1963-71
Chapter 4 – Leaving the North East and life in the Midlands
4.1 1964 – 1971 Newcastle to New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire
My recollection of leaving the North East, although sketchy, is powerfully emotive. The relief of escaping my tormentors was little consolation when balanced with the thought that I was leaving the only culture I knew. It didn’t help that me Mam and Christine were to travel south by bus while me and me Dad were to accompany the driver in the lorry. I had so desperately wanted to travel with me Mam and be supportive in some way but I think cost had something to do with the arrangement; and the idea of Christine travelling with me Dad was not an option.
As the lorry grunted its way out of Tweed Terrace to the silent vigil of the neighbours on their doorsteps, I could hardly bear to look at me Dad. The broad smile on his face made me feel quite sick. I remember trying to decide if his grimace was genuine delight at the thought of a new life, in a brand new rent free house, or a way of trying to hide his embarrassment at having made a decision which none of his family approved of. Whatever it was, it stank of selfishness, and any misgivings I may have had vanished then and there in realising the man didn’t care about the feelings of his Wife or his children.
The eight hour journey south was in silence, broken only by the occasional tweet from Sparky, me Mam’s beloved budgie, who’s cage was in a vice like grip on my knee. It was during this silence that I made some of the most profound decisions of my life; decisions which would impact for years.
4.2 1964 – 1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (1)
Breck Bank was one of about forty streets which had been purposely built to receive migrant mineworkers from the North, which collectively became known locally as the ‘Geordie Estate’. The houses were indeed brand new semi detached properties with a garden to the front and back, three bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen, dining room and lounge. There was also a built in utility room/shed adding to the functionality. In terms of character they had none whatsoever.
For the shallow minded, and clearly there were some, it must have felt like a step up the class ladder, but for the more discerning it was no more than a ghetto. One thing which did get my vote, however, was the indoor nettie; although I didn’t know at the time that most of the local people did not have this facility. Pit houses of the day all had outside toilets and daft as it sounds this issue did become quite contentious within the community; albeit underlying. At some point too, the penny dropped that I would once again have my own bedroom and hiding my delight was not something I was about to do. To quote Fred Flintstone ‘Yabba-Dabba-Doooooo!!!’.
Moving house in the sixties was always something of an embarrassing event for families in transit as everything they owned ended up on public display; usually in the front garden of their new home where the haulers dumped it regardless of the weather. The priority then would be to get everything inside first, and then later place things in their respective rooms.
After what seemed like hours, we finally got everything inside the house, closed the door and sat in the mayhem exhausted. With nothing more that we could feasibly do that day, me Dad suggested he went out to find a fish and chip shop which naturally won everyone’s vote.
I suppose if he had ever returned with the food I imagine we would have canonised him, but it seems he found the Ollerton and Bevercotes Miners Welfare and Institute first. We didn’t see him again that day.
4.3 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (2)
New Ollerton was known by those who lived there as a village but it was far from that in my view. Having none of the things that I would equate with a village it was, to me, more of a town. The term village gives the impression of somewhere being small, quaint and rural, and with a sense of community, but the only redeeming feature I could see was the open planning of the streets.
At the front of all of the older pit houses were lawns which were tended religiously, by the Estates department of the National Coal Board, which admittedly did give the place a good feel on a summer day, although I did find it confusing that all of the streets were named after either a tree or a forest; no doubt in honour of Nottinghamshire’s famous son Robin Hood.
By contrast, the ‘Geordie Estate’, to the locals, was a sort of appendage they would rather have done without but compromised with, given their need for more mineworkers in the area. The newness of it all was something of an eyesore and did seem out of place, and so it isn’t difficult to imagine the feelings of encroachment at that time. Paradoxically, however, there was also an underlying envy in that the new houses had facilities which the older ones didn’t (e.g. indoor toilets, fenced gardens) which I suppose begged the question ‘why them and not us?’ The old world was obviously not as idyllic as it appeared. Such things did little for community relations.
The morning after the night before arrived, and the first day in our new world began. Amidst the bedlam of things all over the house I was quite relieved when me Mam asked me to go and find the local shop to buy milk.
Leaving the house and walking into a street I had never been in before, I felt like a chick hatching from an egg. It was the first time I had ever felt anonymous, and as I stood there I just soaked it up. It was liberating; a feeling I have never ever forgotten. Even today I love being in those situations, especially walking through big cities where not a soul knows me.
|
Just then, I heard a voice. “Hello”. As I looked around I saw a little blonde haired girl standing behind the gate of the house over the road. For a minute I nearly died of shock. I thought it was Brenda. But it wasn’t.
Her name was Annie, and she became a life long friend.
|
4.4 1964-1971(3) New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire
As with all of the families on the estate, Annie’s was from the North East; I think from Chester-le-Street, where me Dad’s sister Auntie Eva lived. Her Dad, John, didn’t work under ground, he had a job with a little more prestige in the lamp room although I didn’t see a lot of him; as with my Dad, the working shifts could be very unsociable at times. But Annie’s Mam Irene (Auntie Irene to me), was a lovely woman and became a very good friend to Katie. As fate would have it the family also had an elder son called Alan who eventually would join the Army, but who meanwhile became the focus of Christine’s attention. It seemed natural therefore that the families became good friends. I still see Alan occasionally today.
If any one thing set the families apart I think it would be the fact that John didn’t drink alcohol to any large degree. Only on occasion would he venture out for a half pint of beer and even then it would be to a pub rather than to the Miners Welfare. If that were not impressive enough, I also noticed (being overly observant/a nosey little so-and-so at that time) that he usually took his Wife and children with him; he wasn’t a lone drinker. In fact if I was with Annie at the time they were going out, I got to enjoy the occasional soiree myself, which included a ride in his whopping big silver Zephur.
Naturally, it wasn’t very long before I began to make comparisons between the life styles of the two families. On the face of it, John was extremely caring of his Wife and family and ensured whenever possible that they all had quality time together; something I craved. He had made the effort to pass a driving test, and bought a family car which made shopping trips bearable and which took them ‘home’ to the North East at least twice a year for holidays.
