much 'chance' plays in our lives. As an example the young woman whom I pined for was suddenly available for a date but now I had no time and regretfully my farewell kiss was perhaps cooler than after a date. However I later learned she was expecting a baby at that time so perhaps the call-up arriving at the same time had spared me a different future; who knows!

Following a medical when I had been classified as A1 fit, despite the fact that I was blind in one eye, it just remained to me to notify the Company that my period of military service in the RAF would start in November, 1949 and would finish in 18 months although the Korean War already mentioned would extend that by six months. In the meantime I made my way to Plymouth a week before travelling to RAF Padgate, near Warrington in Lanashire for the six months induction training known popularly as 'square-bashing'. It was goodbye to civvy street for a while.

Episode 30

### Rookie

On walking into the hut where I'd been directed by the guardroom at the front gate, as a late-comer, I was shown an empty bed space and locker; it was called bed-space because rookies had to make their own beds which comprised three square matresses called 'biscuits', two sheets and three blankets and a bolster for a pillow. Later, a fellow rookie told me that, as I was the last to arrive, it fell to me to clean the stove in the morning. .As it was November and chilly there was evident need for some form of heating; it was provided by an old-fashioned tall stove whose flue disappeared through the ceiling. Lengthways was a rectangular coal bin.

Soon after my arrival it was clear a presence had manifested itself in the hut as everybody stopped their chatter. We all looked expectantly towards the front entrance. Standing there was a smartly uniformed corporal, his belt and buckles and every piece of his brass items gleaming as the metal caught the light; his peaked cap was surrounded with a black band which signified his status for he now introduced himself as our drill instructor, or DI. With a combination of information and hard jests he let it be known that each of us would soon be sick of the sight of him, but, not so sick as he'd be of the sight of such a shower as present company, us. However, vital information was given such as the time of reveille, the location of the cookhouse, the need to look after personal possessions etc.

As an afterthought the DI told us about the rota drawn up to which he added me as the last to arrive. It was the stove cleaning and fire lighting rota and the first name happened to be the rookie who had delegated the job to me; I was the last on the list. We two rookies exchanged glances and the DI's final verbal shot was, lights-out at 10.30. That other rookie who seemed adept at giving orders claimed to be a trainee nuclear scientist from Harwell; he occupied the bed-space next to mine.

The following day each of us was kitted out with uniform, greatcoat, forage cap, haversack, belt, boots and many items whose utility would be explained in the course of the following days and weeks. Within hours we were busy scouring the camp for pieces of stiff cardboard, wood or anything to stiffen the sides of our haversacks so as to smarten them up. An officer lectured us on a little item called the 'hussif' (housewife) which was a small linen etui containing needles, wool, cotton as it was expected that running repairs on socks etc would be done by each airman.

There were a few unwelcome titters when a film on VD was shown and the officer reprimanded us at our collective levity explaining that the treatment for the clap was not a subject for laughter as we would find out if anyone had the misfortune to contract it. It seems there were WRAFs on the camp who were out-of-bounds the breaking of which would be the subject of discipline. In the whole six weeks I never caught sight of one not even in the cookhouse which was staffed by other airmen.

It soon became clear to me who were naturals and who were fish out of water, my being in the latter category. Not that I disliked my new life as an airman. On the contrary I was feeling healthier than at any time in the previous two years though still trying to come to terms with physical training exercises in the open stripped to singlet, shorts and plimsols. I still fell foul of the random inspections of my bed-space when the bed clothes had to be exactly placed according to an ideal, the picture of which hung in every hut. Infringements carried losses of privileges, minor at first, such as being confined to one's hut, of an evening, ie no visit to the NAAFI.

One minor disability of mine became a subject of mirth even derision. On a line-up outside the hut prior to moving off for exercise such as marching on the parade ground, the DI (drill instructor) might call out: "'Att-ten-SHUN!' Stand at ease! This time, smartly now: 'Att-ten-SHUN!' including that airman with the drip on his nose. You dare move!" Meaning I should not dare to wipe it away. "Silence!" This command being in reaction to sundry titters.

One welcome lecture came from a young man of about the same age as many of us having just turned eighteen. He was the education officer and invited us to contact him on any topic as from his experience to date there were airmen who had not been granted postponements and who were concerned about their studies. Soon in my off-duty time I was at his office telling him about my failure to pass the 'school certificate' and wondering if anything might be done. He had the answer.

It seems examination boards, perhaps, leaned on by the government, were anxious to help students such as me. He told me I needed to take only the subjects failed, mathematics and art, and a full certificate, on passing the subjects, would be issued to me. Moreover the subject of Art could be dropped entirely and he would coach me in algebra. He proved as good as his word for I retook Algebra not having to re-sit for Geometry, Arithmetic or Trigonometry, where I'd already reached the required standard in the original examination taken in Penzance.

The lieutenant asked me whether I could remember being disciplined because my 'fail' in algebra had been brought about by marks deducted for bad behaviour. Then, I recalled my exchange with the PT teacher on my last day at school. I told the lieutenant that I'd answered back on that last day and he agreed: that offence might have failed me. Since Art was not a compulsory subject, I might well have passed. Nonetheless the School Certificate was sent to me at Tavistock Place in Plymouth; one in the eye for my mother! But, I need not have worried because at no time in my subsequent career did an employer ask for it; the fact that I'd attended a grammar school seemed proof of a good education. In fact it was preferred by one employer to a degree.

My mother, as usual, would have the last word claiming that when she was employed as foreman in Devonport Dockyard in the war, there was not a better man to take her place. But she was not as hard as she tried to make out and I was persuaded to make her an allowance from my pay which the RAF would match. She would have an extra fifteen shillings a week while I would have spending money on leave. In the event I did get some money from her but certainly not the full amount because, as she triumphantly told me, my gran needed money for housekeeping and she, her mother, would jolly well see she would get it though I lacked for nothing on my sporadic trips home.

New expressions like a 36-hour or 48-hour pass, entered my vocabulary and new places such as Warrington, Manchester and Preston would be destinations for us, airman rookies, as we began to explore our environment looking for cheap entertainment. The RAF was very good to us providing us with chits for travel and accommodation often paid for by deductions from future pay. Yet, even a simple pass of a Saturday would find many of us in Warrington, the nearest town, enjoying a visit to the cinema, wandering around the streets, or, walking along the tow-path of the dank and rather murky canal.

I got to know that canal bank quite well in company with a local factory girl. It was usually in the company of a new-found airman friend whose girl-friend's name was Carol, though sadly I don't remember the name of the girl who was so nice to me, even taking me home to her parents. Never before had I experienced such desire as with her. I recall sitting on an armchair at her place when she appeared with a plate of sandwiches which situation exposed her dishabille though she did not seem to mind. As she sat beside me her legs came together I would hear the rustle of her stockings.

With her mother ever present I had to make do with wicked glances which promised much In the event of getting her alone one evening on the canal bank, it was perhaps fortunate for both of us that it was that time of the month when a closer connection was out of the question owing to her 'time of month'. In later life I would reflect on the vagaries of 'chance'.

One military aspect of my training proved unproductive, shooting with the standard issue rifle, the '303', where it was found after the first round of target practice that I needed glasses, and badly. The assault course was fun and I proved one of the abler men in getting round the course in record time and square-bashing turned out to be quite enjoyable especially in freezing temperatures when rapid and repeated movement did the body so much good.

My injections, against sundry diseases, were somewhat fraught as I went down with inoculation fever which meant hospitalization for three days though I soon caught up with the agenda missed while away. The food at the camp was excellent, at least, I was always hungry, famished, much of the time, when, as the saying goes, 'Hunger is the best appetiser!'

As the training covered Christmas we were entitled to a 72 hour pass and a travel voucher or bus home, or, to the place of our nomination. I opted for London spending the long weekend with the Patricks at Sudbury, near Wembley. My uniform was enhancing my ability to gain acquaintance with females though my means often let me down. Having sat beside a young woman on Plymouth Hoe on my last day of leave (later in the year), I was chagrined to remember that I was skint. I walked her back to North Road and left her without making any arrangements for a date. I hope she forgave me.

Towards the end of the six weeks a panel of officers interviewed us with a view to fitting pegs into holes ie applying our talents to an RAF trade that would be useful both to the RAF and to the airman. That was the ideal. My Uncle Arthur whose trade was radar engineer advised me, if the RAF should give me the choice, to put my name down as a storekeeper. You cannot go wrong, was his opinion. Things did go wrong because the RAF needed radar personnel so I was put down for radar mechanic in spite of the fact that my medical report stated, in black and white, that I was colour-blind, and, on my pointing this out being told, 'Don't you reckon we (the RAF) know of your condition! Accept and rejoin your mates or be put on a charge for disobeying an order.' I paraphrase, and I naturally accepted, of course.

On waiting behind to see the officer for post-selection queries, I was alone with an airman who waited there for another reason. It was Trewhella who was one of the bright boys in my last form at Penzance Grammar School. We recognised each other. "Did we not call you the piebald?" he reminded me, painfully. It seems too, that whereas I waited of my own accord, he was requested to so do as he had been earmarked for officer training.

One more disappointment awaited me. On my final medical inspection it was found that I had contracted scabies which meant that I would not leave the camp until it had been eradicated. I wept with vexation. The treatment was to report to the medical centre for bathing awhich involved covering the whole naked body with sulphur ointment putting on special pyjamas and sleeping in a special isolation room at the centre. It took three days until the medical officer pronounced me free of the parasite telling me to hand all my bedding using gloves to the incineration unit.

At the exit to Romford station late one evening I was about to examine the piece of paper carrying my friend's name and address, when I heard a yell from a corner of the deserted station. It was my namesake, Ron. I'd arranged to stay with him for a week before spending the rest of my leave in Plymouth. He was not a good friend despite the trouble he took to welcome me. I thought relations with my mother were not good; yet, their relationship was even more distant. He was forever trying to inveigle me into some dark scheme or other and once even suggested knocking an old man down for his pension. We never got very close.

My trade had been chosen for me ie radar mechanic and the RAF camp where I would learn that trade would be in Wiltshire: RAF Yatesbury. I could hardly wait.

Episode 31

### Radar

The camp was in the middle of nowhere: RAF Yatesbury, to be precise; it was miles from the nearest town, Calne, which we were to associate with a regular item on the menu, sausages. They would be delivered regularly from the town's main employer, Harris, famous for their chipolatas which we rookies loved. To the south-west was Devizes but that was far, far further while to the east, the road to the smoke, as locals like to call London. It led to Marlborough, a long way distant though an aiming point for hitch-hikers, such as we, airmen with a 36-hr pass. Salisbury, so recently in the news of 2018, was a town I passed through on the way to the south.

Radar was only a decade old yet, as a result of the war, a range of sophisticated units had been invented which over the course of the ensuing six months, the length of the instruction period, we were introduced to, for example, Gee, H2S, BABS, IFF and others whose names now escape me. Our instructor entertained us with the origin of some names, and H2S has stayed with me. It seems some top brass American officers were being shown the circuits, and being used only to radio, one turned to his companion, saying disgustedly: "It stinks!"

The designers had been looking for a name which would not betray its use to enemy agents and so they thought of the usual schoolboy laboratory stink, namely: hydrogen sulphide, whose chemical shorthand is, H2S. Another story told us was that the Germans thinking themselves so 'beastly cleverer than any other nation' (his words), attacked our radar masts believing them to be radio directional masts to direct British bombers. Goering was reported to have declared that the British would surrender soon (1940) so there was no need to destroy them. Their bomber pilots, soon after take-off, would pick up one of many radio beams directed towards Coverntry, for example, though evasive action to avoid British fighters, would cause their radio gear to lose that all-important beam. Our Professor Lindeman was able to exploit through interference such directional equipment and so mis-direct enemy pilots. I may have experienced a misdirected ME110 in Truro, Cornwall whose original target might have been Plymouth. It sprayed the sleepy market town with MG shells before disappearing.

From home in Plymouth on a weekend pass, I had arranged to get my bicycle transferred to the camp and in my spare time set about exploring the countryside. I rode over to RAF, Compton Basset where my friend had been posted for training as a radio operator. We would sometimes meet in the town of Calne but he seemed curiously uninterested in the opposite sex. It never occurred to me he was, in modern parlance, 'gay', but looking back that may well describe his disposition though admittedly he never made a pass at me, or, perhaps I was unaware of the latent signals, by which I understand 'gays' communicate.

One of my colleagues was interested in weird photography which involved taking double-exposures and he achieved some startling effects. He got permission to set up his own darkroom. For outside excursions he would invite me to cross open country to view a number of ancient sites, one of which was the famous 'White Horse' of the Wiltshire Downs though to another site much further afield, I demurred to my regret, today. It was Stonehenge.

Hitch-hiking was fun though one always had to be on the 'qui vive' for people trying to exploit us by demanding money to which I once agreed, along with my fellow airmen, but avoided paying my getting off before we had to, thus avoiding to pay though obliging one to pay a fare on a bus. It was really swings and roundabouts. My destination was invariably Sudbury to stay with the Patricks who were distant cousins. Roy Patrick had served in WW!; my mother warned me that I might be causing Roy and May hardship as they were retired. It was nonsense, of course. She was a kill-joy, pure and simple. Roy was full of stories from his experiences of WW1; about his life in the trenches and his army trade being that of messenger. On one mission he was held up by an exposed trench blasted by a shell that had destroyed the sides of the trench - and his cover. To proceed on this hot, July day might expose him to enemy fire. So he waited until dusk. In the meantime he opened his message normally against orders. It was an order for bully beef which his unit was low on so he knew that he had to get through.

During my time at Yatesbury I was hospitalised for some reason though do not remember the reason though it was probably 'glandular fever' which is not uncommon for my age group. My daughter would get the same diagnosis decades hence. It may have been provoked by an injection common among service personnel living in camps. One remedy to spur recovery was reduced tension so academic work was proscribed. My bout lasted just three weeks and on my return to the course the corporal instructor refused to afford me additional study other than providing me with written details.

So, I just about managed to keep up the course. To be frank, the complexities of radar circuitry were taxing my mental powers to the utmost. It was meant to for after all rdar was cutting edge technology. The intricacies of diodes, triodes and pentodes were straight-forward enough and individual components such as resistance, capacitance, inductance etc also proved to be no problem. At the start of the course the instructor told us that the school needed instructors and any one of us might be selected provided he met the criteria: a thorough knowledge of coursework plus a speciality.

My speciality was to be the diode. It was invented by an Englishman, John Ambrose Fleming. It was an enclosed tube of three inches by an inch comprising a base with two terminals, the cathode and anode, fixed to a glass tube and had a potential applied by battery or mains. When a radar signal plus 'noise' was applied to the cathode the latter gave off electrons which were attracted by the positive anode. On its way to the anode the weaker 'noise' electrons fell away leaving a purer signal which was passed to the next stage, a triode, which amplified the purer signal.

That was the theory but a lecturer also needed some advanced mathematics towards designing such a circuit which might have proved difficult. Had I been able to complete the course and reach my target standard, I might have been able to take advantage of the promotion possibilities in which the RAF would have cooperated for the service was changing its rank structure being introduced in January, 1951 by which all ranks moved up one.

My aim was a 60% pass mark in the final examinations at Yatesbury but I failed to reach that standard. I ended up with the same rank, the lowest, AC2 ie aircraftsman, second class. On January 1951 all ranks moved up one which raised me to AC1 and gave me an extra few shillings. I felt down having missed an opportunity to raise myself to SAC, senior aircraftsman and somewhat more pay, an extra pound per week. It would take me another six months to reach that rank.

But, it was not just the money. Rank brings extra privileges because the station to where I was posted had few SACs. It was a windswept place, this time in Scotland, by the name of RAF Leuchars. My first posting was to bring out the stupidity of blind discipline irrespective of common sense. I have already mentioned my colour blindness and my first task proved it to be a genuine handicap.

The corporal in charge of my unit handed me a megger, a device for testing the impedance of, for instance, adjacent wires. The task was easy. The megger had two crocodile clips attached to it. One would be clipped around a wire or cable running round the inside of a Lancaster bomber, the other an adjacent wire. By means of a handle, one would generate 'megawatts' in the instrument and read off the result. It should be above 100,000 Ohms impedance. My problem was in identifying the colours of the wires for one or other colours had varying impedances and it was vital to measure its appropriate impedance.

In demonstrating the various cables and their different impedances it soon became clear to the corporal that browns, greens, reds were causing me to make mistakes. The Lancaster being tested was an old-timer so the colours were somewhat faded which added to my confusion. Also it was gloomy even dark inside the aircraft. Such is the service idea of discipline that I was charged with: 'Disobeying an order', confined to camp and brought before a disciplinary panel.

Fortunately common sense prevailed and I was posted across the aerodrome to a squadron of Meteor jets where the device to be tested, IFF, involved no colours. The procedure was to open the hatch beneath the fuselage, reach inside and undo the heavy screw clips holding the unit in position, as well as its connections, and lift the set and bring it inside where test apparatus would put it through its paces. I enjoyed the radar course but was it sensible of the RAF to waste resources in sending me on an expensive course to no purpose?

Discipline was pretty relaxed on the operational side where the airmen carried out their duties and there were no NCOs inspecting our uniforms, shoes, buttons etc and provided the jets were maintained nobody bothered us after we had reported for duty each day. One regular and very welcome arrival at the hangar was the NAAFI wagon bringing us hot tea and cakes. When the Meteors were flying there was very little to do except find a suitable comfortable spot and either read a book, play cards, or even doze.

The Meteor jets would often have to escort Russian bombers away from sensitive locations along the North Sea and it soon became evident to the Meteor pilot that the Russian aircrew who observed their shadowers was baffled and, it was rumoured, that Stalin soon began making overtures to the Labour Government. Prime Minister Atlee had been angered by the Senator McMahon decree that the USA would keep its nuclear secrets. His non-disclosure was aimed at Britain. Accordingly Atlee received Russian overtures with sympathy and an exchange of technology was authorized to allied disadvantage: jet secrets for what?

Soon enough Russian Mig jets were causing the Americans to lose their control over the skies of the Korean peninsula. That short-sighted American nuclear ban led directly to the Russian development of the Mig fighters. In any case the US ban proved empty as Britain developed its own atomic bomb within a year.

In summer we often went up onto a small flat roof of the building which housed our unit. In jumping down to the ground my knee hit my jaw and my teeth closed on my tongue. It was a nasty and painful moment for me and one would reasonably conjecture that it would put me off similar activity again. Yet, in the hot weather I forgot that painful incident and climbed back onto the roof. To my own chagrin I could not bring myself to jumping down. In the end someone had to help me climb down. It was better than biting off my tongue but humiliating all the same. Our serjeant made jokes about it whenever the opportunity arose.

One colleague was a local coming from Dundee and had got permission to live out weekends as he had a dependent mother. His sister worked at the local Timex factory though none of us would touch the product however much reduction he offered. It had no good reputation at the time. Another chap was forever telling us about his fiancee and claimed regularly to share the same bed with her without wanting to touch her. Nobody believed him and he found that incredible. Another colleague once asked me to place my finger across a transmission coaxial point. After a while I was forced to remove my finger on account of the heat across it. He told me someone someday will make use of that fact. Had he stumbled on the principle of the microwave, yet to be invented?

Soon enough the onset of winter was bringing operational difficulties and once we watched horrified as a lone jet short of fuel returning from a training flight swooped low over the runway trying to use up his fuel before attempting to land where visibility in the blizzard must have been almost non-existent for the pilot. Air traffic control successfully brought him down. Another incident involved a Meteor which had lost its air-speed indicator and could not judge his landing speed whereupon another jet took off to guide him down onto the runway.

Ground staff was also caught up in blizzards and other icy conditions when the runway would need to be swept of snow and ice, often at short notice when it was a common sight for aircraftsmen to appear with pyjamas peeping out beneath hastily donned uniforms and greatcoats. Often a bonus would be when the Duty Officer would order the canteen to serve rum rations to all the airmen involved.

Hogmonay recalled my previous New Year's Eve spent in Warrington when for a brief period it was the custom to kiss every girl you met. Standing in the square in Dundee, three of us airmen were taken over by a couple of wenches who took us on a succession of first-foots involving items of coal, slices of shortbread and, of course, many thimbles of whisky, and, each of us was expected to kiss every girl we met. We did so with gusto.

At one house one of the girls remained behind; it was her home and doubtless her mother thought of her welfare. The other girl had taken a fancy to one of us and disappeared with him. The two of us accordingly returned to the station to bed down till morning. Our companion later explained how he had scored so perhaps the mother mentioned earlier had justification for keeping her daughter back.

Earlier I mentioned discipline at the aerodrome and its easy going nature which was the polar opposite of the base where the administration buildings, canteen and barracks were situated. I was made aware of this as I took a shortcut across the parade ground to shorten the distance between my living quarters and the canteen. A very loud shout of: 'airman' stopped me in my tracks. It was followed by an order to march towards the Warrant Officer who had spotted me doing something illegal. With him were his two massive hounds so running away was not an option. Still, he was a fair man. It was a first offence though, I was left in no doubt of the penalty should he catch me again.

Being placed on a charge is the soldier's, the airman's lot; it is inescapable. Sooner or later one will infringe some service law and be brought in front of one's C.O. when a charge usually follows. On a charge one reports to the guardroom in full kit which is, summer or winter, full uniform, greatcoat, large haversack at one's back. This is minutely inspected and any failing punished. It is up to the duty serjeant to find the airman a chore to do for the six hours of the charge. Extra time is added for kit failings.

Another chore is guard duty though this is not normally a charge punishment. A rota is drawn up by the administration officer whereby each airman living in barracks must serve a period of guard duty. One turns up at the guardroom and, according to the guard routine, one patrols an allocated area for two hours, returns to the guardroom whereby the next pair of airmen start their patrol while those coming off duty take four hours rest. This is repeated between six and six, ie twelve hours of a full day.

I mentioned being told off by a Warrant Officer; he turned out to be the new administration officer and things began to improve. The food offered in the canteen, for instance, which had been lack-lustre started to improve so it was worth taking the trouble to queue up. Queues formerly were non-existent as many preferred to walk to the village for a meal as many little cafes to cater for the airmen and –women were available, if only to provide food when the canteen was closed.

In the centre of the canteen a table was set up with all manner of things such as ketchup, vinegar, sugar etc. Moreover the day's dinner menu now appeared outside the canteen and there was more variety. Additional items such as coffee and tea were provided, admittedly in large urns, but it was popular even so and people no longer rushed away after dinner but could help themselves to a hot beverage. In the evening a wide range of entertainments began to be offered and the new whist drives proved to be very popular. Even bingo began to be played.

My experience of non-commissioned officers was usually positive whereas commissioned officers aside from pilots and aircrew did not treat me so well. On 'jankers' a few times my duties being confined to barracks involved reporting to either the officers' mess or the sergeants' mess. A sergeant would, on his own, invite me to join him for a pint on him whereas among officers whether alone or among many discipline was never relaxed.

My first leave home to Plymouth was in early summer and the journey was long with a few changes; first, the bus from RAF Leuchars to Dundee and the train to Glasgow where I changed for one to Manchester and finally to Plymouth. It took about 14 hours including changes. At home my Uncle Jim invited me to his new architect-built house at Elburton though somewhat removed from his mother-in-law's bungalow. He had had problems with the local council who claimed that the roof tiles clashed with the other houses. They gave him two options: change the colour or over-paint them.

He had gone to the limit of his resources in buying the land, commissioning the architect and making the move from Frobisher Terrace in Plymouth so a project that had seemed to him well within his capital, now was causing him considerable financial worry. However Aunt Hilda seemed completely blind to his concerns as she went ahead with one house-warming party after another. When I visited she had a guest, a beautiful eighteen year old girl, the daughter of her brother, Jack, at present living in the USA.

It seems my Uncle Jack had separated from his wife who had returned to England and was having difficulty finding a place suitable for her and her three children, the eldest of whom was staying with Aunt Hilda. Jacqueline, for that was her name, war bored because Elburton, being right outside Plymouth, had nothing for a spirited young woman though she clearly did not fancy going out with me, as my aunt suggested. I can hardly blame her because a facial affliction, acne, affected my face at that time and was not a pleasant sight.

My mother had by now lost her temporary job at the Dockyard and was working for a printing company which held a works party while I was there though it was not too much fun for me knowing nobody. Even the people who came across to chat with my mother did not seem to welcome conversation from me. It was difficult for her as well settling in. Most people there were aware of her status in the dockyard and many commiserated with her though others intimated she was getting her come-uppance. She had also been a trade-union convener and her new employers appeared to be treading on hot coals in their dealings with her.

So, it was with no great surprise when I got a letter from Palmers Green in London where she was the live-in housekeeper telling me that she had got permission to invite me to stay there provided no expense was incurred by the company on its behalf. Accordingly on my next leave I travelled to London. It was the year of the Festival of Britain which I visited a number of times. There were several architectural sights including the Dome, the fountains and the unforgettable Skylon, which the Tories, on winning office, pulled down in a fit of pique.

Back in Scotland the squadron had been invited to provide a display at Prestwick and many of its personnel needed to travel also to provide essential maintenance which involved the use of several trucks to transport vital equipment while the personnel themselves, us, made the sixty mile journey from the east coast to the west coast by coach. Some of our time was spent climbing into an American passenger plane, the Stratocruiser, which was luxurious compared even to first class facilities in modern passenger aircraft.

The Korean War had been underway for some months and so it was decided to sharpen up the personnel in case any of us needed to be posted to Korea although by now the Meteor was obsolete compared to the Sabres of the US Air force and the MIGs flown by North Koreans. An exercise was arranged whereby, in pairs, we were blindfolded and set down at some remote part of the surrounding countryside and told to make our way back to Leuchars by our own efforts. It was fun provided you could read a map and here I was in my element invoking my grammar school orienteering exercises. My team was first home but it won me no friends. I was beginning to wonder what I had to do to be popular. Perhaps certain people are fated to be lonely.

At last the time came to be interviewed by the Commanding Officer prior to my discharge from the RAF. My service had been lengthened to two years from the original eighteen months while I was at Yatesbury. I was obliged to hand in all my RAF gear and account for each item issued and, unlike others, had nothing to pay to make up any shortfall. The CO was away and so I was interviewed by his second-in-command an officer who told me there were two types of airmen, in his opinion, those who did their duty and the skivers. It seems my colour blindness episode still rankled among the officer class.

Still, at the admin office I was handed my rail voucher to Plymouth. I left the RAF two days later. At some time in the future my daughter asked me to identify a number on a demo screen in the Science Museum. I could not and her answer came promptly: Dad, you're colour-blind. Vindicated but not by the RAF.

Episode 32

### Civvystreet

Looking back I'm amazed at having few problems in returning to civilian life. Perhaps it's the resilience of the young though my uncles Arthur, Chris and Ross all formerly servicemen resumed their lives after demob without much trouble or so it seemed to me. I returned to J Sainsbury being sent to their branch at Wembley Park and living above the shop. It did not take long to fit myself back into the retail routine because very little had changed as regards the locations of counters. Cheese was cut with a wire as before; butter was patted into shape with a neat fretwork pattern; biscuits were sold by weight from large square tins except that exactness was no longer an absolute must as the new Tory government had quickly done away with rationing; produce such as butter and cheese being sold by weight, and, it was noticeable this was having its effect on poorer people such as pensioners.

One of the advantages of lodging above a JS branch was the guarantee of regular meals although the system of deduction from one's salary had not changed. Yet, I felt reasonably well off for my pay was well above what I'd earned in the RAF although with the disadvantage that I had to clothe myself. One benefit from service life was the acquisition of a post office account for the service had encouraged airmen to save whereby a deduction was automatically paid into one's account be it ever so small such as two shillings and sixpence which was my starting rate.

While doing my course in Yatesbury the Korean War broke out and my service was extended by six months. However the deduction from my pay to benefit my mother ceased and I put it into my savings account so that with the small gratuity from the RAF on demob I had considerable savings so had no money worries for the time being. I had sold my bicycle before I left RAF Yatesbury though now I was in an area with excellent bus and tube services so hardly needed my own means of getting around. Wembley Park station was a short distance away and tube trains took passengers via Finchley Road, Baker Street into London within twenty minutes. There were some excellent shows in the West End and JS often organized evening trips to see South Pacific, Oklahoma and other musicals.

An unforgettable experience was a London pea-souper; one looked out from the shop as buses, cars, pedestrians tried to make their way of an evening after work along streets that the fog had transformed into an impenetrable blanket. Once clear of the lighted Parade one could scarcely see one's own hands let alone know where the end of the pavement was. It was a nightmare, literally, as darkness added to the murk. In the papers there was talk of MPs preparing legislation recalling the so-called 'great stink' of the 19th century which had led directly to Bazalgette's great new sewer system in London though any laws would be also for towns in Scotland, such as Glasgow, which was also suffering catastrophic smogs. The Clean-Air Act was the result though Parliament would take its time.

One winter event which my mother was anxious to see was the pantomime on ice held at Wembley Stadium ice-rink. It was an enjoyable extravaganza and often ex Olympic stars would be engaged in the lead roles such as the Prince in Cinderella on Ice. Coaches came from as far as Scotland and seats were booked months in advance hence my mother's wish that, living next to the stadium, I was ideally placed to get tickets. On my occasional visit to Palmers Green she always was the perfect hostess.

One thing we had in common, it seemed, was socialism in that each of us believed that the way forward for the British working class was a labour government. She had experienced the hard times of the thirties and she spoke bitterly of the visits by National Assistance officers who warned householders to sell precious jewelry such as wedding rings before they would be considered for payment of a few pounds.

For some reason she was bitterly anti-American. When the US concluded a favourable peace treaty with their former enemy, Japan, she was critical and would hear no counter argument from me that the harsh treaty imposed on Germany had led to WW2 so that perhaps it was time for a new kind of politics. American resistance to the North Koreans led her to an argument strangely reminiscent of recent events that you could bet your life that oil would soon be found in Korea.

In June JS hired the Kodak sports ground in Harrow for the company sports day and I remember it particularly for the appearance of an up-and-coming young film hopeful from the J Arthur Rank studios who was to pick the raffle winners. I peered over a large crowd of teenage girls who crowded around the star, Harry Fowler, as he sat at table busily signing autographs.

Despite these activities working life was beginning to pall. In the RAF I hd learned a craft however un-useful it was as a civilian but I ached for a challenge which JS did not provide. So, I scanned the local paper for another situation and went for an interview at the General Electric Company whose offices and factory were sited at North Wembley. My potential boss and I took to each other at once and I looked forward to my new position as an assistant buyer for electronic components. I would need to find accommodation and now the Patricks came to my help and so, after giving a week's notice to Sainsbury's, I started work at GEC on one Monday morning.

The work consisted of looking after part of an order book which was organized between A to Z. My boss who was also my interviewer was a much older man, single, who lived with his sister and was passionately interested in photography showing me his latest acquisition with some pride; it was an East German Werra camera which had the unique property of changing speeds according to how it was held in the hand.

One had to be conversant in writing to suppliers using a form of address which I found to be strange, if not quaint, though I quickly memorised the stock phrases, such as 'yours of the xxnst', 'yours of the nnth ultimo', 'be assured, I remain etc'. There was much telephone usage as I came to grips with promises and/or excuses from staff employed by suppliers from the UK and occasionally abroad.

Occasionally a supply of a component depended on an item to be delivered by GEC which had a plating shop, handling bulk items received for dispatch, so that I was obliged to progress an order through. Frustratingly there'd be an item, say castings waiting to be plated, stuck in a corridor and I'd approach the charge-hand with a view to moving them to the correct section and be assailed by complaints, 'what's in it for me?' or 'I don't get paid for it' or 'tomorrow' which turns out to be never. Consequently an order to GEC might be held up.

I would compare my experience at GEC (and other companies) to my time in West Germany six years later and not be surprised at its economic miracle, as Britain, rather some of its workers, on the basis of my own experience, did not deserve recovery, let alone a miracle.

One day I was exploring the extent of the company grounds when I was hailed by someone sitting on the steps of a GEC sister company, Osram, across the way, and soon I was in conversation with a black gentleman who was an Osram employee. He had qualifications and might have been more suitably employed at the GEC research unit on the other side of the factory. Yet, he was not complaining and happy to have congenial employment though it seemed far beneath his potential. One comment to me later made by a colleague was: "If you want to get ahead here don't be seen talking to them."

However my pleas for this chap fell on deaf ears from Peggy whose view was they should all be shipped back from whence they had come. Her view was not particularly outrageous as it was a common sight to see signs outside lodging houses, such as, 'no blacks' or 'no Irish'. Whilst in the RAF, I had come across a few former colonial airmen eg from Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), Fiji and other places in the British Empire. At GEC I was getting hints wherever I went in the factory that defending such people would not improve my promotion prospects.

