stafford remembers - my first job 2013

My National Service / My First Job

Recording Social History

Rising Brook Writers

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First Edition Cover image: Turnstile Somerset Cider Museum


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Published By



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Contributors Pauline Walden Clive Hewitt Peter Shilston Penny Wheat Margaret Osborne Maurice Blisson Stephanie Spiers Edith Holland Irene Jones Christine Williams


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Pauline Walden

During my mid 1950s equivalent of a ‗gap year‘ (which, incidentally, extended over the next thirty years!) Morris Motors was advertising for a staff car driver to complete their all female team of four. I applied, and much to my surprise, considering my lack of experience, was accepted. Being the junior I was allotted a Morris Oxford while the senior driver swanned around in a Morris Six, considered more suitable for her illustrious passengers; but I had more fun, like digging us out of a snowdrift in the Derbyshire Peak District while my two male passengers pre-tended not to notice as they continued their dis-cussion of pending business, cocooned snugly in blankets in the back of the car. I quite under-stood, after all, snow and ice clinging to their highly polished shoes and trouser turn-ups would not present the appropriate image; oh yes, I un-derstood very well – and remembered. It was most unfortunate that on arrival at our destination the only parking space was in the middle of what appeared to be a lake, due to the proximity of snow to a heat source; steam gush-ing out from I know not what, possibly an ancient heating system or the kitchen? On another trip to Derbyshire my passenger didn‘t realise until we were almost there that he had the wrong date for his appointment; how-


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ever, being a resourceful man he suggested we make a small detour to Chatsworth House, where we had a very merry day at our employer‘s expense. Perhaps my most enjoyable trips were to the Cowley factory; apart from the first time when I waited for my passenger for several hours on a cold day with no lunch. After this experience I politely refused a repeat performance and in-sisted on a time for collection. This arrangement freed me to explore Oxford. It amused me to take coffee in the Randolph, dressed in my rather smart uniform with no iden-tifying marking, aware of surreptitious glances from other guests. Afterwards I would wander about the back streets finding delightful little antique shops, most of which far too expensive for my slender purse, before having lunch in one of the myriad charming little restaurants – on expenses, of course. My most memorable experience has to be driving a lorry. It happened this way; sometimes, if there was no time to go into Oxford, I would drop into the transport café near the Cowley works where the lorry drivers had lunch or what-ever, depending on the time of day. On one such occasion one of the drivers, who I knew slightly from the car garage, called across to me, ‗Fancy to drive my truck?‘ Several expectant faces turned in my direc-tion.


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To general surprise I replied ‗Yes please, how about when I‘ve finished my tea?‘ You will probably recall why one didn‘t see women driving lorries, buses or suchlike in those dim and distant days; with no power assisted steering or modern hydraulic braking systems, no heating and hard uncomfortable seats. After less than a mile, with aching arms from wrenching the enormous steering wheel, right leg numb from jamming my foot hard on the brakes and sweating from exertion, I threw in the towel – oh, how I wished I had one! That year with Morris Motors was a lot of fun and a wonderful experience but the novelty eventually palled, so I decided to move on.

Oxford skyline: Wikipedia image


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Clive Hewitt

My first job:1954.

Leaving school; was, to put it mildly, traumatic. It wasn‘t that I had to go any further nor was

it that I had to work any harder. It was just that I had to do it for FAR LONGER.

From the 9 till 4 five day week of a school-boy to the 8 to 6 PLUS 8 to 12 on a Saturday [48 hour] and DON‘T be late, or else, week of a worker. Leave school Friday start work Monday, bang-wallop, and straight into it!

I clearly remember that first week. Turning up at the Apprentices Office and being initiated into the mysteries of ‗Clocking In‘, then lectures [talks really] that today it would be called H&S familiarisation or something similar, on the vari-ous ways in which you could get killed [gulp!] or injured for life [don‘t think about it!] in a fac-tory.

A bunch of 15-year-old lads, no female apprentices then, really getting the facts of life as Mum and Dad never knew it. I have never for-gotten the one about the dangers of having long hair, a real human scalp was passed around to prove the point, and the various ways in which wearing jewellery around machinery was not a brilliant idea. As one of the instructors said to us, ―A machine tool is a device for removing redun-dant parts of the operator‘s body!‖ We believed


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him! Then factory familiarisation, or how to get

lost in one easy lesson. During that first week, at least two hours a day were spent in just walking the factory floor so that if you were sent to Store 8A you knew it was ―Down at the end of the long erection shop turn left by the tool store and it‘s on the right, but it‘s only open in the mornings‖.