For a long time I mitigated in my mind in favour of me Dad. In fairness to him he had a far more dangerous and isolating job which didn’t lend itself to the development of his social skills. If anything it hampered them. He had also been an underground worker since the age of 14 and had become conditioned as a boy to address the dehydration as soon as the men hit the surface. Clearly he was conditioned long before he married me Mam. I reasoned that perhaps I had been too hard on him. And despite everything, I loved him. He was me Dad.
4.5 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (4)
Whinney Lane Junior School, New Ollerton, is the first real memory I have of my schooling which I began attending around the age of nine. As Annie was a few years younger than me she attended Whinney Lane Infants School, next door, and so we walked there and back together.
The school itself was typical of the sort you see in films from the sixties with long corridors and glass windows in the classroom doors, through which the headmaster or deputy head would eyeball in search of unruly pupils. In my case however, the tradition of my standing in the corridor continued to be par for the course (as it had been in the North East) and so looking me out was unnecessary as I was already there to be found. Being invited to the office was something I expected rather than anticipated and with corporal punishment being the norm I was caned on a regular basis.
Each classroom housed around thirty children, each of whom had a wooden desk in which they kept their books, and which was fitted with an ink well. The dip pens were made of a purple plastic which, despite their disgusting taste, I had an awful habit of chewing and apart from the fact that I was punished for the deed, spent the following two years gurning; not knowing whether to swallow the bits or spit them out.
Having fallen behind with my education it wasn’t long before I had problems keeping up with the class, and the familiar scenario of being targeted once again became my reality. Memories of this time are very negative and quite painful, not least because being a bit older the process of being systematically singled out had also become embarrassing. The irony of it was that I so wanted to be just like everyone else and do well. I began to think that I was some sort of a freak.
It’s a strange thing to say but there was a part of me, at that time, that knew full well that a particular teacher had taken a dislike to me and abused his power in making my life a misery. And in an even stranger twist of fate, it would be to me he answered twenty years later when I challenged him over his treatment of my own daughter.
4.6 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (5)
As in the North East, me Dad worked long hours in his job at Ollerton Colliery and so it wasn’t very often that I got to see him, let alone spend time with him; but then one day he said “Howay lad, get yer coat on yer comin wi’ me”. I was thrilled.
But the thrill quickly vanished when I looked at his face. Something was wrong, and he was frightened. I’d never seen me Dad frightened before, and like any child in that situation I was terrified. Regardless of the relationships, children see their parents as invincible and protective, and to realise they are not is a massive shock. The rapid change in my emotions almost made me pass out and though I tried to ask him what the matter was no words came out of my mouth.
As we left the house I was still struggling to put my coat on and keep up with me Dad who was known for his long stride. When I finally managed it I hung onto his arm and ran with him as he marched. “Dad, where we gannin? Dad? Where we gannin?” I spluttered. He didn’t answer.
At the end of the street was a telephone box, he opened the door and we both squeezed in. In a deathly silence he placed a pile of two bob bits on the shelf and dialled a number. Even though I strained to get the gist of what was going on I couldn’t and had to wait until the call was over. Outside the phone box me Dad was as white as a sheet. For the first time in his life he put his arm on my shoulder. “Aah divent naa what the hell am ganna tell yer Mam bonnie lad. It’s Eli, her brother. He’s committed suicide”.
Horror. I was consumed by it. Me Mam adored Uncle Eli and the thought of telling her that news was almost unthinkable. But we knew it had to be done. Yet the tragedy opened both our eyes, and our hearts. Walking back up the street me Dad kept his arm around me and I hung on to his hand. And although he had not liked Uncle Eli he dreaded having to tell me Mam because he didn’t want to hurt her.
|
The vision of me Dad hugging me Mam as she thumped his chest in tears still haunts me. But through all of the pain our family were in, I knew now that me Dad loved me Mam. And he also loved me. Sadly it took a crisis for me to see it.
|
|
4.7 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (6)
Just at the point that I was witnessing me Mam suffer the most dreadful emotional pain at the loss of her brother I began to wonder where God fitted into all of it.
I did know, for some bizarre reason that I was listed as a Methodist and so decided to check out the local chapel. The congregation numbered a measly dozen or so who were ranted at on a weekly basis by a minister demanding to know where the absentees were, and so it didn’t take me long to decide to sling me hook.
Continuing my quest, I joined Sally’s Army figuring that if I didn’t find the ‘big cheeze’ there I would at least get the chance to play my mouth organ once in a while. And who knows I might even get a uniform. As it turned out, whatever I was searching for in the spiritual sense certainly wasn’t there; and our musical tastes were poles apart anyway and so, to the dulcet tones of ‘Hallelluya’, I slipped out the door and legged it.
Disillusioned I put religion on hold, even though over the years I did attend various churches but only to take advantage of their recreational facilities. I suppose you could say I was a hypocrite, and there were many occasions when I was copped for exhibiting behaviour less than was expected of a member. Being booted out of the Cubs for sneaking into the Brownies tent springs to mind and although the church was not directly connected to the Cubs word soon got back. I came to the conclusion that they were all in cahoots and went my own way.
It would be a long time before I would eventually find spiritual peace. I would have travelled the world, married, become a Father and a Grandfather, and had a near death experience before I was finally blessed with peace of mind.