My relations with May and Peggy were becoming somewhat strained especially on overhearing one particular comment. It seems romance was the gist of it and I viewed that prospect as ridiculous. Roy, on the other hand was ever the charming host and though his stories of WW1 experiences were beginning to pall I was glad to engage him in conversation. But, first my mother was due to call to present me with a 21st birthday gift, a lighter as I had begun to resume smoking if only to enjoy a fag with Roy as we retired to his little shed in the garden where we could chat in peace.

He even looked out for small ads in the local newspaper after my confiding to him my plan to move out. Transferring to a lodging in Wembley itself would cost more in rent but the other lodgers proved very congenial especially a middle-aged gentleman whose advice to me I can still remember: "Never bother to learn things which can be looked up in an encyclopaedia."

Soon after moving in, I joined the senior clerk's organised trip to attend the Farnborough Airshow. It proved to be a shattering experience. I was one of a several thousand crowd watching pilot, John Derry make several passes across the airfield breaking the sound barrier. He was to finish off with a level flight from my left reaching a spot about two miles distant when his experimental twin engine plane, the DH110, made a tight turn and to my horror seemed to hover: then it collapsed. I watched as the fuselage, wings, twin boom etc just fell to earth. Meanwhile I watched a black spot come hurtling in my direction. It was an engine though it passed overhead. It was close enough for me to recognize individual components as the plane was similar to the twin-boom Vampire jets I had helped to service at RAF Leuchars in Scotland.

My eyes swivelled to watch it but it soon passed out of my view. An announcer boomed out that rescue vehicles were on the way to the crash site and he assured the crowd everything was under control and the show carried on though it was not too long before most people started to feel unnerved and wanted to get home. I left without knowing the full impact of what had happened. It seems that the single engine lost to my view crashed on a hillock some two miles beyond me and killed thirty people. The other engine fell in a car-park and although vehicles were destroyed, nobody was hurt. Derry, it turned out, became, it seems, unconscious from the G force he experienced at the tight turn together with his co-pilot and so died in the crash, probably without recovering consciousness.

I wrote a poem of the crash years later so potent was the memory though it is now lost to posterity. Still, it was a talking point not least in the national press and like most of my contemporaries one could only giggle at the conspiracy theories surfacing. Such manoeuvers by pilots at future air displays were curtailed so that was the last time I heard the sound barrier being broken.

I mentioned earlier about my moving out of the Patricks' home in Sudbury to digs in a road just behind Wembley High Street. It was run by an ex military man and his wife whom I rarely saw as she worked away in the kitchen and passed items through a serving hatch to be picked up either by her husband or by one of us, their lodgers. Naturally after my air-show experience I was full of it explaining things to a fellow lodger. The military man made no comment except to mutter to my fellow lodger that "he should get a taste of the trenches then he would know what's what".

My cousin with four experience in the trenches never made such a scathing comment to me. One tolerated the military man and his quirkiness but it was his dog which proved a pest to each of us lodgers getting among our legs under the table or lying on the carpet in the hall so that without lights it was difficult to see him. But his worst habit was to jump into an armchair before us whereby his master, were he present, would order him down otherwise he would growl. It was only a nuisance if one would have preferred to sit there, the other easy chair being occupied.

I was on my own one evening having had supper and was sitting in an easy chair reading my newspaper and suddenly decided to get up and stepped on something. There was a horrendous whining bringing the military man into the room who glared daggers at me; it was time to look for other digs. But, like the proverb, I escaped the frying pan only to leap into the fire. The previous lodger of my next digs was an insurance man who 'was always out'. This suited my landlady and her husband and son because there was just the one bathroom.

After a few weeks I got tired of my landlady complaining that I was always in the bathroom even though being out during the day at GEC and occasionally in the evening, my use of the bathroom involved normal ablutions. So, I was soon looking for new digs. It was not too difficult as the Wembley Observer, the local newspaper, had many columns of accommodation offers. It was third time lucky for my new landlady's only flaw was her over-generous nature. She was forever helping out her neighbours with sugar, tea etc while getting very little, it seemed to me, in return although she never complained herself. She just liked people.

But, her favourite occupation was small bets on horses for it seems her neighbour was a bookie's runner. Apart from the big events such as the Derby or the Grand National, it did not appeal to me especially viewing my landlady's profit (miniscule) and loss (large) account. She always described my contribution to her budget as 'pin money' and never short-changed me in providing me with breakfast and board, and, since I was her only lodger, I imagined she also received a pension.

It was during my stay with her that Elizabeth IIs coronation took place and I travelled to the West-End to stay up all night and find a place in the throng to watch the procession. Whilst sheltering from the pouring rain in Piccadilly Circus I heard an item of good news, circulating like a burning gunpowder trail, that a team of British climbers, led by Colonel Hunt and his Sherpa guide, had reached the summit of Mount Everest. By six o'clock, perhaps earlier, and fortified by my landlady's sandwich pack, I found myself in Lower Regent Street among a party of young German tourists who seemed as keen as us natives to watch the procession.

Two years of service life had unsettled me to the extent I felt restless and chafed over my future prospects as soon as I began to settle into a routine, and, spotting an advertisement on the staff notice board, I read it with interest. It was a clerical job at the research institute wing of GEC, less than 200 yards from my present workplace. I should have, on subsequent reflection, approached my present boss and asked him to give me his support. In the event I rang the research centre up and made an appointment. To my amazement I was asked to be at North Wembley station where a taxi would collect me.

At the appointed time the taxi duly delivered me to the research centre gates where I was met by a gentleman and shown into a very smart paneled office. Things did not seem right somehow but I reflected this was not the factory and raised no queries with my interviewer until he started talking about klystrons when I made an interruption. What I said is lost to me but it was sufficient for him to ask to confirm my name. It seemed he expected a gentleman whose name was spelt with a 'c' and not an 's', as in my case.

One of the last things I recall of working at GEC was being shouted at from news stands outside the gates of the company towards North Wembley station; it was, "Death of Stalin! Death of Stalin! Read all about it!" That was good news.

Rarely did I follow the crowd of commuters onto the platform for it was my custom to walk past across the hump back bridge towards a parade of shops which also included a modest café and there order my usual evening meal from their limited but wholesome menu. Probably I was losing weight for I got an untoward comment of looking rather haggard from time to time. Female company had been absent from my life for some months and I was to get a shock one evening after work when the woman to whom I had given the proverbial second glance happened to be in the café although with one of my colleagues whom I knew to be married.

One day in Wembley High Street a notice outside the Labour Exchange caught my attention. It was a large poster calling for volunteers to work on British farms and I learned that, being single and with no connections, they would like to send me to their Leicester office where I'd be provided with accommodation and soon after placed on a farm to help out the local farmer as post-war labour shortages were still acute. Apart from curiosity from colleagues there was a feeling of rather you than me as I said my farewells at GEC.

Episode 33

### Farmhand

Being in the wrong place at the wrong time is something one comes to live with. It's happens all the time. The government scheme to which I had signed up to was not always skilful at fitting a round peg into a round hole. So, it proved with me on that occasion in Spring 1954 when I turned up at their office in Market Harborough. My host ran through his card index looking for possible places where I might be useful and found exactly the opposite for it seems that although the farmer wanted a helper ie someone useful to him at his place of work, his farm.

This chap occupied a tied cottage in the countryside near to his place of work, namely the countryside, living there with his wife and two children and was completely bemused when an official arrived at his door with me wanting him to not only provide accommodation but also to learn the ropes of farming practice, or, whatever duties he had in mind. Grumbles ensued while the official argued with him saying that Farmer Jones, his employer, had agreed to it so 'what was the problem?'

It was me who would suffer for it was clear from the start that he wanted shot of me, and soon. Accordingly the following morning after breakfast he walks me to a stable and silently hitches up a pair of shire horses which he leads towards a field planted with young seedlings at the edge of which he places an iron frame fitted with spikes pointed downwards, a harrow. He hitches the team up and telling me to listen carefully he orders the team to walk straight down the width of the field whereby the spikes harrow the earth by turning it over; they would lift the earth and weeds which would later be collected, by hand.

Then he leaves me promising to be back. What he should have done was to remain whilst I performed the task so that he could rectify my faults. The upshot was just as he had expected: the team drifted over slightly on each turn causing the harrow to run over the seedlings whereupon at his return he muttered: "That's no bloody use to me!" Instead of 'That' he might have more accurately said: "You". In the event, he sent me back to his house where his wife had my case all prepared and ready for me to leave; she said as it to comfort me: "It'll give you time to get a place to stay." She told me the name of the inn to book a room and duly phoned the office where I'd reported that morning to let them know where I would be.

It was a mileor so to that inn but it was fortunately dry, even sunny. What I did appreciate was the official calling promptly at the inn by car; he apologised profusely for the misunderstanding and begged me not to judge my experience as the normal state of affairs. He was as good as his word for he took me to a hostel and once I had settled in, introduced me later to another farmer at whose farm I would start the next day. She was a woman of around fifty and ran a mixed farm of around a hundred acres with a small herd of cattle, an egg packing centre for her own eggs, several fields of wheat, potatoes and other crops.

Starting at 7am, at first I cleaned out the pig sty, replenished their trough with feed and refilled a separate one with water. Thence to a chicken run to do the same following which I swept the barn helping the cowman to lug several sacks of cattle feed to replenish the troughs in the milking stables. By that time the cowman had finished milking and I would help him drive the cows back to the field and return to hose down and scrub the yard. This was a daily routine with a short break mid-morning and midday break around half past twelve.

The afternoon would be spent in the paddock where I'd come under the male farm manager who might direct me to helping an old codger mend walls and fences or to a field of potatoes to pick up weeds. Should he not have anything for me then I'd report to the egg packing station where, for example, eggs had a light shone through them for a reason I cannot remember. After work I would walk to the main road where at an agreed place a special bus would pick me up and bring me back to the hostel. It was good getting into a routine for I felt I was doing something useful.

It got much more hectic with the onset of summer and haymaking when I, along with several others, would follow the tractor scything the hay forking the cut hay into a wagon using a two pronged tool called a pitch-fork. Worse was to follow in the succeeding days and weeks when I would stand atop a hay stack and remove hay from a conveyor belt. It was inexorable. One couldn't stop for a fraction or the hay would bury you as the people placing the hay were often out of sight, and, because of the noise of the machinery, out of earshot.

More enjoyable, if equally back-breaking, was following the tractor scything wheat when the corn sheaves would be gathered into so-called stooks. Later they too would be pitched into a wagon following on behind. On another day and in a much larger field a combine-harvester would process the sheaves of wheat so that the grains would be shaken from the stalk and fed into a separate hopper; the husks along with the stalks would be discarded at the rear to be collected by a farmhand and put into another wagon.

In a quiet period, for instance while awaiting the harvester to arrive, one was allowed to take a leave entitlement. I travelled to London and stayed at a bed-breakfast in Kings Cross asking the landlady why people, especially in the tube, stared at me. Her response was that my skin looked like one who had just returned from Egypt or some other sunny clime. Looking day-by-day in the mirror I had not noticed the change but in comparison with people spending their time indoors my skin was deeply tanned.

Although my pay was a pittance there was so very little to spend it on as there was no entertainment in the vicinity; moreover, buses to towns, let alone villages, were few and far between, so that one ventured forth only on Saturdays. I had taken up with a young Canadian and we travelled to Nottingham to visit the cinema or go to a summer concert. He was a handsome man and attracted girls easily and once two girls hung on his company for they wanted nothing to do with me. Terry said to them something along the lines of: the thing is girls my mate (me) has my return fare, hoping thereby to steer one towards me but neither took the hint.

So I said to Terry, here is some money so you can return when you like, and, was about to leave when one of the girls said, and what about us! I had no answer to that and bade Terry farewell and soon returned to the hostel not wanting to bump into them again by accident.

Another lad to whom girls were attracted was a young man who worked on the farm with me as some kind of farm apprentice. He was a quick learner and was even allowed to drive the farmer's precious Ferguson tractor though I suspected he was not yet seventeen. He loved square dancing inviting me to join him in town which was Grantham but it was awkward for me to reach it and return. It was a pity as his girl friend had a friend with whom I got on with rather well.

However my pay did not really stretch to taking girls out as in those days 'going Dutch' was fine in theory but did not work out in practice. What I needed was a motorcycle and, prior to leaving GEC, I was contemplating buying one on the hire-purchase but the move north put paid to that. It would have come in very handy at this time. But, how could I keep up the payments on £3 a week?

I still had some savings to be eked out which would have seen them drop more quickly though even then I felt myself to be in a better position than the cowman, Tom, whose plight was revealed one day talking about his new TV. He was telling Ian and me about his new TV and that he preferred the 12¨ to the 17" and Ian looked at me as if to say it's all very well making a virtue out of necessity, but that's ridiculous. The truth is on a cowman's wages of £7 pw that was all Tom could afford.

Another conversation sprang to mind years later when the BSE crisis was upon us. I was sitting in the barn eating my sandwiches when the owner entered excusing herself for the intrusion. She was with a sales rep. and was complaining about the expensive cattle feed as against the pig feed and the rep responded by saying there were different standards applied owing to the cow being a ruminant whereas the pig ate anything.

These essential controls and standards however came at a cost which the Tory government wanted to lower and did so. However these controls had been introduced with good reasons and lowering them ushered in a period of free-for-all. Applied to cattle feed the loss of controls proved disastrous, and the result, BSE.

One of my worst jobs in the summer months was being given a scythe and told to cut down certain plants in the fields which tended to multiply in the summer. It was hot, wearisome and boring with nobody to talk to. One of the worst was thistles which grew to a tremendous height if left unchecked and there were thousands. Pay attention to the hedges said the manager and just to rub in my discomfort told me often colonies of wasps made their nest behind clumps of thistles. In the event there was a lot of insect activity including wasps though it was the flies attracted to my perspiring neck which were the most bothersome, but no nests of wasps.

On my return to the hostel one afternoon the notice board was attracting some attention. It seems that owing to dwindling numbers of men it was thought not worth- while to maintain the hostel and that it would close by some date in September. It was true that by this time there were only five of us left from the dozen or so in the Spring and on the morrow I told them on the farm about the closure asking for the next day off so that I could travel to Nottingham to find both a job and accommodation.

It was not too difficult and I was taken on as a petrol pump attendant at a garage in the City provided my references from previous employers were in order. The ministry official advanced me ten pounds, in addition to a month's earnings, in lieu of a return ticket to London when I told him I had nowhere to live. Soon enough in Nottingham I was learning the ropes from an Esso rep who was able to stay around for a day or two to show me the ropes.

While at the filling station Terry showed up and I saw why he had asked me for a forwarding address as he told me he wanted to return to his home in Leeds and needed a fiver which I gave him and we parted never to see each other again. I liked my new job deciding to stay in the City over Christmas and the New Year which were lonely but I liked to be part of a large city once again. Unlike Plymouth it had not been a particular target by the Luftwaffe and the beautiful centre was intact with its wonderful gardens for strolling of an evening even in the cooler months.

Snow and ice caused me problems as my digs were atop a steep hill and I conceived the idea of getting strips of inner tube punctured with studs to wrap around my shoes but the idea was still-born for as soon as I had prepared the strips, so the snow and ice disappeared, never to return.

Life was sweet, too sweet, for disaster was around the corner in the form of a dear, little old lady (at the time, she was anything but dear). She owned an Austin 7 and always needed oil on account of the engine cylinders being ovoid so drawing up oil into the combustion chamber. I found this out later as a motor mechanic. I would open the bonnet and remove the oil cap and insert a funnel and pour a quart of oil which would take an age to drop into the sump being bunged up with gunge.

One day a diesel driver parked his truck opposite and seeing the oil in the funnel was not sinking apace, I nipped over to fill the diesel tank with fuel. He signed for the diesel and off he went. Returning to the slow funnel I put more oil in turning to the lady so as to take her money, in the meantime. She was not there. As I closed the oil cap and the bonnet she appeared waving her finger at me and talking rather angrily about taking one's turn. I've told the manager so that's the last time you will insult me, were her parting words on being given her change.

The manager simply confirmed that afternoon what the lady had said and I was fired. Unfair it might have been but that's the way of the world. I could see no point in remaining in Nottingham and within days was on a train to London to visit my mother at Palmers Green. My mother was the very opposite to the person who had shared the Manse at Tavistock Place in Plymouth with her mother. Following the solicitor's death in Teignmout whom she had kept house for she wrote to me when I was living in Wembley.

I promised to meet her at Paddington Station and then I accompanied her to Blackfriars for an interview with Sainsbury's for the position of house-keeper. A week later I saw her installed at Palmer's Green. At some time I had given her a radio that I had assembled from a kit supplied by Practical Wireless, a monthly magazine for radio enthusiasts. It was a two valve superhet though the magazine had run out of cases so I was given a substantial discount. It was safe as the transformer was covered by a plastic lid and the metal chassis was also fixed onto a plastic base.

Her attitude towards me had been completely transformed because perhaps I was in a position to assist her in finding our way around London using both bus and the underground. On the following day I took a train from Paddington to Plymouth arriving at Tavistock Place much to the surprise of grandma but also of a new lodger. It was my Uncle Jack, returned from the USA.

Episode 34

### Labourer

It did not take me too long to realise that my uncle was very ill which I later found out to be Parkinsons Disease for which there was no cure. He recited a tale of woe centreing on his wife who on the onset of the condition took ship with their daughters back to England where they set up home in Gloucester, near to her brothers-in-law, Chris, Ross and Arthur who had found employment postwar in the aircraft industry given a new lease of life by the outbreak of the Korean War.

Notwithstanding his affliction he proved a formidable debater, as had been foretold by my mother who was no mean debater herself. It seems he had taken part in a live radio show called the $64,000 Question in New York which involved answering a question for which one got $5 dollars, and if successful, and one wanted to carry on, the next question might be for $100 and so on until one hit the top prize. Like a politician he avoided my direct question: how much he won! After all I might be a lobbyist for his wife..

Gran was pleased with my presence as she was not getting any younger and her son though not needing any care nonetheless had problems in moving around so he could not help her with household chores had he been so inclined. Watching him shave was painful for his every movement was slow and jerky and an operation which might take me ten minutes was lengthened by him to half-an-hour. Still he had time, and, as he said, needed to keep no appointments.

However he had no financial worries as until his illness my uncle had worked for an American insurance company which made generous provision for its employees including a generous severance payment and a steady income, thereafter. My gran, of course, had the pensions of a bereaved widow, a low rent and seemed to have no money problems. But I hated accepting her hospitality and soon visited the labour exchange which sent me to a food processing factory where I started work the following Monday.

It was a shock being obliged to wear clogs. It was like something from the 19th century. The job involved processing food such as the stomach of cows which was cut up by machines when workers would hygienically place chunks of it into tins; a further process squirted a white sauce into the same tin; it was automatically closed with a metal top and a label stuck around it as: Tripe sauce and onions.

Another process in another room put a doughy mixture into tins as they went round on a conveyer belt which pushed the tins towards an oven. This took time and the result had to cool before a label was applied. It was then that the tins were vulnerable to a spot of pilfering especially when break-times intervened. This concoction sold as 'Spotted Dick' to HM Forces. It and the tripe was delicious.

In the breaks early on I was bombarded with questions as to why I was there as my accent betrayed me as a non-Plymothian and unwisely I shot a line that I was resting after a motoring accident and got my come-uppance when the foreman asked me to drive the van owing to sickness. I had to admit that I had no licence and had not even passed the test.

The work became tedious and I was making regular trips to the labour exchange to look out for a more congenial job and a poster caught my eye. It offered a skilled trade to anybody who was disabled. I applied citing my useless left eye as my disablement though it had not stopped me serving in the RAF. Nonetheless the panel considered my application had merit provided that I applied for a disablement endorsement on my employment record. There was a course starting soon in Bristol at the Motor Vehicle Training School. By now, I think, the year would be 1952.

I sat in the train steaming slowly out of North Road and looked upwards at a high window and watched as a factory employee mixed enormous steel tureens which I knew contained the mixture for black pudding and felt pleased I was away from that steamy atmosphere. My eye caught the face of an attractive woman and I smiled at her which was reciprocated and in a tunnel a few miles further on, I leaned over and touched her inviting her to sit next to me.

It was my first female company for a long time and I rather forced the pace though she did not demur when in the many tunnels ahead we kissed, tongue to tongue. That was my undoing for regardless of the other passengers who included three servicemen my love-making became over-ardent. I heard a humorous comment and that should have been a warning for me to desist if only for the feelings of my companion who appeared bemused rather than shocked.

By the time Bristol was reached I was feeling rather ashamed of myself and hardly heeded what she told me as to where she lived. My destination was a suburb of Bristol called Fishponds where I was to board with a family on a council estate. It was quite close to the training centre. At 9 o'clock the trainee mechanics were due to start and it was evident that there were no disabled people apart from myself and I recalled the other offer in the poster that it was mainly for people who had never had any training on leaving school which would have excluded me so I had concentrated on the second offer, for disabled people.

One chap present seemed to have everything going for him: He was of average height and handsome with dark curly hair, and, best of all for pulling the girls he had a battered Mercedes sports saloon. Had he really lost out on training? At the other end of the scale was this huge Irishman who, in my opinion, had, if not a disability, a handicap in that he was a devout Catholic not failing to go to Mass of a Sunday morning. I teased him no end and he could have squeezed me to death such was his strength; instead he just smiled as if to intimate that a heathen was unlikely to enter the kingdom of heaven whilst he had a pass key.

It was however the people with whom I boarded that I found somewhat singular. The household comprised an older man, his wife and their only son although there was a young woman, his fiance, who, a perennial visitor, made it a family of four, the ideal combination according to sociologists. The lad of about fifteen was an apprentice at Parsons, the firm founded by the man who had invented the turbine. The young man of 17 years + seemed to have no interest in anything except dogs, or greyhounds, which they all followed. So, there was no meeting of minds with their lodger, me.

Decades later I learned more about Sir Charles Parsons who succeeded where Europeans, American and others failed: to develop an engine that could run at a minimum of 3,000 rpm so as to generate electricity. Sadly he lost his son in WWI and refused to entrust his firm to his daughter who was very capable and it lost out to Siemans of Germany which proceeded ruthlessly to expunge the name of Parsons from posterity even persuading the Science Museum of London not to devote a room to the Englishman whose turbine is the prototype for 75% of the world's electricity. Sadly our own government seems also not to care.

Occasionally when both father and son were absent and I had arrived home before them she would make me a tea and whilst I drank it would rabbit on about her son and his future prospects when he wed his Sheila. Try as I might to change to something beyond the family such as world politics, she would always return to David and what she was going to do for the wedding. I had never before encountered such a single theme person and my smiles became very thin as her chatter went on. Once I did manage to change the theme to that of their piano. Who played it and why was it in their drawing room? She invited me to practise scales though regretted it when my 'music' was not exactly pleasant to hear asking me, a few weeks later, to stop as the men found it distracting.

Our teacher at the Vehicle Training Centre was a middle-aged man with a bushy moustache who was always very courteous and patient with his students. Yet I think he was quite content with our progress. I overheard him praising my welding skills to a colleague who gave lectures on specialised topics. Once after completing an exercise which involved a combination of sawing, filing, drilling etc he studied my piece of metal as though it was something unique and I had the curious feeling of wanting to hug him which I managed to resist. Such was the respect one felt for him and I think most of us appreciated that any new found skill that one had imbibed was down to him. It proved to be a very good course.

Sadly I failed my driving test. The course which the test had finalised was free and any more driving lessons to bring me up to scratch were down to me. It seems the examiner found me too hesitant which caused me to flunk the second test, but, after some impatient gestures from yet another examiner he endorsed my application favourably with the injunction to be more decisive. Judge the situation, tell other road users clearly your intentions – then, proceed. Looking back over my driving lessons I cannot remember any better advice.

The course included some time spent with a garage whose manager was used to students helping his mechanics out though never trusting me with any real job such as decoking an engine. I spent my days at the garage in a pit being shown the greasing points of different cars, where oil should be added if needed and various superficial tasks of that kind. For the first time I came across a curious Bristol way of talking where 'you' was replaced by 'thou' or, if in the accusative case, by 'thee'.

On completing the course I was obliged to move away from my subsidised digs and my next digs were on another council estate whose houses were from an older, possibly pre-war era. A widow ran the place and I shared the accommodation with an older man whose car was from another era; it was a Lanchester which he tended lovingly, even removing its complex gearbox with its concentric wheels and stripping it so that cogs and gear wheels littered his room to the consternation of the widow but she tolerated it as he had been a lodger for years.

The whole estate was fitted with a so-called Rediffusion system of cables which provided piped radio and even the programmes of the early BBC TV stations. My new workplace was the same garage where I had spent some time as a trainee though much of my working day was spent in the pit looking up towards greasing points though occasionally draining oil from sumps and replenishing it with fresh oil and I began to learn about the various different manufacturers, such as Duckhams, Castrol and some others. There was also a special oil called Redex which, so the maker claimed, boosted the performance of an engine, especially an old one.

Since there was some distance between my digs and my place of work, I looked round for a cheap means of transport. This turned out to be an older and robust roadster bicycle to which I fitted a 100cc Power-Pak, which was the proprietary name of a little motor fixed atop a normal cycle wheel. The Power-Pak's drive was communicated to the tyre of the bike by a cammed wheel and on the move one could cycle along at around twenty mph.

I was so pleased with the performance of the Power-Pak that one weekend I took the high-road out of Bristol heading for Plymouth hoping that my gran could put me up for the weekend. It was a gruelling trip made less congenial by driving rain on my return, on Sunday evening. My fellow lodger was enthusiastic in praising me, and, basking in the after-glow of his and others' esteem, I made plans for even more ambitious journeys. But, something more pressing must first be done.

Episode 35

### Student

It became necessary for me to look for new digs because the council had found out their tenant was renting without their say-so. This form of earning extra from council house tenants continued long into the 21st C when my Watford MP implemented a Private Member's bill prohibiting the practice. Back in Bristol I scanned the local rag for some possible accommodation and I must now record what I recall as something rather shabby on my part. From the evening paper small ads I had highlighted two or three likely digs and duly turned up at the first address to examine the accommodation. It was a young woman with her small child who had a room but who could not provide breakfast; still, I decided to take it and offered a deposit which she refused. I should have rung the second address and cancelled it.

But, I did not, and soon I was being interviewed by an older woman who was evidently German; she offered to provide me accommodation plus breakfast. I was captivated by her personality and by her family. He was an ex serjeant in the British Army and I accepted insisting on a deposit to secure the deal which, of course, meant reneging on the previous agreement. It has ever been a shameful memory, even six decades later.

Soon after, I took a job as a driver behind the wheel of a breakdown car. It was a former taxi of an ancient vintage with a crash gearbox and I had to learn how to double declutch in order to drive it. My first job was going to the rescue of a Ford Prefect, which had broken down some miles away. I asked the driver, once I had fixed the tow-rope to his bumper, to release the hand-brake and not to reapply it, but I had overlooked the situation where he might run into me downhill. I moved forward quicker than the Prefect driver could release the handbrake with the result that my vehicle pulled the bumper clean off his car. Putting the bumper onto the rear seat of the taxi, I reconnected the tow-rope to the stanchions holding the bumper to the chassis (where it should have been in the first place). On returning to the garage, I was fired by the garage owner, on the spot.

Everyone agreed it was bad luck. Indeed at the garage where I applied for my next job, there was laughter as well as commiseration and I was engaged as a trainee mechanic. The garage was just off the central square in Bristol near the docks and I had to take a bus from Fishponds each day but I was so proud of my mechanic's boiler suit and would wear it even in the street, greasy as it was.

My first job was a decoke of an Austin 7. It proved to be a long and laborious process though, as I later discovered, nobody was waiting for it. It had been salvaged from a scrap car and had been around for yonks. Other jobs were cleaning sparking plugs by placing their business ends under a sand-blaster which was fitted with a nozzle delivering a jet of sand. Goggles had to be worn and it was a job for trainees as one had to be sure to remove any trace of sand from inside the plug by poking inside with a piece of wire-wool, lest sand grains damage the engine. Just around the time I started at Bryan Bros (the name of the garage), a new kind of moped began to appear on Bristol roads. It was the NSU Quickly which had beautiful lines fully demonstrating the genius of the country exporting it. Britain had nothing comparable and my Power-Pak looked distinctly grotty, by comparison.

Yet, I was actually contemplating a trip to Germany though an awful lot had to happen before that could take place. An important errand was a trip to London to collect my passport at Petty France, South Kensington. It could have been sent to the Bristol Labour Exchange where I had applied for a passport but it was a case of, 'two birds with one stone'. In the event I went by train. It was memorable not for my passport but for going to see a play which six decades later would still be playing to full houses, namely, The Mousetrap.

I could not have predicted that my youngest son would opt for such a visit, together with his parents and siblings, as a 21st birthday treat. By then I had forgotten the plot so was in doubt as to the murderer's identity up to the last act, in line with most of us. At the time of my first visit I had not even met the woman who would become my wife and would not do so for some years.

Back to my working life with Bryan Bros: up to the year 1954 cars had been in short supply as British factories geared up to supply the export market to earn the dollars to pay the huge debts racked up by five years of war. Slowly things were picking up and new cars became more plentiful even for the home market and accordingly the company decided to open up part of their building dedicating it to receiving the new cars from Ford of Dagenham checking them over and moreover providing a showroom for potential customers although that last provision was unlike most showrooms: it had been a former stables.

The only space to spare was the top floor of the multi-floor stables, all in wood, and on three levels. Had an incendiary from the Luftwaffe strayed the whole shebang would have burnt to the ground in minutes as the timber was at least a century old and as dry as tinder. Moreover it needed some expertise to climb to the top floor by means of ramps and the company did not trust drivers arriving from Dagenham with pristine new Prefects, Cortinas, Zephyrs and, not to forget, the ever-popular, Popular, despite its dated appearance.

The man entrusted to handle all new cars became so skilful that, whereas a normal driver might take a couple of minutes, Lesley barely took 20 seconds from top to bottom, to the inner courtyard, to bring a car for a demonstration run, or, to hand it over for a wash, and, while at first one could only goggle at his expertise, he carried it out so often and with such aplomb that it was taken for granted.

Management also placed a good mechanic to help Lesley and someone to put number plates on, to check oil and water, to clean and polish the paintwork and glasswork besides attaching the licence-holder to the windscreen; that someone was me though in fitting the licence-holder an idea occurred to me.

The standard company holder was a round affair the rim of which had been applied with a dry glue which when heated with a lighted match became sticky. At that point one pasted it to the passenger-side of the windscreen. I conceived of a licence holder made up of two polythene circles, one of which would have two slits to take the circular licence. Patenting would be expensive so I registered the product and set up a company I called Asterisk Products.

There was a local company to whom I supplied a roll of polythene who cut a thousand pairs of polythene circles, a thousand of which I supplied to a pattern maker. He returned circles punched with four small holes, each two joined by a slit. A local branch of John Dickinson supplied a printed roundlet of paper with instructions, the whole assembly to fit into a small plastic envelope. It had cost me about £150 and I was intending to market them for 4 shillings each initially.

Sadly the hardest part proved to be selling the idea to garages, very reluctant garages. One proprietor took my plastic roundlet with the slits and tore it apart saying the average customer would end up doing just that. I did manage to market a few but it was an uphill struggle. One day I happened to pass a Bristol University building which was advertising evening courses in French, Italian, Spanish and German; I thought it might be a good idea seeing as my landlady had arrived from Frankfurt just after the war with her husband, my ex-serjeant landlord.

The Bristol Uni German tutor prescribed a Teach Yourself book and having bought one I proceeded to study it avidly even out of class held one day a week. Anita, my landlady, proved helpful in pronunciation. Soon she was talking of introducing me by letter to one of her relations in Frankfurt am Main, Germany once my knowledge was of a suitable standard. However I demurred telling her that on my pay of £8-5 bob the idea was not feasible. Suddenly from another corner of the living room, a couch where one could have a nap, a voice interjected saying that he might be able to help me. It seems he had met up with another ex-Army sergeant with whom he would meet up with to chew over old times in the North African Desert and elsewhere. He advised me to call in at the employment centre one day; his firm proved to be the Avonmouth Smelting Corporation. The employment officer recommended the position of Sampler though at present there were no vacancies though he would employ me as a labourer until a Sampler vacancy arose.

Handling a pick-axe and a spade proved no problem though when the foreman handed me a pneumatic drill I hesitated. Quick as a flash another 'starter' asked the charge-hand if he could have a 'go'. He was a burly fellow and the foreman told me to pass the drill to him: he was a natural. Our main task as labourers was to prepare the ground for installations and the foreman would hand the charge-hand a blue draughting chart of the proposed site. Soon after an Estimating Clerk would visit the site and ask the charge-hand to provide him with precise details of the work to be done.