How to read ―Blue Prints‖, for those not of an engineering bent that‘s the drawings that show you how stuff goes together, and they really were blue with white lines. Also a few hours on how to draw the things in the first place.

On top of this, there were the interviews with several of the higher up‘s that came down to the seminal question. ―What do you want to do when you‘ve finished your time lad?‖

At fifteen, how could you possibly even

guess?!

Being a bit of a Smart Alec I once said ‗Earning £1000 a year when I‘m Twenty-One‖. (Allowing for career changes and inflation, I made it a few years before I retired.)

However, it wasn‘t ALL graft. You were intro-duced to the canteen and the joys of being ‗‖The Tea Boy‖ via the tea trolley [bring your own mug] with its offering of tea so strong you had to forci-bly sink the sugar; which didn‘t do the spoon much good either.


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Mind you the cognoscenti used to say that the best way to get the sugar to melt was by using an arc welder, well turned up. I thought that doing that was a bit much; and anyway you got much better results with a power drill.

Tuesday was Apprentices coverall change day. Little understanding what was happening to us we duly trooped down to the ‗OVERALL STORE‘ [well that‘s what it said on the door any-way] for ‗Measuring up‘. The usual ―How tall are you, lad?‖, and then you got handed a pair of coveralls to try on. We were instructed, ―If they don‘t fit swap with somebody else until you find a size that does!‖

Fighting your way into a pair that does fit is okay, but long legs and short bodies make life ‗problematic‘. Then you were told that this mu-nificence would cost you the sum of 6d (2½p) per week stopped from your pay of £1/3/3d p.w. (£86.45 p.a.) and given a ‗Check Number‘ to use when you got a clean set.

Various other factors also got drummed into you, mostly distortions, to try and ensure that you remained a Loyal Employee. We survived it!


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Wikipedia Image


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At 15 I was desperate to start earning my own money. I thought of myself as a ―stylist‖ rather than a ―mod‖ because, like my mates , I wore a mohair suit, button down shirt and a silk hanky in the top pocket. I was pleased enough to get the job as a salesman at the local branch of a na-tional chain of shoe shops. It wasn‘t as good as a job at a tailors but at least I could combine my interests in girls, fashion and bluffing it without worrying too much that I had left school without any qualifications whatsoever!

It was hard to believe that such a small high street shop just about twice the size of most people‘s living rooms could have so many staff. It was also hard to believe that this little shoe shop could emulate hierarchical dictatorships respon-sible for state security rather than flogging shoes at £3 a time. The boss was, let us call him, Mr Brown (you didn‘t know first names of Managers). Mr Brown was a benevolent dictator ruling by consent and superior line number knowledge. He had a female Deputy called Margaret (she let you call her Margaret after about a month). There were two middle-aged female Seniors who kept a constant eye on sales technique and ethics with more diligence than KGB agents. Under their scrutiny came two young often giggly sometimes feuding young girls who were the juniors. Then

Paul Pittam


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came me ―The young lad‖ although at the bot-tom of the pile, allowed a certain respect as the only other male and in respect of a potential fu-ture role i.e. The boys often became mangers at some later date. Still on Saturdays I had the Sat-urday girls to run around for me (if only I had had the confidence!)

I learned a lot at that shoe shop. I learned the art of flattery. You take your time and are as pa-tient as is necessary to sell the shoes. I got a penny in the pound commission on general lines but a shilling in the pound on old lines (usually no longer in fashion but often of better quality than the new lines.) Flattery usually works irrespec-tive of class or gender background (―I can see you are a gentleman who won‘t be won over by flattery but that pair really does suit you!‖).

I learned the art of negotiation. Mom and teenager arrive at the shop. She wants the toughest pair of sensible shoes in the shop he wants the latest fashion. Once you have deter-mined the power relationships i.e. she has the money, he has the ability to pretend that any-thing he does not like does not fit but they both ultimately want to get sorted before he starts back after half term, then the negotiation can begin. Show sympathy for the money provider, share the teenagers desire to be modern then start introducing options that meet both parties half way. Of course, to get fashion plus durability you have to pay a little more.