4.8 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (7)
Even though my school life was totally miserable I still managed to make a few friends, although they were all in different classes and so weren’t exposed to my ridicule; which is probably why I commanded an element of respect from them. To be truthful, of our gang of four boys, the others saw me in something of a leadership role and often deferred, which was obviously totally new ground to the likes of me. I think it may have had more to do with the fact that me Mam would spoil us all rotten with cakes or whatever when we called in, whereas their parents wouldn’t even let us in the yard. But since I appeared to have been appointed (elevated, even) to such a position, I quickly began developing the skills required to calm differences and ease confrontations, which strangely enough came very naturally. On wondering where on earth I could possibly have acquired the ability to fit into such a role, a penny suddenly dropped. Jimmy O’Brien. There was no doubt in my mind that having spent years in the Home watching Jimmy mediate, and guide the other children through disagreements, disappointments and all manner of difficulty, I had sub consciously taken it all in, processing those qualities I had so admired in him and building them into my own personality. Although I had lost Jimmy tangibly from my life, I felt that a part of him had stayed with me (and still does), like some sort of guardian angel. His legacy to me is something I take very seriously in that I endeavour to treat everyone respectfully, regardless of how they may treat me; the warmth I feel inside is worth it. I can see now why Jimmy was the way he was. 4.9 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (8)
Although me Dad worked underground, as a belt repair man he didn’t earn an enormous wage; unlike for example a face worker, who quite rightly was paid top whack and of course the highest bonus. I wouldn’t say we were poor, but then (as Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof might say) ‘I wouldn’t say we were well off either’. In terms of pocket money, a tanner a week seems to ring a bell although me Mam would add another tuppence if I combed her hair and pulled out anything that looked grey. But as any boy of ten would tell you there are things heneeds which can’t be squeezed out of his allowance. Things such as, such as, such as a bike, and such as fishing tackle for example. One day me Dad came home and announced he had got me a Sunday job cleaning the car of the Welfare Steward and that I would be paid a whopping half-a-crown for doing it. I was dancing! Half-a-crown! I was rich. I could hardly wait for Sunday; and when it finally came I shot up to the Welfare like a rocket. The car was a big silver Ventura that looked like something out of an American movie and I loved cleaning it; especially the inside because I got to fiddle with the controls and drive a dream up the Nutbush turnpike.
It wasn’t long before earning my own money became something at which I became very adept; in no time at all I added a morning and evening paper round to my C.V. At the peak of my juvenile employment, I added still two more jobs to my working week; a Saturday morning Co-op delivery round, and the Sunday morning (less prestigious) task of feeding pigs stale bread on a farm in Bothamsall. The latter is not something I would recommend. Naturally, me Mam would not allow me to be carrying such riches around in my pocket, and would put the bulk of my money away for me, until I had saved up enough for whatever it was I was after. But it was at quite an early age that I realised I didn’t need to be a Professor to bring the bacon home, and (touch wood) I have never been out of work in my life; albeit I am no Professor. Perhaps as my Wife Carol would say ‘I woke up and smelled the gravy’. 4.10 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire(9)
Between my part time jobs, my friendship with Annie, and my activities with me mates (which included fishing, bike rides and the Duke of Edinburgh Award), there was little space left in my head to dwell on the misery of school. Although the bullying and abuse still happened on a day to day basis, I was starting to become immune to it all. I remember an incident when I bent over a sink in the boy’s toilets to take a drink and had my face pushed so hard that the impact bucked my teeth. Afterwards I just carried on with my day as though nothing had happened. The predicament of being loved by some people and hated by others was one which, although I had lived with all of life, was never something I found very easy to cope with. Wondering whether I was likeable or not became increasingly difficult for me to assess; the confusion leaving me prone to nightmares and crying fits, both of which I went to enormous lengths to keep from me Mam. In hindsight, there is no doubt me Mam was aware of my turmoil (what Mother wouldn’t be?), probably putting it down to things from my past rather than my present; and did what any loving parent would do; nurture and love. In the middle of all these ponderings, it didn’t occur to me that as I guarded areas of my mind from others, so too did me Mam. Whenever there was an argument between her and me Dad, we knew all about it; everyone did, it was loud enough. And the themes of the rows were always the same; me Dad’s drinking or how much she missed ‘home’ and hated Ollerton. But there was something Katie managed to keep to herself for a very long time, and when I think back to that period of time I feel ashamed for being so selfishly wrapped up in my own agenda that I didn’t become aware of it earlier. She had been diagnosed with cancer of the larynx. 4.11 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (10)
There’s a theory that we are all born with cancerous cells in our bodies but not all of us develop cancer. Some people think that those who develop it do so following trauma in their lives and Katie certainly had her share of that.
Leaving the North East was almost like cutting off her air supply, but then losing her beloved Brother to suicide must surely have contributed too. But it was still several years before I became aware of her condition. Only when she began to lose her voice did it occur to me that something was wrong; yet throughout these years she was still every bit the loving, stable person she had always been for me. As a family we did always manage to get back ‘home’ at least once a year which for me Mam (and me) was a real highlight, even though we had to split-up and squat in Z-beds at both Auntie Bella’s and Uncle Tommy’s. I quite liked those arrangements because I got to sleep in my cousin Alan’s bedroom while Christine shared with Lorna; me Mam and Dad stayed with Uncle Tommy and Aunty Mary over the road. The worst thing about it all was going back to Ollerton at the end of the holiday.
I think the Social Services must have helped out with holidays because as well as the trip North, we also had many seaside packages over the years to places such as Great Yarmouth, Butlins Filey, and Southsea in Portsmouth, and I don’t imagine for a minute that my parents could have afforded those trips too. If that was the case, then it is one of the few things I am eternally grateful to them for because there is no doubt that they would have been aware of Katie’s condition. And to allow us all those halcyon days together as a family was a priceless gesture. They are memories I cherish.
4.12 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (11)
Around the age of eleven, I paused.