The clerk would jot down this data which he would use to calculate the duration of the job based upon previous and similar jobs. Once I overheard the charge-hand's conversation and later I queried his instructions to the gang. He smiled and tapped his nose in conspiratorial fashion. A fellow worker told me I would notice the difference in my pay packet between what the charge-hand's data and the work actually carried out. That difference being half-a -foot not excavated. However such fiddles were left behind when the foreman told me to report to the laboratory where I would take up my position as a Sampler.

It seems it could be a hazardous job if one failed to observe the rules. For instance when a long line of rail trucks entered the company's grounds each had to pass over a weighing-scale. When it stopped a traffic-light would show green. That was the moment to board the truck; many were old and battered with sharp edges and in the rain the wagon could be slippery. Another hazard occurred when the railway lines curved around a corner and the traffic-light vanished from view. In those circumstances the Sampler should approach the weigh-scale and wait for the light to turn green. The previous Sampler failed to do that and lost his balance when the line of wagons moved while he was climbing onto one. He ended up in hospital.

I was determined to avoid such a fate and my caution paid off. By my 3rd month at Avonmouth my take-home reached £20 after tax ie two and a half times my pay as a car mechanic. So, I opened a bank account with the company: my aim to save £200 before booking my return ticket to Frankfurt; it had to be a return Anita advised me because casual residency in Germany was not permitted.

In between times I decided to take a touring holiday on the Continent riding my Power-Pak and booking my accommodation as and when I arrived in a town or village. My final destination was Bonn, the capital of West-Germany, where I would stay a couple of days, the remainder of the week being taken up with travelling around and overnight accommodation. My first leg would be to reach Dover for the cross channel ferry to Calais and from there o proceed towards Ostend staying there the second night. Unknown to me a really boring road stretched in front of me comprising huge slabs of concrete placed end to end. Each slab was separated from the next by a gap for expansion so that my poor rear wheel suffered bridging this gap so I was forced to slow down. At the end of the motorway was a queue, the like of which I had not experienced before, which took hours off my schedule.

It was dark by the time I found myself a lodging in a Belgian village. Despite my dishevilled appearance the innkeeper flashed me a look af anger when I began to engage his daughter in conversation using a mix of my poor French and her friendly English. Angry stares were my lot each time she, as waitress, exchanged plates or brought coffee. There was too little trade so my table got the most attention; that combined with the way his mind worked soon got under my skin so I paid up for both the room and the meal then and there rather than wait till morning telling him of my planned early start.

My most amusing incidents occurred in Bonn as young men on their mopeds eyed up my contraption having a hearty giggle as we stopped at traffic-lights. Making for the rail station, the Auskunft (information desk) soon provided me with suitable accommodation and directions. My good fortune was that the sun shone on me throughout the journey from Bristol to Bonn and once settled in it began to pour with rain. There was a performance of an operetta, White Horse Inn on the river-bank although it had to be abandoned. The cinema proved a better option although my German proved unequal to the dialogue.

For my return journey I foolishly decided to take a route through the Ardennes ending up in Luxembourg where I joined a group being shown round Europe's largest steel mill. It was a fascinating experience watching enormous hoppers of molten steel being ladled into smaller pots for some process further on. As the dross still red hot shuffled along a wide gutter, its appearance was not too dissimilar to lava creeping along a valley floor from a volcano. The film GiGi was an altogether lighter experience and the next day I left Luxembourg heading for Liege.

Taking pity on me walking up a steep hill a lorry driver stopped inviting me to put my Power-Pak on his vehicle. Sadly the truck carried sand which got into the carburettor so with the motor out of order it was a case of riding downhill and pushing the bike on the up gradient with the result that my schedule was somewhat delayed. So, I decided to take the train from Liege to Ostend and thereby save myself some precious hours. Awaiting the train I sank a glass of a light liquid never seen before in England. It proved to be lager and my choice was extra strong: it was Stella Artois – but it was, I thought, being a non-beer drinker, like nectar.

Reaching Ostend I could enjoy a wonderful evening sitting at a table in the harbour area and watching continental life go by. It was good. It was my last night inside for Calais had to be reached the next day. I had to disappoint a student who wanted to reach England but the purser had told him every place was booked although if someone failed to turn up, then that place was his. I turned up, in the last hour before sailing.

Back in England I decided to make for London and Palmers Green to stay the night with my mother, and, getting a taste for trains managed to place my bike aboard the Paddington to Bristol flyer getting off as a rather weary traveler at Temple Meads. My carburettor was still giving me problems though the journey from the station back to my digs at Fishponds was completed successfully.

Anita, my landlady, not only helped my German language to improve but it seemed to me enjoyed to flirt though it was very light-hearted as each of us realised neither of us would be wise to cross Desmond, her husband, who was a real bruiser of a man. He was about 5 foot, 8 inches tall with a barrel chest and huge biceps. One could imagine that nobody dared challenge him in the Army so it was not just his rank that held his battalion in thrall.

At the works he did a night shift in the steel furnace though on account of the company's excellent shower and bathing facilities, he always returned home immaculate. He drove a powerful BSA motor-bike of around 500cc with a sidecar for Anita although more often it was their daughter a bespectacled girl of eight years of age who normally liked to go with Dad on trips. He cast a pitying glance at my Power-Pak though his chafing was always friendly and never malicious. He was a good man and I both liked and respected him.

In later years after reading authors such as Kipling and Evelyn Waugh I would come to realise something of the contribution made by serjeants in the British Army, and, on hearing news of the death of a serjeant I would wince as evidently it was a loss more difficult to make up as opposed to commissioned officers who depended so much on their serjeants. On the 'thin-red-line' it was the serjeant who shouted 'wait till you see the whites of their eyes'; were he to be killed or rendered out of action, often the battle might be lost. In Germany I would meet a 'Feldwebel', from the Wehrmacht; his rank was equal to serjeant and his tales about the retreat in Russia both appalled and fascinated me.

Back at Avonmouth, another duty took me to the foundry and using gloves against the heat of the hot ingot I would takieit to a drill to bore a sample. Having placed my sample into a plastic bag, labeling it with date and precise time it would be taken to the lab. The most dangerous jobs involved liquids and at such times the provision of special gloves and goggles were not only handy but vital if acid burns were to be avoided. Yet the company paid commensurate rates according to the peril of the sampling task which was reflected in my pay packet.

Returning to the lab one day I met up with two of my former fellow workers; they were ex Polish soldiers who were always very conscientious. Whereas I might take a paperback from my pocket and read it in between jobs, they would return to the foreman. They hinted their disgust at the fiddles going on and asked the foreman if they could work on their own. The Poles have always impressed me with their diligence and good manners.

As my savings target would soon be reached I began appointments to my GP, to the company dentist in order to allow no health problem to inhibit my venture. I had recently taken up photography which could be quite expensive but the cameras imported from Germany were difficult to resist. I had always wanted a Rolleiflex and spotted a twin lens reflex at Dixons in Bristol at a third or half the price of a Rollei. For too long British manufacturers had been protected sheltering behind a tariff wall and got rich rather than invest in new machinery pending the end of post-war protection so they had only themselves to blame when they failed to compete with the new German products.

I bought a Photina Reflex and began to exploit its possibilities by attending races where many thousands lined the track blocking my view. By holding the camera above the head and looking into the mirror of the upper lens one could take snaps well above the heads of the crowd. A geared wheel allowed one's focus to be transferred automatically to the photo lens. It was a brilliant design and the resulting prints matched the image in the viewfinder.

At last the day arrived when I should start out on my great adventure. By this time the Tory government had eased the travel money restrictions so I was able to convert a hundred pounds into travelers' cheques to budget my savings while I looked for a means to earn my living in a foreign country. In previous days I had packed most of my worldly goods to take home to Plymouth including my ill-fated attempts to break into the licence-holder market. The plastic one would win through and the design would be inferior to mine but its inventor had more stamina than me so won the prize of getting his product accepted by a trade reluctant to change. I leave this chapter in England for the next will open in Frankfurt-am-Main, Germany. Auf Wiedersehen!

Episode 36

### Lagerverwalter

Once before my steps had taken me to a wonderful part of German stations, that is, wonderful for arriving homeless foreigners, namely the 'Auskunft' (information) where smiling and friendly people listened to my needs giving me the necessary details of a reasonably priced hotel and directions where to find it. That was after my train had steamed into Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof (main station) and come to rest gently touching the buffers.

Waking up the next day I lay in bed listening to the 'rumpf-rumpf-rumpf' of wheels traversing cobblestones outside my pension. It must have started around four o'clock in the morning for by now at six and fully awake the sound was almost continuous. It was Frankfurt going to work. I was to experience it myself for work, even for office staff, began at the time at 7am though my day started much earlier as I had to cross the city from one part of the suburbs to another directly opposite using bus, tram , tram and bus to reach my destination though one ticket was enough for the entire journey.

But, I'm ahead of myself for my first task was to find cheaper accommodation and then a job which was not straight-forward. I came to appreciate the difficulty at the Polizei Praesidium (police HQ) where one applied for an Arbeitserlaubnis (work permit). A 'Polizist' (policeman) handed me a form and it became clear that my present address would not count as permaent so, my first priority, was the finding of such an address. I was advised to seek a so-called Unterhaltsvermittler (accomodation agent) to whom I paid 20 deutsch marks; the agency chief was an unsmiling madam.

As luck would have it on leaving the agent to get a tram back into the town centre, a middle-aged woman hailed me. It seems she worked at police headquarters and might have spoken to me had her work permitted. The upshot was that she offered me accommodation on the spot asking me to view the room, then and there, so I accompanied her on the tram to her little house in Ulrich Strasse which was newly built by the council for families such as her who were refugees from East Germany.

There was no refund from the agent. Yet I could not complain as, had I not taken that particular route, I may never have bumped into her. My erstwhile landlord offered me a reduction to persuade me to stay but even then my savings would have been used up in half the time so it was a polite, if thankful, refusal. My new landlady's (Frau Mueller) two sons were, in the German parlance of the time, Halbstaerke, children still, although the youngest (16) had just embarked on an apprenticeship while the elder at 19 years was at Gymnasium (grammar school).

My German was already quite reasonable and I was able to take part in a light conversation though once education, both mine and theirs, had been touched on I had difficulty in finding common ground with the two lads, or, their mother. It was not helped by the negative stories appearing regularly in the national press on the dire state of the British economy and the ever increasing tendency of British workers to down tools. The 'who does what?" disputes had even entered the German vernacular accompanied by coy sneers and smirks.

Frau Mueller knew a bit about procedures in finding work advising me to visit the IG Hochhaus where the US Army had made its headquarters because a German work permit applied only to German organizations. In the basement there was an employment centre to which I repaired and they were kind enough to direct me to a nearby Army Vehicle Centre who might be looking for staff. They were, but first one had to take an examination to test one's English and road proficiency which took place in a few days. The test was straight-forward which was good news though the bad news was that the only vacancies available were as vehicle washers. I agreed to start the following Monday.

One might be interested in the rumour surrounding the IG Hochhaus. It was built in the 1930s to house the giant IG Farben offices which would handle its paperwork to do with its manufacture of dyes, chemicals, explosives both throughout Germany and worldwide. When the war eventually involved the United States and B17s began to bomb Frankfurt, there arose a rumour, starting sometime in 1944. Most German citizens were then beginning to realise the war was lost and amid the highly censored reported outcomes of high level allied conferences and the fact that the IG building always emerged unscathed, a mass sensibility emerged that the safest place to escape the bombing might be within the grounds of the giant building complex.

This rumour persisted that the USA had earmarked the IG Hochhaus as its HQ once their forces had occupied the country. I can vouch for the fact that although buildings nearby were damaged by bombing no hits seemed to have found their mark on the complex. It was also a building whose lifts were unique. Doors were non-existent. One waited for a cubicle to descend/ascend and when the standing space of the lift was parallel with the ground one stepped in. It seems dangerous but it worked.

My duties were not onerous and I got to know the various cars favoured by the US military. Number one was the Ford Taunus which resembled an English Cortina. Of course the steering wheel was on the left side as Germans drove on the right. The more interesting aspect of the work proved to be my colleagues who, unlike their counterparts in Bristol, were always ready to talk about themselves. One older man would regale me with his tales of life as a German soldier on the Russian front. He also liked a particular local cheese which smelled like sweaty socks.

Soon enough I would get asked about the British invasion of Egypt though I knew as much as they read in their German newspapers which generally were critical. Most, with some reason, felt that the Franco-British invasion had prejudiced the Hungarian uprising although I saw it only as a distraction, and said so. One newspaper owner, Axel Springer, seemed to hate anything British; it seemed he had been held in a makeshift camp in 1945 for interrogation. These Germans never see things in the light of his own countrymen, the Nazis, and their interrogation methods.

It was also the year of the Melbourne Olympics and changing trams at the Hauptwache, a centre where three main roads and hence many trams and buses converged, I would visit the offices of the Frankfurter Rundschau, a provincial newspaper, where results of the Games would be posted. That was where I would visit my favourite Schnellimbiss, (quick-snack), for a Bratwurst with roll and a Sinalco, an orange drink, for the price of DM1.50. Once, visiting the Kaufhof, a department store, I had my midday meal on its top floor, and, shared a table with a business man and was politely told that he had only seen London from the air. It took me a few seconds to realise that he had overflown London as one of a bomber crew.

It was not an altogether pleasant memory on another score for I remember being ill after the meal and decided to stick to a Schnellimbiss, in future. One amusing experience occurred in a Konditerei (tea shop) when I made a 'faux-pas' in using the wrong verb for 'eat' whereby 'fressen' means to devour, like an animal; 'essen' is the normal word. I heard a snigger from the waitress concerned but not altogether unpleasant as very gently she put me to rights.

After I had been working as a car washer for some months my hands began to suffer and no amount of barrier cream would rectify the situation so once again I repaired to the IG employment centre to see about a change of job. The young office clerk directed me to the USAF airfield outside the immediate environs of the city where they also hired German employees. "When you see the former Olympic stadium is where to get off the tram and catch a bus to the airfield", I was told.

It was my lucky day. Once again I had a preliminary test for English proficiency and my results were only criticised in respect of a missing comma not placed after 'and' in a conjunctival phrase. The job on offer was as a Lagerverwalter, store-keeper, of US military transport hardware and the salary was paid monthly, at DM 450 rising to DM 500 after a six months probation period. Start time was at 7 am and finish 17.30, Friday 17.00 for a 47 hour week.

My office was occupied by a Herr Mueller and a Herr Neiber apart from myself as well as an American liaison office, a position shared between two privates who appeared to do absolutely nothing. My weekly duty was to prepare a stores statement which indicated where the main shortages were. Much of the store work was for reconditioned units such as fuel pumps, carburettors, distributors etc while large parts such as gear boxes, differentials, wheel axles were housed in an unheated store a hundred yards away but I had to be ready with the key at any time to allow a mechanic or fitter into it.

Soon I began to accumulate a comprehensive vocabulary of German word equivalents for vehicle parts and they are still with me to this day. More difficult was talking to people who spoke only in dialect and I remember one friendly guy who ended every sentence with 'gell!' which in Bavarian means, 'OK!' My relations with ordinary workers was cordial for much of the time; it was the more senior level who viewed me with some suspicion. They were men who had attained officer rank in the German armed forces and were accustomed, I supposed, to keep a certain distance from other ranks, and, whereas the average mechanic would talk about his war, to the senior staff it was taboo. Yet, even with ordinary workers I needed to watch my step: I was having a chat with a worker addressing him in the familiar form 'Du' when he suddenly turned on me with a peremptory: "Das heisst, Sie!"

One charge-hand had been a Stuka pilot and on the Russian front had notched up a score of 500 kills of Russian tanks. I discovered that only via the intercom which Herr Neiber in our office had accidentally left on when the senior staff gathered for a pow-wow one Friday afternoon. Herr Neiber, himself, had been a pilot flying a plane powered by rocket fuel, an ME262, so that after engaging (or not) the enemy, he had to glide his plane back to the airfield. It was no secret that Herr Wingenfeld, the German boss of the Vehicle Centre, was a former colonel in the Wehrmacht. All German staff had been 'denazified'.

Soon after joining the unit I discovered German precision in the unlikely moment of taking breakfast, the first of the day's break. The hooter went off at exactly 9.23 am and finished 22 minutes later at 9.45 am. There were no laggards as in the UK. Punctuality meant efficiency and contributed, so everyone believed, to the economic miracle happening as we lived and worked.

My friend, Harry Faber, showed me two beautiful pieces of machinery, one British motor-cycle of 125cc and one German of the same capacity. The former had loose wires because a design change had not included shortening those wires whereas the German machine was immaculate. Which would you pick was his challenge? It was true that Britain was losing out in export markets to the very smart German and Italian machines and, not far behind, the Japanese.

In Ulrich Strasse where I boarded a certain tension arose between myself and Detlef the younger son, who, not being allowed to bring his friends home, regarded me as the cause. It was, however, down to his mother who was very house-proud and did not like the idea of strangers in her home whilst she was at work. Another item of contention was our differing diets. Madam had accepted 10 marks from me to help myself to bread, butter and meat/cheese and coffee whereas I found the brown bread heavy and preferred confiture (jam), which I bought, to either cheese or ham, first thing in the morning, at 5am.

One additional spur in entering the mini-mart nearby was the attractive girls who were ever ready to help me with purchases. One even offered me a date with a view to her improving her English and my German, but, I declined it in the light-hearted manner it was made; I don't think she minded over-much. At the cash desk the assistants would give me stamps called Marken which I would come to know as equivalent to Green Shield stamps.

At work in the office one morning Herr Mueller confronted me with a news headline that Germany had exceeded Britain in cars produced, and, to counter the claim I told him that what Germany counted as cars, namely 250 cc three-wheelers, would not be classed as cars in the UK. Recently I had observed a young man and his wife with two children on the rear seat struggle for traction on wet cobblestones their Goliath 'car' whining seemingly in agony; such was the German desire for a car. Nonetheless Herr Mueller's triumphant claim was a harbinger of gloom for the British car industry. The automobile future belonged to Germany.

One day at the airbase there was great excitement among the American military for it had been announced that a new recruit was about to be posted to Wiesbaden, just 100 kilometres along the autobahn; he was Elvis Presley. Herr Neiber would be among the first to spot him as his weekly routine included taking a VW van to the Wiesbaden base for stores. His closest American colleague was a master serjeant whose all-consuming passion was guns, especially hunting rifles, and his desk was littered more with gun magazines than stores paperwork.

He over-looked me frequently as I waited at his desk for some document needing his signature. To be frank, I confess not to have cut too impressive a figure especially when, off-duty, he had caught me in the presence of the men's German tutor and I ruefully admitted that it was purely for academic reasons. Women, in particularly German women, in his view, fulfilled one purpose: to satisfy the likes of him in whatever manner he deemed suitable at the time. One day, one worm (me) would turn but that was somewhat in the future.

In Ulrich Strasse Frau Mueller (no relation to the gent at work) told me that she was expecting her sister from East Germany and she had promised her a room so gave me notice to quit. I was not too sorry as for some time my dealings with her two boys were becoming strained. To Detlef I had given a reason to openly complain about me when one day, after taking a bath, I had failed to clean off the tide mark from the enameled side: another black mark. And, once on seeing Klaus, for the first time, in his Lederhosen, I had spontaneously burst into laughter; another black mark.

Accommodation was not too difficult for now with some German fluency I was able to speak and understand people on the telephone. My habit was to initially tell my respondent that I was an 'Auslander' (from abroad). It often broke the ice. And, after very few calls I was on my way to a suburb of Frankfurt and walking up a country lane by the name of Hartmann Weg in order to see the occupants of number 13, which proved lucky for me. They were an elderly couple whose pension was not keeping pace with their rent hence the need for additional income. They also offered breakfast which was handy as taverns were sparse.

It was a longer journey and as before I turned up at the season ticket hall in a basement beneath the Hauptbahnhof to find the monthly tariff for my extended journey. Since I had just got a rise in salary after my approval period had expired and had an extra 500 marks per annum (less deductions) the expense of the extra fare proved to be no big deal. Deductions, German style, were larger than in the UK because of their more generous pensions on retirement; there was also a compulsory church tax as a levy on all citizens to assist towards rebuilding German churches after devastating losses in the Second World War. And, one must not forget income tax and something called 'Krankenkasse' (sickness fund) so that the citizen could be reimbursed for medicines, drugs, spectacles, dentures etc. Unlike in the UK one paid out for one's health needs and applied to the local Krankenkasse for a refund.

But, unlike in the UK these sickness funds were organised on a class basis as for health and employment purposes Germany was divided into three sectors. One for blue collar workers, the second for office workers and lastly for civil servants, who were top of the pile. It may have changed since the 1950's.

Earlier in the year there had been an extra two days off for a holiday which was unique to Germany, namely Fasching which, as a festivity, was spread over several months starting in November, the previous year. In that time a Narrenkoenig and –koenigin (King Fool and wife) would be elected and in succeeding months floats were constructed so that by the early days of February all would be ready for the procession on the first of the two days holiday, Rosenmontag.

Traffic in the main cities such as Cologne, Mainz, Frankfurt would be suspended to allow the procession to wend its way through the streets watched by cheering crowds. In Mainz, home of the company, Sarotti, their float would carry gaily costumed men and women throwing toffees amongst the people. In these PC days their national emblem, a little black boy with turban, would likely not be allowed whereas in 1957 and -58 there would be a child, his face painted in black, dancing on the float. Some floats were also used as an excuse to poke fun at politicians or celebrities and a pithy comment printed on a backdrop would accompany a little scene acted out on the float much in the manner of a charade.

Once I went to a Sitzung which is a gigantic party with a long table at which the Fasching Fools and local dignitaries sit wearing funny hats listening to a comedian declaim in verse some long and comical monologue. Other tables around about have member of the public sitting round them similarly attired. It's supposed to be an evening of fun, satire and high jinks. The comedian includes some set phrases in his monologue at which there is a general hullabaloo. Lots of beer is consumed. A foreigner needs to go with a crowd who knows what's going on and anticipate the times when to boo, cheer or raise a shout.

Talking of festive times it is worth mentioning my first Christmas in Frankfurt which was soon after I moved to the airbase. There was a very good party held and paid for by the Yanks, and, like in the British forces, the officers serve as waiters to the merriment of rankers making wisecracks largely not understood by their German guests. It was announced officially that the usual Xmas bonus of a month's pay was being held over, by common consent, to help refugees caught up in the recent Hungarian uprising. I popped what looked, to me, like a berry into my mouth and bit hard to extract the juice my teeth hitting a very resistant stone; it was an olive.

Episode 37

### Theduel

On the anniversary of my arrival in Frankfurt I could look back with some satisfaction and I recall the moment: it was while waiting at the Hauptwache for my connecting tram on the way to the Sportshalle where I would change for the bus to take me to the air base. I was sitting on a bench at the stop and going over in my mind my vastly improved fluency in German besides holding down a respectable position and feeling myself very much at home.

I was beginning also to notice little things: greetings and farewells on entering and leaving a shop. In the Gaststaette (tavern) a main meal would be placed on the table in three plates, the meat plate, a small one for potatoes and a third for salad. Also the table always had a clean tablecloth. And it was not the custom to tip either waiter or waitress. And, after coffee, always served with a little paper 'untertasse' to catch the drips, one could choose from a selection newspapers hanging up on the wall

When I spoke admiringly to my friend Harry about these things to my surprise he scoffed. In his view these things showed a regimen from which he wanted to escape. He had a girl-friend in Paris and would often visit her enjoying, as he saw it, a more carefree life away from strict routine. He suggested to me that we could both light out to Paris with me on the pillion because there was a USAF base just outside the city. But I was chary of exchanging a certainty, my present job, for a post that might not exist though I did envy him his female company.

It was the one thing lacking that of female company and I regretted turning down the offer earlier from a German Maedchen whom I might well have offended. I began to criticise myself. Had I turned her down for the right reason or had it been something else? Perhaps she was more than 16 years of age. It was too late now. Also I had eschewed the chance of walking out with British girls I met at the English club or in the bookshop.

Still, I would clearly have avoided the embarrassing experience shortly to be mine had I the time over but one's actions are controlled by longings at the time and better judgment flies out of the window. It was on the return leg to Frankfurt of a little holiday I undertook to see something of Germany, first going to Heidelberg and staying there for a night and so on. It was pleasant enough but nothing exciting had happened except after I boarded the train from Aschaffenburg and began a conversation with an attractive young woman who was on the way back from visiting her sister in hospital.

Once again, as on the train to Eastbourne, I failed to ask for another opportunity to see her, and, perhaps had she declined my wild-goose chase might have been avoided. But, at work the next day this omission rankled and I decided to visit her sister in the hospital. It was a sanatorium and the staff were only too pleased to allow me to call on the young woman. She had been clearly a vivacious girl, but, now slowly recovering from a long illness her smiles were brave but wan; the years spent inside had taken their toll.

I explained why I was there and she freely gave me details of her sister and I left her in a better mood than when I'd entered the ward. The details of how I brought about a reunion with Margaret are unclear though I do recall visiting her family for an evening meal. The occasion is etched clearly in my mind for it followed the blast off of the first Sputnik and her father claiming that it was Soviet propaganda. Worse: that it was a clever ploy to fool the West: nobody had left the Earth in a rocket.

Impulsively I reminded him of Jodrell Bank's sighting and he riposted scathingly: "Sie Englander!" Within five minutes I was out of the house and Margaret refused to speak to me. I met her once by chance on a tram but she did not want to see me again. It was a blow to my self-esteem.

Another opportunity arose when a friend at work invited me to a little house-warming party at Bad Homburg. He collected me by car and it was a very jolly evening, and, I managed to date one of the three attractive single girls there. We were to meet the following Saturday at the Hauptwache. It was a night when the heavens opened up and seemed to release a month's supply of rain, all at one go. My date did not turn up. Helmut telephoned me and asked about the evening commiserating and assuring me that he would contact her with a view to another date. But, it did not happen. I did visit him again in Bad Homburg though he left the airbase, soon after.

Male company proved much easier and my closest friend, Harry Faber, also invited me to a party to celebrate his engagement to his French girl Both she and I were to taste for the first time a German speciality, Hackwurst, which is raw beef minced and spiced. It was delicious. It was also at his party that I tried out my contact lenses manufactured by a local optician. At first my eyes watered but subsequently I had to add drops for lubrication else the plastic lens might be scratched.

One of the highlights of my stay in Frankfurt was joining a coach tour to visit the Nurburgring on the occasion of the 1957 Grand Prix. Armed with my Photina Reflex I was able to capture on film the driving exploits of celebrated racing drivers of the day including Juan Fangio, Mike Hawthorn and the incomparable, Stirling Moss. Also there that day, though I did not know it until decades later, was a famous British artist who did a painting of Fangio overtaking Mike Hawthorn on the final lap which matched my photo of the identical scene.

Towards the end of my stay in Frankfurt the Germany economy suffered a down-turn, as did other economies, and my job came up for appraisal reflecting a need to put German workers into German jobs. But, being an American position it came outside the remit so I was safe for the time being. Staff Serjeant Schwarz joked: "They'll have some trouble finding someone to speak with your funny accent. I'll give you a game of checkers (draughts)." I refused as I was on duty having only visited him to pass over a copy of the weekly, Spare Parts awaiting report.

However as I opened the connecting door to my office he yelled: Neiber! Can he (me) play me at checkers!" It was not a question but a command and Herr Neiber duly complied. So I sat down and did as I was told and not surprisingly lost that game and subsequent ones as it became a weekly, Friday, ritual. Yet, it was not the manner of the staff serjeant's winning which brought a flush to my cheeks, it was his triumphant jeers such as:

"Look at the Limey play! It's like shooting ducks in a barrel."

None of the other pfcs (US airmen) took a blind bit of notice. Either they had been through Schwarz's mill themselves or were not interested. After each humiliation I would return to my office only for the two resident liaison clerks to add their comments. They were two pfcs who were Mexican by birth and had no good word for anyone whether German or their fellow Americans excepting the one and only Elvis Presley whom they would have given their eye-teeth to glimpse, just once. But, he never visited our airbase.

Yet, I was learning and recognising patterns of play which might lead to a coup but the serjeant refused to fall into my traps although I could have asked him to accept my piece. It was in the rules of play but being Sgt Schwarz he pulled rank. Except one day a young officer stopped by to watch. He leaned on the steel rack holding files which surrounded the serjeant's desk. Someone called to him: "Hey, Lootenant!" But, he waved his hand in dismissal and resumed watching us play.

The game had reached its mid-point and I spotted a coup and duly offered a piece to my opponent. He was about to refuse and just lose one piece when the lootenant clicked his tongue: "Uh, uh!" The serjeant scowled but complied.

I took two of his pieces for my one and reached his back row which he crowned and using his rules took another piece trapping a lone piece in the corner. None of his other pieces could move without being taken. It was 'game over'. The blue uniformed officer left the room without a word. What the serjeant did next took me by surprise. As I disappeared through the connecting to my office Schwartz took up the board and men and threw the whole caboodle against the opposite wall. He never challenged me again.

Episode 38

### Endgame

It was soon after that incident that a pfc invited me to go with him to Wiesbaden on a normal stores run in a pickup truck and I accepted. He was looking forward to go stateside in a few weeks and could hardly wait to get back to his parents' place in August, Maine. I remembered it because it had featured in a recent Stars and Stripes (the forces paper) about some famous golf tournament.

While parking in the reception area I spotted Herr Neiber seated at a table in the open-air cafe with a highball in his hand in animated talk with Staff-Serjeant Schwarz. It was just in passing as I followed the pfc into the stores building where it took only a few minutes to collect and load his stores and within half-an-hour, we were walking back to the parking lot though I noticed Herr Neiber had left.

Imagine my surprise the following day when Herr Neiber dressed me down for leaving the base without permission. He told me that it would count as an offence against my record although I could appeal whereby if the appeal failed, it might make the offence more serious. Seeing that Herr Wingenfeld would be the final arbiter, I accepted the punishment asking myself whether it was seeing Herr Neiber taking his ease in working time rather than the other thing.

After overhearing him boast of his exploits on the intercom he had become somewhat touchy. One of the Mexican pfcs told Neiber that he could do my spares report though his subsequent effort was so poorly typed and full of errors that I was asked to repeat it. From the talk between him and his pfc mate it seemed Neiber had suggested it in the first place. Neiber also now began to make remarks about the English language which seemed, in his view, to lack words which in German were pithy and to the point. He could think of no equivalent to 'satt' in the phrase: Ich bin satt or I've had enough. I think he wanted me to argue the point but I allowed his argument to be rhetorical and did not respond.

There had been an election sometime in 1958 when the Christian Democrats sought a further period of power and although the CDU were confident of the result their leaders went through the motions of stumping the country reminding the people of good times ahead provided they stick to the same team. Noticing in the local rag an announcement of one such visit to a Kundgebung (election meeting) I decided to attend to compare it with my experience back home, in the UK. It was to be held in a famous building that had held the ill-fated 1848 assembly that was so brutally brought to an end when soldiers forced the deputies out of the famous Goethe Kirche. At this particular meeting no less a person was due to speak than the Chancellor himself, Dr. Konrad Adenauer.

What was memorable to me and a little shocking was his rabble rousing. By reminding his audience that they, as a people, had resisted the Soviet Union, the mighty USA and the British Empire for five long years he was stretching the truth. After the meeting I reflected that it was five years for the UK whereas the other belligerents had fought for somewhat less but that's politicians. He thumped the table declaiming: It was that spirit of resistance harnessed in peacetime that has brought Germany prosperity. Don't risk changing now. In other words, the opposition, the Social Democrats, would not harness your mighty potential and would jeopardize the recovery, so vote CDU.

A famous murder case took place in my last year in Frankfurt. A notorious prostitute had been strangled and Frankfurt's nightlife was placed under scrutiny by the press as she was a regular clubber and it was thought that the murderer would likely be a local client. This case was linked to a local scandal to do with butchers whereby customers had been poisoned by a chemical, nitrate, thought to be harmless in tiny amounts. It was sprinkled on minced meat to redden it and make it appear fresher. The two cases were linked by a similarity in their names as the prostitute went by the name of Nitribit while the chemical is nitrit, in German.

My reading also included the monthly, Munich Illustrated, which once ran a series of articles on the currency reform whereby the three Western nations came together in a scheme to replace the discredited Nazi Reichsmark with a new mark to be called, Deutschmark. It had to be secret especially from the Russians. Overnight lorries raced between their HQ and the various distribution centres to ensure that on the day the banks, closed for two days, would reopen to give out to each citizen of West Germany 60 marks plus 1 Deutschmark for 100 Reichsmarks held.