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We did have fun. Like the time we were fed up with Mr Brown and decided to doctor his tea. He told us it had been a lovely cup of tea but when he didn‘t turn up for work the next few days we became worried. Perhaps it was not such a good idea to suggest one of the girls do a wee in his cup before filling it with tea? He recovered and lived for quite a few years after that.

Thursdays were half day closing. That meant Mr Brown had his day off. Sometimes it was just me and the girls. That meant we might get up to something outrageous but definitely something the management would not approve of. Now in a shop full of shoes there was really no excuse for me to have just one shoe on. However, one of the girls had moved my own shoe whilst I had

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been trying on a new line. I had been chasing her round the stockroom when a shout came that a male customer had entered the shop so it was my call. I decided I would just continue with the fun and hopped to the customer who explained that he was in fact the area manager! I can no longer recall how we got there but it ended up with him offering me a management traineeship. If I was so good just on one leg?

Well, the little shop on Walsall high street is now a travel agents. I recall about eight shoe shops on the high street in those days now there is one. I remember the customer always being right even if they weren‘t. I will not forget the companionship of colleagues not a step too far away from love.


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Edith Holland

It was 1935, our country recovering from the slump and strikes of the twenties, Europe still in ferment with the Spanish civil war and the rise to power of Adolph Hitler. None of this was in the forefront of my mind, at fifteen years old and very disappointed at hav-ing to leave school, I joined the search to find work. I had no qualifications to offer as I had been three years into High school and expected to go on to eighteen for school certs and a possi-ble place in college, I was very unhappy, but many times since I have found others in similar circumstances. In a family of limited means boys had first priority for education, girls helped the family income until they married and had their own homes. So every evening I scoured the situations vacant columns in the Birmingham Mail. writing letters, going for interviews, being turned down every time because my arithmetic was hopeless. A love of music and singing or playing left wing in the hockey eleven was not what an employer was asking for so like many others I turned to shop work which in those days meant general dogs body, training for retail had not yet begun. It was in a shop on the main road in Smethwick where I started a Ladies and Gents tailors and outfitters, I was given a brown crepe de chine short dress to wear which I put on each morning


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and took off in the evening, Myra the lady in charge wore a long dark green dress which swished round as she moved there were yards of material in it and I thought how funny as it was to be in an evening gown like that. I found out later that as she was trained in a city shop it was the normal wear. My wages were 7/6d per week, the hours were 9 till 6 weekdays,9 till 8 on Saturday with half day off on Wednesday. As I cycled everywhere I went home to dinner and even to tea on Satur-days. I was happy to have some pocket money and as I gave Mother 5/- I had 2/6 to buy things I wanted, there was that new white chocolate of Cadburys to try and I joined a lending library at 2p a week. In the shop my first job every morning was to sprinkle the carpets with stuff called Dusmo which was a mixture of sawdust and something moist. as it dried I had to vacuum it up again. Window cleaning was also my job standing on a stool to the plate glass windows but cleaning the manager‘s car was not what I had anticipated. When I realised my bike was in need of replac-ing there was a shop next to where I worked which offered hire purchase and so I chose a new bike a Humber Gold Streak model and paid for it at 6p. a week. From Myra I learned a lot about shop work, how to always smile and try to remember a cus-tomers name, how to gently flatter their choice


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of colour and fit. Nnear to the shop lived a lady named Mrs. Penny who was the alteration hand for the ladies clothes, After Myra had pinned up any alterations needed I would take them to Mrs. Penny. her kitchen was usually full of steam from the pressing irons which were heated on a strand in front of the fire. No electric irons then as the weight of the iron did the job well. I loved going round there in the Winter, Mrs. Penny always made cocoa for me i think she understood how I felt about my job and how I was really a square peg in a round hole. The Gents side of the business was mostly tailoring which meant made to measure suits, there were shelves stacked with bolts of cloth from which the customers chose their favourite, although often it was a wife who decided. The tailor Mr. Higgings worked upstairs, as the place had once been a house the upstairs rooms were small and the cutting table filled the room, how he worked in such a cramped space must have been typical of many people in the thirties. I would linger over taking a message to him long enough to see him lay out the fabric and use cardboard patterns, then chalk round them as his guide for cutting out. His patterns were so much used as to be falling apart. Then he basted them together ready for a customer fitting which was done in the shop by the manager himself, I don't think that the customer ever saw Mr. Hig-gings. After the fitting the suit went to an out


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worker, that was a machinist working in their own home again someone who the customer would never see. After a year in this job I was sixteen and asked for a pay rise which I was refused. So there I was job hunting again.

