Chapter Three:
Early to Middle Twenties
1961 -- 1965
Even before our exams Bert and I had taken a bus to Tetley’s massive brewery on the outskirts of Leeds to ask about summer jobs. We were sent to meet the cellar foreman, who asked us each to lift a small keg weighing about 50 pounds, which we both did easily. He told us to report for work the following week for a period of trial and instruction. For the week we would be paid £5, and if we passed we would be asked to join the union as temporary members, after which we would be paid a cellarman’s wage minus dues, taxes and sundry other stoppages.
When we arrived for work we were each fitted with wooden clogs which gave the best grip on concrete floors which were often flooded with beer. We were each given a ‘crutch’, a four foot length of broom handle with a small crosspiece fixed to the end, which was the tool of choice for rolling heavy barrels from point A to point B. We passed the probation week easily, met with Alf from the Union and signed the forms, and by the next week we were shepherding 54 gallon Hogsheads, weighing close to 600 pounds, through crowded cellars as though born to it.
These jobs ended in September, and by that time I had a little more than £60 in my pocket, and it was time to start looking for permanent employment. When I pondered the alternatives, and taking into account my Dad’s newfound laid back attitude, I went home.
About living at home:
I was not happy to be back in Doncaster, but the joy in my Mum’s eyes made things easier. My Gran was smiling and crying at the same time. I told my Mum that I was only home to serve as a base while I looked for a job, and that I would pay for my keep at £3 10 shillings a week, which is what my landladies at Leeds had been getting. I half expected my Mum to refuse money, and was ready to insist, but she said fine, and we shook hands on the deal.
My Dad seemed curious more than anything, and when I told him bluntly that I’d dropped out he just seemed a bit upset, probably wondering how to tell his mates at the pit. When I told him that I was paying my keep and, it would only be until my commission came through from the RAF, he nodded and actually smiled at me. A son going off to be an officer in the Royal Air Force probably brought more kudos than an undergrad student ever could.
About the Royal Air Force:
In 1961 few people had telephones in their homes and the concept of the mobile phone had not even occurred to writers of the most far out science fiction. On Monday morning I hiked the mile and a half to the nearest phone box, a pile of pennies in my pocket, and asked the operator to connect me to the RAF. She asked me which branch and I told her I wanted to join up. There was a short pause and a few clicks and a voice said “Recruiting.”
I was told to show up at the nearest recruiting office, which was in Sheffield, with my GCE certificates in my pocket and something to prove I was at Leeds for two years. There was another pause and the voice asked whether I could be there tomorrow afternoon and I said that I could.
I was interviewed by a junior officer who looked not much older than myself and told to report the following Monday morning to the Biggin Hill airfield, just outside London. Biggin Hill was a very famous field, having covered itself in glory during the days when The Few had defended England at a terrible cost. I just hoped that somebody asked my dad where his son was this week.
I spent three enjoyable days at Biggin Hill, being put through some of the most convoluted tests ever used to torture RAF candidates. We were sent out onto the field in groups of six. When my turn came to be the group leader I was faced with two wooden frames about the size of soccer goalposts set into the ground about eight feet apart. I was given two eight foot planks, a large coil of rope and two empty 50 gallon metal drums. The drums were said to contain sensitive scientific instruments, the gap between the goal posts was a bottomless chasm, and my job was to get the drums and all team members safely across the chasm and then retrieve the boards and the rope.
Half an hour later one of my team had made it across the chasm with one drum, and one of my team was still hanging on the rope at the mid point of the gap. I no longer cared since I was one of the four corpses at the bottom of the chasm. Some of the tests were even more vindictive. At the bar that evening, after we had all been resurrected, the barman told me that he’d never known anybody get more than one person across the chasm, and it was quite rare for either of the oil drums to survive. The fate of the candidates or the metal drums was irrelevant, he told me. The test was to see if I could take charge and show initiative. Whether I, the other players or the ‘instruments’ lived to tell the tale was of lesser importance.
After three days we were put onto a bus and driven to the RAF medical centre, near London, for a full physical. The barman told me that nobody ever fails the physical; if you’re breathing when you walk in, you’re in. He was wrong.
The tests were painless and I managed to conceal my fear of white coated medical technicians. My ears were so exceptionally good that they called a specialist in to find out how I was cheating; I wasn’t. The final test was an eye exam. The technician took my glasses and said “Wow, these are thick lenses. You know that you can’t be considered for aircrew?” I nodded. “Good, then. In that case, all you need to do is read the top two lines of the chart without your glasses,” he said.
I couldn’t. The technician even quietly offered to turn away while I had a quick close up peek at the card, but I thought it might be a trick to test my integrity and I wouldn’t do it. An officer was called to ask for permission to ignore the rule book since I’d apparently passed all the other tests – including the bottomless chasm -- with flying colours. The officer was as skinny as a broom handle and just as rigid. Rules are there to be obeyed, he said, and seemed annoyed at the technician for disturbing him with such a silly enquiry.
The official rejection arrived in the post the following week. I think my Dad was just itching to start up again with his ‘you’ll never get a job’ rant. I walked over to my aunt Nellie’s house for tea and a chat, and my uncle was just home from work. “You should drop in at the labour exchange” he told me. “They have all kinds of jobs, not just garbage men and navvies, you know.” I didn’t know. I went down the next morning.