It was a success for on the following days and weeks goods in short supply began to appear in shops and so sparked the Wirtshchaftswunder (the economic miracle) which henceforth would be a feature of the WG economy. That was in 1948 and by the time I arrived in '56 the postwar recovery was well underway; food and clothes rationing were eliminated far earlier than in Britain.

It is a curious fact to record that my wages or salary were paid in the manner of service personnel. One waited in line and at the head of the queue came forward where one's name was checked against a list and the appropriate amount paid in actual notes and coin with a tally to indicate the amount paid and sundry deductions.

Customs in Germany also differ markedly or perhaps it was because as a foreigner I began to notice differences. Take Sunday as an example; it was common enough to put on one's Sunday best for a visit to church and this was no different to life in England. In the afternoon however people perambulated in public places such as the Palmengarten, similar to Kew Gardens, which was supplied with smart Konditoreien to satisfy the German custom for an afternoon speciality, Kaffee und Kuchen, ie, coffee and cake, plus Schlagsahne (whipped cream). That's one custom I especially enjoyed.

This seeming ritual included more than the words imply. For one thing, the clients would choose their favourite portion from a selection of large, round cakes, called Torten (French Gateaux) and one's selection would be served with a dollop of Sahne (whipped cream) and a Kanne (pot) of bean coffee which in Germany, at the time, was expensive.

The quality of service was high and cup and saucer were always supplied with an 'Untertasse', a mat between cup and saucer to absorb any spills. Tables, even in workers' canteens were always spread with a tablecloth. Yet, although standards in food and catering were far higher than in the UK, a special week run, for example, by a local store, Kaufhof, and called English week, was very popular. I recall one in 1957 where, by Tuesday, the counters holding English goods such as sliced-bread, jams, marmelade, cornflakes, marmite etc were empty having been besieged by shoppers avid for English groceries.

Sometimes a specialist cinema would run a film such as Richard IIIrd, directed by Laurence Olivier, of a Sunday and there would not be an empty seat; it ran for six weeks and had to end being ousted not by a fall-off in demand but by the schedule the film being replaced by a French or Russian, not so popular. Films nowadays are invariably dubbed but, in those times, I had the pick of American/British films shown in their original soundtrack with sub-titles.

Nonetheless I did see a number of German productions such as, Das Wirtshaus in Spessart roughly rendered as, The Inn in the Black Forest. It's about travelers visiting an inn to overnight; the place is haunted and a band of criminals also decide to stopover, and, things start to go bump in the night. It was enjoyable, despite my not grasping every piece of the vernacular. Another very popular film was: 'Sissi, die Junge Kaiserin', starring German's female heart-throb, Romy Schneider, a homely and attractive young actress with a string of hits behind her. Our equivalent might be: Victoria, her Younger Years, and the actress Dorothy Tutin, except that the young empress was the wife of an Austrian emperor.

At the university where I attended a performance of Bernard Shaw's, Arms and the Man, things were somewhat different. Had I not known the play in England the play might have been incomprehensible. After the performance refreshments were served followed by a dance. I waltzed with a young East German girl who dropped hints about life being nicer in the East provided one worked for the government. At the time the East appeared to be keeping pace with the West before the time of the wall although the East was losing young, skilled people who knew the score, living on the eastern side, and evidently voted with their feet. The emigrants were welcome as a labour shortage was opening up.

I joined a dancing class which was very similar to the one I attended in Barkingside, England, in 1947, with the men and woman sitting together in lines. Records played were usually the latest German hits and, in particular a favourite bandleader, Willy Berking, whose 45s were mostly bought for dancing classes and parties. My friend Harry liked them.

Something particular in Germany at the time were seats in trams marked 'Kriegsschwerbeschaedigt' meaning 'war disabled' and once, sitting in such a seat as the tram was otherwise full, I got a tap on the shoulder. It was a walking stick held by an older woman who wanted the place. A tram's rear compartment would often be jam-packed with fare-less passengers waiting to pay and having to go one by one past the conductor and which would hardly be cleared before the next stop. I excused myself but the old lady seemed to have another beef: it seems I had failed to use 'Du' in my address. Older people and children are entitled to 'Du' not 'Sie' which is the normal of addressing someone but another passenger came to my rescue by saying: "Auslaender"; and it was all smiles, if somewhat patronizing.

Once, walking through the Hauptwache I found it difficult to get through the press of people and I saw the reason. Partitions had been erected to the right of the restaurant and the whole pavement area taken up with an exhibition. It showed how Frankfurt looked in the years prior to the Second World War and adjacent the area after the bombers had done their work. It was grim much of it, and, I daresay had any US air force men been around, as it was the B17s which had done the damage, there might have been some jostling as I heard occasionally harsh comments.

The Germans were sometimes ambivalent about their own destruction of other countries believing that no country received as much damage as theirs. It cuts no ice to remind them who started it for invariably it will be the attitude of the French and British who were, allegedly, responsible. That's propaganda for you.

One evening chatting with the people from who I rented the room there came a sharp rat-tat-tat on a neighbour's door. Both seemed suddenly to tense. It was a reminder to them of a night back in 1944 when the Gestapo had invaded their quiet cul-de-sac, and, though at the time ignorant of the fact, even the movement of a curtain might bring an unwelcome caller. A man was taken away and never seen again. In a street where everyone knew the other, it was a shock. Later I discovered that a prisoner-of-war camp had been sited nearby and often escaped inmates would raid gardens looking for food.

Sometime in 1958 a party of distinguished people from the States arrived in Germany on a fact-finding trip which was synonymous with an exercise to save money and they took a long, hard look at US airbases. There was talk of limiting the number of foreign nationals employed, and, in this context, foreign included German as the senators reasoned that as they could not reduce service personnel, they could make their forces work harder. Judging by the lackadaisical behaviour of most service personnel with whom I came into contact, it would seem they had a point.

When the orders actually arrived the Germans understandably looked to those in their midst who might first be dispensed with. There was a young Turk who had built up a profitable sideline of buying blocks of American cigarettes and flogging them for a nice profit in a German nightclub. I became his dupe on a couple of occasions before I realised what he was doing was illegal. He received his notice before me possibly because, working in the PX, he might even have served the senators with drinks.

It reminds me of an occasion when one day my landlady said to me that I should have no breakfast if I was visiting the Spring Exhibition at the Frankfurt Exposition Complex. All European nations were displaying their wares such as Danish blue cheese, Dutch Gouda, French Rocquefort, German Bierwurst plus plenty of newly baked white bread rolls and lots of other different delicacies. Then I noticed a long, low caravan with the label, 'Gross-Britannien' and pushed open the door to climb the short steps to the inside.

It was gloomy and I noticed hanging from the roof squares of paisley, tartan, houndstooth textiles. Suddenly a young man emerged from the rear and I addressed him in German: "Was hat man anzubieten?" What's on offer? But, to my surprise he approached holding up his newspaper and muttering: "Sorry, we don't speak German." So, I switched to English and his face fell like a stone and I realized he was outside his comfort zone. Another man emerged with the same demeanour.

I said something to the effect that they were unlikely to have many sales on a sunny day like today and that the other countries were doing a roaring trade in dairy products of all kinds. He said something which baffled me at the time that sales were for proles and that had I not noticed the caravan was closed. He was correct. I had not noticed it my haste to open the door. He then asked me about the night life in Frankfurt and I retorted that my Turkish colleague would likely know more than me to which he responded: "How come you know a Turk?" We're colleagues at the local airbase I replied but his face did not register comprehension so I bade them adieu and left.

It seems they were employed by the British Council. Later I would read a book by Olivia Manning who wrote a spoof about these ex-public school men gallivanting around Europe while their fellow countrymen were being bombed in England and the BBC televised the story treating it as a straight drama of British pluck in the face of adversity. In my experience such young men had little talent depending for advancement on connections. Things haven't changed for in 2018 I read a Times report that not a single broker was British. Why? The calling is only open to ex public school applicants. What a waste of talent when one mentions just one name that of Nick Leeson who brought Barings so low.

Following the Senate investigation a number of changes were recommended and one concerned foreign workers. My case did not look good when my master-serjeant suggested that my post had been created so that Neiber would be free to drive him to Wiesbaden. There were no hard feelings. The Germans were, after all, looking after their own people. Sometime in May, 1958 I was given notice to leave. By then my salary had been increased to DM 600. Unlike in England however there was no leaving party although I had had so little experience of working life it was not something I looked for. There were many Auf Wiedersehens and I felt that some There were many Auf Wiedersehens and I felt that some colleagues actually meant the words they represented, 'until the next time'. Harry Faber I would see again and I recalled his madcap scheme a few months back for the two of us to light out for Paris. Of course he had the incentive of a French girl-friend though weeks later in London the French fluency which was his aim might have stood me in better stead than German which, in London, would prove useless when applying as a linguist to the telephone exchange for a job.

On leaving the air base one other thing stands out in my memory. It was a time of catching one's breath in the headlong drive for growth and even the US was not immune instanced by the commission to Germany to cut costs which was having an impact on the German work force. The German export drive was also blunted as importing nations cut back. To maintain exports Germany's finance minister identified the need to reduce costs and actually went on air in an address to the German people proposing a cut of 5% in public service costs and appealing to industry for a matching cut; he succeeded. Can you imagine that in the UK?

Moreover with nearly two years of employment I was confident that a German firm would employ me though my application to Opel Gmbh which had led to an interview produced no result. The Arbeitsamt (employment exchange) gave me a card to take to a German firm in the city but the potential employer simply stamped the card 'Nicht Gueltig' (not eligible) without a word. So, I signed on for unemployment benefit and was directed to the office of the 'Abteiliungsleiter' (the head officer) and got a shock. He stood before me in a rage shaking the sleeve of a missing arm and ranted: "Ihr Schuld Sie Englaender.." which in English sounded like: "Your fault Englishman. Your compatriots (presumably British soldiers) shot my arm off. You can whistle for your benefit." To add to my discomfort, before I exited his parting shot was to the effect that I'd better make sure I had funds because any complaint by me would go to the bottom of the pile.

So, I explained the situation to Harry who agreed that it would be pointless to pursue the point. German bureaucracy could be glacially slow as I had already discovered in applying for a post-office savings account. We shook hands and he assured me that once his emigration papers to the USA were through he would make every effort to contact me after my return to England. He did – sixty years later. By then he had built up a ranch training horses but had nobody to pass it on as his son-in-law had deserted his wife, Harry's daughter, because she was unable to have children of her own. He was bitterly disappointed and despite further e-mails I never heard from him again after the initial phone calls. He spoke to Ella, my wife, at first as I was away though I soon established the link on my return from Whitby. I reckon he died of a broken heart but it is only my surmise.

A couple of days before I quit my digs Herr Schaefer, my landlord, told me a lad had called to see me. He came again, a lad of around 18 years asking me to join the local football club. It was a disappointment as football was just one of many activities at the club and it promised to lead to meeting a wide variety of people but sadly it was not to be. Another disappointment was having to withdraw from a planned trip to Brussels for the 1958 World Exhibition which I saw the remnants of with my son, Colin, and my grandson, Oliver years later; the Plutonium was still standing and was a landmark long after the actual exhibition closed.

It was a wrench to leave Frankfurt but I had too few resources to remain without paid employment which, as had been demonstrated, was unlikely to be forthcoming. The chain of lucky events from my first meeting Anita in Bristol in the year 1954 or thereabouts had run its course and, I was soon to discover, would lead into a series of misfortunes; but, that's life – the rough and the smooth...

Episode 39

### Rollingstone

Life is certainly strange because I had barely boarded the Cross Channel ferry at the Hoek, in the Netherlands after an uneventful trip from Frankfur when I heard an altercation at the purser's office. A very attractive young woman was having difficulty with the purser whose office was open to exchange foreitn currency into English pounds. It seems the purser was insisting on rules by insisting his customer show her passport to prove her identity. She had left it behind in the cabin but the purser took her for a British citizen. It was ridiculous as she was obviously German but the purser stood stubbornly to the rule book, namely that her passport was her proof of identity. I asked her in German how much she needed and added that amount to my own requirements.

Then, just to show up the purser and his ignorance I ostentatiously gave her the currency she wanted getting Deutsch marks in return. Waving my own passport in his face I told him: "Let's hope the young lady gets kinder treatment in England." He glowered at me but said nothing. From that moment she never left my side and we spent the whole time in each other's company and she even wanted me to collect her from her cabin for breakfast. It seems she preferred my company to her erstwhile companions whom she described as 'Sturr', meaning utterly formal, a German propensity. It seems Harry Faber was not on his own.

On arriving at Liverpool Street my companion expressed the need for a meal so, encumbered with bags, as we were, we both settled into our chairs in order to tuck into the meal from the serve-yourself, cafeteria, but whereas I tucked into the sausages and mash, my companion did not feel so hungry after trying her sausage which was so different from a bratwurst. It was difficult to comfort her for everything was different and she probably wondered why she had set her heart on becoming an au pair though soon enough her second thoughts disappeared.

She had received a message after responding to an announcement over the tannoy upon the arrival of the train from Harwich. It was that her erstwhile employer was on her way having been held up so it was a matter of waiting another half-hour until she showed up with her car which she did soon after. They made no objection to my knowing their address and telephone number.

I made my own way to Palmers Green where my mother was expecting me but that was for a couple of days at most then I would need to find something more permanent. As my resources were also stretched by the cost of the trip from Frankfurt and other expenses, I needed also to find myself a job. Having arrived back in the middle of a recession it would not be easy.

I found a place in Swiss Cottage. It was a tenement of four stories and I occupied the attic, recently converted. There were a number of other young people around in various retailing and other jobs. A couple of Swiss girls were aiming to remain in the UK after doing their stint as au pairs and they provided lively company although each spoke a sort of German dialect that made it difficult for me to understand what they were saying when they chatted together. Nonetheless a party to celebrate someone's birthday proved very congenial.

For some reason I had to move out, maybe the landlord wanted to raise the rent or, as so often happens, the place was down for redevelopment so I moved further north though only by a couple of miles, to Finchley Road. Things started to go badly as a job was not forthcoming. I even applied for what was then called 'National Assistance. My interviewer maintined a cynical smile throughout the interview and led me to believe that his 'assistance' would be forthcoming were I sleeping on the pavement..

However the job centre clerk was more helpful; he gave me a note to another job centre just off Tottenham Court Road after I told him that I was pretty desperate and willing to do a job in catering though even washing up jobs were full up. On, the next day my luck changed when the clerk told me he'd had a phone call from a pub near to the Old Bailey and St Pauls asking for catering help as the landlord, under doctors orders, had to restrict himself to light duties. He told me the woman sounded desperate so she might overlook my lack of experience. Soon afterwards I was talking to this woman, the landlady of The George, a pub off Ludgate Hill. She took to me straight-away and soon I was tucking into a meal from the leftovers of the midday catering of scotch eggs, chips, peas and a hot pot of tea.

What I had not bargained for was the obligation to move into a room over the pub which made me feel very isolated as the only sound around about was somebody practising an organ in a nearby church. But, it was clean, provided with bathroom and toilet, and cheaper than my former accommodation though not needing to walk to my work place the only opportunity to see people was behind the bar. She put me behind the public bar for the first few weeks where I saw life in the raw, especially as the evening wore on, watching some drinkers turn aside with their flagons of ale to add something extra which Mrs Jones, the landlady, said was probably methylated spirit.

Lunchtime was the period I favoured the most as it was an opportunity to talk to younger people like myself. I looked forward to two young Americans who were working at a bank in Moorgate, not far away. It seemed quite exciting as they spoke of entering the floor of the stock exchange to trade in various shares and watching the brokers as they signaled to traders across the floor who were seemingly invisible and only recognisable through their own covert signs.

In the evening as trade slackened Mrs Jones invited me to serve the posher clientele in the saloon. Whereas I could understand the talk in the public bar which was mundane but mostly aimless chatter such as the previous Saturday's football match or their missus telling them off for being late home or their kid's latest prank, the talk in the saloon, on the other hand, was about rugby in winter or cricket in summer, or, it was about running down to Ascot; it was mostly boring though upper-class stuff. Still the trick was, as Mrs Jones, emphasised, to listen attentively whilst serving someone else and laugh at the right moments etc etc.

I saw the young German au pair a couple of times whom her host allowed me to chat with in her room. They were confident that there would be no lovemaking because the young 'fraulein' appeared very strait-laced allowing me to kiss her but keeping my hands away from more intimate areas. I soon found out why when she explained that both her employers and her family were strict Catholics. It was a surprise because I thought that Golders Green where she lived was Jewish. However they wanted her to transfer to Maidenhead which she thought was not in the original contract.

Her demeanor suggested she considered me as a future husband and that was not an uncongenial prospect because she turned me on and her parents owned a hotel in Fulda, her home town. But, I'd had some bad experiences in Catholic environments; moreover when I quizzed her about children her response although cheerful and welcoming nonetheless was qualified by the Church itself which, at least, in Germany insisted that children of mixed marriages should be baptized as Catholics. To her, living in England was not an option.

After nine months she had decided to return home because she did not want to reside in a suburb, Maidenhead. She insisted I bought her little Grundig transistor radio and she pressed on me other keepsakes so our parting was amicable. It was a sad day for me because I loved this delightful young woman though marriage to her steeped in Catholic traditions and faith that as a Methodist I did not share I foresaw would not be congenial, at least for me.

At the George life was also congenial and by chance at a Bach concert I met another au pair and we spent many enjoyable afternoons visiting art galleries and more concerts though their heavy nature was beginning to pall on me. Moreover the prospect of going to the Royal Albert Hall did not raise her spirits for she was another young woman into church music to the exclusion of all else although she was a Lutheran which I discovered was a much more serious religion than the Baptist, Quaker or Methodist branches.

However my working life was about o implode. I had been there for around four months so I must have been doing things right but it could not last and it was in the saloon bar where things started to go awry. I was listening to the pub bore talking for the umpteenth time about his wonderful Surrey (cricket) team and the number of times they had won the championship when he invited me to drink the health of my team. What is your team? He enquired, and I thought for a moment telling him, Gloucestershire. Oh, that one man band, he retorted slurring the words somewhat and I queried: One man band, I don't get it. At which he retorted: Oh, that W G Graesh, fellah! You mean, W G Grace, I said. Yeah, that's'im. Can't say it proper cos I'm.... He paused and completing his sentence, I said, "Drunk!"

As soon as I said it, I knew I'd said the wrong word. Because he turned to Mrs Jones and pointing to me and said: Did you hear that? Etc etc She, of course, mollified him and he was eating out of her hand before he toddled off. No more was said that evening but the next morning she said confidentially to me: "This is not your vocation, Ron. Things are looking up now. We've gotten very busy of late. Why not go along to the job centre. I'm sure they'll have something more suited to your talents."

It was the nicest sacking I've ever experienced.

And, true enough, jobs were more plentiful. Yet, before I turn from my time as a bar tender, I must render thanks to Mr Jones who, after my emergency tax coding got me a proper tax code which meant that I was entitled to a tax refund on the simple fact that my earnings were spread over a longer period than the actual time as it was the custom of the Inland Revenue to spread earnings over the period since the start of the financial year, something like April 6. So, my final payout had an extra £20, which was more than enough to tide me over until I could start earning from my new employment.

It seems most car owners wanted a radio fitted in their car so a car showroom in the Edgeware Road had branched out by buying a small lockup premises about a mile away. It was to the showroom I'd been sent by the Job Centre being redirected to their new premises stuffed to the ceiling with new radios from firms such as Motorola who manufactured kits to cater for this new demand. So, within a day of leaving The George I'd been taken on as a storekeeper whose duties were to assemble the kits to include a wireless pack, an aerial and sundries suitable for the vehicle concerned, the order for which was taken by another employee and passed to me.

My new digs were somewhat further away in West Hampstead but that's the great thing about London, its excellent transport system. From the British Rail station at West Hampstead, it was a short ride to Marylebone which was not far from my work place. I mentioned Motorola but many new boys entered the market viz. Pye, Ecko, Smiths Industries, Cossor and others. I'd get a list of the next day's orders and place the assemblies ie kits of parts for the fitters to collect. I'd hand over the kits and after that there would be nothing to do apart from readying the next days orders. It was pretty tedious and after a while I began to think of a job more challenging. It so happened that with Christmas approaching in a couple of months I might offer my services in the retail trade who customarily took on more staff to cope with the Christmas trade and I walked by Selfridges looking for posters.

It seems they were also seeking storekeepers and after seeing the personnel manager on a Saturday afternoon, I was offered a position in the fancy goods department. The boss of the showroom, of course, cut up a fuss even offering to increase my wages by a pound but it was not the money but the sheer boredom of the work though I did not tell them that. At a pinch the sales guy could do my job and his own, and save himself a storekeeper's wages.

Selfridges was a plum post. For one thing, like Sainsbury's, the store had an excellent restaurant for staff, social facilities and even encouraged their employees to open a savings account at the company's own bank. The work was not taxing but had plenty of variety because fancy goods might include anti-macassars from Morocco, basket-weave hat-stands from Somerset, pouffes ex Egypt, glass tables from Park Lane and hundreds of other products both from Britain and abroad. The manager was a double for Clifton Webb; urbane, polished, smart and a cut-glass accent from some unknown posh establishment. It was rumoured that his service record included a Hussar tank regiment having served in theatres from Benghazi to Berlin and like my serjeant in Bristol a mainstay of the British Army.

At the time I was there a certain magazine was appearing in newsagents which had a distinctly Australian flavour in its articles and cartoons and one of its free-lance writers worked at Selfridges. He always wore sandals without socks. We became quite pally and I tagged along when he went to interview people for his articles. When he told me about his Cambridge roots I jumped to the conclusion that he had gone to university there which is what the BBC interviewer apparently also assumed. It would not happen now because of so many forms one needs to complete. Soon afterwards the magazine was sued and having lost it went into liquidation; he disappeared too. I missed our chats over a fag and tea in the canteen on philosophy etc.

One of the bad habits picked up from him was a resumption of smoking. After my dentist had warned me about chocolate years earlier I had given it up along with sweets of any kind, and, whilst in Germany eschewed smoking and alcohol. In good times therefore with a job and cheap digs I could amass a respectable sum after a year and so it turned out in Selfridges when the manager actually asked me if I'd like to invest a £100 into something.

But, once again after a year in Selfridges I was looking for something more challenging and was daily scanning the two evening papers, the News and the Standard for likely opportunities. My mother in the meantime had changed her address at the request of her employer and was now housekeeper at their branch at Wood Green. Months earlier at the former place when I visited her, she handed me a letter sent to me, care of... It was from Magda whom I'd last seen at Liverpool Street months before. It seems she was not getting on with her employers and asked if she could look for another post.

She had already transferred to her new employer whose house was in Golders Green, north London and I went over to see her. It seems she was not too happy with her new employer either and had decided to return to Germany. Possibly part of her problem was that she was a devout Catholic and neither of her employers quite understood her need for regular church attendance. The reason for coming to England was partly to do with her parents' vocation for increasingly they were handling bookings from English speakers hence their daughter's sojourn in England. Her parents kept an inn in Fulda, Germany.

I wished her farewell then and there as her employers were taking her to Liverpool Street by car the following week. As I kissed her goodbye, I knew that I would not be coming to Fulda for I shied away from Catholic strictness. During my stay years before in Barkingside I had visited the Catholic and the Anglican churches just to compare their services and in the former case I was alienated by the ritual of that religion while the Anglican differed only in that churchgoers did not ritually make the sign of the cross or make confession.

My new post was as a stores clerk in a company based near the Shepherds Market just off Park Lane. It was a large garage servicing mainly Morris, Austin and MG cars and it was the job of our office to obtain all the necessary hardware such as gearboxes, brakes, cylinder blocks, pistons, spark plugs and so on to be delivered to the parts store by the parent company in Oxford. The office manager made a journey once a week to the factory at Longbridge, Oxford with a list of such spares although it was also to progress the urgent items as the lists of requirements went by post. I was one of several clerks who communicated with Oxford by letter and telephone.

Episode 40

Partsman

Between my departure from Selfridges and my new post off ParK Lane I would take a journey north to Market Harborough where Anita had settled after leaving her home in Bristol. Reading between the lines of her letters I worked out that her daughter was a teenager and had begun to form questions in her mind. Anita was formerly a Mayer in Frankfurt, a notable citizen in a distinguished German GmbH similar to a Limited Company in the UK which was brought low by the war Her serjeant husband became one of the British Army of Occupation's administrators and might well have met her through her services as an interpreter.

I could hardly blame her succumbing to Desmond's charms laced with plenty of meals and entertainments to which Desmond had access. A marriage proposal would open the prospect of freedom from hunger in Britain for the duration which by the 1960s perhaps had palled because Desmond however pleasant did not go in for much culture on offer in Bristol such as the theatre. I would often visit the Palace and regale the Wilcoxes with its entertainments but Dennis did not show the slightest interest in magicians, plays, ballets, opera or even outdoor attractions.

I recall the occasion when the local newspaper advertised a fair and their seven year old daughter suddenly cried: "Oh can we Mummy!" But, Desmond asked to be excused although he was delighted with the number of colour photos I showed him of his daughter and her mother enjoying themselves. I recall there was a giant float of a giant who was the arch enemy of Jack and the Beanstalk who had planted the magic seeds exchanged in the local market for the family cow which his mother had expected him to sell.

After planting the seeds in the family plot he was thrilled to see the enormous bean which grew up and leaping onto it climbed up towards the sky and into the unknown country. Naturally he killed the giant returning home with a fortune which put paid to his mother's dire predictions about his future. Echos of my mother! Anita would also join me in little celebrations always at home when we'd share a bottle of some concoction dressed up as a cocktail, just mildly alcoholic. It was normally of a weekend when Desmond was especially busy at work earning extra money by working hours while his colleagues were on holiday.

That reminds me of their one and only holiday when they paid a visit to Jersey in the Channel Islands. It was there that Anita got the shock of her life when she came face to face with real atrocities not the ones reported in the newspapers of the immediate post-war years. Their hotel owners were at the receiving end of brutality exhibited by their Nazi occupiers and here Desmond would intervene by gently reminding his wife how she had managed to withhold her former nationality. Anita grew to hate her husband from that moment on because a little girl was listening, an impressionable teenager. The seeds of separation were sown then and there.

To return to my new job, as I saw it this was my future: in the motor industry. I was beginning to find that there was often a long lag-time between consumer demands and meeting that demand, and it became more and more my task to try and bridge that lag-time, that gap. I would eventually end up as a, so-called, progress-chaser whose task was becoming so critical in industry that it spawned a new discipline, critical path analysis, which in turn lent itself to computerization.

But, I'm ahead of myself. The office's task was to meet customer demand either immediately from stock or getting the factory to supply it; easier said than done. Take the MG sports car. Normally as sold to clients it is fitted with a coupe which in the sunshine one opens up to have the wind in one's hair, or, when it starts to rain, you stop the car in a layby and put up the soft-top. However the soft-top is no deterrent to car thieves, or, being a business man the blown-away hair style is not conducive to turning up spruce at meetings.

Anyway there emerged a growing demand for MG hardtops and the factory was ill-prepared to meet the demand. A special line had to be set up at Longbridge. Customers nonetheless were waiting months for their hardtops. It was frustrating for the garage owner as fitting and supplying them was lucrative.

Apart from such special needs my memory is of a happy office for I shared the telephone with Gordon, a shock-haired energetic chap with a yen for fast motor-cycles. My other colleague was Ray who was a smooth, brylcreem type who, in the Suez debacle of 1956, had been a paratrooper landing near Alexandria. Two clerks were also needed to operate an enormous spare parts file which needed a special machine to process the cards. One was an Anglo-Indian and the other a middle-aged woman called Bunty. Our manger was a Mr Hazard, nick-named, Haz.

I had recently joined a club run very efficiently by two spinsters called The Linguists' Club which had two addresses and were set-up to provide places for au-pairs and other foreign employees to relax in, far from home. It was expensive for working people like me though one could minimise the expense by joining one only; I chose Niddry Lodge which was just behind Kensington High Street.

Had I gone to a dating agency I could not have fared better for soon I was meeting attractive young women at either the various language classes or the varied interest groups such as music appreciation, archaeology of London etc. Even the draughts and chess group was not without its bevy of young women who were as anxious to meet young men. Within days of joining I was going out with Ingrid and I enjoyed her company for months until she left England.

There was a young Jewish refugee who drove an Opel. He was gay though that fact only surfaced later; he was nice company and we often went for a drink in a Kensington pub and we'd go together to Windsor or some such outing. The club had an excellent cafeteria and did a very palatable line in Risottos. Also usually on a Saturday or Sunday there would be a dance. It was at such an event that I met Ushi, short for Ursula who was missing her boy-friend, still in Germany.

She did not miss him so much that she avoided contact with other men and for a little while I thought she had forgotten him and asked her if she'd fancy a weekend away somewhere. I should have kept it to myself and not crowed to my colleagues at work because Ray who was courting someone himself made a proposition. Using his car we, as a foursome, could go away together, and when, after trying various places, it proved too expensive I mooted the possibility of staying at my aunt's place in Plymouth which a phone call soon corroborated.

Ushi dropped the bombshell a few days before we were due to leave. It seems her boy-friend from German was about to show up so she could not go away with me. But my colleague Ray did not see why that should make a difference and evidently wanted the trip to go ahead. After all, we had booked our week and it would be inconvenient to change. Besides, Ray's betrothed, Susan, was looking forward to see Plymouth. With a heavy heart, for Ushi was not just a squeeze and I had become fond of her, I concurred.

Ray was a selfish so-and-so and kept the driving all to himself or perhaps he did not trust me behind the wheel. My aunt looked after us very well and charged the lot of us only about £20 for accommodation and food although we were away a lot visiting local beauty spots such as Okehampton. I took pictures of them on the beautiful bridge just outside the town. Ray and Susan were living in a place called Penge, south London, and, decades later when I heard of yob trouble I thought of them and wondered if their kids were involved.

I should explain about my Aunt Kath who was from Gloucester where she had first met my Uncle Arthur although his plans were to move back to Plymouth where he managed to get a well paid job in Devonport dockyard. It seems they needed people with expert radar know-how which he had worked on in the RAF and so found no difficulty in moving to Plymouth. At first he boarded with his mother, my gran, in the lounge converted into a bed-sitting room and after marriage to Kath(leen) stayed there until gran died.

The council were unwilling for my uncle to continue with the rental agreement as the manse at Tavistock Place was a valuable property which the council had purchased from the church commissioners who had owned it as a Manse for their minister whose church was next door but which remained derelict even after the war. So my Uncle Arthur and Aunt Kath looked around for another place to live eventually deciding to take out a mortgage on a property with a view to let. This was the place where Ray, Susan and I stayed at and consisted of a four storey tenement house many of whose rooms were let out to students from Plymouth College.

My uncle Arthur was a man with a high IQ and this fact had afforded him promotion into hush-hush radar projects centering on East Anglia about which he could say nothing being governed by the Official Secrets Act. He was forever wrapped up in some project, mostly mechanical, for one room at his place was crammed with bits and pieces of every description. The one thing that he offered every visitor was his home-made ale; I found it vile, and so did Ella (years later), but the only alcoholic drink for me was the new lager sweeping the country at which Arthur scoffed. Not for me the local booze; I'd opt for Stella or Pils.

With a bit of capital in the bank I decided to buy a scooter but scorned the Lambretta and Vespa which were the rage at the time. Instead I bought a Puch from Austria principally on account of its bigger motor, 175cc and that spared me having to take public transport which involved train, tube and much walking not to mention the cost of the fare. I'd bought it on hire purchase and it was easy keeping up the payments, at first, and Uncle Arthur in Plymouth happily signed as guarantors.

Occasionally a girl-friend liked going to concerts and one had a passion for Bach concerts whose works were often took played in a church in Kensington or thereabouts. As a result I also began going to concerts at the Royal Festival Hall and joining the promenaders at the Royal Albert Hall. I went with a chap who, on reflection, might have been gay because we got into conversation with three nurses who also liked to listen to the music on offer in the gallery. That evening stands out on account of meeting the nurses but also it was the first time of hearing that noisy opus by Tchaikowski, the 1812 overture.

At some time during the evening I thought of dating one of them and spoke to Clive as to whether he had any preference and so having to make a choice of three I opted for Mary, who turned out to be Irish. She was pretty although Jane and the other girl did not lack charm. The main trouble was she seemed to have little in the way of conversation, and, being bored my responses to her were frankly boorish. One thing I do remember of her was her smart pepper and salt overcoat which matched her hair and made her look very elegant. I hope she forgave me and found someone more congenial; she deserved to for she was sweet. Bitter are the memories about things we cannot alter. Decades later my behaviour still hurts me.