So many things had happened so quickly that it almost felt as though my soul was being compromised. Since the day I was born I had been all things negative to almost everyone I met and had developed survival strategies based on that philosophy. With ‘deference’ being my middle name, creeping and crawling had become things at which I was so adept one could say I was a master of those arts. But something had changed. In a public sense, it hadn’t gone unnoticed by school teachers, that I appeared to command the respect of a group of peers (my gang of lads), some of whom it was known would do well in both education and in life; and despite their best efforts to dissuade them from hanging around with the likes of me, found that their words fell upon deaf ears. Forced to rethink their view, and to moot the possibility that there may be more to me than they had originally thought, suggestions were put to me Mam and Dad (through open evenings and school reports) that “Alan could do well if he applied himself more to his schooling”. Me Dad’s reply was pure Shakespeare and has had a treasured place in my memory ever since; “Wor Alan’ll dee well with or withoot thoo jumped up buggers”. Pure Shakespeare. Around the same time, my little friend Annie had also begun to take flak from other children because she had a habit of rocking her head from left to right, and although the cruel jibes had been happening a while, she hadn’t told me about it. But then victims of bullying rarely tell anyone of their plight. I obviously knew of her rocking habit but merely saw it as an endearing part of her personality. On the day I finally witnessed her being called names by a group of older kids I literally flipped and went for them. Their shock at being attacked was exacerbated by the fact that it was me doing the attacking; me, that puny wimp who they had enjoyed plastering from time to time as part of their daily routines. It was the last thing they expected. It wasn’t until much later, when my own shock emerged, that I crapped myself at the thought of the incident but I learned a valuable lesson from the experience; bullies are cowards.
Incidents such as these, coupled with the awareness of my parents’ vulnerability, began a forced change within me. Whether I liked it or not, I was growing up fast; and becoming stronger. My psyche now began conditioning itself to always look out-of-the-box, and to consider the bigger picture, which is something as an adult I do as a matter of course. Writing my autobiography is a good example; if I thought I did not have the mental capacity to complete the job, I would never have started.
With concern for me Mam, who had now begun losing her voice, a hatred of bullying, and a complacency of formal education, I left Whinney Lane Junior School to go to the big school (the Dukeries Comprehensive) with Dad’s Shakespeare still ringing in my ears. 4.13 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (12)
In September of 1966, and still one of the few boys wearing short pants, I walked up the long drive of the Dukeries Comprehensive School, New Ollerton, to begin a five year stint of education; an education which would determine what I would do for the rest of my life. My first impression was one of fright, (or for my younger readers, it would be a fair comment to say that I ‘bricked’ myself).
The building itself, built on the pattern of the day, was two stories high in the shape of a square, at the centre of which was a grassed quadrangle, the social hub of the place. Facilities which included a swimming pool, concert hall, language labs, tennis courts and library almost left me thinking that I’d just stepped out of Doctor Who’s Tardis and had wandered into a strange city on another planet; it was absolutely massive. Although I had gained some confidence in myself, and wasn’t quite as timid as I once was, the size of the school, and its twelve hundred inhabitants, was not something I got used to over night. It reminded me of a cross between an ant colony and a graveyard; every time the bell went off, hundreds of people moved from one room to another, after which the place fell silent again until the next bell.
Complicating things for me even more was the structure of the school. Instead of merely being a member of a particular class, pupils were first of all assigned to one of six ‘houses’, all of whom competed against each other in every facet of life from sport to art, and from music to heaven knows what. Within each ‘house’ students were then separated into Tutor Sets where they began their day, and ended their day; the idea being that one’s Tutor was one’s mentor. Finally a streaming process based on reports from the Junior School, determined which Class a student would be placed in; S.L.A. & B. being grammar level, and C.D.E.F. & G. being secondary levels. One of the biggest dreads for everyone was finding out which Class they were to be placed in; or to put it another way whether they were to be publically acknowledged as being thick by being bunged in with F-Troop. Given my history in the Juniors I was convinced humiliati
on was on its way; so what’s new? So come on, bring it on.
4.14 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (13)
The first few weeks at the big school turned out to be quite laid back. As new intakes (sprogs) we were given guided tours of the various areas such as the science block and the farm unit; and very little expectations were placed on our young shoulders. Although I was still quite nervous, there were a couple of things that quickly had me ‘chomping at the bit’, and which I was really looking forward to.
The first of these was the Art Block. Over the years, I had honed my drawing skills, particularly in the area of buildings and maps, using bits of wood as rulers and anything I could find that would make a mark on my paper. To see such an abundance of resources in the umpteen studios was, to me, greatly impressive. Drawing boards and tee squares, easels and paints, clay, fabric, canvas, cartridge papers; the list was endless, and to say I drooled at the mouth would be an understatement. The idea that I might one day become a draughtsman was one that me Dad very much approved of as he had harboured such hopes for himself as a younger man, which was another incentive.
The other area that took my eye of course was the music department. Ever since Bill Hayley brought Rock and Roll to the U.K. there was a revolution going on and I was loving every minute of it. The Beatles (particularly John Lennon), the Stones, and the Who were absolute gods to me, but my biggest heroes of all were the guitar playing solo men such as Dylan, Donovan, Pete Seager and Cat Stevens with their sometimes abstract (almost poetic) folk song writing. The image of one man with a guitar and harmonica performing anti-war and anti-establishment songs to the world held me absolutely mesmerised, and still does, as those who know me will testify. For me to do a gig today without a Dylan or a Cat Stevens song is unthinkable.
Whether there was room within the formal musical curriculum for my particular skills and tastes, however, remained to be seen.
4.15 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (14)
Looking back, art and music aside, there were a couple of other things that really took my attention. The Farm Unit held a particular fascination for me because I loved animals and had never had the opportunity to get close to them before; apart from the pigs at Bothamsall and the ducks at Roker Park, and we’ve been there and done that.
I have to admit I wasn’t too fond of horses, possibly because they got a lot of attention from all the other kids, preferring to get up close to the cows; I loved stroking their lumpy docile heads and listening to them chew their cud. Years later when travelling in the Gambia, I was horrified to be offered a bowl of ‘Cow’s Nose Soup’, but then that’s another story. Actually I was surprised to learn that cows like you blowing up their noses.
Meanwhile, back on the farm, there was a point when I decided without a shadow of a doubt that I would be a farmer when I grew up. The image of me driving a tractor laden with bales of hay as the sun went down was just so romantic to me. Until me Mam told me that I would have to be up at the crack of dawn and work me guts out till bedtime come rain, wind or snow. A sobering thought.
I think I made my final decision when, through the Rural Studies syllabus, we were expected to clip the milk teeth of piglets with pliers and then castrate them with a scalpel. To remove the testicles of an entire herd of hogs was bad enough, but when I looked round at the plant-pot in which they had been placed to see the farm cat chomping on them, my backside could not be seen for dust.