Pressing iron: Stockfreeimages


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Penny Wheat

Extract from the biography: Colin‘s Story ....... Colin joined the RAF. All young men at the time were called up for National service. At age eighteen, Colin enlisted. He had a choice of service and fancied the navy, but when he learnt that he had to sign on for a minimum of three years, thought better of it and enlisted instead in the Royal Air Force, (known as ‗The Brycreem Boys‘ after the popular hair product favoured by all fashion-conscious young men), for two instead. He was stationed not a million miles from home, at Church Lawford, a disper-sal station three miles from Rugby, and was once again in charge of pay.

―The air force really brought me out.‖ He loved his time there, - especially the

mix of men from different backgrounds and all with different experiences, though he never saw the inside of a plane. The camaraderie was great and perhaps surprisingly he didn‘t get teased because of his speech impediment, that troublesome and embarrassing stammer, which was to be the bane of his life.

Laurie was also in the RAF. One Open Day, mother and father came to visit and Laurie proudly showed them round the base, pointing out various things of interest as they went


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along. Ma thought how smart he looked in his uniform.

―Yes,‖ he said, ―I‘ve got a housewife!‖ A housewife was a small sewing kit issued

to all servicemen, to help them maintain their uniforms in good order. It contained needles, cotton, scissors and so forth. Mother of course, got the wrong end of the stick.

―That‘s nice!‖ she commented, clearly imagining that the benevolent and kindly Air Chief Marshall had given her son a sweet old lady, to help him adjust to forces life and fulfil his domestic duties.

―What‘s her name?‖

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Margaret Osborne

Distant Memories In 1953, after five years as a fine art painting student at the West of England College of Art, gaining two scholarships and the senior painting prize at the area art college for the west coun-try I was ready to take on my first post as an art teacher — or so I thought. My teacher training practice had given me experience in a Grammar School and Art College in Gloucester but noth-ing had prepare me for the shock of compre-hensive level which was my first appointment or the domineering attitude of the Headmis-tress who ruled the roost. She was a female look-alike of Robert Mor-ley, a well known film actor at that time, with blonde, crumpled hair, probably dyed and an unfaltering gaze. She was known by the staff at that time as ‗Aggy the Apparition‘ as she would appear without warning at the classroom door to scold, or grab by the collar an unsuspecting child, sending shivers through the rest of the group of children, usually 48 in number. At the time the school was 21-years-old and was celebrating its anniversary with a per-formance of Hansel and Gretel by Humperdinck. I was asked the paint the scenery of life sized trees but was given no free time to accomplish this task so I would have to set work for the ‗C‘


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stream group which was my class to prime the large canvas and paint the massive woodland scene with a pathway. You can imagine that this gave rise to the ‗C‘ stream for a real opportunity for high-jinks and noise. Suddenly the door burst open and Aggy was in the doorway, but unfortunately so was the bucket of whitewash that by chance I had left there to prime the canvas sheet. The bucket tilted forwards towards the wall and bounced back again all over Aggy‘s feet. She let out a yell then turned and padded her way back to her den leaving white footmarks all the way across the quadrangle. Another memory comes to mind when some


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busybody near the school reported to the head-mistress that I had been seen wearing jodhpurs on a Sunday morning. Not surprisingly as that was the time that I went horse riding as I enjoyed that very much. It was my free time after all. Aggy thought that on a Sunday it was more appropriate to be seen in a skirt to which I pointed out that it was not appropriate whilst sitting astride a horse. I think I won that point. I those days seamless stockings were becom-ing fashionable in the early 50s and so I wore a pair to school only to be called aside one morn-ing to explain why I was not properly dressed in stockings but bare legged. So without hesitating I


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hoisted my skirt up as far as one dared in those days and twanged my suspender to prove my point. Next day I went bare-legged to school with tanned leg-dye and a seam and heel-clock carefully drawn on my legs and heels with an eye-brow pencil but no more comments were ever uttered by the Head. It was like I imagined a remand home would be, not being allowed as a grown adult to wear a necklace, a fancy watch, a pretty ring, except an engagement ring or wedding ring, these were reluctantly allowed. We were teachers, qualified adults being bullied by a spinster nut-case. I left as soon as I could as in the first year you were being assessed in a temporary situation therefore it was recommended that two years was the ideal to move on.