With the scooter I began to visit places further afield on my days off and one time I visited Bow Street attending the public gallery in the court of petty sessions to be taken aback by the follies of my fellow men. One case before the magistrate was a young ex-soldier who, in a toilet, had held a mirror to observe his neighbour. It was a first offence so he was let off with costs of ten shiilings, then a paper note. A woman who had led a blameless life stole money from her sick charge and she was bound over though I forget the, so-called, recognisance to be of good behaviour.

Haz, as I said, went to Oxford once weekly to chase spares and he invited me to accompany him on one occasion. I did not realise it at the time but he was looking for his successor and showing me the ropes, as it were. I don't remember much of the actual trip in his car, a Wolseley, which was also used by the police. The factory is a blur but I do recall my entry into the directors dining room which was panelled in brown mahogany and lined with paintings of the founder, Lord Nuffield and his close associates from the 1920s, one in flying gear.

Haz sat at one end of the long directors table with other managers from the factory and offices. They talked shop which is probably why I do not recall many details although the forthcoming motor show was mentioned and possibly the new models about to make their debut. Presumably Haz had already raised the vexed question of hard tops for the many MG owners on the waiting list. I mentioned it in the car on the way home but all he said was that it was under control. His face was deeply etched though whether it bore the strains of ordering parts or from his experiences in the North African desert fighting in WW2, I can only hazard a guess.

The second week of my annual holiday was spent in Paris at a small hotel in the 3rd arrondissement. I had got there by rail and plane; the first rail trip was from Victoria to Lydd on the South Coast where a bus took myself and other passengers to the small aerodrome where we boarded the plane to cross the Channel landing at Le Touquet whence a train took us to the Gare du Nord; the final leg was by taxi although after our arrival, I lost contact with fellow travelers, mostly couples.

On my first day I decided to visit the Louvre and waiting there in the queue was a dark haired, vivacious young woman who introduced herself to me after my asking her something. Although I used halting French she was only too delighted to reply in English and since we were both first-timers in Paris, we joined forces. She was from Chile and was due to appear at the Sorbonne the next day when her course would officially start. In the meantime she had one day free and meant to enjoy herself. She certainly infused me with joy not only in the Louvre but for the rest of the day ending up at a smart street cafe in the Champs Elysee where she insisted on doing the ordering and paying for our ice-cream.

Afterwards I accompanied her back to where she was staying and I stopped momentarily to take a picture of her. After my marriage I made it disappear but I recall a woman in a light floral dress smiling into the lens. Another striking detail was her bust-line, bursting from her dress and her jet black hair. She gave me a warm kiss on leaving me saying that for her from the next day it would be books, books, books for it seemed her father was to visit her to check her progress.

It was not until the next day that the stuffing seemed to have been knocked out of me for the rest of the holiday seemed a let-down. What I do recall strongly were the breakfasts when the black suited waiter would hover with his two metal jugs, one of coffee and the other heated milk which he expertly poured into our cups from a great height with great dexterity. It was my first taste of café au lait, or, in Italian, latte. After breakfast I would wander from the hotel towards the Madelaine and then along the 'rues' towards the centre. The ambiance of Paris was wonderful.

In the late afternoon before returning to the hotel I would buy a snack and drink at a serve-yourself buffet and began to take an interest in a young café assistant whom the others addressed as Francoise but at no time could I speak to her alone. She was a solace when my thoughts strayed sentimentally towards the young Chilean who frequently engaged my thoughts. During the day when I felt hungry I would buy a baguette stuffed with either camembert or pate de foie gras and sit down to eat it on one of the many benches which are a feature of Paris boulevardes.

At no time did my thoughts turn to another young woman whom I had met at Niddry Lodge and had been taking out on trips organized by the Linguist Club to London sights for the benefit of the au pairs and others. Ella, my companion, was officially a mother's help and she was qualified as such in her home country. She was good company and was game for anything. Once we went to London Zoo and after viewing the animals we hired a rowing boat to explore the lake in Regents Park. I had booked the Paris trip long before meeting her but on my return found myself short of cash so did not renew our brief acquaintance.

My timekeeping to work was not good for the trip from West Hampstead even by scooter was both a long way and the route was beset by traffic. Once, in emerging from Baker Street and taking the right turn into Oxford Street, I suddenly found myself on the deck with my Puch spinning around on the ice. It was a momentary spill and I had soon righted the machine and was on my way probably arriving late. Haz told me that management had noticed my late arrivals and wanted him to take action so I was warned officially. It was the three strikes routine and spread over several months but I do remember returning there after Christmas though it was not for much longer.

Fortunately in the closing months of 1960 I had changed my digs from West Hampstead to Acton to make it easier to get to work and soon after moving in made the acquaintance of a former submarine commander whose name had appeared in newspapers on account of a book just published about his wartime career. There was also a couple from South Africa whom I talked to a lot as we shared the kitchen. The house was smaller than that in West Hampstead though the rooms were each larger suggesting that the former place had been subdivided.

My landlady was originally from Poland whose husband had been hounded by the communist state police on account of his wartime service in the Polish army reaching the rank of colonel. Their parties were riotous affairs and invariably the landlady would apologise the next day about the noise. I assured her that the sound of her guests singing Polish songs was enjoyable and not at all disturbing. Although I paid the rent my time of unemployment between being fired from the garage and starting work at Lucas was several weeks.

One thing I recall from those days was finishing work and walking through Shepheards Market (as a short-cut to Oxford Street) which was a haunt of prostitutes though they did not walk the streets but called to passers-by from second floor windows as in Hamburg's red light district, the Reeperbahn. The word means 'ropeway' and was formerly one long building dedicated to winding rope in lengths of a thousand feet. Another memory is watching a well-known film actor trailing a little behind a well known prostitute as she led the way to her apartment. Local pubs were also their haunt.

One day I was called into the office at Niddry Lodge and handed a letter. Inside was a card printed with an invitation to a 21st birthday party; it was from Ella. I realised how much I was missing her but she was also taking a risk to her persona in putting her reciprocal feelings into print and must have felt relieved when I responded positively. It was to be held in East Sheen at the home of her employers both of whom were professional people. He was an electronics engineer while she was a civil servant in the patents office. They had two sons.

By this time I had got myself another position on the Great North Road. The firm was the main agent for Auto Union which is a posh German car and I was engaged partly on the grounds of my knowledge of the names of spare parts in that language. The fitters were actually German nationals who would assess their needs for a particular job, the servicing of a car, and hand the list to me whose job it was to assemble the kit ready for when the fitter needed it.

I found the stores in a state because the stock partitions were labelled in German so that carburettors would be where fuel pumps should be to give an example. A few English mechanics also worked in the garage though nominally under the German fitters who seemed to be a law unto themselves. They would often appear in groups talking amongst themselves in their native vernacular which occasionally became personal although it was mostly harmless banter and one ignored it. Mistakes were not often made but because there were two main models serviced namely, the Autounion (five rings) and the DKW cars, it sometimes happened that one part had to be exchanged for another.

One advantage of the place was a trade paper for circulation among the car servicing fraternity which one day carried an advertisement that Fiat was looking for a parts-man. I seemed to fit the bill exactly. Moreover it seemed easier to reach and, as important, it paid better. So, after only four months at the Autounion garage, I gave notice. It was a good move for my daily routine was changed from an environment of barely disguised contempt to a happy atmosphere where there were no prima donnas prancing around with their insults and innuendoes.

The reason being perhaps that the Germans' contempt was based on their being paid German rates whereas English mechanics' money was at normal automotive rates laid down by the AMCR, the Association of Motor Car Repairers; the difference was considerable. Something however was confirmed in my mind and recall my nearly two years in Frankfurt: German banter has a mean, aggressive streak while British banter or badinage is light if wicked. That difference would begin to make itself felt during the debate surrounding Brexit.

Episode 41

### Betrothal

Fiat's office and stores was situated on a so-called Industrial Estate on the outskirts of Greater London. At lunchtime many of the staff would make their way to the Ace café a few yards along the North Circular Road. It did the most wholesome meals for a reasonable price. That I found was one of the advantages of moving to Fiat where I donned a black coat which set me apart, along with my two colleagues, as a parts counter-hand. One colleague was Lance whose father had been a serviceman in the RAF, originally from Ghana, and had settled in this country. He had a wonderful nature, ever smiling.

My other colleague was a bit dour although he knew his stuff and was always a great help in tracking down a part which sometimes meant thumbing through specialist manuals pertaining to a particular vehicle. Unlike the German cars I mentioned in the previous chapter, the cars we dealt with were from the lower end of the Fiat range, namely the 500 and 600 upto the smarter saloons such as the 1800. All the parts were imported from Italy where Fiat had the largest factory in Europe. The name simply means, Federation d'Italia Auto Trattoria (Federation of Italian Auto Factories).

Lance had bought a little van which carried no purchase tax being a concession to encourage small traders to buy window-less vehicles. The Treasury laid down rules to discourage the public by stipulating that fitting windows within two years would automatically be subject to tax. Lance shrugged off such considerations as he was on his own and we made a pair as I've always been colour-blind and opposite to the more normal meaning. We went to football matches where my presence discouraged hostility towards him.

By now Ella and I were going out regularly and approaching Spring she wanted to see the Trooping of the Colour, if only from a distance, and after mentioning the plan to Lance he asked if he could come along. It proved to be very advantageous because of Lance's van, Ella and I squeezing in the passenger seat. Parking the van proved no problem as we arrived early and found ourselves a good position in Whitehall both to observe the arrival of the mounted troops and soldiers as well as the smart formation marching and wheeling leading up to the occasion when the Queen was ready to take the salute and to watch the chosen regiment 'troop the colour' before her, mounted on a magnificent black and plumed stallion.

It seems Lance had won something of a reputation before I arrived on account of a scam whereby leaflets had been distributed offering investors the doubling of their investment in six months. Lance had sent in his £100 at once and duly received £200 after half a year which prompted others to send in their amounts. None of them got anything back. He, evidently, was the loss leader to whet the sense of something for nothing which, from time immemorial including the South Sea Bubble of the early 18th C, has lured unwary investors to lose their money.

While we counter-hands wore black coats there were people with khaki coats who were mostly pickers whose job was to put spare parts away in their cubicles. If counter-hands were free they would often help out as it was in our interest to see everything was put away in its correct place. There was one such khaki draped individual who made a habit of ranting about coloured people. It seems that houses in the street where he lived had been rented or bought by his least favourite immigrant group and lowered, in his opinion, the value of all houses. His was the voice of the BNP long before that organization existed and most of us walked away from his rants.

I started to bore people in a different way. In 1964 the Olympic Games were to be held in Japan and I conceived the notion of taking the Trans-Siberian railway to Vladivostok and then taking ship to Yokohama. That trip, rather its reverse, would be carried out, though not by me, but by my daughter, with her boy-friend, returning to England from working in Japan; but that was years in the future.

Often, in whatever company or organization I've been working there's been an expert, someone whose knowledge or expertise marks them out as a bit of a geek. At Fiat's there was this guy, Rod, who had been with Fiat for yonks and was familiar with their cars and their constituent parts exploded in a diagram. He had a phenomenal memory, one might say, photographic for he could conjure up a diagram without reference to any book and was a sure source when a part of a non-current model was needed. Fiat goes back to pre-war years and there were people who still drove these old models and came to us looking for spares.

One of my shortcomings was brought home to me; it occurred when someone asked me for a colour stick and on being asked what colour, the customer showed me his car through the open door which struck me as grey. It was green. On another occasion in the science museum some years later, my daughter asked me to pick out something from a circular picture composed of dots. I could not, which she triumphantly showed me up as being blind in a particular hue ie colour-blind.

Although I could get a hearty meal at the afore-mentioned Ace café, there was still the need for a cooked meal of an evening and, not infrequently, Ella would ring me and ask what she could bring with her to cook up something. She would do this as she had learned that I was somewhat ignorant of various matters as for instance when having bought a chicken from a supermarket on the way home, I had placed it in the oven ready for an evening roast. Luckily she arrived early and saved me the ignominy of cooking it with the innards inside still wrapped in their plastic bag. Often a crossed line would complicate matters as once an unknown caller suggested to me that roast potatoes benefited from brushing with oil. Was it a Fiat employee or someone ringing and getting a crossed line?

As mentioned before, Fiat had a similar problem of matching demand with supply with one particular part, that is, a so-called 'vent shield' fitted in winter to the 500. This was a rear mounted engine cooled via hot air escaping through vents in the rear engine housing though when it was very cold the engine benefited by the retention of such heat, hence the vent shields. Unfortunately in one particular cold spell we ran out of the shields which were imported from Italy so that a long list of customers were waiting for the next supply.

After working there for over a year an unpleasant tension pervaded the company as it was suspected that money was leaking away through missing items. Cars were searched, motorcycles and scooters inspected but still the culprit, if indeed it was not a bookkeeping error, remained at large. Walking in the road at lunchtime where Fiat was based, I was stopped by plain clothes policemen, as were other employees, and my bag and pockets searched. Desmond, a colleague took it very much amiss. He reasoned that the items of high value could not be concealed in small bags or pockets so there was little point, and only created ill-feeling.

It was time to move on and I had no difficulty in being accepted for employment at another large organization based in Acton, namely Lucas which supplied spares for all kinds of electrical fittings. I was one of five clerks who by telephone and letter communicated with customers wanting spares. Alongside us, in an open plan office, were twenty or so women who operated various accounting machines while there was a special section staffed by two women who typed all the letters or listened to our stenographic discs on which we recorded letters.

In charge of our section was a veteran who, by his long experience, was consulted about older models of lights, distributors, windscreen wipers etc. The overall manager had been an army major and was very dynamic. One of my colleagues was interested in politics and for the first time I recall arguing with him about the various merits of the two political parties. I lost a bet to him when I unwisely claimed the electorate would not vote in a party with no experience of government. After taking my money (only a £1) he told me an obvious saw with the words: "On your argument there'd be only one party ever in office." Logical!

One day I was on my way to Niddry Lodge and a thought occurred to me that perhaps the feeling I was developing for Ella was such that I never wanted to be parted from her. I was in love. After a good deal more thought the practical question arose of declaring my love for her, and, in short, popping the question; would she be willing to spend the rest of her life with me, a foreigner, and foregoing the possibility of returning to live in the country of her birth and leave behind both family and friends? It would be a big decision for her.

Where, when and how? I decided to try and hide my intention and catch her by surprise not giving her any pretext to think too much about it, and, as important, my shortcomings. It turned out to be a day in Gunnersbury Park after visiting the nearby Kew Gardens. We were in a large open-air restaurant; around about were empty tables some overturned for it was windy. Most people had left and when I watched the last leave I thought that perhaps I might never get a more opportune moment. So, out it came, blurted more than measured; but a shade of red suffused my cheeks when I heard a girl saying to her sibling that she'd heard someone propose. It seems the restaurant had two garden spaces separated by a wall.

Still, Ella reacted positively, and I felt like I was walking on air as, for the first time, she spoke about her family back in Germany. There was also the question of when? But, it was now not just a matter of my thinking about things, on my own; there was another person to consider. Her immediate problem concerned her family at East Sheen because it would introduce some insecurity to them as she thought they might have expected her to stay longer. But, there were also practical problems for me when Ella told me she wanted a white wedding and, not a register office affair.

Soon afterwards she told me that her employer was delighted with the news and rather than feeling unsure about her replacement after she left told Ella to think no more about it even offering their home for a reception, if convenient. There would not be too many guests we estimated so the East Sheen residence was admirable as there was a large lounge leading onto a covered patio plus the garden, which, as it happened, proved very useful.

I began looking for a suitable church so as to be in easy reach of East Sheen and so a Methodist Church in Hammersmith proved to be ideal and soon an interview with the minister was arranged who told us that for the purpose of marriage residency in the borough of six weeks at minimum was a legal requirement though he would appreciate it if either or both of us could attend services, occasionally.

I got to know Ella's friends, particularly two women the eldest of whom, Liz, worked in a data processing firm punching cards on a machine. She shared Ella's nationality and was domiciled in the UK. They had met at a literary festival organized by the Linguists Club. The other was Danish and was an au pair and quite a formidable intellect. Later she married a Spanish waiter, had three children but had to return to Denmark on the death of the husband who was a workaholic. Liz also returned to Munich, her home town to live out her retirement.

At work the manager wanted me to specialise in a particular field of car electrics. Jack, a colleague, was the expert in lights while the much older Mr Fraser's speciality was ignition systems. Mr Redman the manager handled all government contracts and was consulted by Mr Knott, the manager, as to what field I should specialise in and he suggested wiring systems which were proving troublesome as the latest innovation was a wiring harness fitted to the chassis and the car which was built around the harness.

At this point I'll relate a coup which I managed to bring off. Nobody could get sealed lamp units, a Lucas innovation, so, after a hint from the Japanese firm, I suggested to the manager that instead of 10,000 units we order 50,000 and supply also other Lucas branches who could cancel their own orders. By quizzing my Japanese opposite number I was told of their priorities which meant quicker deliveries for higher quantities. Mr Knott accepted my argument and he publicly singled me out for praise and later I was rewarded with a promotion.

But first, I was despatched to Rists, a wire and cable firm, to learn about the subject though it was a fruitless exercise as Rists supplied the wire to the harness makers and it was to them I might have been sent. The reason I was not was the fear of my learning company secrets because the firm supplied harnesses to Lucas and to competitor companies. The harness firm feared that Lucas might start to make them at their Birmingham factory.

Soon after, my reward for the coup (mentioned above) which incidentally speeded up deliveries to companies such as Jaguar which in turn allowed them to shorten delivery times to customers, came through. I was sent across to the machine shop to take over as production line manager: I would actually oversee the assembly line. I got my own secretary and my salary was raised and I made the calculation that with one more push I'd be earning a thousand a year, roughly twenty pounds a week – and could raise a mortgage.

Ella and I arranged our holiday plans,: she would make her way back home to Salzgitter in Germany and a week later I'd follow and spend a fortnight getting to know my future father-in-law. At the time the normal route was from Liverpool Street where one boarded the train for Harwich connecting with the ferry to the Hoek on the Dutch coast. From Hoek the train travelled to the German border when a new locomotive was attached and one proceeded to Braunschweig, the final destination; a diesel commuter train took passengers to Salzgitter.

But, delays often arose, perhaps owing to rough seas in the North Sea or something, and so the usual route needed amending. It happened to me and my Hoek train headed for Dusseldorf where I planned to change for another express to Braunschweig. An annoying delay was due to German red tape. Having only minutes to change platforms I tried to hurry past the ticket gate and was called back and my papers meticulously scrutinised so that I missed the connection. However a German facility softened my annoyance because on the platform was a cable office which I used to wire Ella of my delay and expected arrival.

It worked because waiting for me as the train drew in to Braunschweig was Ella. We celebrated with an ice cream Torte in the station café. It was a marvellous moment. Meeting her father was also an experience for he was a larger-than-life character who thundered out his welcome in a vernacular difficult to follow but reassuring in that he was sure that I'd be good for his daughter.

On the first night I was woken by Ella. She wanted to join me in bed. It was completely unexpected. The pleasures of the flesh! But, she had disappeared by the following morning as my nose told me that fresh rolls were for breakfast and German filter coffee was brewing. But, unlike in France which is half milk, half coffee, the Germans like theirs with a splash of tinned milk, still very nice.

There were loads of visits on that holiday as she called on people who were much older than she was whom I later discovered were her mentors, people who helped train her. We might call them pedagogues. Unspoken were: you thought I'd stay an old maid. Well, here's the guy who's going to marry me. Had I read their thoughts, it might be: you've got yourself a fine, young woman. Are you good enough for her! One especial trip was made. It was to Wolfenbuttel.

Episode 42

### Partnership

I never came into contact with Herr Segel who might be described in England as a squire. He owned a large estate and farmed both cattle-herds and arable land. His wife was a right, upper-class madam who was all too well aware of her status within the community. But, she thought the world of Ella. When one of her children complained to her that she'd been smacked by Ella, her response was severe: you were so naughty that Ella felt obliged to smack you and you dare complain!

The German Bundesbahn did some special excursions and one day we set out to spend a day in Hamburg which was celebrating its status as the City of Culture. We took the overhead cable car to look at the City from 200 feet up and another trip around the harbour where the guide regaled his passengers with the time ten years ago when the combination of high Spring tide coincided with high winds and flooded the City. But, it was also fascinating to stare at the giant tankers and cargo vessels which made it one of the busiest harbours in Europe.

On another scorching hot day, Ella organised a trip to the Black Forest. But, more than the scenic beauty it was the invasion of wasps which characterised our walks and midday meal. I got to know about her town as well. Its full name was Salzgitter-Lebenstedt which in the 30s was intended to be a mighty industrial town to rival Sheffield. Whilst WW2 raged a plan was submitted to President Rooseveldt to strip Lebenstedt's massive ovens and ship them to the USA; it was part of the Morgenthau plan to turn Germany into an agricultural country.

Fortunately wiser councils prevailed for although the ovens were shipped further depredations were avoided when Trueman took over from Roosevelt; both men had realised that Germany could be a strong ally of the USA. One other talking point in the Oscipok (Ella's maiden name) household was the latest news of a daring robbery in England known to us as the Great Train robbery on August 8th, 1963.

Back in England we were sauntering through Leicester Square when almost like an invisible item hopping from mouth to ear among the press of people the news reached us that President Kennedy had been shot. That was November of the same year. After Christmas around late January, early February I moved away from Acton to take up lodgings in Hammersmith in order to satisfy the residence requirements.

I had a phone call from my brother Arthur over with his family to spend their first holiday in Britain since they emigrated. They were staying at the Strand Hotel and the evening before they were due to fly back, I invited Ella to meet her prospective brother-in-law and his family and Arthur invited us to share supper with them. He told me that Doris had been to see her Mother just outside Plymouth while Arthur looked up old sailor friends in Portsmouth, where he was stationed for a short while. I recall visiting him there with our Mum back in the '50s.

My new landlady was as different from Mrs Strelezcka, Acton as chalk is to cheese. She hovered always near the stairs so as to check not only the comings and goings of her lodgers but also their visitors, as Ella was to discover. There were little notices displayed everywhere as to the conduct expected which was mostly what people would do anyway, such as close doors quietly. My fiance comforted me by reminding me of the reason I was there, so I was mollified..

The day of the wedding was set for March 26th, in the calendar as Maundy Thursday and we had chosen a good day weather-wise for it was cold but clear and the whole experience is today wreathed in mist as today I can recall only isolated incidents. One was almost toppling sideways as I reached the vestibule and I cannot explain it. Another was standing in the garden at East Sheen with Ella having our picture taken. My mother hovers somewhere but the memory is vague. What we ate or drank is also completely lost to me. Did someone make a speech and did I reply? I haven't the faintest memory.

A taxi delivered us, me and my bride, to our new address in Richmond which I had rented weeks earlier so that I had the expense of two lodgings for a short time, but there was no escaping it because I was reluctant to bring my new wife to the place in Hammersmith. That evening, after changing, we went by tube to Leicester Square where I had booked seats for Half-a-Sixpence, Tommy Steele taking the role as Kipps in H G Wells classic story. It was great. Afterwards we had supper in The Guinea and a Piggy, the idea behind the name being that anyone can make a piggy of themselves for a guinea, £1-1/- (in old money); decimalisation of the British pound sterling was still 7 years away.

Had we wanted to get as close to each other as was possible we had the right bed for it sagged in the middle. Later we discovered the disadvantage of being on the top floor as the ceiling leaked with rainwater. We had decided to postpone a real honeymoon till later and so I went back to work on the Tuesday while Ella enjoyed her first real day of being a housewife. In reality she scanned the local paper for a more suitable flat and did some shopping to see about the merits of the paradox that two can live as cheap as one.

Here, for the purpose of honesty I must record myself as being guilty of a mean gesture which occurred so early in our married life that Ella forgave me, I think. Her employers invited us both to an opera owing to another couple having to drop out and I told her to tell them we were otherwise engaged. I was nervous at the prospect of such an event and about the right clothes to wear but still feel it was an unkind thing to do as the Helps had been so kind to me.

Our move to Church Road, Richmond was the start of many good things to happen to us as a married couple tinged with one or two negatives but one is ever looking on the bright side. We occupied the flat until September 1966 for I remember being there for the World Cup when England lifted the trophy. Ella managed to find herself a job behind the counter at United Dairies which had a shop in the High Street. It was good because she left for business at the same time as I and we walked along the path alongside the railway lines as we overlooked the station. She would get me a paper while I queued for a ticket. Once she called out what paper I wanted to read and I called out: 'Get me a Guardian, Angel'. I flushed red but it raised a smile.

We discovered Richmond theatre and regularly enjoyed a play or a musical. Somerset Maugham was popular. Sundays we liked to walk to Kew Gardens or down to the river's edge and stroll along the towpath. Richmond Park was not far either so Ella would make us a package of sandwiches and for dessert it was nice to buy a couple of ices. All in all it was delightful living in Richmond.

Come September we decided to combine our summer holiday and honeymoon opting for Bournemouth where we booked a B&B for a week. There was so much to do and we had the pick of an ice rink extravaganza, listening to a concert at the Winter Gardens, watching a variety show at the Pavilion, or, visiting the cinema. I remember it was showing Lawrence of Arabia. Ella was thrilled to read the name of someone by the name of Schwarz at the Winter Gardens as he was a relation of her former employers. At the Pavilion the star performer was Arthur Haynes who was very watchable in a very popular sit-com, 'Are you being Served?' years later.

A delightful trip across the bay by ferry was Swanage where Ella enjoyed herself immensely walking the strand picking up sea shells. Later we paid a call on Corfe Castle though on this occasion, unlike a decade or so earlier, there was little time for a swim in the shallow waters of the Sandbanks beach.

In the hotel room Ella suddenly got urges to visit the WC along the corridor which often augurs a cold but we were to discover back in Richmond when she visited the doctor that she was pregnant. The talks on preparations for childbirth at the Kingston maternity unit were absorbing for me too although at other sessions I was barred which is possibly the reason Ella was approached by another would-be mum who actually lived nearby but had stayed aloof due to my presence.

Ella's papers from Germany came through which meant that her qualifications were valid for her to enrol as a supply teacher and she duly attended a school in Bayswater until such time as their usual teacher returned to duties and there she met Jennie who was similarly employed and who lived also in Church Road. I recall going there in rather a huff around 11pm to fetch Ella back mumbling something about an early start. Her husband was there too; he was a truly charming man whose passion was railway signaling and he would often stop his car alongside a rail line to confirm his estimate as to which box was nearby. It was a quirk which Jennie related with some tolerant amusement.

However when that position was no longer available she applied to the Hammersmith Council creche for employment as an assistant. The Matron was somewhat put out by Ella's celebration of the children's birthdays with inexpensive knick-knacks but confirmed after six months probation that Ella's group was the best behaved of all the groups. The matron asked her to look after the welfare of a trainee assistant, Lynn, and show her the ropes of child care. Lynn told Ella years later that her help had been invaluable especially as regards her younger brother whom she had saved from going into care.

Her brother was so grateful that he promised to end his wild ways eventually joining the post office and years later became a trade union official. Many more years later it was the spring-board to his application to become MP for Hull and eventually joining the Labour Government which made him Home Secretary. Lynn remained a faithful friend after her marriage and emigration to Australia.

Ella got a letter from her sister in Germany to the effect that she too had signed on as an au-pair and would take up her appointment in south London. After several months she became entitled to a holiday and opted to spend a week with us where she dossed down with a sleeping bag in our lounge promising to return after the baby was born. Edel was seven years younger than Ella and very attractive. When I visited her home the previous year she was resident in Braunschweig where she was apprenticed to an accountant. She would become an expert on German tax matters and be very much in demand.

At last it was time for Ella to enter hospital and coincidentally there were some elections current at the same time though I don't remember if they were local or national or both. We took the bus to Kingston and I returned to work promising to visit every evening and on April 1st on arrival I was shown our new-born behind a glass screen. He seemed to have an enormous head though I was told it would revert to normality within days; they were right. We agreed on a name: It was Mich-a-el in German and Michael in English.

We had a party to celebrate his birth and I invited our Staines relations to visit hoping that Aunt Edie had forgiven me for the non-return of her husband's 'throw-away' raincoat (she had) and as a bonus she brought (her sister) Aunt Hilda who was visiting from Canada where my uncle Jim and she had emigrated to be with their son, Jack, who, with wife, Barbara and the twins had emigrated years earlier. Jack had qualified as a naval architect and seems to have done well. Ella invited her friends and it was a convivial get-together.

Through Ella having to give up work our income was reduced though marrying just before the end of the financial year, I had a substantial income tax refund because my tax as a single man was spread, as a married man, over the same period and I got the benefit of the cumulative difference. Ella also got a refund. However both of us realized our savings must go towards a deposit for independent accommodation, and, I had persuaded Ella that a house, even a small one, was within our means even though we would have to find around 20% of the cost of it, about £800, based on the guide price of £4000 for the house.

This is where politics entered into our arrangements because the view among top political leaders was that Britain's entry into the Common Market would soon be a political necessity as the benefits of imperial preference wound down with New Zealand and Australia opting to abandon their white immigrants only policy which in turn meant closer relations with countries outside the Commonwealth.

The firm I worked for, Lucas, aimed to improved their exports to Europe which brought the company face-to-face with the fact that it needed its employees to be more fluent in the European languages. Accordingly it set out to encourage language learning by offering three prizes for fluency in some languages, eg French, German, Spanish, Italian of £100, £50 and £25 for advanced, moderate and beginners respectively. After the scheme got under way I applied for and gained about £175. It was a useful addition to our deposit fund.

Meanwhile we embarked on a sustained search for a suitable house and found a possible maisonette in Wimbledon paying £80 to a surveyor who recommended that we submit a bid of £200 lower than the asking price. Although I put down the reasons for the reduction the young man would not consider anything less so we withdrew losing the price of the survey. We did have some post-withdrawal recriminations mostly to do with the question: 'Were we unduly unreasonable?'

After some fruitless visits to empty properties in Egham, Shepperton and Staines we began to experience pained looks from estate agents which seemed to suggest the question: is your income up to it? However an empty maisonette in Staines seemed within our range and I submitted a bid below the £4,200 asking price; it was turned down, and that also happened to us with a property in Feltham. It was becoming evident that south London was, for the most part, beyond our income.

Looking back both Ella and I remember it as a rewarding time for we got to know different parts of the environs of London experiencing much assistance from station staff, in particular guards, when having to put our pram into guards vans. People generally were very helpful and we met a number of people in the position of moving for various reasons eg for a bigger place, retirement, leaving the area etc. We spent hours in our little kitchen at Church Road searching through the London Advertiser and other papers, both local and specialised.

In my job at Lucas my secretary complained that I was acting unreasonably though not to me. She took up her complaint with the secretary of the manager and having got wind of this fact I went back over the correspondence she had typed for my predecessor. It was woeful. Even so it was me who was hauled over the coals despite insisting that any letters I signed had to be perfect both in typing and spelling. Her main unspoken complaint was, in my view, that I had not made a pass at her; few women can forgive a slight of that nature.

On my way to work at Lucas having got off at Turnham Green I would pass a young woman most mornings. It was the age of the mini-skirt which was made for figures such as she possessed but I always succeeded in avoiding a direct eye-to-eye look because Ella, to me, completely met every aspect of the opposite gender. We once went shopping to Kingston by train and I remember looking at her and thinking she was everything a man could dream of in a woman. She wore a one-piece, blue and white striped skirt which made her look ravishing and in high-heels Ella was as elegant as any model on the catwalk.

One Saturday morning I travelled to Euston with my copy of a property paper suitably circled with possible properties to visit and looked for the platform to Watford. Ignorant of the route I took the slow train and remember the signal box at Stonebridge Park for some reason. My future had something to do with that stop though it was then unknown to me. From Watford Junction I made my way to Gordon Hudson, an estate agent, which kindly provided a map along with keys to a property in North Watford. I had time that morning to visit two.

Walking through the town a memory of visiting the place came back. It was on the occasion of watching a football match with Alec, a colleague at JS, once to see Exeter and then Plymouth Argyle playing Watford in the league, 3rd division south. There was a David Greig and I recalled the story told me that the latter and Sainsbury's would never appear in the same town owing to some deal struck between the two companies of one marrying into the other.

At Lucas I was beginning to meet up with reps from motor vehicle manufacturers whom Lucas supplied who were responsible for maintaining the supply of contracted lamps, distributor heads, solenoids and other parts assembled in Acton. I was taken out to lunch on several occasions though it was more in the nature of good relations than any attempt to win extra business. Once we had a visit from a head office by an office manager looking for somebody to run their statistics department and the Acton manager put my name forward but I did not want to exchange Acton for Birmingham. And rather than get a possible summons I decided to look around for a possible move which would bring my salary towards £1200 a year.