Incredibly, Rural Studies was the only subject at which I excelled in school, achieving a Grade 1 CSE, although it was probably more to do with the grounds man (who worked on the farm) becoming a friend, rather than my academic abilities. He also became a close friend of my sister Christine, who eventually he married.
On a totally different note, and notwithstanding the fact that I was very dubious about the existence of God, I really enjoyed Religious Education, in particular learning about eastern faiths. Hinduism, Shinto, Islam and Buddhism were just so much more passionate ways of life than anything I had hitherto come across to date. Unlike what I had seen of western religions, the dedication of the people who followed these paths, and their beliefs, filled me with absolute respect, and my yen to travel grew even more. Life as a religious chameleon would last another thirty years before I finally found what it was I was looking for. 4.16 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (15)
Although there were many things about the big school I had come to enjoy, and some subjects for which I had an unquenchable thirst to know more about, I loathed formal education. Particularly when I found myself stuck in classes being taught things for which I could see no point.
Chemistry springs to mind, also algebra. Since I had no intention of pursuing a career that might even remotely require me to know the kind of complicated formulae, or abstract reasoning with which I felt I was being impregnated, I became angry at the fact that my learning time was being limited. Classically, my anger came out by sarcastically challenging any teacher attempting to teach me things I did not want to know; and with corporal punishment still being the order of the day, it wasn’t unusual for me to receive several thrashings a month for rebellious behaviour. Having worked with teenagers as an adult, I know how frustrating it can be when they constantly question decisions or instructions they are given, and do so in a way that makes me look foolish; (although through experience I have found that there are ways around attitude issues, provided tolerance plays a part). I mention this because I’m reminded of a particular scenario in the technical drawing class when I got so far up a particular teacher’s nose that he threw a blackboard rubber at me, which as I recall bounced off my head. I stood up, walked out of the classroom, and ignoring his yells of “Get back in here boy”, went home.
When me Dad heard about the incident, he almost ran up to the school, burst into the classroom, and read the teacher his horoscope in front of all and sundry.
To me the teacher was a failure. Not because of his violence, but because despite his high level of training he couldn’t debate reason with an eleven year old boy without pulling rank or resorting to bullying. My disrespect of him set in motion a distrust of the establishment which, far from saying all those in public office were like him, they certainly came under my scrutiny; and still do. As for me Dad, he was a hero. 4.17 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (16)
After a while, life for me in Nottinghamshire became tolerable, largely by default because I had no choice but to accept it. In mixing with local kids, my strong Geordie accent began to soften as I picked up some of the local slang (mainly to be understood without being laughed at); although it always came back on our annual pilgrimage to the North East. In reality though, I knew as I grew older that Newcastle was fading away from me. Me Mam knew it was for her too; which did nothing to ease her mind throughout her illness. Not being one to sit and moan about things I couldn’t change, something in me decided to make the best of a bad job and to grasp any opportunity that happed to come my way; and there is no doubt that as a young teenager I led a full and enjoyable life. Bike rides, fishing and swimming with my friends were big favourites, as was time with Annie. Although we were both growing older and had our own social circles, we still spent quality time together; a holiday to Great Yarmouth holds fond memories for me. There was also the annual ‘Pit Trip’ to Skegness, on which every child was given 10/- (ten shillings), crisps, sweets and pop, all paid for by the Coal Board.
As well as having an interactive life with people I had come to know well, there was still a part of me that needed to have ‘something else, removed from everyone else’ (if that makes sense), and in meeting that need I joined the Sea Cadets, where I remained a member until the age of 16 when I joined the Royal Navy. It was also where I smoked my first cigarette.
To those who knew me at the time my joining the Cadets was an odd thing to do because they had the view that I would dislike the discipline, although as it turned out I thrived on it. Having strict boundaries were no problem when my achievements were always recognised and applauded, and it was this strategy that the Navy employed to maintain incentive in young people. It also bonded the cadets, not unlike a ship’s crew, whereby each of us wanted our comrades to as well as possible too, to the point where we would support them in any way necessary.
By now, there was little doubt in my mind where my future lay. 4.18 1964-1971 New Ollerton, Nottinghamshire (17)
Around 1969, my parents announced that we were moving house and just for a minute I almost screamed with delight thinking that we were at last going home to Newcastle. Fortunately (for me Mam’s feelings), I managed not to as it turned out that our new home would be one of the older pit houses in the adjoining village of Boughton. I was never very sure about why this move was to take place other than it being a financial decision. The rent on our house in Breck Bank at the time was somewhere around five pounds a week whilst the rent on the older properties were 24/- a week (£1.40) and so presumably this had a bearing on the matter.
Prior to moving, we got the opportunity to go down and have a look at the ‘new’ house and surprisingly we were all pleased with what we saw. The semi-detached property was at the very end of a long road and so only had neighbours on one side; to the other side of the house was a field where villagers stored their touring caravans through the winter months. At the front of the house was an open plan lawn which was maintained by the Coal Board Estates Department and to the back of the house was the longest garden I had ever seen. Better still the garden was extremely well maintained with two lawns, a fish pond, vegetable plot, fruit bushes, garden shed and conservatory which brought the outdoor nettie indoors.
Inside the house downstairs a small kitchenette led to a parlour which in turn led to a front room, with the upstairs having three bedrooms and a bathroom. Perhaps the thing which pleased me Mam the most was the fitted cooking range in the parlour; designed exactly the same as the one she had in Geordie land. For me, it was the fish pond and the garden shed, although the conservatory proved to be the perfect place to keep me bike and fishing tackle. I think Christine really appreciated the tidy garden as messy yards were something she found quite embarrassing; and in fairness she tended the lawns and plants regularly to keep it looking good. No doubt the lower rent was well received by both me Mam and me Dad.