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Peter Shilston

Between leaving school and going to Cambridge, I spent six months working for the Cumberland County Library in Carlisle. Much the most inter-esting part of the job was going on the travelling library van which took books to the isolated vil-lages and farmsteads. In those days, there wasn‘t even television reception in some of these re-mote areas up on the Scottish border, so when we came round every three weeks on the van, we were one of these people‘s few contacts with the outside world. Some ladies never actually ex-amined our shelves, but had their own individual procedures. ―I want 5 murders, 3 romances and a western‖, a lady might say, and leave us to choose them for her. She would then cast her eye over our selection, discarding a few because ―they didn‘t look very good‖, or because she thought she might have read them before. Some customers had their own systems for dealing with the latter problem; such as making a pencil mark on a certain page once they‘d read one of our books. Even this was better than one lady who had had a book on archaeology out on loan for over a year, and kept renewing it. We thought this odd, since she never asked us for any other books on the subject. It transpired that she had a table with one leg shorter than the


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others, and that this book was exactly the right thickness to level it up. The County Librarian had to write to her demanding that the book be re-turned. In cold weather kind ladies would bring us a mugs of tea, though since they invariably stirred in large quantities of sugar, I could never drink mine.

Occasionally the choices we made must have caused some surprise. Harold the van driver once persuaded a lady at a remote farm to take home James Joyce‘s ―Ulysses‖. ―Is it a good book?‖ she asked. ―It‘s a very famous book‖, said Harold. ―I want something I can read in bed‖, she said. ―It‘s probably best if you read this in bed‖, Harold told her. I never found out what she made of it, since I don‘t recall we ever saw her again.

Harold explained to me the perils of engaging these people in conversation. They probably never saw anyone except us and the postman for weeks at a time, and they were often desperate for a talk, but we had a tight schedule to keep, and if we let them stay on the van for too long, we‘d never get round in time. Harold‘s policy was to agree with everything they said. ―You can‘t have a proper conversation with someone who always agrees with you‖, he reasoned. I wit-nessed this technique in action at a very isolated farmhouse up near Kershopefoot on the Scottish border; the home of an artist who was the only genuine Nazi I ever met. He clambered onto the van in his paint-stained overalls. ―Things are


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bad!‖ he told us, ―There‘s Jews in high places bleeding this country white!‖ ―You‘re right there!‖ said Harold. The man soon went away. But I‘m afraid I forgot Harold‘s advice on one occasion, when once an old farm labourer got on the van and told us, with no introduction, that all farm land should be nationalised. ―You‘ll be a socialist then‖, I dutifully said. Oh no, he always voted Conservative.

I couldn‘t restrain myself from asking why, and he told me this long story about how, when he was a boy on the Earl of Lonsdale‘s estate back before the First World War, he once opened a gate for the Earl‘s carriage to come through, and there sitting beside the Earl was the Kaiser, who had come to spend Christmas up at the castle (this did in fact happen, incidentally). The Earl had given him half-a-sovereign and said, ―You look a promising young chap. If you ever want a job, come up to the hall and see me―. But then he‘d gone off to the trenches in the war, and it was only in the 1920s that he‘d met the Earl at a county show and the Earl had said to him, ―I recognise you! You‘re the lad who opened the gate for me back before the war! Why didn‘t you come up to the hall and take the job I offered you?‖

And ever since then he‘d voted Conservative. Politics was still a bit primitive up on the Bor-ders. I‘ve often reflected that my vote could be cancelled out by someone like that.


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Wilhelm II or William II (Friedrich Wilhelm Viktor Albrecht; (27 January 1859 – 4 June 1941) was the last German Emperor (Kaiser) and King of Prussia, ruling the from 15 June 1888 to 9 November 1918. He was a grandson of the British Queen Victoria and related to many monarchs and princes of Europe. Crowned in 1888, he dismissed the Chancellor, Otto von Bismarck, in 1890 and launched Germany on a "New Course" in foreign affairs that culminated in support for Austria-Hungary in the crisis of July 1914 that eventually led to World War I. (Source material and image Wikipedia)