Ella wanted to travel to Watford with Michael in his pram to view the properties I'd looked at the previous week. Both were occupied. The first in Judge Street was a smart terraced house which the incumbent had improved to justify his asking price of £4200 while the other where the couple wanted a larger property for a growing family caused us some amusement later. Its owner proudly showed some of his handiwork, a home-made shelf in danger of falling down, with the promise it would be left for the buyer. We both decided it was worth our while to look for other properties and so we made our way to the estate agent who told us of a property just on the market and loaned us the keys to visit it.

It was Ella who first saw the potential in the property recently vacated owing to the death of its occupier, a widow of several years to a postman whose certificate of long service was still in the hall. Unlike most terraced houses we had visited it had a proper hall with access to a front room, back room, kitchen and stairs. The garden was a riot of tall weeds with a shed and a lean-to for drying clothes plus outside toilet and coal/wood storage. Upstairs was a bathroom and three bedrooms. We decided then and there to put down a deposit leaving it with the estate agent with a view to getting a survey and approaching our building society.

The asking price was £3,750. After our application for a mortgage on another property was turned down we had decided to move our savings to the Goldhawk Building Society who, though lending money at a higher interest rate, it was more conducive to accepting a mortgage application of 80% of the asking price. Although by now we had the down payment it seemed a good idea to look around for additional funds and Ella asked her father for a loan. He responded by transferring the amount as a gift expressing shock that Ella should expect no less from her father.

Our surveyor told us that he had been in touch with our building society (at our request) concluding that certain repairs to the property were desirable and recommending a bid of £150 less, as the cost of such repairs. In a month the vendor had accepted our offer of £3,600 so, after instructing our conveyancing solicitors, arrangements were put in hand to effect closure and the handing over of the title deeds, which was completed by Spring, 1968.

We had met the vendor who turned out to be the son of the former occupier and who made to us the offer to leave items of furniture at no cost to us one or two of which we accepted. It was going to be hard work to turn the property into a home suitable for us as the paintwork, for example, was a dark varnish adding to the gloom of the interior. However my first purchase was a sickle to cut down the grass which had grown to several feet and once completed Ella could use the lawn to watch Michael in his first halting steps.

Owing to a recurrence of her back pain, we ordered a special orthopaedic bed which was firmer than the usual beds on the market at the time. My wife was very pleased with the new GEC oven we managed to buy using some of the money Ella's father had given us. It enabled her to put a roast in the oven to start at a certain time while we proceeded to Cassiobury Park which had excellent play facilities, one of which was to place him in a caged seat and swing him forward and backward while having a chat with other parents, mostly mothers.

With life going so well all that was needed was for that life to remind us that there are downs as well as ups and often the downs are attributable to pushing too hard. It was to be no different for me, for us. My search for a new challenge and commensurate salary ended when I was accepted for employment by a new company selling flow-meters for the burgeoning water, oil and gas industries. The manager was a dynamic man of 30+ who was as constantly in search of new business as progressing existing orders manufactured at the company's plant at Baldock, Hertfordshire. The draughting office was a unique experience for me because its products, the drawings, were converted themselves into circuits and miniaturised as a pattern by which the electronic works of each flow-meter was produced.

It had an overseas manager who frequently entertained reps from overseas companies particularly in Europe and occasionally needed information from the two progress chasers of which I was one. My colleague was sharp in two ways for that was his name, but, more particularly, we disliked each other on first acquaintance which spelled the end for me because it was to him the manager looked when my three month approval assessment came to pass.

At the time the current hit tune was sung by the Beatles, 'Yellow Submarine', one of Sharpe's favourites, and, after a while, I uttered a disparaging comment such as it should suffer the fate of the Thetis, then in the news although the disaster happened in the 20's. Once the export manager came in to ask about something and it turned out that both our wives were from Germany. It was the only positive thing for me at S.E. Laboratories although that young dynamic manager showed his dynamism at my expense though later I thanked him inwardly many times over.

Episode 43

### Systems_analyst

But, I did not have too long to wait for my local paper, the Watford Observer, ran an advert for a stock controller with the prospect of planned computerization; the firm was S. G. Brown Ltd., making compasses, a Watford based company so I would have savings in fares right away. Unlike Amplivox the company was already operating automated processes having a data processing section producing punched cards which were fed into early electro-mechanical machines made by Hollerith to calculate stock usage, wages and other standard office processes.

In the course of months I was offered the title of Systems Analyst whose task was to explore a planned process or procedure with a view to automation by investigating and automating a given activity. My first project: a stock control system. My task was to evolve a system which would lend itself to programming: the composing of code relating to my written instructions. Such code was typed onto punched cards and fed into a card-reader attached to a computer which translated the program into machine-readable instructions which were then applied to each item of stock. I went through the company stock assiduously to ensure every item was analysed and reported via a computer print-out.

The company had no computer of its own and had come to an arrangement with its parent company in Hatfield to where we, Systems Analyst and programmer, would repair every Sunday, earning overtime into the bargain. By this means over months a new Stock Control system was tested, modified and eventually installed to the satisfaction of all. By that process the production manager could evaluate his stock of thousands of components at a glance from the printout by the computer printer. On the basis of stock usage over a time period calculation for each item, items not meeting predefined criteria were identified for analysis.

However a data processing manager later told me that it was my system that had alerted Hawker's, the parent company, to their subsidiary's financial exposure and hence management to move towards closure. I had systematically examined every item of stock including, for example, special bi-metallic wire, which, owing to subsequent development, was not required in quantity. My usage data revealed stocks of hundreds of years which meant thousands of £££s was a write-off.

Furthermore and sadly the compasses, at one time covered by patents, had reached the end of their one-time big demand for, since the 20s when the company had formed to assemble the compass, technology had moved on and demand had fallen, or, was met by other firms originally operating under licence. So, it had come to the end of the line and was earmarked for closure. Unions were, as always, up in arms and organized protest marches through the town, in vain.

The German unions by having a seat on their company's directors' board are kept up to date and so are able to cushion the blow to their members. Speaking of Germans, their wartime U-boats proved less able to micro-manage their position at sea hence collisions were not uncommon. The Royal Navy, equipped with the Arma-Brown, was superiour in that respect enabling Navy technicians to locate precisely the Kriegsmarine Atlantic depot ships to resupply U-Boats and sink them.

The firm was generous in allowing time to seek new employment once the decision had been made for closure. I applied for a post advertised by the British Waterways who were moving their offices to Stonebridge Park.

"Why do you want to make this move?"

It was a florid and commanding gentleman at the end of a long table who had boomed that question to me. Other directors stared at me in disapproval noting my former career of progress chaser but I was unabashed though should have been because it was a canal operating company to whom I had applied. There was no production line. Still I argued even canals needed organization: isn't that what was needed? It seemed acceptable as I was taken on.

On starting I was commanded to attend a Honeywell course for it was its computer the Board was to buy. It proved excellent. I met up with a young analyst like myself who worked for Ultra. However on return to the Waterways that same gentleman with the booming voice told me to forget my Honeywell training as it was incompatible with Waterways ideology. Moreover I had to share an office with the senior systems analyst who asked me to study various systems for computerising the canal boat booking system.

After a detailed study spent at several Waterways offices, I requested a meeting with my immediate supervisor, the senior analyst. My plan was markedly different to his and I queried my assignment arguing that his own study surely obviated mine. Not so he objected: his was the obvious solution. His idea was that I should accept a fait-accompli and I agreed though his next suggestion was ridiculous: I must put in writing that my plan was flawed. I refused. My appointment was not confirmed so within three months I was looking anew for a job.

"Why do you want to make this move?"

That same question brought forth an answer that had the DP manager chortling with amusement. And so I got a positive response. This time I was applying for the position of Systems Analyst in a production company. It was, in salary terms, way above sales clerk, progress chaser so the feeling was that I had arrived. To give some idea: from £1200 to £5K. On being taken on, my first task was to find out the reason for the failure of a system which was having problems whereby the analyst responsible had left. My progress-chasing experience came in useful as my predecessor had got many things right although the final process which, in a piece-work environment, was not paid was not included in his analysis. Hence the finished units complete with dockets simply piled up, and the dockets did not get back to the DP section so there was no computer report. Also he had never visited the machine-shop though being ex-public school he had probably never heard of a capstan-lathe.

The office was the largest I had ever worked in having about eight analysts such as myself, three senior analysts and around eight programmers. The company, Simms Motor Units, itself made diesel units for diesel engines and had been taken over by a larger company, C.A.V., to which we were subject. The computer had been installed years before so the company had a great deal of experience and already many company departments had been computerised receiving reports from the DP dept on a regular basis. To service these systems a maintenance section was in being with its own maintenance programmer.

I had already come into contact with the main business program language, Cobol (invented by Commander Grace Hopper working for the United States Navy). However other program languages were employed with which luckily I did not come into contact. Another vital item was the computer which, at the time, was rated by its memory then 32K (K=1024 bytes). Today simple calculators have megabytes of storage. Nonetheless through cleverness in programming complex routines could be successfully run as a matter of course.

I discovered that the Colossus computer created by Turing, Flowers and Neuman in 1942 had just 11 seconds of storage through a mercury delay line yet successfully deciphered the German Enigma codes in WW2 so a large memory is not essential. On the contrary it can induce lazy programming causing a routine to run longer than strictly necessary.

On my first day leaving from a Watford Junction platform the guard informed passengers that the train arriving was one of hundreds newly purchased for the newly electrified railway to Euston. I never lacked a seat in those early days. From Euston I had to take the tube to East Finchley where I still had a way to walk and to save money I bought a season ticket.

About a year before I left our parent company, CAV, had hired an American executive director whose purpose was to improve efficiency and it was not long before he had sent someone to Finchley to look its subsidiary over. These activities were, at the time, transparent to employees as only the managers were informed of proceedings. However the efficiency drive showed an ugly side when our DP manager was away on his annual holiday and we watched in astonishment as workmen arrived to remove his name from the door and to fit out for a fresh incumbent, a stranger who called in the senior people one by one.

These people were told off the record that Jim, our manager on holiday, should not be spoken to on his return from leave. I got to know of it from the senior analyst to whom I normally reported. On Jim's return he was assigned a desk in our open-plan office but given nothing to do and it was hoped that he would through boredom give notice and thereby save the company money though that was the scheme's Achilles heel for Jim had too much to lose.

I disobeyed the unwritten instructions and spoke to Jim if only to discover whether he had been notified of things before he went on leave; he had not. Jim was eventually transferred to head office and things returned to normal though not quite for me as it was made clear to me that company orders whether written or not must not be ignored and steps were set in motion for my removal. Sadly for me the industry was in one of its downturns and I was having difficulty in getting a new job.

Still, it was an amicable enough parting and my references were not to be compromised. Even so having left the company in October without a new one to go to, I feared for the future as now I had financial responsibilities, not least the upkeep of a mortgage. And, unlike previous departures, I had also a family to support for by now my daughter had arrived to be joined by my third and last child, a boy. For a short time I took up a temporary appointment as a sales assistant with a John Lewis company over the Christmas period; indeed the company asked me to stop on for the sales period.

It was a fraught time for us as Ella had to be taken to the local hospital as her latest pregnancy was to be a breech-birth. In the 19th C the same procedure was expected for the pregnancy of Victoria, our queen's daughter who was married to the crown prince of Germany, Wilhelm. It did not go well because his left arm became trapped in delivery and was subsequently useless to him. However procedures were now in place to effect a perfect delivery and our youngest son, Colin was the outcome. My Christmas temporary job was extended for the January sales.

My best hope for another systems analyst position lay with a company in the City and I phoned to ask the personnel manager about progress. He astonished me by saying that the position had attracted several times the number expected and that explained the delay in responding but he expected to be able to make an offer to someone within a fortnight. It was as he said and I got a letter in less than a fortnight offering me the position as Systems Analyst in the DP department at an annual salary of £10,600 to be made up to £11,000 after a six months approval period.

Years into my time with Babcock I was asked to look after the office of the personnel manager who was away on sick leave, and, whilst looking for some record in the filing cabinet came across my application. It had been annotated in respect of my grammar school education, fluency in German, zero mistakes in punctuation etc; records of the failed applicants showed university, knowledge of French etc and often numerous spelling lapses. It seems that my grammar school education was standing me in good stead so it had paid to stick it out, bullying and all.

Within less than a year I was off to Hamburg to visit a company that Babcock had recently acquired. The visit was very instructive. At midday I could not help notice that at my table in the staff restaurant sat the finance director, office employees, an electrician and the caretaker. At Babcock the employees mentioned would be obliged to have their lunch/dinner in three separate establishments, the directors' restaurant, the staff restaurant and thirdly, the workers canteen.

Another custom I observed was on the arrival of the DP manager who would shake the hand of each employee in the punched card department. It seems it was customary in every department. For some years the company had been operating a punched card system based on Hollerith machines and they now wanted to buy a small computer to update their systems. Having consulted Babcock their parent company I was sent out to learn more about their business and advise accordingly.

The DP manager invited me to his home for supper. He lived on the outskirts of Hamburg with his wife and two children. I had a very pleasant evening. On my being driven to the nearest rail station to return to Hamburg and my hotel, Herr Soltau kindly accompanied me onto the platform to await the Hamburg express from Belgrade which was due at 21.17, and, having a few minutes to wait we chatted.

Facing an enormous clock I noticed the giant second hand ticking away as the hand passed the 20 second mark and no sign of the train and I made some droll comment to Soltau in response to which he indicated I should turn round. The express was approaching and steamed past us towards the end of the platform, slowing and stopping precisely as the second hand touched top zero. The train had arrived literally dead on time, to the second. Deutsche Punktualitaet!

That initial visit lasted three days with my report suggesting to the Babcock DP manager that an investigation of the company be carried out in the near future with a view to purchasing one of the many small computers on the market. The project should take no more than four months provided delivery of the computer selected arrived within a month of ordering. One advantage to any team from London was that the existing punched card systems were annotated in English corresponding presumably to the language of the Hollerith machine systems currently employed.

However this German company employed an American system unfamiliar to me so my D P manager asked another analyst to accompany me. Mike was Welsh and probably had a public school education for he was convinced that he had only to raise his voice and all would be comprehensible. However his listeners smiled commenting to me about the lovely lilt of his words though asked me to interpret. However he ran through the Power Samas card programmes very efficiently and soon we knew just how many programmes would be necessary in the proposed language, RPG.

It was an IBM system and as a thankyou for choosing his company the sales guy took us to a nightclub in the Reeperbahn. After reporting back to our boss he asked if such a trip could be laid on for him and a friend. With a few glasses of excellent Weinbrand inside him our manager told us how Babcock had acquired the German firm. It seems they had installed a salt water treatment plant but on a visit to Jordan where the plant had been installed the passport official noticed an Israeli stamp. Babcock's employees were supplied with two passports but the German firm was inexperienced though it was exposed to a financial loss which Babcock resolved by taking over the company and reclaiming the cash from Jordan.

Back to my position with the company, It seems I had done a good job because years later the new DP manager called me into his office. It seems he had put forward my name for redundancy: it was refused. When he asked the reason I began to talk to him in German asking him in English whether he knew of another German speaking analyst. He was soon shaking hands for it was becoming evident that the role of DP manager had become redundant.

However I knew that my many moves to improve my situation were effectively a thing of the past. I would work for this company until my enforced retirement fifteen years hence. In the meantime my efforts were devoted to performing my duties and responsibilities to the best of my ability with a view to maintaining a comfortable life style for Ella and myself and our three children, Michael, our first-born, Irene and Colin. One of my first aims was to ensure that I could not impregnate Ella again and under the guidance of my GP I signed up to have an operation performed upon me known as a vasectomy.

Episode 44

### Familyman

My wife's former classmates were especially close on account of the immediate postwar years when their country, Germany was at the mercy of the occupying powers. Their teachers did not dwell on the unpalatable fact that had the UK been occupied by the enemy the situation for the English would have been dire.; after all its plans were there in Nazi filing cabinets. Ella has memories of shortages and the straits her father had recourse to keep his family well-nourished but she recalls how her teacher and classmates not only attended school to be educated but also the little trips organised outside school to provide pupils with an overview of the world. Not least was a trip to Sweden to enjoy a holiday with no shortages whatsoever.

After moving on into adult life the class would reunite once a year to remind themselves of hardier times and exchange stories of their ongoing life. Then names would be put forward to host the next reunion and once our children were able to care for themselves Ella and I would take the car to whatever venue the current year's host had invited their classmates. That way we got to know Solingen, Bremerhaven, Hamburg and elsewhere. The first day the host would hire a local room in a tavern and on the morrow take a trip somewhere. Photos would be taken for distribution to our various addresses.

Most people by this time had put in some considerable time at work in their respective companies and Ella and I fitted into this mould. So, in the 1980s my efforts were devoted to performing my duties and responsibilities to the best of my ability with a view to maintaining a comfortable life style for Ella and myself and our three children, Michael, our first-born, Irene and Colin. One of my first aims was to ensure that I could not impregnate Ella again and under the guidance of my GP I signed up to have an operation performed upon me known as a vasectomy.

It was carried out whilst I was still with Simms Motor Units and though not as uncomfortable as the circumcisions carried out on the very young Michael and Colin who experienced both pain and discomfort, it was the venue and procedure which made the business seem somewhat hole-in-the-corner. It was at an ancient hospital near the Archway where I was received while the ward itself, no longer in operation, lacked all amenities. Still, it was effective for my sperm had been effectively blocked from entering its normal path and was redirected to the bladder, so I was told.

I mentioned my father-in-law having sent Ella a draft for £500 to help out with our expenses in buying and moving into our house. He began to show an increasing interest in his grand-children and upon their birthdays sent small sums of money towards giving them something extra on these occasions. Moreover he was actively studying train and ferry timetables with a view to making a visit to these shores although in the event, he placed the whole caboodle with a holiday agency, by the name of Neckermann, whom we discovered was a department store.

My brother phoned me one evening that he was at the Strand his usual hotel before flying back to Canada and I invited the family to make the trip to Watford. It was just after we had moved in and we had little or no furniture, no carpets on the floor and rudimentary lighting. They were amused at some of the newspapers we had collected from underneath the linoleum showing advertisements of the thirties. I told them our house had been built in the 1890s which, it seems, compared favourably with Canadian houses built by the pioneers, rudimentary in many aspects.

One of their children, I think it was Maxine noted something missing: a television set. We were also short of an adequate supply of mugs and seats and Arthur commented on the heaviness of my home-made kite. I explained to him that It needed to be that robust to match the winds of the North Downs just north of Dunstable where we motored not only to fly the kite but also observe the man-powered gliders.

At Babcock Mike and I were still involved in installing a modern computer into Claudius Peters in Hamburg. Before he got involved I was on my own and recall visiting a bank in Hamburg for some Deutschmarks when I spotted a corner which would definitely not exist in the UK; it was selling gold-bars. Gold, at that time, was fixed by the USA at $35 an ounce and the smallest ingot was priced at DM200 and it occupied my thoughts for many hours as to whether I could raise that sum, but, in the end, I had to forgo the opportunity. Later I discovered that it was forbidden for UK citizens at the time to import gold bullion, though that would not be the case in the future. When gold finally escaped its US straitjacket I pondered my possible gain although had the gold been confiscated, I'd have been much worse off.

Although for a short period I was living the good life my good fortune was not viewed with favour by some of my colleagues who outranked me both in experience and seniority, and, when it was discovered that most of the significant people at Claudius Peters spoke English fluently, they were not best pleased. But, how could Harries have known that. And, it would have been crass to send out someone ignorant of the German tongue, at least on the initial visit. When somebody in the local cracked that his pool skill was down to a mis-spent youth, I retorted that my mis-spent younger days were engaged in Germany.

There were two analysts in particular who let it be known that they would have proved more fitting representatives. Each had gone to some public school but had no knowledge of German; had I told them of Mike's experience I doubt that it would have made any difference. These guys seem to think they were entitled to the best jobs simply because of background rather than any talent.

While I was in Hamburg on one of my lone trips Ella asked me to phone her former school friend, Ursel, short for Ursula, and she invited me to travel to Hanover where I would be collected. I met her husband, Walter, who worked for the German equivalent of a UK building society. He was ever restless and seemed agitated if he wasn't doing things. On the Sunday he proposed driving somewhere and his wife suggested that I should choose. I had absolutely no idea. I threw the idea to Walter telling him anywhere would be good enough for me; after all, I had no blessed idea of the locale. Yet, he insisted. So, I suggested the only place I knew of, my father-in-law's place. His rented flat was within easy reach of their place.

Evidently I had hit a raw nerve for those two exchanged glances which hinted at some previous experience. Later I learned that Ella's relationship with her father had involved her whole class (including Ursel) at school, at times. Was it a class thing? The upshot was that Walter turned down this proposal emphatically and it hung over the rest of my stay. In the end Walter drove around their locale and stopped to purchase three gateaux for an afternoon coffee later.

The DP department at Babcock went from strength to strength and within a year of my arrival had moved to a purpose built new building including a temperature controlled block for our mainframe, as the computer was now referred to. It was an open plan office and employed dozens of analysts and programmers as well as a separate section for punching cards and data control. For the first time as an analyst I was, along with equivalent positions, expected to work overtime without additional remuneration.

On a number of occasions I took the shuttle plane service to Glasgow where Babcock had an enormous factory for the manufacture of the items that went into its boilers which included the newly developing ones powered by nuclear fuel. The erection of a new boiler was so complex that it was thought a new method of control should be developed: It was called Critical Path Analysis. I had met it for the first time in assembling hearing aids and thought at the time that it was the proverbial sledge-hammer to crack a nut whereas now being slightly involved in the complex world of boiler installation, I figured this system, CPA, would come into its own. To my relief it was decided that a technical language by the name of Fortran should be employed and accordingly it was handed over to the technical analysts.

Sometime in the late '70s the nature of employment began to change. It was in response to a financial measure of the government looking for a new means of raising revenue. In a Spring Budget the Chancellor of the Exchequer proposed to charge companies a flat fee for each employee on their books. It's a pity people don't look at the possible effect of such measures. As an example the levying of a tax on each window led to many windows being bricked up and actually lowered the revenue for the tax on glass. Now, the employee levy led to firms coming to an arrangement with employees such that they were dismissed and re-engaged as freelance, which carried no levy. Soon, freelance analysts and programmers shared our offices.

One of my memories of this time also is the number of strikes of public transport which led to me and others having to walk to the Borough. I quickly found the shortest route from Euston but it was a tiring start to the day. Later the firm organised coaches especially when the British Rail unions joined with those of London Transport in trying to bring the UK to a halt in order to force the management of these organizations to pay more than their offer.

There was a reason for the militancy as inflation in the closing years of the Labour Government was edging up and hit 13% which ate into people's income. As an analyst in an activity which was relatively short of personnel despite the economic downturn my salary rose considerably but with high inflation my increase was soon gobbled up by rises in mortgage interest rates, utility price rises etc. Fare rises too increased by tens of pounds so that by the end of the year my £1000 salary boost was soon eroded and we were back to square one.

As the children were of an age for attending school we began thinking of somewhere in the summer we could visit for a break. The seaside beckoned especially as we weren't too far from the coast. Our first holiday destination was on the Essex coast reachable via the bus station at Kings Cross when we had only Michael and Irene. Waiting for the bus I bought a copy of Argosy, a short story magazine, and was fascinated by a western yarn, True Grit, later made into a film with John Wayne.

On arrival at the site we got the keys to our chalet and Irene raced ahead and could not wait until she could enter the little house running inside excitedly with little screams of delight at each new wonder observed. Ella commented later that it was only the disappointment of her daughter preventing her rushing back to the office with complaints about the general filth of our chalet. Neither Michael nor Irene could wait patiently for us to get moving towards the beach which was sandy and crossed by groynes to inhibit wave-movement along the strand. On our last day we went to Southend which among its many amenities had a punch-and-judy show.

On my return I decided to try and sign up to a company where I might earn enough to afford a car but the occupation chosen required a car. It was a firm marketing double-glazed aluminium windows and the routine was to spend one evening distributing leaflets in a certain area and a few nights later to call at the houses with a view to selling the windows, of which I had a sample. As there was a definite need sales proved to be numerous and my manager seemed quite pleased.

Irene was especially thrilled to be taken to PTA evenings by car and got herself invited to parties so she could arrive in some style although the car, an old Anglia, was modest by comparison with some others but nonetheless she was impressed no end marveling at the mechanics of driving. Michael's interest in cars was more oblique as on returning from Cassiobury Park of a Sunday walking past the many cars en route he would note their registration and marque and soon could recognise the different makes from a considerable distance.

Once I visited Pinner and sold £2000 worth of windows and a sliding door on the basis of my helping to fit them when they arrived which was nonsense as the company did all that. On being rung after the goods arrived I felt somewhat ashamed at having to admit it was a lie and discouraged by the company. That was my last significant sale as my work demands made evening runs impossible so I had to give up the franchise.

I took to another activity which was not quite so demanding time-wise. It went by the name of indexing whereby a publishing company would send me a printed copy of a soon-to-be-published tome. My job was to go through the book, page by page, noting significant items that a reader might look up in an index. A 250 page book might take about a week to index. It paid well as a series of accounting books helped pay for a holiday in Greece. However the publisher went soon afterwards into the hands of a receiver and my name, as indexer, ended up with the inland revenue. It cost me a fine plus the unpaid tax and a warning.

Babcock had an excellent social club and as part of their service to members ran a Christmas party whereby I would deliver (eg) Michael to the club which organised a party with all the festive trimmings ending with a conjuror during which time parents would make themselves scarce. On the first occasion Ella and I deposited Mike and Irene at the party and, together with Colin, went to the Swiss Centre where we ordered one of their set meals which proved too much to eat so that they kindly placed the rest in a bag for us to take home.

At work I shared an office with another analyst from Basingstoke who once told me about entering a competition run by the Reader's Digest but had not heard from them so rang their offices giving a number provided by a personage by the name of, shall we say, Leroy, for I forget his actual name. It seems Pat was passed from one department to another nobody having heard of this guy, Leroy and then it dawned on Pat that he must be a freelance sending his item into the editor at the given time. So, he asked to speak to the editor and true enough he knew Leroy as the cover name of one of his subscribers and he would pass Pat's query to him.

I don't know what happened to Mr Harries for one day a new manager was in his office and by now there were a number of new faces and a few of my former colleagues had disappeared. One of the new analysts was a young woman, Anne, who was given the project of introducing a computerised stock control system to a Babcock outlet in Birmingham and I told her of my experience at S G Brown so we had something we could talk about.

The new DP manager insisted that his analysts should introduce their proposed system to a meeting of their peers. It was a daunting prospect that I partially overcame by having a dry run the evening before when everybody had left and my only audience was the cleaner. The next day in the club bar across the street Anne complimented me on my delivery remarking that it was as though it was an everyday experience and then I told her of my previous night's practice.

I have already mentioned the family holiday in Greece. It was to a resort called Mallia on the mainland and when on our second day we went to a taverna for a midday fish meal, the waiter asked us to pick our sea food. Thinking one item was as costly/cheap as another, I asked Irene to choose. Unfortunately it proved to be quite expensive and that meal used up half our meal budget. Fortunately both Ella and I loved the local retsina which was about 5 drachmas for half a gallon purchased from an old man in a cave who decanted it from a huge vat.

Once on my own I showed a woman a picture drawn in a little book I'd compiled from an idea and she asked me to accompany her; it was the local bakery which exactly matched my little picture. That and other experiences persuaded me to send the little book with a view to publication to Vacation Work of Oxford who eventually accepted it producing it as the Traveller's Picture Phrase Book. On our last day in Greece we visited Athens where I had myself scanned by a machine for a drachma; it advised me to see a doctor as I was a gonner. That was 25 years ago.

The computer age moved on and soon enough we no longer submitted our programs via punched cards but via a computer terminal using a code given us by Dot, the woman in charge of data control, whose girls typed our programs into their terminals against her assigned number. At one time to check a program which had crashed the computer would dump the contents of its memory onto paper leaving us the task of finding out where it had gone wrong. The dump printout would be in hexadecimal, a numbering system to a base of 16 (rather than 10) which was the legible version of its own system ie binary.

I was told that people wanting a job with the firm as programmer were given such a printout and asked to work out what had gone wrong with the specimen dump. I learned how to do this one summer when the maintenance programmer was off on extended sickness leave. The first page of a dump carries an address in hex and one looks for this in the following printout and works along translating the hex into decimal until the reason for the stoppage becomes evident.

The programmer might have coded to the effect that a calculation should be stored at an address but omitted to provide that address to the computer. It comes to a stop dumping its memory for you to discover that omitted address. I would then code the appropriate address, re-compile it and re-submit the job hoping this time the program would run from start to finish without hitting another 'bug'. In the case of the sample given to would-be programmers, they were told that only those who resolved the problem would be granted an interview.

Most young people who came for interview were from famous public schools. These former pupils thought that Harries, ex-public-school, would help them but to him they were a 'darn nuisance'. So he got a programmer to devise a simple routine with a bug so producing the so-called 'dump'. It could easily be decrypted provided one had the IBM little booklet and some experience which those former Eton, Repton, Harrow public schools' etc pupils all lacked. I was in charge of a session once and the looks given me by these would-be applicants seemed of malevolent dislike. Later I heard many have moved into acting eg Benedict Cumberpatch.

Ex Eton prime minister David Cameron was asked on a US talk show the meaning of Magna Carta; he did not know although common sense might have provided the answer ie Great Charter. The ex pm once had his bike stolen and on retrieval told the young finder that he'd be invited to his next party but on turning up was rudely told by the ex pm's cronies he was not welcome and should wait for the proles' party.

Episode 45

### Redundant

My tenure with Babcock had started in 1973; a decade on the people around me were somewhat younger than a middle-ager in his forties. Experience had been my greatest asset in a production company though when Thatcher became prime minister she let it be known that banking, insurance, stock-broking, in other words, the white collar professions should be the way forward for the UK. The business of manufacturing which had propelled the UK to top industrial nation on earth was losing out to strong competition from Japan, South Korea, Taiwan not to mention a still vigorous manufacturing country such as West Germany.

I recall reading a report in the Economist where an American broker criticised his own country's ratio of manufacturing to financial services respectively 60% to 40%. To my mind the UK's position was far worse at 25% to 75%; indeed the rate that shipyards closed, vehicle factories shut down, widget manufacture ceasing to exist was proceeding at an alarming rate in the UK economy although it would not be manifest until the crash of 2008. Yet, back in the '80s when I was in my forties I began to realise in looking at the situations vacant in the trade magazine, the Computer Weekly that my options were narrowing with each month.

It was my company that lifted my spirits for in those '80s the company had won an enormous contract to build five boilers in Hong Kong and it was decided that the computer systems had to step up a gear and in order to do this a new systems team was set up. In the next few weeks there would be quite a number of new faces who turned out to be young faces, at least, younger than me for, although not having reached my half-century, my outlook on life was somewhat out of fashion with my younger peers. Moreover the number of technical staff had increased and they spoke in such esoteric terms that few people could match them apart from their own little coterie of experts.

I found myself eased onto the accounting section dealing with financial systems while this new young team mentioned above had to do with setting up a system to monitor progress of the Hong Kong project. A line was set up between the Babcock offices in London and those in Hong Kong and it never closed down being 'live' 24/7. Moreover new computer software came into being in the company and this had to do with the multiple terminals which were now on everyone's desk as an essential piece of office machinery, such as typewriter, copier and shredder.

The accounting section was headed by a brilliant systems analyst who, arising out of his role in negotiating with business people had gradually become dependent on the bottle. Much of the time he was stone cold sober and the work progressed quickly but all his colleagues could see the writing on the wall and feared for his future. In the event the company (medically advised) granted him sick leave to dry out though, having left the section of which he had been in charge, I did not discover what ultimately happened to him.

I was experiencing a small health problem myself: I was sitting at my terminal concentrating on my particular job when I felt a liquid run down my face and drop onto my lap and brushed it aside thinking it was my nose running from hay fever, but it was blood. A blood vessel in my nose had burst through the extreme tension at that moment. Momentarily it might have been though it began to occur again and again. So, it was a case of forcing myself to slow down and take breaks more often.

Recently I had discovered a way to lower my fares, at least in the Spring and Summer months: Instead of taking the train at Watford Junction, I would cycle to Northwood, park the bike at the station and continue my journey to work via Moorgate where I'd change to the Northern line to the Borough, as usual. In the evening the journey would be the reverse getting off at Northwood to pick up my bike and cycle the distance to Watford. Occasionally when the weather was very bad Ella would pick me up at Northwood, the bike being put into the capacious boot of the car.