And so, with everyone happy, we once again commissioned the open pit lorry to take all our worldy goods (to the scrutiny of all and sundry) out of the Geordie Estate and down to our new house at 112, Newark Road, Boughton, Notts. 4.19 1964-1971 112 Newark Road, Boughton, Nottinghamshire (1)
The first thing to hit me the morning after moving to Newark Road was the peace and quiet. After getting up and dressed, I went straight outside into our new garden and literally lapped up the silence; broken only by the sound of birds chirping to one another. It was wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that I had to keep pinching myself to prove I wasn’t dreaming. Not wanting the moment to end I began walking slowly down the garden path, past neat borders overflowing with flowering plants filled with busy bees, ants, ladybirds, and all kinds of life who’s collective sound could only described as that of nature. The sort of sound you hear when you walk up a rarely used country lane. Half way down the garden I paused at the fish pond to sit on the rocks which had been placed around the edges. At one end of the pond were reeds which must have been three feet high, some of which bowed down to almost touch the yellow flowering water lillies covering the surface. Looking into the water I was delighted to see several dozen goldfish, snails, hoverflies, and thingies I’d never seen before; so delighted in fact that had I been a poet I would have most certainly shot off to write a sonnet there and then!
Sitting on ‘my’ rock was my most favourite place in the whole world and over the following two years there is no doubt it became a lot smoother than when I first perched upon it. I could sit. I could be alone. My imagination could be free; and I was at peace in my solitude.
I have no doubt that I was fortunate to learn at a very early age that being at one with nature was one of the most powerful healing processes there is. At various times in my adult life when I have felt heart broken, or when my soul feels as though it is literally weeping, I have taken solace in things not made by man; and its there that lies real power. 4.20 1964-1971 Boughton, Nottinghamshire (2)
Life seemed to be moving on very quickly; it didn’t seem five minutes since I had been a small child in a very big and complicated world and now here I was a young adult, with a definite view of where my future lay.
Both me Mam and Dad knew I wanted to join the Royal Navy and although me Dad was all for it, me Mam was less keen. My original thought of enlisting as a 15 year old like me cousin Paul at H.M.S. Ganges was scuppered by me Mam arguing ‘I was too young to know me own mind’; but who eventually compromised by saying that if I still felt the same way at 16, I could go with her blessing. Looking back, I now realise that I was a very big part of her life, and the idea of me leaving must have grieved her considerably. Many has been the time as an adult that I have been stabbed by a pang of guilt recalling how selfish I must have been, but having had teenagers of my own I now realise that me Mam would not have seen me that way. With my future decided, albeit two years hence, I began for the first time to feel quite empowered in that I knew what was going to happen; and more importantly that a decision of mine had been respected. As might be expected, the school took advantage by suggesting that my entry into the Royal Navy would never happen if I didn’t achieve a certain level of education, and so to a certain degree I stuck my nose to the grindstone; but (I consoled myself), I was doing it for me…not them. Socially, I still had my small group of mates with whom I continued to enjoy all those things that boys like to do. And although I didn’t live near Annie any more, we still maintained our strong friendship, meeting up fairly often. In fact I recall a Christmas Dinner night out with the Co-op staff (for whom I delivered groceries), to which Annie came along with me as my partner. By the end of the evening most of the gathered thought we made such a lovely couple they virtually had us married off. If the truth be known, both my Mam and Annie’s Mam Irene had mooted the same idea on occasions but from our point of view we were just very good friends. And I’m delighted to say that we still are.
4.21 1964-1971 Boughton, Nottinghamshire (3)
Tribute for an unknown man.
I saw a man die today. He was someone’s son. His Mother wasn’t there when he died. So I held his hand. I was a complete stranger and knew he was dead; yet his own Mother didn’t. The thought horrified me. I don’t know why but I was desperate for her to know as soon as possible. Please God don’t let it be me that has to tell her. It was a Saturday morning in 1970 and I was 15 years old. I had just left the Co-op on my delivery bike and was riding down Main Road, Boughton, taking groceries to Mrs Gosforth at 47 Hazel Road. I liked taking her shopping because she was a dead generous tipper who would tip me 2/6d (Half-a-crown). The new currency had just come in and as I rode along I was trying to work out how much 2/6d was in ‘new pence’. Whatever new pence I had in my pocket always seemed less than when I had a pocket full of half crowns, two bob bits, tanners and thrupenny bits; and did I miss the ten bob notes? I hated new pence. Especially the half pennies that were worth sod all. I knew it was all about Britain joining the Common Market but I didn’t much like the sound of that either; I was happy being British and didn’t want to be a European. The whole issue had me totally absorbed. Absorbed, that is, until a gut churning BANG shocked me senseless. It was so loud that I stopped dead with my head scrambled. I didn’t want to look; but I had to. A motorcyclist had been hit by a car on the junction of Main Road and Hazel Road, and was lying in the road with his bike almost on top of him. The car had stopped but the driver was just sitting in his seat staring into space. I ran over to the man in the road. His eyes were open but he was in a dreadful state. There was blood everywhere. A wound to his thigh gaped so wide that I could see his bone but it wasn’t bleeding. Wondering where all the blood was coming from, I suddenly saw that it was pumping sporadically from his nose and mouth. Desperate to do something I put his scarf to his nostril to try to stem the flow but it just kept coming out of his mouth. As I held the man’s hand, I told him that someone had phoned for an ambulance and it was on its way although I didn’t know that for sure; and as he looked at me I got the feeling that I hadn’t been very convincing. Then his eyes closed. It would not be the last time I would see a man die in the street.