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Maurice Blisson

I had unusual memories of my National Service. I served for two years in the RAF. Everyone had to do square-bashing - the drilling, the spit and polish and learning how to salute and march. But the summer of 1957 was so hot it was impossible to do any for a couple of weeks, so they sent all the rookies to an open-air pool in Hereford, where we passed the time sunning our-selves. I hit upon the idea of putting on a concert party to pass the time, so I sent a note around my new colleagues asking for anyone who wanted to take part to contact me. I soon had a group together of around a dozen amateur dancers, magicians, comedians and jugglers. Together with the station band we formed a team and entertained our fellow squad-dies. It got to the ear of the Station Commander, who arranged for us to stay together after square-bashing and I spent much of the next two years touring RAF camps, putting on our little show, much of which I wrote myself. One interesting anecdote among many - for the first show I wrote a little sketch (a bit like, but nowhere near as clever as, Ronnie Barker)


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which contained some double entendre. Fearing that this might be considered a bit rude I asked the Station Commander to view the rehearsal in case he found anything objectionable. He watched it entirely straight-faced. At the end he stood up and said: ―Do you realise that my wife will be in the audi-ence?‖ I replied ―Yes sir.‖ His response was: "Well, she'll pee her draw-ers!" and he marched out laughing. The sketch did indeed go down well!

http://www.rafadappassn.org/hereford.html

Memories of RAF Hereford


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I was very fortunate that my parents believed in self-sufficiency and when I told them some of my classmates had found Saturday jobs they were willing for me to have a go at work-experience as long as it did not interfere with my studying.

So when aged just 15 and a quarter with a tall girl called Rebecca, who was far more con-fident than I, one Saturday morning we tried every shop in the High Street until we struck gold and were both taken on by a shoe shop catering for the lower end of the shoe market.

Thus began three years of Saturdays and school holidays selling cheap plastic shoes to the less discerning customers of the 1960s, being abused by mods and rockers alike for not having their particular fashion in stock, sworn at by irritable mothers cramming tiny feet into ill fitting shoes, leered at by old men who were not to particular about their trouser habits and sneered at by long thin girls with ironed hair who thought it was beneath High School girls to work in retail, but who weren‘t opposed to ask-ing for a share of my staff discount. For me the swinging sixties were flying by in a blur of alge-bra, French verbs and a longing for stilettos to die for which were way out of my price range.

I was paid the princely sum of 17/6d for

Stephanie Spiers


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an eight hour day and the prospect of a bonus if one could off load the really most hideous mis-takes of the shoe buyer for the chain. The bonus was called a RWB (red, white and blue). Once a sale was made and the money deposited in the till (one Arkwright would have been proud of) I had to tear off the front of the shoe box with the RWB stamp clearly visible and without injecting staples into unsuspecting thumbs – the boxes on those days were vicious with buried staples – and to throw it into a shoe box with my name on which was stacked with those of the other staff under the counter. At the end of the month the bonus was added up and paid out – to me this could be as much as a £1.00. As each label was worth around 6 old pennies it was a lot of sales of hideous footwear that made up this hard earned bonus.

What did I learn? An awful lot about sales, marketing and customer relations, that the best cream cakes came from Taylors by the Elephant and Castle and that I never ever wanted to put my own feet into plastic shoes.

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Irene Jones

We first met Father John when I was in the mid-dle group at St Benedict‘s Junior School. Our class teacher tried to teach us music by tuning in every morning to BBC Music for Schools. Our class teacher Mrs Riley was a good all round teacher but she freely admitted that she was tone deaf and struggled with music teaching. We sang or growled and shouted our way through: The Sky Boat Song, Annie Laurie and The Cradle Song every morning and in our daily mass at the adjoining church we shouted our way through hymns and spiritual songs, but not for much longer. The new parish priest came in to listen to our music lesson and put up with our growling and shouting. He said nothing and did not pull a face. 'This is Father John O'Leary.' Mrs Riley said 'From tomorrow he will teach us music and singing.‘ The priest, who was an accomplished musician, turned and walked out without a word, leaving us to more enjoyable shouting. Next day he marched in at 10am sharp and turned the upright piano with its back to the class and began teaching us. He started with songs that we knew by heart. He played and sang, leading us patiently by example and repeti-tion. His teaching methods were arresting, he