At the time we had a 2 litre Ford Estate and did quite a few thousand miles each year taking the family on holiday and so on. My mother had long ago retired to her favourite resort, Teignmouth in Devon, and we'd kill two birds by visiting her and having a seaside holiday in a nearby resort such as Dawlish Warren. We were getting annual visits from Ella's relations in Germany who trusted us with their children and we had their son, Ralph, for a holiday in the West Country. Our kids used to tuck into mussels with relish and it was fun collecting them ready for the evening meal. Ralph eyed these delicacies with suspicion until Irene began sucking with evident relish and thereafter he followed suit.

We had a really unpleasant experience with the daughter of a former school chum of Ella. She arrived to stay and Ella tried to accommodate her wishes to see a bit of Britain but she showed a lack of stamina, perhaps because she was somewhat over-weight. She returned home and Ella vowed never again. Yet, within months she was in correspondence once more begging to stay and promising better behaviour admitting that perhaps she had not tried her utmost. So, Ella agreed.

However on this occasion she wanted to go to London with me and I followed my normal routine to be amazed when she berated me for not consulting her. It was clear she was no commuter. In the evening after my somewhat frosty attitude to being told I was standing at the wrong place on the platform to get a seat when she had insisted I was not to change my normal routine, she later confided to my wife that surely there were more men around that were a better prospect than me; so much for politesse from guests towards their hosts.

However, she was the exception. A young man, Raine, stayed and holidayed with us on a trip to Hemsby where we had hired a caravan. He was the eldest son of Ella's cousin from south Germany living in a little place, Aulendorf, which was also a spa town. I got on well with his wife, Marie, but found Siegfried somewhat boorish, even aggressive. Once he took us to a nearby graveyard. It was the final resting place of a famous German general, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel.

I confided that, in my opinion and that of many Brits, he was arguably the best general of the Second World War and superiour to Montgomery, his adversary in North Africa. What had failed him was shortage of benzine (petrol) which he was denied because the Brits, by decrypting the Enigma telegrams from Hitler advising him from which Italian ports tankers would sail, sank three out of four tankers and so denied Rommel precious benzine for his tanks. Siegfried (Ella's cousin) was clearly stunned by hearing this from me as it was a common misconception in Germany that the Americans had rescued the Brits from certain defeat.

He had this American conceit when I reminded him that in 'Die Schlackt um England' (Battle of Britain) it was 1940 whereas the US entered the war after Pearl Harbour in December, '41. When I told him the Hurricanes and Spitfires were waiting at 20,000 ft for the enemy squadrons having been forewarned by radar he showed amazement. Evidently propaganda was more tellin than truth.

He embarrassed me once by visiting a local pub which was having a sing-song when I recognized one or two of the tunes though I was discouraged to sing along as it was a performance much like gigs at our pubs. In the hot and smoky atmosphere my contact lenses began to feel very uncomfortable and I went outside into the fresh air until the performance was over. Relations were strained between us though Marie was as kind and considerate as ever.

We offered accommodation to an international group and occasionally got students to stay with us from other countries. One memorable boy was Gilles whose mother sent a present of some Lego for our children. We had a German boy who took an especial liking to Colin and Ella encouraged me to take him, Hans, and Colin to the park with a football. I met him once by chance in Braunschweig and we had a coffee. Yet another young man was from North Africa and brought with him a variety of pills and other medicines with him and we were afraid he would suffer some illness. Irene was very popular and we sent her once to Denmark to stay with Agnete and another time she flew to Hanover where she was met by Ella's cousins from Salzgitter. Ella's sister, Edel, wanted her to stay in Berlin but that's where Ella drew the line as, at the time, Edel had a boy-friend whom we distrusted. The pair had previously stayed with us and I found him very contrary.

Towards the termination of the big contract with Hong Kong the company was finding business hard to come by and eventually there was an announcement that it was to provide an agency the exclusive right to set up an office within the building with a view to offering employment to many of the company's employees, especially engineers and ancillary positions. It was evident that overseas competitors were undercutting the company though stories began to circulate of howlers committed by the company in pursuance of contracts, such as only providing tenders in English whereas the Japanese submitted tenders in the language of the country concerned.

Liaison was needed between the DP department and the project accounts department and I was asked to fill that role. Eventually I moved over to the project accounts permanently at the same salary and pension rights. I shared a desk with an older man Ted Robins who has remained a friend even into retirement. My new job was to calculate the income earned by the various sections within the company so that an allotment might be made and distributed. It was all paper amounts and no money changed hands but it was important that individual sections within the company understood perfectly what resources they deployed towards the overall profit; as their allocation of funds for expenses was determined based on these figures.

However as revenue continued to fall there was once again moves towards a rationalisation but then something happened within the City that would set all these plans to nought. In the financial world in the City there was a new big idea dreamed up by whizz kids anxious for a new way to make money. It was to look for a vulnerable company loaded with assets and put together a take-over bid whereby if successful, the assets would be sold at a return greater than the outlay and so generate massive profits.

Such a bid was made for Babcock and, according to British company law, once certain criteria were met, the bid was made public. Accordingly employees were each given details of an offer and, in my case, it read that my pension rights were guaranteed and furthermore, should I accept the offer, a payment of £18,000 based on certain factors would be made. The reason for this offer being that the bid company found that its acquisition had an excess of employees and would therefore be unable to meet the wage bill hence the need to get rid of surplus staff. After discussion with Ella I put in an application to be considered for redundancy.

So it was that in October 1989 I was made redundant after 15 years of service with the company. I was 58 and though far too young for a state pension, Babcock pensions administration made me an offer of a fixed amount plus a monthly pension or no cash and a higher pension. I opted for the former. In their wisdom the company also instructed financial firms to provide fiscal advice for each employee and in my case all advised investment of various kinds.

My personal plan was to use some of the funds to seek to pay off the remainder of my mortgage, a sum of nearly £3000 and to my delight the building society agreed to this without further ado and once my cheque had been cleared I received all the documents relating to the ownership of the house including the original build plans of 1886 etc. Ella and I were the proud owners of the terraced house in Nascot Street; we were home owners through our own efforts.

Those early days of retirement were leisurely. Ella had been accepted for employment by Watford Central Baths as a kiosk clerk and was earning now more than yours truly but was reluctant to give me an allowance such as I gave her. So, I was alone in the house for the children were still at school and it became my routine to watch Kilroy-Silk who would raise a current topic and bash it to death with contributions from members of his audience especially if they were controversial for K-S was ever after the bubble headlines.

However soon after Christmas I opted to work part-time with a company which had something to do with geological surveys and was forever dispatching their experts to sites in the hunt for mineral deposits, oil mostly. My job dealt with the sales and purchase invoices and the geologists' expenses accounts and I got very proficient in book-keeping and other accounting routines. The company also had Scottish connections with directors who seemed to have a deal of influence when things became sticky.

Ella and I took a holiday to Crete opting for an extra week at no further cost. Arriving at Heraklion it seemed that our appearance took the tour operator by surprise for our original apartment was suddenly switched. The midnight run as the company bus off-loaded the tourists at their respective hotels remains with me as it was literally a journey into pitch darkness. The surroundings at each stop were impossible to recognise other than fields until Ella and I were the last to get off and stumble wearily into our apartment helped by the bleary-eyed concierge.

However another memory, this time intermingled with pleasure, was a strenuous tour through the Sumeria Gorge walking of course all the way under a scorching sun our destination being a tiny harbour where a boat would take us back by sea to the north of the island. Another day was spent on the isle of Spinalonga, a former leper colony, and in waiting an hour for the boat to take us there we decided to have an English breakfast. It was the most perfect meal of its type with all the trimmings eg bacon, egg, fried bread, toast etc.

The archaeological excavations which were largely the privately financed work of a pioneering English entrepreneur (Evans?) impressed us enormously as we admired the plumbing conceived by the ancient Minoan civilization of a millenium BC. Sadly the water at the time of year was fairly cool so I did not venture into the sea. It was the time when the English papers were full of the demise of a chat show host back home, Russel Harty.

Another thing which impressed me was Ella, having been assured that a certain Cretan memento was the cheapest on the island, which I took with a pinch of salt, marched back inside the gift shop to challenge the owner who actually refunded the difference much as John Lewis would in London. Another thing which struck me was the way commerce and horror rationalised themselves in Greek minds. The atrocities suffered by the Cretans at the hands of the Germans made one suppose that it extended to their trade dealings but in no way was that the case because German manufactured articles were preferred to British items despite Britain having liberated Crete from those brutal Germans.

By the time we took this holiday our children, even the youngest, Colin, in his late teens, were able to fend for themselves. Years earlier we had worried about Colin. We went to a PT evening and button-holed his form tutor who responded forcefully that if the boy matched his efforts he would respond. Colin wanted out and soon joined a company that seemed to exploit him. Yet, it was that company which, after half a year, promoted him, and, it was Colin himself who believed even so after a year that another firm would best help him achieve his aims. We had thought they were signally lacking.

At the new place he was befriended by a senior analyst who pushed him and before long Colin was grumbling about graduates who earned more than he but whom he was nurse-maiding in regards to programs they wrote but which he rectified. He was promised a rise six months ahead at the annual company assessment. Sadly a government pay freeze forced the firm to cancel this promise and Colin feeling somewhat aggrieved began to look to contracting as a means of raising his salary.

At the same time he was in the process of canvassing universities such as Liverpool and Glasgow to accept him as a mature student. As a contractor he was soon being employed by companies such as ICL where he managed to resolve a computing problem that had baffled it, and visiting programmers, for some time. It seemed a shame to give it all up and opt for a 4 year course in Applied Psychology at Glasgow University with a year studying at Toronto.

One day going into work at Paleo I noticed many of the geologists in huddles whispering. Something was afoot and mid-morning a meeting was called at which a Scot was the speaker. He was a majority shareholder and spoke about future changes as revenue was not matching income with the inevitable result that some senior people had to go. I decided that a move at my own volition was possibly better than being given my marching orders which in a downturn might mean finding another job was not so easy so I signed up with an agency.

Soon after my local job centre had a position that matched my newly acquired skills. It was at Carpenders Park, a short train journey away, and I decided to apply. One disadvantage: I had to lie about my age. I got the job and made a bad start being shown how to post invoices. The trouble is I went on to update the general ledger which my young mentor evidently did not like. Moreover inadvertently I revealed my real age to a colleague who, seeing a chance to better himself, told on me to our manager. I was given my marching orders.

However the Watford agency was upbeat and assured me that with my skills it was just a matter of time and sent me firstly to the American University whose staff officer seemed to think my credentials were OK until I mentioned my age, my real age, and then it was back to the agency. The lady sent me to an automobile company which needed someone urgently. It seems it had lost its invoice clerk weeks before and the paperwork from suppliers was piling up as was pointed out by the office manager though I told him that within a week I would get it cleared.

I left the office on the Thursday with an offer of employment to start Monday subject to references. I was amazed to be phoned by the agency who told me that the clerks at the company had had a discussion with the manager telling him my employment would raise the average age in their office to an unacceptable level and asking him to veto my engagement. Six months later that company went into receivership, the long suffering suppliers having applied for a court order to suspend the firm's operations.

At the job centre someone said: The downturn won't last forever. Try the care homes for a cleaning job until things pick up. So, I went to a place in Bushey and was seen by a woman who asked me thinking to put me off: Ever cleaned toilets? I rejoined: have you got more than in the army, love? It was the RAF but no matter.

## Part C - Retirement

46 japan

47 seventy

48 muse

49 brexiteer

50 chance

Episode 46

### Japan

Just around this time our daughter was graduating from York University and had decided to join her friend in Japan, teaching English to Japanese children, so off she went and was soon writing descriptive letters about life in Gifu. She was feeling homesick but had decided to stick the year out and Ella said to me: let's go visit her! Apart from the money to do so there was also the fact that both of us had jobs which we'd have to leave or get special permission as the minimum stay in Japan, we thought, should be a month.

Each of us applied to Watford Council stating our reason and the facts as far as we could judge them and each of us got permission provided the respective supervisors agreed to the request. Yet, as the day approached my supervisor had evidently thought better of her assent as she said rather plaintively: "I daresay you'd have left rather than accept a refusal." Damn right! It's a once in a lifetime experience, after all. To keep us both up to the mark as regards the time remaining to go before departure, I pinned up a sort of count-down chart and pinned it in a prominent place as a reminder of priorities.

In my spare time I began to learn kanji, a sort of modern Japanese, based on sound-pictures rather than earlier Japanese script which few Japanese people ever learn in full. Kanji is used for public places and to keep the images in mind I drew cards with popular symbols and pinned them where I could daily see them. Also I did a bit of book learning and attended an evening class.

To cut down on the cost of the air fares we elected to fly from Moscow with Aeroflot later to come under fire for poor maintenance but as both of us were infrequent air travelers the economies of Aeroflot to make the airline competitive with the more experienced Western airlines were not apparent. Indeed we later learned that we had more legroom than the average traveler. Both Irene and Leslie (her friend) were at the airport to meet us and take us by bus to Irene's apartment in a place called Gifu. It was May and still quite cool.

As I lay in my sleeping bag one thought persisted before I dropped off: "What on earth are we to do here for a month?" It was the only time that the thought came to me for from Day 2 our feet never touched the ground; in other words Irene's acquaintances did not give us pause to think. On that second day, Irene took her Mum to a meeting with her friend Keiko who had plans for them both; meanwhile I, alone in Irene's flat, got a visit from an Australian who seeing she would not be back till later invited me to spend a few hours getting to know how to get around in Gifu.

"You'll need a bike!" And, taking me to Gifu station he showed me hundreds of abandoned bikes and we picked two; we rode them back to Irene's place where collecting his car, we paid a call on a Japanese acquaintance who by tradition was obliged to offer hospitality. All three of us enjoyed an excellent Taramisu which if my memory serves me was an electrified bowl to heat its water into which were thrown pieces of fish, meat, legumes, mushrooms etc. Afterwards he showed us his collection of Japanese scrolls even asking us to take away a couple of his least wanted items. At my insistence Dennis took first choice, a dragon while I had the tiger which still is hanging in our hall/landing so long is it.

One day Harida San (Mr) (Keiko's husband) took us both, along with his wife and son, by car to visit friends in the countryside outside Gifu. At each we were invited to avail ourselves of the host's hospitality though in truth Harida San had not stinted in visiting restaurants along the route. It was truly a case of 'rice with everything'. In a restaurant I was invited to taste what looked like a sauce-filled pastry, or an apple turnover; to my distaste it was filled with rice but I managed a smile.

One memorable trip was organized by ourselves: it was a trip to Hiroshima using a Shinkanzen (express train) to get there. We learned that the Japanese regard the US bombing as a war atrocity which, in effect, expiates them from any alleged war crimes of their own which sentiment is not just spoken but is down in black and white at the special exhibition of the atomic bomb and it's after effects. It was brilliantly staged and each of us came away with admiration at their organising ability. There was also a moving occasion at the actual time (to the second) of the moment when the bomb fell exploding, not in the ground, but 200 feet above a church whose skeleton is preserved for all to see. At that moment there was a parade of young school girls who seemed to be enjoying themselves but which for us was a moment of pathos. The preserved shadow of a victim was also stunning to observe.

On my return some weeks later I sent a letter to the Watford Observer that whereas Watford recorded its latest crime statistics to be greeted with general horror, it so happened that the English version of a Gifu newspaper recorded their crime stats. I worked out that there were more crimes in a week in Watford as occurred in a year in Japan. We're forever told that as the gap between rich and poor widens so does crime increase, but, not in every country, for example, Japan.

A colleague at work, an Irish lady, told me she saw the letter but took exception to the sentiment because in her book Western society just cannot be compared to the East. She seems to echo Kipling's sentiment. East is east and West is west and ne'er the twain shall meet.... I have this lady on my conscience for walking past the library I noticed her talking to someone and did not stop to say hello. She died a week later following an operation for bowel cancer. Her colleague, a fellow Irish, was ever wistfully talking of returning to her birthplace to retire when, at work, she had a heart attack and never recovered consciousness.

Our son Michael meanwhile had already graduated at Exeter and we went down to see him pick up his degree. Both our minds went back to his last year of schooling when Mr Edgar his form tutor told us of Mike's odd mixture of A level subjects, Art, Physics, Maths etc. We recalled how we were misled by both our son and his physics teacher who claimed that all he needed was a few extra-curricular lessons to bring him up to scratch. Ella stinted herself to pay to send him for such extra lessons, in vain. We both found out the hard way that our son, while agreeing with our plans, quietly went his own way though he found out the hard way that Art might bring fame but rarely a high income..

He went in with two other students to run a business and they were helped by a well wisher, but again the business was not a practical proposition and soon bit the dust. Mike opted for more easy money, 'Timeshare' despite our best efforts to prevent him making a fool of himself, but he believed the salesman before his parents, and, once again, his efforts proved futile. Perhaps it was the glamour of living in Lanzarote which beguiled him; but whether in Lanzarote or Exeter or anywhere there is no substitute for hard work. Even his backers backed out.

His attitude manifested itself when Ella and Colin went to Lanzarote to see him besides having a little holiday. Mike assured Colin and Ella that their stay was paid for by his commission; there was one snag, this commission had yet to be earned and he was forced to admit that he had failed to make the sales and so Colin/Ella paid for the apartment they were staying in. We all met Mike's 'friend', a typical wide-boy who assured us that their joint ventures were lucrative winners.

Mike did run a successful club called, 'Dragons & Dungeons' and successfully produced a play which during its three days of public attendance was a resounding success. In the course of his timeshare selling he met a young Dutch woman who was so happy with her new boy friend, she told her sister back in Holland. Unwisely as it turned out for the sister promptly booked a holiday to Lanzarote, met Michael and stole him being far more charismatic and attractive.

The sisters van den Berg were not the only ladies to be attracted to the 'lotus eater' (my sobriquet). It was an older Spanish lady who got to know him through his paying pastime of portrait drawing, and, most particularly her very young son who doted on him. In fact I am full of praise for Michael's gifts having heard him set off two lads in riotous laughter. One of the boys was his son Oliver which was the happy product of his liaison with Elsbeth which ultimately led to him being wooed from the island. We attended his marriage in Holland.

Both briefly visited England where Thompson of Dundee offered him a job, albeit, as freelance with virtually a guarantee (Mike already drew for the Beano) of work but this was not good enough for him, and, in consequence they returned to Holland. But, Mike's income (irregular and modest) could never meet Elsbeth's needs and she gave him his marching orders and divorce soon followed.

Once while staying with us in Watford, Mike expressed some puzzlement at my apparent prosperity having few talents, or, at least none that our kids had ever come across. Yet, my reaction to this insulting observation is that I'm the product of decades of industry allied to the accumulation of prosperity through postponing acquisitions and saving either through pensions or banks. The result is: I can afford what Mike cannot despite his undoubted talents. I made a light hearted wager with Mike that his son Oliver will be a millionaire before his Dad.

Colin did not need to make comparisons with me because it was becoming gradually evident that he might well be a high flier. He accompanied me to Dixons when I was looking around for a scanner and I was mightily taken aback when a salesman came to speak not to me but to Colin to ask him for help in persuading a client as to the capabilities of a piece of electronic gear. At home he took to adapting Commodore 64's to run pieces of gear.

Once we were called at home by a householder in Rickmansworth who had traced the number of a car to Colin who had had an accident coming too fast down Scots Hill and going off the road. So, we were not too surprised to learn of an escapade in America which involved him hiring a car in Toronto to drive all night to Chicago to take part in the marathon and then return.

We suffered a couple of disasters with cars ourselves for the most part leaving Ella stranded and also complicated because others were involved. Once in the Blackwell tunnel with Katya, the daughter of some friends in Watford and once in Cornwall with Inge when the car's camshaft belt broke causing an expensive repair although the ladies were provided with another car during the repair.

His 4 years of uni behind him Colin returned to his contract work firstly in Belgium working for Levi's Jeans; thence to a bank in Nice to which Ella took a couple of trips, once taking Oliver (our grandson) with her. All the time he was raking it in and working so hard that often he was too busy to look after his investments. Once he was incommunicado when he took a holiday without first coming to an arrangement with his broker who desperately wanted to make contact with a falling market. As a result Colin lost $30,000. But, Michael had never earned that much in 20, let alone 10 years after his return from college.

Colin suffered occasional bouts of ill-health sometimes caused by old injuries such as the time he tackled mountain climbing during his time in Glasgow, or a motor cycle accident in Nice, or, catching some esoteric infection on his company trips abroad. But, he often got the best treatment arising out of his company BUPA membership as, for instance, at a Paris clinic. He was also prone to bad experiences as, for example, being burgled in Glasgow or suffering a mugging in Brussels, or, yet again, being mugged by criminals in Brazil when he unwisely decided to see how the other half lives. His loss of his camera paid for that experience.

Once, in North Africa he went for a walk in the Atlas mountains without a chaperone and with the sudden nightfall got himself stranded on a ledge. Not being able to see anything he crawled into a crevice to keep warm after the sudden drop in temperature and passed a miserable night although able to enjoy the stars. At dawn he discovered his ledge was feet away from a precipice forcing him to retrace his steps. His Mum would remind him that his guardian angel was working overtime on his behalf.

The time he spent in Glasgow was wonderfully justified when he met Yvonne who was on a similar course of psychology and when we visited Glasgow to attend his degree ceremony we became acquainted not only with her but also her mother and father who did not have long to live. Yvonne was very bright and quickly picked up anything Colin introduced, as for example, his own interest in computers and she was soon employed as an analyst in a prestigious company using computers.

When Colin took a break abroad he invariably asked Yvonne along while she took her Mum so that we were blessed in Watford with their company as the young couple passed a day or so at our place en route to Spain whatever or on the way home. We secretly hoped they would marry despite Yvonne's handicap of severe diabetes requiring daily insulin injections.

We took a few trips abroad ourselves. Once Ella was invited by Ella's friends Heine and Hannah who lived in Salzgitter and we often spent weeks with Inge, Ella's friend in Germany before she went to England. Once Inge and Maike stayed with us in Watford and I spent a day in London with Inge visiting Diana's favourite home, Kensington Palace. Inge also wanted to see a singular momument near Parliament in Westminster, The Burghers of Calais.

After I'd been working for Heath House for nearly 7 years the new manager passed by a resident's room while I was inside and later called me to interview telling me that talking to residents during working hours was not encouraged. I referred to my induction course when the manager at the time told us that if a resident asked for tea the cleaner should stop and make it, and, always find time for a chat. But, the new manager was having none of it. She said: It won't help your case to remind me of what previous managers told you to do. The writing was on the wall, my wall.

I decided to apply for the status of paying no tax which meant that, for most purposes, I'd give up work entirely. I was 69 years of age and worked out that I'd worked for well over a half-century. However this non tax-paying status can be a nuisance so rather than go through the rigmarole of applying for tax repayment, I'd put savings into ISAs which is a guaranteed non tax-paying bond getting interest paid into my Nationwide account. After saving, in other words not spending, my annual surplus I would transfer the sum to the firm paying the higher interest around 6% but that scheme came to an abrupt end in 2008 after the financial crash; now, in 2018 it has not recovered.

It's my theory that the crash was due to incompetent ex public schoolers whether male or female who got their job through connections rather than business acumen. A recent report in the Times bears me out because it mentions that no broker at RBS is British because of the latter's incompetence. It seems only ex public school people are allowed to pass through the firewall of banks, insurance companies and other financial institutions. No wonder the UK is only the 6th largest GDP. That's why the Establishment resists grammar schools whose scholars would challenge their monopoly. Witness the difference in the French, German and US economies where elite academic institutions compete with poorer pupils to the benefit of the nation. In the UK if they limited entry to 25 years-olds in banks, for instance, that would help eliminate the bias of the public and private schools.

Leading up to the millennium I decided to use a BBC facility to create a web site dedicated to citizens of the UK who have made a significant impact on events in the past one thousand years. I called it: Millennium Muster. I started the project years before the 2000 mark as there was a steep learning curve particularly in mastering the art of HTML (HyperText Markup Language) from books dedicated to the subject such as Teach Yourself HTML, HTML for Dummies (US) etc.

I divided up the web site into coloured coded sections such as exploration, innovation etc while analysis could be made by century/year and a resume of the century to give readers the background of an age. The 20th century proved the most difficult as each decade provided its unique flavour. Of course I got things wrong though by doing so one got a feedback. For example, in describing the intrepid exploit of two flyers in the 20's who made the first transatlantic crossing, east to west, I described how the co-pilot climbed from his cockpit to remove ice from the wings; it got a rough ride from browsers more knowledgeable.

However it did not last long after the millennium as the BBC decided to go digital broadband and pulled the plug on their analogue web sites including their licence holders who had built up web sites, such as mine. To my consternation they handed over the sites to a third party who wanted payment for the sites at which point I pulled my own plug. Something similar happened to another site of mine which versified Aesop's Fables.

Once every two years Ella would get a resume of the previous classmates' reunion with tips on hotels for the next one and we would normally attend. One year the reunion was held in Watford when Ella hired a camper-van to take some of the crowd down to Cornwall stopping at Tintagel where we had a pasty lunch then on to Padstow staying a couple of nights before returning via Stonehenge, the White Horse near Calne and a trip into Windsor. The very last reunion was held in Braunschweig and the organizer got us a very good 3 star hotel for half the price: it was very good value.

Ella used to love to drive, even to Germany, but diabetes has affected her health and so her enthusiasm has waned for motoring and she has given it up entirely abroad. Our last holiday in Cornwall was a week in St Ives though the damp weather did not make her condition less onerous. Recently we've done little trips for example to Cheddar Gorge plus a visit to the Eden Project for the benefit of Oliver, our grandson and Michael, his dad. Sadly weeks after our return she got a notice from the Wiltshire Chief Constable's office who had the camera evidence of speeding. It meant a £60 fine plus a week's 'naughty girl' course in Watford.

I occasionally went for an independent holiday, eg, to Gloucester where, using the town as a base, I visited the Forest of Dean, Tewkesbury and Bristol. Mostly I go to London on my own as Ella finds the London streets difficult; besides her disability does not make the underground or bus any easier than walking as she has difficulty with stairs and steps. We used to go to the Ideal Home together but even that one has proved to be too much.

One of my big disappointments is that our children have not progressed further in prosperity, apart from Colin, than me, as, looking back my father was better off than my grandfather, and I'm better off than my father. It's a similar situation with my brother whose daughters married well and enjoy a prosperous life style. In 2006 I visited him and Doris at Bracebridge, Ontario, Canada in the course of a month's holiday visiting Quebec, Ottowa and Toronto and staying for a few days with Christine and Maxine, Arthur's daughters.

While with Maxine her guy Mike took me for a cycle ride and we passed a memorial to a sea battle that rang bells in me for Max & Mike lived in Ajax which was the site set aside by the Canadian government in honour of the light cruiser, Ajax, largely crewed by men of the Royal Canadian Navy. Ajax together with Exeter and Achillies, Commodore Harwood's flagship, took place in the action in 1939 against the Graf Spee, a pocket battleship, of the German Kreigsmarine. After suffering heavy damage the Graf Spee sought sanctuary in Montevideo, Uruguay while British propaganda tried to convince the German captain, Langsdorf, that should it emerge there were British battleships lying in wait.

In truth only the Cumberland, a heavy cruiser and no match for the Graf Spee, had sailed from the Falklands but the German authorities believed the propaganda and Langsdorf took the decision to scuttle his ship rather than suffer a worse fate. He then shot himself. It was a lean four months for Britain and this Graf Spee incident lifted morale especially as the German ship released all its British prisoners, captured from its various victims, into the neutral port of Montevideo.

One other boyhood dream was to stand on the Plains of Abraham where Wolfe and his thin red line destroyed the more numerous French and Indian allies. Later I discovered that without a certain James Cook (later Captain Cook) and a Scot, by the name of Stobo who told Wolfe of the Anse au Foulon (a cove) leading upto the plain, the enterprise could not have been accomplished. Even so it was a tremendous feat.

Prior to that visit to Canada, I had flown to Australia to spend a month in various parts, first in Perth, the home of Linda, Ella's former assistant in Hammersmith. From there I flew to Sydney intending to visit Ayres Rock except that someone persuaded me that I should use my free air tickets to visit Melbourne. It was unforgettable. I loved Melbourne above all other Oz towns and cities visiting the original home of Captain James Cook which was exported in bits and rebuilt although, apart from being his birthplace, there's no evidence that he returned there in his lifetime. My final call was to Adelaide where I called in to see Dean, Lin's son.

Episode 47

### Seventy

Having reached 70 years of age in 2001 I remember thinking that this age thing as regards health seemed exaggerated for I kept healthy by occasionally using my skipping rope to get the heart thumping. I wrote down an acronym (clop) to stand for circulation, libido, organs, posture which I felt were being maintained by this exercise and I took my skipping rope with me on holiday. However this complacency was shattered by a mischance when I found difficulty one morning passing water which my doctor put down to a virus giving me anti-biotics.

Also he sent me for a blood-test. There followed since a catalogue of woes causing me to take tablets to reduce stickiness in my blood producing a surfeit of platelets. Another woe is my metabolism in producing too much hystamine provokes the skin to break out in raised welts called, hives. This complaint requires citrizine tablets of at least one per day but as they brought on lethargy I take one after their appearance. The platelet problem used to be relieved by the occasional venesection or blood letting but later on special tablets were prescribed.

A few years ago the government brought in a bill to allow pensioners to travel free on buses within the UK which together with a 30% reduction of train fares allows me to get around reasonably cheaply. Once a fortnight, except in winter, I use my concession for the train to St Albans where at Westminster Lodge I can swim for free and I usually walk up the hill to the town and have a Cornish pasty for lunch before boarding the bus to return to Watford, which is free. But after collapsing on Scots Hill leading up the town centre it was witnessed by an elderly couple in their car waiting in a queue on the same hill. They rescued me taking me home to Watford.

Recently I spent a week in Truro, Cornwall to delve into my childhood records of my time in the Orphanage and at the couple of grammar schools attended. I was involved in a court case and found that whereas an Act of Parliament had enabled me to see my records the same Act prevented my seeing the names of my fellow offenders. On a visit to Newquay where the orphanage stood I was dismayed to find it razed to the ground in preparation of some redevelopment so it was the last time I shall go to that part of Cornwall because other places associated with my stay there have also changed and in some cases disappeared.

In 1945 three of us orphans were moved to St Just in Penwith in order to enable us to continue our education at Penzance Grammar School. So, on this particular trip I used my bus pass to travel to Penzance and then out to St Just and walked to the old Manse where I spent around 18 months in the 1940s. As I looked over the gate a dog came bounding up followed by its owner and I surprised her by saying that I'd stayed there as a child back in 1946-48; she invited me in. It had not changed all that much but when she started asking me questions I began telling fibs, for instance, that I was an evacuee and not an orphan.

One or two queries were quite searching and I had difficulty in responding without a choke in my voice. My old study where I retired to do my homework still looked out via an internal window to the conservatory now converted into a granny flat. I had a pleasant chat with my hostess, her husband and Mother (few words) as we sat drinking tea and telling them about my guardians, a Methodist minister, his sister plus a variety of visitors from time to time. And, that I used to accompany the minister to outlying parishes when often I made myself useful by operating the bellows for the organ or stoked up the boiler heating the church.

St Just was still very recognisable although small changes, as for example, to accommodate a new bus terminus, were evident. On this occasion I did not venture beyond the village to Cape Cornwall where we children used to play and occasionally, in summer, stripped off to bathe in the large rock pools which were a feature of the beach. When the tide was in the waves on a windy day could be quite fierce as a photo was to demonstrate when Colin somewhat unwisely stood on a projecting slab and was surrounded by a breaking wave.

Every two years Oliver, our grandson, would spend some time in Watford with us either at Christmas or in July/August or both. We took him once down to the Isle of Wight having rented our neighbours little house. The party comprised us two, Mike and Noah, the neighbour's second son who, at the time, was about Oliver's age. On another occasion we spent a week in Hayle. And, on an earlier occasion drove to Hemsby to stay in a chalet which was memorable in that when getting out of the car after a tiring trip, Oliver rushed to the door of the chalet and returned to the car excitedly telling us about the golden key he had found.

Sadly the very next day changed from a sunny, bright occasion to a blustery, cold day on motoring to Great Yarmouth and in that environment, I unwisely perhaps having removed too many top clothes was suddenly seized by a fierce pain which also turned me into an invalid. I had strained the same tendon which caused David Beckham to drop out of the running for the World Cap squad. Luckily Colin and Mike soon arrived to give Oliver a good time. I did not fully recover until we were all back in Watford and weeks later.

One sad thing I've noticed with regard to my grandson as he passed his 10th year is his reluctance to engage in physical activity involving a trip to the park and running, skipping, fooling around for the sheer hell of it. Once he accompanied me to St Albans for swimming but that was years ago. Perhaps he feels his grandfather is no match for him but although he can outstrip me in speed I can still more than hold my own in stamina. I blame his father for Mike was a very reluctant participant in outdoor events despite our paying for lessons of one kind or another.