I hope someone holds my hand when it’s my turn. 4.22 1964-1971 Boughton, Nottinghamshire (4)
In the July of 1970, many of my friends decided to leave school and take local jobs. For the boys this meant joining the National Coal Board who promised everything from professional training to a pension scheme. For the girls it meant a choice between the Mansfield Hosiery Mills or the Meridian factory; neither of which paid particularly well, possibly due to the high turnover of staff through marriage or childbirth. For those who failed to make the grade at any of these establishments there was the hen houses, plucking poultry. Since I had agreed with me Mam that I would wait until I was sixteen before joining the Royal Navy, I had the prospect of looking forward to grunting myself through a 5th year at school, but at least (as students) we were given slightly more autonomy. School uniform was more relaxed and some work was allowed to be done at home, or at least in rooms away from the formal teaching environment. I also managed to find time to indulge in a few of my other passions which included stamp collecting and swimming since these were two areas I had chosen to undertake as part of the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award Scheme. As it turned out I never finished the award but did at least achieve a bronze medallion in life saving. By and large things were okay in my world. In hindsight I think that me Mam hoped I would change my mind about going into the forces although in my heart I knew that that was where I wanted to be. Her cancer had begun to develop to the point where she had almost lost her voice totally although there was never a time when I thought her life may be in danger. Her passion for going to Bingo carried on but only if either Christine or me could accompany her to call out if she won. The same thing applied if she needed to go to the shops, or catch a bus because she became increasingly embarrassed at being unable to be understood. Eventually it was decided that she would undergo an operation to have her larynx removed and replaced with a plastic voice box; she was consequently placed on the waiting list. 4.23 1964-1971 Boughton, Nottinghamshire (5)
As life rolled on there was an air of acceptance in the house that I would soon be leaving home, coupled with a certain dread that Mam wasn’t well and that an operation was imminent.
Dad seemed to be spending even more time at the Blue Tit and the Miners’ Welfare returning home drunk and very late. There were rumours of him seeing other women rumours I flatly refused to believe until one day I was out walking with him and he was tackled by a man in the street. Words to the order of ‘Effing well keep away from her….’ seem to ring a bell although the incident was never discussed between us. I have often hoped me Mam never got wind of it although in reality that is probably unrealistic. Christine and Clem’s relationship, by now, had become open and they had become engaged. Clem continued to work at the school farm unit while Christine worked at the same Co-op for whom I delivered groceries. She still had contact with Elsie and our sister Kerrie and so there were times I got news of them by default. News on Brenda, however, was not forthcoming and it would be fair to say that a part of me pined. Throughout my last year in school, I did work fairly hard although I continued to hate formal education. To me it was a means to an end, and the fact that I knew the Navy required a particular level of achievement in Maths and English spurred me on at times when I would have happily walked away. Friends at the Sea Cadets were also very supportive; particularly the younger boys. I had arrived at the point where I had become something of a role model to them and the idea of me failing entry into the Navy for being ‘too thick’ was not just an option. In fact it was unthinkable. Many a ‘Sea Cadet’ night we would all sit round sharing a fag, talking about the ships we would sail on and the foreign lands we would visit. Great memories.
4.24 1964-1971 Boughton, Nottinghamshire (6)
In tying up a few loose ends regarding this particular period of my life I would probably be first tempted to mention music, since it was (and still is) one of my greatest passions.
As was probably predictable, I never did fit into the formal structure, as emphasis always seemed to be placed on those with an interest in either joining the school orchestra, or heading for a colliery band, although in fairness, my ability at reading music was pretty abysmal.
4.25 1964-1971 Boughton, Nottinghamshire (7)
In the July of 1971, my life as a scholar finally (and thankfully) came to a predictable end with my leaving the Dukeries Comprehensive School with 5 unimpressive C.S.E’s; two of which I think were grade 4, another two were grade 5, and as I mentioned previously a grade 1 in Rural Studies! (?).
Fortunately, my grades in Maths and English were acceptable for entry into the Royal Navy, and although I had applied I had still to hear back as to whether I would get an interview. In the meantime, much of my time was spent between working at my part time jobs, and sitting, pondering, by the garden pond on my favourite rock. Being so one tracked there’s no doubt in my mind that I was probably at my most selfish during this time, given the situation(s) of my parents. But then, at the end of the day, I was a boy.
4.26 1964-1971 Boughton, Nottinghamshire (8)
For some weeks, me Mam had been collecting together everything on the list which the Navy had told me to bring when I went to sign up, and had been packing them into a brand new suitcase she had bought for the purpose. Two pairs of pyjamas, two bath towels, two hand towels… she also added a few things she wanted me to have with me; photographs, writing wallet (including stamps), and a male manicure set. “Make sure ye rite tiviz reglar bonny lad, and keep yersell tidy. And divent forget yer wireless and yer mooth organ”.
When the day to leave finally arrived, the parents of one of my friends arrived to take me as far as London on the train, and then make sure I got the right connection to Plymouth; he worked for British Rail and knew the routes and routines, and tactfully busied himself taking my case to his car while I said my goodbyes. Dad shook my hand and gave me one of the few hugs I ever remember having from him that felt really sincere. He almost didn’t want to let go. And neither did I. All of sudden everything had become very real, and I felt my stomach sink. Eventually we let go and there was tears in his eyes. Almost simultaneously, Christine cried openly and we grabbed one another. We had been through many tough times together over the years, and had not always seen eye-to-eye, but then through it all we had come through fairly bonded. Through the length of that embrace we both sensed something of an ending; a closure. Whatever had been had now passed, things we once knew were no longer relevant, and we were no longer children. She was a grown woman with a man in her life, and a future ahead of her; and I was……. Saying goodbye to me Mam was just so painful. Here was a woman who at the age of 44 took me out of hell at the age of 7 and transformed me into the young man before her, with the world at his feet. Here was a woman who I had seen taken away from the only culture she knew only to be left pining to return for the rest of her life. Here was a woman who for years had suffered a cancer which was becoming progressively worse as each day passed but never once compromised her love for me. Being the woman she was our hug was brief. “I won’t come ootside, hinny. Just mek sure ye rite and tell us ye got there safe. Gan on, away we ye”.
“A love ye Mam”. Dad and Christine came out to wave the car off and just as we pulled away I looked back to see the letter box close. 4.27 1971 Boughton to Plymouth (1)
On leaving Boughton, my friend’s parents drove me to Newark, Northgate station where we all boarded the train for Kings Cross. There’s very little I remember about the journey; I didn’t feel particularly talkative but I was grateful for having people with me who knew what they were doing.