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played loudly and perfectly, standing facing us, now and then he jumped in the air and pointed at an offending child, without a break in the beat or the tune; 'flat' or 'keep time'. He even taught us Italian musical terms such as 'piano' or 'tempo' or even 'stop singing.' Before long a smart child had christened him 'Jumping John' Although his musical methods were not the only reason for this new name. When he scolded a child for conduct, he pat-tered from one foot to the other and scampered on the spot. Until eventually both feet were off the ground at the same time. One day Father John was standing at the church door and he beckoned me to go to him. I went to him and he told me that he had a little job for me. I had done small tasks before and did not expect remuneration. As he handed me the door keys, he told me to call at a terraced house in a Victorian street on my way to school and again on my way home every day. I was to tend the fire in the front room and go upstairs to give tea and bread and butter to a lady. I was not told her name. On the next day, I went in to the house, put my satchel in the hall and going into the kitchen put the kettle on. The I called up the stairs, 'Hello, it's Irene, Father sent me.' I found a bucket in the back porch with small coal and sticks and a pile of newspapers for light-ing the fire. Once the fire was drawing up and


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red, I went back to the kitchen and cut a slice of bread and butter, sliced it into fingers and car-ried a small pot of tea with this tiny breakfast up the stairs. Like the makings of the fire, the tray was laid out for me, with a small tea caddy handy, close by. I found a pale and thin lady ly-ing in bed and propped up on pillows. She was awake. I put the tray down on her bedside table and too shy to speak smiled at her, she smiled back as I poured a cup of tea. Across the room was a commode chair, Granny used one in her house, all the rooms had a chamber under the bed. I knew what to do, I took the pail and emptied it in the upstairs toilet, put it back in the commode chair and washed my hands before running down the stairs to check the fire, pick up the satchel and hurry to school. Every afternoon after school I called in to the quiet house and the quiet lady to make up and bank the fire for the evening. By this time she was lying on a chaise longue covered with a tar-tan rug. We never spoke but there were smiles between us. This continued weekly until the be-ginning of Advent in December. One morning I found Father John waiting for me in the porch of the house. Every week he had handed me a couple of shillings and a few cop-pers after mass but this morning he was beaming as he held out his hand and asked for the keys. His manner was very pleasant and he did


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not hop once. I was never told what happened to the lady and I had forgotten about until I heard of Father's death at the age of ninety. Life was busy at the new school; learning, games and

homework. I was only a child.


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Christine Williams

Although I was trying to come up with an anec-dote about my first job, as I have previously said many times, my work has always been bor-ing and offers no insight into social history. But thinking about it, there is a ghost story from elsewhere in England that a workmate told us in a tea break many decades ago which might be of interest.

A couple moved into a nice little house in the countryside, close by the town.

Going out for the evening, they returned to find the bathroom light left on and the bath-room door wide open. They thought nothing of it. But neither could recall doing that.

One morning, the lady picked up her mail and put it on one side of the mantle piece to read when returning back from work. When she came back from work, all the mail was now on the other side of the mantle piece.

She thought nothing of it. Perhaps her part-ner had moved the mail.

As work separated the times when the cou-ple were in the house, they simply assumed their forgetfulness or the other had done some-thing different. This went on for some time. But as money was tight, an argument arose about leaving the bathroom light on for hours when both were out of the house.


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So the partner got her to stand with him while he taped up the door after being abso-lutely positive the bathroom light was off. And they went out for a drink.

When they got back, the bathroom door was open and the light on. They moved out soon after. Later discovering that the previous owner was an old lady: obvi-

ously, she was set in her ways.


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NB It‘s only fruit punch ...


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RBW tradition: Mincepie Monday 2012 to celebrate the close of workshop sessions at Christmas. There‘s plenty of room round this table for more writers ... Could you be filling one of these empty chairs next year?


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Where possible RBW uses open source graphics where the source permits not-for-profit educational use. Should anyone‘s copyright be accidentally infringed please let us know and we will willingly acknowledge the source in any reprint or remove the image.

Thank you for taking an interest in the work of the charity.

More of our free e-books and free weekly

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All are welcome, no previous writing experience is necessary.


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Where possible RBW uses open source graphics where the source permits not-for-profit educational use. Should anyone‘s copyright be accidentally infringed please let us know and we will willingly acknowledge the source in any reprint or remove the image.


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‗You‘ve never had it so good!‘ Really?

What were the 1950s really like?

Asking people to share their private memories for the sake of recording social history

is a big deal as it provides a peek into everyday life.

Far too often the details of what things were like for ordinary folk several decades ago can

be lost in the mist of time.

RBW is very grateful to all those who have shared their experiences simply because it is the right thing to do if future generations are

to be able to grasp the implications of social change through the passage of time.

stafford remembers - my first job 2013

Documents

rising brook writers

right of rising brook

rising brook branch

brook writers disclaimer

national service

morris oxford

morris motors

staff car driver