It was a chance purchase to buy a second-hand VHS tape of cartoon characters for Oliver would rise very early, creep downstairs and put the VHS into Ella's video player. It kept him amused for a long time but it was a retrogade step as it dissuaded him from physical activity. Ella's video collection often persuaded Noah to come around to watch those VHS which were lacking at home. Ella now owns a collection of films and VHS recordings viz BBC, ITV etc which she envied Bob Monkhouse whose collection of 16mm films was second to none for a private citizen.

At one time we had just the one television to share and there were times when each of us might miss a film in favour of the other when times of programmes might clash and then we got our first VHS recorder which solved one problem though inevitably provoked another particularly as the children in getting older were beginning to have their own preferences. It came to a head at Christmas and to obviate the arguments which clashing programmes occasioned I would, once the BBC/ITV published their Xmas schedules, produce a list in advance to enable us all to indicate our preference and thereby avoid dispute.

Nowadays the children having flown the coop and owing to each of us having TVs and recorders independently of each other, we can each do our own thing. Ella has cable while I have opted for satellite and while her cable supplier has changed the equipment has remained the same. Meanwhile I'm on my third satellite receiver going from analogue to digital then to digital/recorder. My preference, with a double LNB, was first the German network plus other stations which progressed into the BBC4 network which includes the other terrestrial programmes.

I'm often recording from satellite productions of English speaking programmes which neither BBC/ITV want to transmit such as Captain Cook, Charles Darwin dubbed into German from English and made by Canada/Australia/NZ. Through German TV I've learned of people in English colonial history of which the English are assuredly ignorant and the Germans also have excellent documentaries of their own history such as the 30 yrs war, 1st & 2nd world wars, the Holocaust, German South-West Africa and even ex-Chancellors.

Our neighbours have changed over the years on either side of us. Number 15 was converted into two flats and occupied by two working ladies but after the owner died, the house returned to its former status and was bought by a couple who were not married with three children. On the other side at No.19, the house was occupied by an Irish couple with four children. After their departure the house was bought by two brothers, one of whom is still there having bought the other out.

Neighbours both on the odd and even side have changed considerably, and, another marked change to the street is the number of cars which at the outset were two at most while now the council was obliged to issue parking permits. The district has also become a conservation area so that no change can occur without prior approval from the Council. Fortunately back in the 80's after failing to effect a move to a larger house I decided that an extension would be appropriate which was carried out and paid for by adding an extra mortgage (since paid for).

Watford, the town, has also undergone considerable change in that whole streets have been done away with in order to bring in a wider road viz. St Albans Road between the townhall and the Station Road crossroads. Also the station has been extensively remodeled while the town centre has changed by the addition of Charter Place (bringing the market inside) and the Harlequin. We have also gained an elected mayor. Watford football club went from 3rd Division South to the First Division and then to the Premier League.

But, in 2018 came a major redevelopment which will transform Watford into a Shopping megalith. I listen into Radio or TV broadcasts for themes such as earning revenue before spending but to all political parties the idea of working for ones livelihood seems decidedly old-fashioned even non-existent. In the presence of our children some themes are distinctly non-u. Also I'm avidly reading the Sunday papers because with more news on the web and young people changing their reading habits and the enormous increase of social media sites I can see a time when newspapers will be non-u.

I shall miss them because alternating the Sunday Times, the Sunday Telegraph and the Observer one can cover over three weeks a broad spectrum of views both political and social. A year or so ago I got a phone call from the Sunday Times seeking regular subscribers. At first I did not recognize the name the chap wanted to speak to, Mr Tamarr and then it all came back. In 1997 the time of Diana's death I visited the royal website and at the close there was a suggestion box and, as a joke, I suggested a good way to celebrate Princess Diana was that the House of Windsor be changed to the House of Spencer.

Not very popular as the royal website was closed to me and on the following Sunday, I tried to access the Sunday Times website but my name was rejected. So, I adopted the name under which this bio is published namely Phil Tamarr and everything was back to normal. I told the Sunday Times chap; there was a slight pause before he rang off. Evidently my little joke still rankles. I spoke once to a former employee of the Mirror Group of newspapers who told me Prince Charles resented being given advice about DVD recorders especially from this Pearse-fellow. It seems the prince complained that whereas with VHS one can stop and resume, his DVD could not. My answer was printed by the Mirror to the prince's annoyance. Royals like ex public schoolites are sniffy about their inferiors.

Episode 48

### Muse

But, in 2018 came a major redevelopment which will transform Watford into a Shopping megalith. I listen into Radio or TV broadcasts for themes such as earning revenue before spending but to all political parties the idea of working for ones livelihood seems decidedly old-fashioned even non-existent. In the presence of our children some themes are distinctly non-u. Also I'm avidly reading the Sunday papers because with more news on the web and young people changing their reading habits and the enormous increase of social media sites I can see a time when newspapers will be non-u.

I shall miss them because alternating between the Sunday Times, the Sunday Telegraph and the Observer one can cover over three weeks a broad spectrum of views both political and social. A year or so ago I got a phone call from the Sunday Times seeking regular subscribers. At first I did not recognize the name the chap wanted to speak to, Mr Tamarr and then it all came back. In 1997 the time of Diana's death I visited the royal website and at the close there was a suggestion box and, as a joke, I suggested a good way to celebrate Princess Diana was that the House of Windsor be changed to the House of Spencer.

Not very popular as the royal website was closed to me and on the following Sunday, I tried to access the Sunday Times website but my name was rejected. So, I adopted the name under which this bio is published namely Phil Tamarr and everything was back to normal. I told the Sunday Times chap; there was a slight pause before he rang off. Evidently my little joke still rankles.

I was always proud of the fact that the children had not only long since run their own lives independent of us, they also were living abroad, Michael in Spain, Irene in Japan and Colin in France. But, things do not remain the same and in the last couple of years Michael has removed to Holland, Irene to Tanzania and Colin has returned to England having a flat somewhere in North London. This was partly owing to his having met the love of his life in the person of Cassie, daughter of the Williams, living somewhere in Norfolk.

In 2009 Colin invited us to attend his wedding to Cassie in Las Vegas. It was a great experience. Present were Cassies' parents who at the time were retired though still in the 50s/60s bracket. We felt ancient though both of us were still fairly active. Irene shared our hotel room providing herself with a zippable bed. Other people included Colin's and Cassie's friends all from unis elsewhere. I lost count at thirty and assessed them by the number of cars needed to transport us all to the wedding reception. Highlight was a heli-trip over the Grand Canyon.

The service itself was conducted by a look-alike Elvis Presley who seemed interested in every guest and generally we enjoyed his affable drollery before and after the ceremony. Try as I might the actual reception is lost to my memory. What does stick in my mind was the breakfast ritual. On the first morning everything was fine and we got shown to seats quickly and were soon helping ourselves to pancakes and dollops of maple syrup and other delectable treats.

However the second day was more fraught: I discovered the reason: each of us had failed to leave a gratuity. Hence we were definitely not the flavour of the day though grumpily we were given directions. That's a bad advertisement for the USA: one does things only for money even though the guest is there by right. The hotel management seems in thrall to its own employees. We got another shock when walking through the gaming hall and were held up by two business-men who interrogated us about our income etc and were amazed we were there at all on our salaries. I brought one of them up short by asking if it was not the right of someone to pay for our stay. That fact had not entered their tiny minds.

Ella and I booked a trip into the Nevada hinterland. In charge of our trip was a retired gentleman who was knowledgeable about the pre-history of America including its aeons' old origin ie beneath sub-tropical seas plus its more recent history of tens of thousands of years. It seems ancient peoples had left artefacts such as their pueblos, rock markings of the heavens and signs of early wells. The more recent Spanish occupation was succeeded by a Mormon settlement though they quickly moved on in the face of virulent opposition from other Christian folk. He had brought along a sandwich lunch for us: their ham contents had twice as much as might be expected in the UK.

Irene and I hired a car to drive to Boulder City and onwards to the enormous dam taking water from the mountains which flows into the Colorado River though the water-mark is shown at twenty feet above the one-time level of the river. I understand from a more recent visitor to Las Vegas that things have not changed much. The area lacks the water that it had decades ago prior to the construction of the Hoover dam: global warming? The official loudspeaker voice-over sounded sanguine but the Americans should think of the demise of the Indians thousands of years earlier: history can and does repeat itself.

I took a local bus into the original Las Vegas locale and visited the Natural History Museum. There I had an interesting chat with a mother of a small child. She had moved west to join her parents but regretted leaving the East-Side ambience. At my return bus stop I spoke with a local resident whose urgent desire was to visit England. I told him that Scotland, Wales and Ireland were also worth a visit. He looked surprised that they even existed.

Our return trip was delayed on account of blizzards over the UK which inhibited landing so we were booked into a hotel in Las Vegas courtesy of Virgin Airline. Even our delayed return trip was fraught with anxiety as the pilot shunted between Gatwick and Heathrow. Our daughter also had a lengthy journey in switching airports with our car as she had returned to the UK days before.

I researched another website which I had called 'Fewer than Forty' where I explained that fewer than forty entrepreneurs had, over 300 years, brought more wealth to the UK and enriched the wider world than from a thousand years of monarchy, aristocrats and the Church. Sadly it lasted only one year as the website renter doubled his initial fee of $200. I had expected the second year to be less but Yanks always think bucks; it's their Achilles Heel: the 7th richest economy in the world that of California went bankrupt by spending more than their revenue.

Other private ventures include several novels which I persuaded Michael to organize into a website called Smashwords. So far the titles are: Resurgence or 'The Comeback of the Anglo-Saxons after the Norman Conquest'; The Non-Conformist and his Revolution being a chronicle of Thomas Newcomen, the engineer. Further books are about Abigail who, allegedly, brought peace to a war-torn Europe, and, 'The Misadventures of Captain Stobo' about England's conquest of Quebec, and, 'Taking the Current', a tale of Germany's failed aim for a 'place in the sun'.

Linked to a couple of the tomes are YouTube videos of a pump spouting water from a water-filled coal mine and the shelling by Prussian forces of the fortress of Sedan which brought about the surrender of the French emperor, Napoleon IIIrd to King Wilhelm 1st of Prussia thus creating the German Empire: a Bismark dream. However the previous words are more aspiration than reality for the time being.

I do recall a time when a one-time chancellor of Germany, Helmut Kohl was under fire for some perceived offence involving a friend. He had refused to name him and was vilified in the German press. At the time I was in Germany and in discussion with various friends the topic came up though invariably I found myself in a minority of one, me, who believed his decision was correct. In the UK some years previously a certain art advisor to the queen was lambasted for not revealing the name of a friend to the authorities in an ambient spy scandal. I supported him too.

My one regret in terms of languages was not mastering to understand or speak French with any fluency. My somewhat-less-than two years living in Frankfurt-am-Main gave me fluency in German though on return to England it did not prove useful until twenty years later when my company sent me to Hamburg where, along with a colleague, I sought out computer suppliers and helped to organize the company's computerization. That project, I believe, saved me in later recessions.

Having spent the 1970s in jobs such as progress-chaser, storekeeper I had seized the chance of becoming a systems analyst which soon boosted my income so as to be able to afford an annual holiday for the family. We acquired a car and spent the annual holiday on the Norfolk coast, or at a resort in South Wales as well as at resorts in Cornwall. The Midlands came in for its share of destinations eg Warwick Castle, Althorpe and slightly further to York where our daughter attended uni. For that reason we made trips to Exeter and to Glasgow to visit our two sons.

Being recently retired I was sitting in W H Smith enjoying a latte when a gentleman joined me. It seems he had recognized me as a former employee of S G Brown where he was employed as senior draughtsman and had been offered the post of systems analyst before me but had turned it down. He discovered later that draughtsmen were the first to be replaced by computers though by then he was able to take early retirement. His working life had included an aviation company in which role he had had been sent to Munich but, though in that city for three years, he had not learned to speak German. I told him about my experience and he winced.

In following a busy working life I had little time to dwell on subjects in the national consciousness such as human rights, empire, equality etc and this omission hit me hard because even in retirement I found myself puzzled when the acronym LGBT cropped up. Of course the WWW was soon being quizzed and I not only learned those four letters but also the meaning of QIAPD.

Yet, some topics puzzle me for instance that of human rights. When Tony Blair incorporated this item of European legislation into British law it seemed to me that Mr Blair had no idea of British history. Indeed a distinguished Canadian has made a similar point: that English common law provided all these 'so-called' human rights which were built up over centuries including even the barons' struggle with King John ending with the charter, the Magna Carta. It seems David Cameron's Eton education did him no favours because in the USA at a live TV chat show he did not appear, so I discovered, to be able to explain it to his host.

This morning on Sunday Morning Live the topic of fairness cropped up. The erudite woman stated that it was unfair for top CEOs to be paid many times more than employees of their company or organization. It is my view that life is unfair but that there is not much anyone should do about it. After all of the 200 countries in the world few will ever enjoy lasting prosperity. Take England: it was conquered by the Normans who were an elite cadre of men. They introduced laws which hit the very poor namely forbidding English peasants named villeins capturing rabbits, called coneys at the time, for the purpose of providing a nourishing meal as they had done in pre-Norman times. The punishment was savage: the severing of hand(s), even death.

Indeed the killing of peasants went unpunished until it was pointed out to Bois Gilbert and his amis that without peasants there would be nobody to milk the cows, drive pigs into the forest to forage acorns, sickle the wheat for harvest and many other essential chores though these activities were essential to maintain life, Norman life. These thicko Normans had a Homer-Simpson moment: duuh! Such goings-on and things like the Black Death scuppered Norman ambitions such that when a Norman lord was asked for his opinion, he reached for his scabbard whereas an Anglo-Saxon burgher said: God gave me the power to speak. Soon, the lords were demanding a chamber of their own while the commoners preferred their own company. It's not fair! That from a Norman who in 1066 was Cock o' the Walk whereas by 1361, English was no longer a proscribed language.

The English did not ask for nor receive 'fairness' from their Norman conquerors. They proved to the Norman government over the succeeding years and decades that the country should be run by all namely barons, burghers and subjects. In 2018 the topic of fairness crops up time and time again and its advocates envisage society where everybody gets a fair share of the economy. Such systems as were tried in the Soviet Union have proved impractical. One should also consider the wider, global economy. Some nations seem always to do better than others and examples of successful economies are the United States, Japan, China, Germany though these are precisely those with the highest GDP.

Fundamentally it's the old Dickens saw as outlined by Mr Pickwick: income 19 shillings, spending £1, result misery whereas income 1£, spending 19 shillings, result bliss. So it is with nations. A few will earn more revenue than they spend in looking after their citizens and will be relatively prosperous whereas the majority are forever in debt. Their spokes-people will scream: it's not fair. Tough!

In the UK however on occasion a short-sighted policy will be adopted by the government. Such a policy was, the right to buy as applied to people renting houses or flats from their local authority. In the short term it was popular as people saw it as a means of enriching themselves at the expense of their councils. However when the Thatcher government refused the councils permission to build property to replace the houses they had lost by this policy the country suffered by a dearth of housing stock. Labour councils were the worst affected and with a decade the housing shortage was being felt up and down the country.

Indeed in the decades since its introduction house building has fallen by millions. The reason is simple: housing associations and local councils dare not build because their properties could be taken from them at less than the price it cost to build them. Millionaires with a philanthropic purpose are also affected because building houses and apartments with a view to living off the rental as a form of income is no longer viable. That avenue is now closed. And neither the conservative nor labour parties will promote legislation to end right-to-buy for electoral reasons so that policy has proved completely counter-productive. Like rabbits mesmerized in the headlights of oncoming cars ALL parties are stymied. The only way out is to reduce immigration and thereby by reducing demand effect improvement in housing supply. What a calamity for the country. No wonder sensible people voted for Brexit.

Episode 49

### Brexiteer

In June 2016 I cast my vote to leave the European Union; the referendum came about as a result of a vote in Parliament which, if my memory serves me right, was a free vote ie no whips were in evidence to coax recalcitrant MPs whether they were Tory, Labour or Social Democrat. It had also an 80% approval rating on the proposition that the country would fall in line with parliament. Even Nigel Farage, head of UKIP whose strong showing in the recent election persuaded prime minister David Cameron to offer the referendum believing the Tories could attract UKIP and otther EU sceptics, was not confident of success. In my household, a family of five adults, I was the sole Brexiteer. The result of 52% Leave to 48% Stay saw me as the only one drinking champagne.

The prime minister resigned and Theresa May assumed that office promising Brexit means Brexit interpreted by the 52% Leavers that her government would honour the referendum result. As a result of the recent election Cameron had bequeathed her a 20 seat majority so her promise over Brexit seemed a cinch. Yet, she was persuaded by specious arguments to seek a new mandate. Had Brexit been the sole manifesto commitment her mandate would likely to have been confirmed but two of her Downing Street advisors 'muddied the water' by including other measures in the manifesto.

The result was that these measures cost her precious seats. Now Brexit could only be achieved with the support of the DUP to whom, Brexit, had a lower priority than 'niggles' of their own. It began to seem likely that a 'No Deal' with the EU would be the optimum option. Still, life goes on.

In the year 2011 I reached the age of 80 years and decided to visit the allied landing beaches in Normandy. Being not so energetic I visited a local travel agency who had in the past sold holidays in Turkey and Crete for my wife and I though on this occasion, acting on my own, the agent seemed distinctly peevish. Nonetheless I duly travelled from Waterloo to Portsmouth to board the ferry to Caen though before one can reach the latter there's another little port to negotiate, namely: Ouistreham. Fortunately the latter's information desk is excellent and along with like minded travellers I waited for the bus to Caen railway station where a taxi took me to my hotel, Hotel Bristol.

Its receptionist booked me a landing beach for the following day: it was to Omaha which alone of the beaches on D Day suffered the worst casualties. To recall Tennyson's poem about the Crimean War, someone had blundered. Tanks that would have provided protection for the hundreds of GIs coming ashore were released too far from Omaha beach. On the beaches to the north-east ie Juno, Gold and Sword the specially adapted tanks for swimming in the shallow waters of the Normandy beaches had helped the Brits and Canadians so that within a few hours of landing they were already making their way inland.

My tour companions were charming and kind Americans and clearly wanted me to accompany them. Indeed I had their rapt attention when, coming across tank-traps, to inhibit the allied tanks, a memory flooded back of such obstacles just off Newquay's beaches when our expected invaders had been Nazi forces. In the cafe back in Caen a lady invited me to their table and asked me of my impressions which is where I choked. Their teenage sons were at table also and looked at me curiously if uncomprehending. Later I left them when I noticed the lady's husband examining a typical fighter of that time. It was a Tornado which was very effective over the D-day beaches as also escorting USAF and British Lancasters over Germany. The 440mph fighter had a US body and a Merlin engine.

On the following day an Irish couple invited me to join them visiting the beach where the Canadians landed. A relative had emigrated to Nova Scotia and later his son had joined other Canadian soldiers when they landed in Britain. On the day he was tasked, armed with a bazooka, to take out enemy snipers at high points such as church bell towers. He survived the war. I was impressed by the Canadian thankyou to the people of Calne, Normandy; the town itself built a commemorative complex which housed a memorial, a museum, educational facilities, conference centre and various refreshment venues. The Canadian government's contribution included paying for a huge tract of land for recreational purposes. This was at the rear while the frontal aspect was devoted to memorial gardens, a cemetery and a showcase of allied memorabilia. However although the British landed at two beaches there was no specific facility devoted to the UK but in the basement an exhibition described the Nazi occupation.

My two Irish hosts were solicitous for my welfare and apologised for getting caught up in a traffic jam and whilst we had time on our hands they proceeded to relate a sad story about a family tragedy. It seems their son, along with friends, were holidaying in the Canaries, Tenerife I think. While swimming in the sea the weather took a turn for the worse but people just carried on. Unfortunately the locals know something that tourists don't: you get out of the sea. They did not and got caught up in a rip current from which they could not escape. They were drowned.

However we arrived back at the Bristol Hotel. We were all exhausted from the slow return caused by the traffic problems. Yet I wanted to show my gratitude and asked them if we could have supper together somewhere. They agreed and a time was fixed but it passed though I waited for half-an-hour and decided to proceed to a local fast-food outlet nearby. Madame served me my hamburg and chips on a plate when my erstwhile companions appeared. I was profuse in my apologies for not waiting longer but it was the look on their faces which concerned me, even now thinking about the incident, years later.

On the following day I walked to the bus station for a bus to the beaches and met a middle-aged couple, brother and sister, who did not seem to mind when, with the same intention, I tagged along with them. This bus took people to the beaches in particular the landing places named Juno, Gold and Sword though at first the lady got her brother to look for a 'ladies'; subsequently we had a snack before proceeding to the beaches and in particular the museums adjoining the beaches. On our return we got caught up again in traffic jams and the conductor had the right to charge me extra as my given destination was not the same as my two companions but he let me off citing the jam. We parted at the bus station though not before each pressed upon me that a visit to Ypres was a must.

My final wish was to visit Mont St Michel though here I had miscalculated. Arriving at the tram stop I was horrified at the Sunday schedules which did not accord with my schedule. At the hotel the receptionist assured me it was ten minute walk. However I asked her to call me a taxi. Its driver seemed to have no urgency and I duly missed the minibus rendezvous for St Michel. Still I consoled myself by visiting a local supermarket where I found an abundance of Zwitzen: these are plums which my wife would call zwetschen. Back in our early married life she had found them at the market and bought the entire six crates.

Subsequently all five of us would spend hours de-stoning them and Ella would lay them out on pastry and freeze in many of the tarts. Now, in Caen I could bring back a few of these plums which had ceased to arrive in the UK from Hungary owing to the Chernobyl disaster.

So, the following year I booked a trip to Ypres with Battlefield Tours and having booked in at an hotel near to Gatwick, I took a taxi to the meeting place. Fortunately Ella had persuaded me to take one of her second-generation mobile phones though my irritation got the better of me because the agent of the tour company was nowhere to be seen. I voiced my vexation over the phone and subsequently though it was entirely my own fault as we were just a hundred yards apart and i should have walked along the esplanade.

Ypres was a delightful little town and soon after our arrival I had walked to the Menin Gate arriving there just before 7pm when there were few vantage points to witness the daily ceremony. Afterwards in walking back to my hotel I espied a restaurant by name, Captain Cook. On the menu was my favourite fish, sea bass on a base of mashed potatoes and excellent salad. The price compared very favourably with the Zinco restaurant in Watford.

On the following evening after visiting both British and German cemeteries I was able to take a place at the Menin Gate so as to ensure a good view of the thirty minute ceremony which has a reading, a trumpet salute and moving music. And, for the second time I indulged myself with a visit to the Captain Cook to partake of their sea bass supper.

Back in Portsmouth I made straight for the fish and chip shop for a sit-down cod and chips before boarding the train to Clapham Junction and a final latte to sip awaiting the train back to Watford. I spoke to a fellow passenger who seemed surprised but I was still in France mentally where talking to strangers is not so strange.

The following year I revisited Caen without any agenda of visiting landing beaches though I did make my way to the Gare for a day-trip to Bayeux but madame said: "Mais, non monsieur; pas retour." So, I had to make do with a single; it seems one does not do day trips in France. In Bayeux there is a wide variety of trips to the landing beaches so I joined up with my fellow country- men and –women and we could vary our agenda according to our interests.

Our hostess was at the top of the subject and we got a lot more stuff than they dish out to the Americans. She told us that a popular cafe was run by a former soldier; he is also remembered because just off the landing beach he stood outside of a hotel at Arromanches hesitant as well he might but there were no enemy waiting for him. The proprietress made him a drink of occupation coffee.

Back in Caen I booked a seat for Mont St Michel. We were a party of seven including one American. Unlike St Michaels Mount near Penzance in the UK the French have built a causeway so that visitors are not dependent on tides. At the summit of the Mont our guide suggested a visit to some art galleries and made a move in that direction. It seemed the others were not keen and hung back except me with the result that I was caught in a crowd of another tour party and could not turn back. Twenty minutes later I was on my own.

I sat on a bench just outside hoping they might turn up but it was a relief when the tour guide touched my elbow after I had returned to the front entrance. She was not happy; each of my companions had ice creams and I had none though it was warm and the guide made no offer to show me where I could get one. The following day was a Sunday and I looked forward to calling in at the supermarket to buy some zwetschen like two years before but it was closed. All the shops were closed and even the square a-bustle with cafes and restaurants was silent.

What had happened! At some time in the previous two years since my last visit there had been atrocities across France. It is a Catholic country. Did the Pope lean on French cardinals? Whatever, that is really giving into the extremists which is contrary to French historic resistance to extremism from wherever it originates, from religion or politics. I decided to cut short my holiday by a day partly because the exertions on Mont St Michel had reawakened a muscular disorder against which I have a gel in a tube though nowadays airport checks risk it being impounded so I leave it behind. I phoned the airline who imposed a penalty but brought forward the date and next day the taxi duly took me to the gare where I caught the bus back to Ouistreham, the ferry terminal.

Allow me to indulge my readers' patience: some years ago our Watford tutor organised a jaunt to St Malo. Our coach boarded the ferry at Portsmouth to Ouistreham where we continued to St Malo. On our return someone had fallen ill so that although we stopped at Ouistreham some enquiries had to be made so we got off the coach for a stretch, no more than an hour. I wandered over to a church. Nobody joined me. Inside at the altar were many burning candles with an invitation to buy one with a few francs. I duly lit my stub of a candle and moved on to read entries in an ornate medieval volume behind glass.

It was an entry for baptism from the 14thC. There were the names of a man, woman and witnesses plus the child. The man's name was Prince Edward, the woman's name (not Joan, his princess) a stranger while the child was Prince Richard, the future Richard IInd. I had no paper nor pen nor camera: all were left behind on the coach. The point is: if that baptism is genuine, Richard was not eligible to be crowned as king. In the event he was supplanted by Henry of Bolingbroke who was crowned Henry IVth.

Back to 2016 in the ferry terminal I chatted with a woman whose daughter had married a French citizen and who was in the fortunate position of being able to nip across to France frequently. Once again on docking at Portsmouth I made for my favourite fish and chips restaurant near the quay and on arrival at Clapham Junction to the Zero latte dispensing place to await my train to Watford.

My latest continental holiday was to Berlin booking a hotel on Moabit Strasse which was very near the Hauptbahnhof (main station). The city's transport facilities are excellent with S-bahn, U-bahn and buses which regularly and punctually. My first aim was to visit the Technik Museum but was disappointed that it did not reflect very early railway innovation or even the advent of the steam engine. It's history began in the late 1700's whereas in the UK Newcomen and Watt had steam machinery which heralded the railway age of George Stephenson who had built the first railway line in Germany.

However I was astounded in the Communications Museum by the sophisticated radio in Germany in 1914 at the onset of WW1. It just so happened that I'd been listening to a WW1 drama about a British Tommy, Serjeant Bliss who suspected the Germans were listening in and got the ear of his superiours. He was promoted to Signals Officer and to Captain so that by 1918 our systems helped win WW1: on August 8th an SE5 fighter reported an MG position directing a tank south-east to destroy it. Such coordination between air and land would be emulated on June 1944, D-Day such was the sophistication of British forces compared to the enemy. In Berlin in 2018 many museums were still sited in bunkers.

Before setting out I'd plan my itinerary: bus to Turmstrasse ie U9 thence to Hansa, Zoo, Kurfurst., change to U1 etc until I reached my destination. It paid in terms of time saving en route. A memory of eating is the Schnellimbiss (quick-snack) but I saw none of these; for instance, in Frankfurt after reaching the Hauptwache after 5pm I'd buy a Bratwurst, roll and Sinalco drink for Dm1.50 which would be my evening meal but in 2018, zilch.

Once in my hotel I told someone that I'd complained about my evening meal and got no response and she said that the waiter had not understood a word said because most are immigrants, not German so have little savvy about what is said to them. The level of service is noticeable at Fruhstuck (breakfast) where fresh rolls are not available at 9am when I entered the tavern though the coffee was good. The receptionist gave me a fillip when she remarked: yesterday you were a tourist, today a German: my fluency in the language had returned.

It was amusing at times in asking the way of someone as often they were strangers themselves. Amusing, because I'd say: "Ihr Handy!" and their face would light up and out would come their mobile phone. It worked every time. Access to cash however did not work so well. In Friedrichstrasse I'd spot a bank. Inside were several machines but none would provide a statement. I knew my Virgin debit card was low so tried for 50 euros, refused, then 30 euros paid out. A latte macchiato got me the usual cafe latte.

I complained to the Hauswirtin about one of the locks. Returning from the tavern my key would not dislodge so my urgency for my room and its WC vanished as I tried to remove it from the lock. At last another resident helped. Next day I found same door was put on the latch. Once I caught a station bus and found myself whisked from Turmstrasse past my hotel to the main station. So, I decided to look around for a schnell-imbiss and then I spotted Schoenfeld which was my airport. If only I'd known on arrival but I could cancel plans for a taxi.

Episode 50

### Chance

The name of this chapter is chance because it is chance that has determined the course of my life. It was chance that determined the status of the family in which I was born. So, when bad times affected the family my mother decided that being unable to look after me she would have to place me in a Home. Eight years later the UK was at war and children were losing their lives as a result. There is a saying: it's an ill wind that blows no one any good. In my case a Scholarship to a better school which I was able to pass was approved whereas a few years earlier other boys like myself were not able to take up their place.

That better schooling altered my life in that more opportunities became available on leaving school at sixteen years of age whereas boys prior to the war in the same Orphanage had to start work at age fourteen and were often put into menial occupations. During the course of my career I was concerned about having mislaid my School Certificate although no employer ever asked to see it. Because of my attendance at grammar school prospective employers even preferred me over former schoolboys who had gone to university.

Again it was chance.

Recently a coach driver returned to his coach after a meal. As he walked back a pane of glass detached itself high up on the top floor of a building. It dropped on the coach driver. He was killed instantly. Pure chance! 65 million years ago, a rock detached itself from its place in space. It was several miles across in size. It crashed into planet Earth and killed the dinosaurs. Again, pure chance!

It is only natural for homo sapiens to look to the heavens for portents. Today we call such a moving body seemingly to blaze its way across the firmament a comet. Such a comet was tracked by a telescope in the 17th Century, in the age of Isaac Newton, indeed the man who tracked this comet was a colleague of Newton by the name of Edmund Halley. He predicted when the comet would next appear. His prediction proved correct so this comet was named after him: Halley's Comet.

Now, scientists believe such comets and other celestial manifestations are the leftovers from the formation of the solar system around five billion years ago. Later observers with more powerful telescopes realised that our solar system is part of a collection of stars. Today we call such a collection of stars, a galaxy. One scientist noticed such galaxies possessed an overall colour and advanced the hypothesis that such colours were an indication of their shift either away from Earth or towards Earth but most appeared to be racing away.

By retracing the speed of this shift the astronomer, Edwin Hubble, worked out that the galaxies had originated from a distant point in the cosmos. His calculation was that they had started their journey 13.3 billion years ago and that point of origin was the co-called Big Bang: the moment in the zillionth of a second when this energy horizon exploded. His theory concurs with Einstein's theory that energy is the sum total of the cosmos: e=mc² where e is energy, m is mass & c represents the speed of light squared.

And where does the idea of God fit into this equation? Nobody has yet managed to come up with an answer to this question although one can put it down to one's personal philosophy. I find it strange that a religion which claims that Man is created in God's image does not have a mate ie a partner, man and woman. In this the Greeks came nearest to this idea by depicting their gods as Zeus and Hera although even here the balance of responsibility seems inequitable in that Zeus is master of humankind whereas Hera looks after the distaff side.

### Afterword

Looking back over my career it strikes me that reverses had a positive impact on my future. When I was fired for pulling a bumper from its mounting on a car being towed back to the garage I landed a job in Bristol city centre where one day I saw the notice from the university about evening classes in German. Twenty years later another sacking brought me to a job with S G Brown whose management offered me the position of systems analyst.

So, the up and downs of life can all be beneficial though more often than not it is success that can lead to nemesis as one basks in the glow of that success which suddenly is interrupted: it is called hubris and it's as old as the ancient Greeks who also had their fair share of it.

Finally: the origin of my pen-name, Phil Tamarr. It was just after the death of Princess Diana when after reading from the House of Windsor's website I added a suggestion, as invited. It was meant to be humorous but that's not how the palace viewed it. They made it plain that Ron Pearse was not welcome and the Sunday Times website was no exception: its website was barred to me.

As a result I created Phil Tamarr, the surname of which suggests a river, the Tamar which divides Devon (birthplace) from Cornwall where I grew up. Phil suggests liking ie I like the West Country.

Q.E.D.

Bye-bye!