When I finally got around to sitting down and looking around the carriage I noticed it was almost full of young boys the same age as me, all clearly going to the same place, although not one of us had a word to say. The silence at times was deafening.For a moment I wondered why we were all leaving home to join the Navy if it made us feel so miserable, and no doubt there were others wondering the same thing, but before I had the chance to answer my own question the train pulled into Plymouth.
On the platform, Naval personnel were waiting to greet us all and quickly ushered us towards waiting transport; which took off at speed as soon as it was full, allowing a second shuttle to pull up in it’s place. Along the way we passed by Devonport dockyard which was heaving with warships, and as we all craned our necks to look; particularly when the pride of the fleet H.M.S. Ark Royal came into view. As we wound on along the country lanes of Torpoint, the bus suddenly turned a sharp right and we drove into the training barracks of H.M.S. Raleigh. Not yet a man but no longer a boy. A Manboy. |
Philip Bamfield
February 22, 2012 at 1:08 am
Hi again Alan. I am currently the product specialist for Knorr Bremse railway systems. (head office in Melksham Wilts) I joined this outfit in May 2008 and immediately moved to China so I was in position to be in Beijing for the Olympics. Spent 8 weeks there with a working trip to Dubai in the middle.
In the last 12 months, I have been to Korea, Japan, Singapore, Bangkok, Dubai, Hong Kong and all over China. You may begin to understand why I say life is an adventure.
Respect back to you for doing some heavy further education! I tried an OU course once but it was interrupted by a long Polaris patrol and never resumed.
I have often considered writing my memoirs, I have been fortunate to have some ‘interesting’ experiences over the years. It just seems a massive undertaking. You have given me some inspiration with the way you are doing yours though. Maybe I will give it a go soon.
I will visit the ‘Zen diary’ today. Have seen that link but not visited yet.
Thanks for the inspiration. I will let you know. Good luck.
Alan Dixon
February 22, 2012 at 3:21 pm
Your job sounds terrific Philip. I was one of those who, when i went out to the Far East, thought I had died and gone to heaven. It’s one of those places so saturated in cultures different from my own and I seem to thrive on that.
I have wonderful memories of Singapore, Hong Kong and Bangkok which I can’t wait to write about although (because I have my nose into my Diploma) I can’t really resume those memoirs till about August. Actually that gives me time to see how your blog comes along so ‘Jai Ho’.
Warm regards Alan
Philip Bamfield
February 20, 2012 at 5:53 am
Hi Alan.
Just discovered your story when looking for anything about Raleigh in 1971. I think I must have joined the week before you. 4 days before my 16th birthday! I was in Anson Division. Joined as a Junior Naval air mecahanic, but managed to recat’, before leaving Raleigh, and actually left as an EM. Served 24 years, 20 of those on Polaris boats.
Good story, well told anyway. Many thanks.
Alan Dixon
February 20, 2012 at 9:17 am
Hi Philip and thanks for calling in. It’s a small world. Well done on your Naval career, it’s very impressive. I always admired the submariners probably because I could never see myself becoming one (I like to see where I’m going). Thanks for the compliment, hopefully one day I’ll get to the end of my tale. I have many happy memories of my navy days and so it’s quite pleasurable to write about them.
Take care Alan
Philip Bamfield
February 21, 2012 at 5:24 am
Thanks for the prompt reply Alan. Sorry but I realise that I left my original message on the wrong page. It should really be on the Raleigh chapter. Dont know if it can be moved or not?
You mention it being a small world…….I am currently living and working in Suzhou China, about 2 hours West of Shanghai. Been here for 18 months this time and hoping for at least another 6 months before ………..well who knows what. Life is STILL an adventure for me.
Alan Dixon
February 21, 2012 at 11:00 am
Ha ha no problem with your comment being on the wrong page Philip. I have a periodic sort out every now and then and I’m sure I’ll spot it when I do and sort it out.
Wow Suzhou China? That sounds brilliant! What is it you are doing there? I have very fond memories of the Far East when I was out there on Scylla in ’74 and look forward to sharing them when I restart my biography. At the moment I’m doing a Diploma in Children and Young People and it’s just too draining to spread myself too far mentally at the moment.
I love your attitude to life Philip, what a mantra…’Life is still an adventure for me’! Respect! If you ever decide to write your memoirs count me in, or in the meantime I hope you stay in touch and let me know about with your wanderings. I lived in India for a few years (2007-09) and I’m going back on March 24 for about 3 weeks (a break) and I can’t wait to see old friends and haunts. I record my current life on my Zen Diary 2012 page if you want to call by there.
Hey stay in touch Philip and I hope life continues to be that ‘adventure’! Alan
Karen Lester
December 6, 2011 at 7:04 pm
Spelling mistake above…i meant to write was as un-nerving, i do remember the author and his sister, i lived quite close to them on Poplar street and went to the same school at the same time…i do remember him being quite a character!
Alan Dixon
December 6, 2011 at 7:20 pm
Ha ha spelling mistakes are very welcome here Karen – you won’t have to look too hard to see many of mine. What a small world that you remember the author (me:)) – and my sister; and that you went to the same school! I’m afraid my memory isn’t what it was – is Lester the name you had as a child or is that your marital name? Thank you for remembering me as a character, fingers crossed I’ll take that as a compliment? Warm regards Alan
Karen Lester
December 6, 2011 at 6:38 pm
What a brilliant read and exactly as i remember it, especially the purple pens! I was Ollerton born and bred and the influx of all the “foreigners” from the north was as unnervibg for us as it must have been for them, our village lives changed forever and i made some of the best freinds ever .
Alan Dixon
December 6, 2011 at 7:13 pm
Hey thank you for your comments Karen, it’s interesting that you ‘locals’ were as un-nerved as us ‘foreigners’ (ha ha) and really nice that you found many friends among the Geordies. I’m glad I’m not the only one to remember the purple pens – I had a dreadful habit of chewing on them and they tasted disgusting. Welcome to my website, I hope you continue to visit and enjoy. Alan