About British Ropes:
British Ropes was advertising a position in their Physical Test Labs for the Head of the “Inquest Section”, which was responsible for the examination of wire ropes which had failed in service, often at great cost and sometimes loss of life. Knowledge of wire rope manufacture an asset but not essential. The ideal candidate will have A-levels in science and mathematics. Some University will be an asset but not essential. It was me. I had all the required qualifications and some ‘assets’. I could not let it pass. I trudged up to the phone box and made an appointment for an interview. All I could think of on the way home was “It’s in Doncaster; It’s in bloody Doncaster.”
I started work the following week. My pay was £7 a week, and half went straight to my Mum. My first pay packet arrived just in time, as the last of my savings had gone the previous week. Even if this is the job of my dreams, I promised myself, I will not give up searching; but it was beginning to look as though some cruel fate was playing an evil joke on me. I was back in bloody Doncaster.
The job sounded much better than it was; true, I was responsible for ‘inquests’ on broken ropes, but they just didn’t break that often. I was told tales about the elevator rope that killed a dozen people in South America: The rope broke because although it was the correct rope for the job, the elevator required four of them, not just one. The crane rope that broke and dropped its load through the bottom of the ship, which sank: wire ropes come from the factory coated with a heavy grease. This must be inspected and repaired every 6 months. This rope was six years old and had never been inspected or re-greased; it was more rust than steel. There were more stories, lots more, but no broken ropes arrived for an ‘inquest’.
I resolved to pass the time by learning how to operate every piece of equipment in the shop. Three months later I could do that, plus I could look at the broken end of any piece of wire under a microscope and tell you exactly how and why it had broken. Still no broken ropes arrived.
Doncaster wasn’t all bad. I had my first sexual relationship in 1962, and four months later I had my second. From these I learned four important things:
1). Sex is the best and most important thing in the world when you are young. If you are not having sex you are just passing time until you are having sex again.
2). Women (most women) are the greatest of all God’s creations and men (all men) should go down on their knees every day to thank him for this incredible gift.
3) Women (some women) are not content to lie down, close their eyes and think of England. Women (some women) actually enjoy sex. Women (some women) actually enjoy sex very much.
4) I still didn’t understand women.
My Gran stayed with her offspring in turns, and was living with my aunt in the summer of ’62 when she became mentally unstable. Gran held conversations with the TV news announcer and made preparations for a picnic when he came to collect her in his new car. She thought I was her dead husband and berated me for losing my new pipe. She whispered that my uncle had rigged up a system of ropes and pulleys to drag her upstairs at night because she climbed the stairs too slowly to suit him. My aunt got very upset at Gran’s antics and screamed at her constantly, calling her a ‘stupid old woman’. My brother, wise beyond his years, said my aunt was acting out of fear that she would follow Gran into madness when her time came -- a prediction that unfortunately turned out to be accurate. He and I played along with Gran’s fantasies and told her we would sneak in that night and destroy my uncle’s fiendish machine.
Gran slipped away quietly one night in early autumn. I hope that her husband had found his lost pipe before Gran met up with him.
At the beginning of December 1962 I was called to the Director’s office. I’d had little to do with the Big Boss in the time I’d been at B.R., in fact I’d only seen him once and at a distance. I’d thought we were going to talk about a Christmas Bonus and a raise in salary but instead of a bonus he gave me the sack. I think he was wondering why BR needed an Inquest Section which never did any inquests, and I admit the thought had occurred to me too, but that didn’t make it better. I was upset and angry, but a small part of me was pleased. It was a prod by fate, telling me that I wasn’t working hard enough on my lifelong vow to leave the barbaric north of England in search of civility and opportunity.
At home I moped about, lethargic, not motivated to do anything. Perhaps my Dad was right and I could never hold a job. In mid December I told my parents that I had quit the job at British Ropes, and that I was leaving in the new year for London.
My father had reverted to his old self in recent months, probably dating back to my rejection letter from the Air Force, and would make very hurtful and insulting comments for no apparent reason. He asked me what kind of a man still lived with his Mum and Dad at the age of 21 and didn’t have a job, and could I please give him some idea of when I might finally learn to stand on my own feet. I pointed out that I was paying my way and if he wanted me out I could easily find digs for what I was paying my Mum. He asked if I thought he’d miss my pathetic little contribution to the family funds and my Mum exploded. “Where do you think those Sunday roasts come from?” she asked him. “You’ll miss your big Sunday dinners because they end when our Barry goes. And we’ve got money in our Holiday jar for the first time since I can remember, and I don’t owe the grocery man anything because of the money your son brings me. Sometimes I wonder where our Barry gets his brains, because it’s certainly not from you!” I thought it would be a good idea for me to get out of there as soon as possible.
About The Fishburn Printing Ink Company:
Once again fate stepped in at the 11th hour, or to be accurate, the 16th of December. A company which made Printer’s Ink was looking for technicians for its Watford Lab. They were looking for science A-levels, preferably some University, not necessarily a degree. Knowledge of printers or their inks was not needed but the successful candidate was to be enrolled in Watford Technical College’s Printing Technology course leading to a City and Guilds diploma in Printing Science. I looked up Watford on the map and found it was north of London on the Bakerloo line.
I was far too dispirited to be cheered by this, but had to admit that the job sounded good. The salary on starting was £750 per year, more than twice what I had been making at British Ropes.
I remembered that Nipper was working in London, and I wrote to his parents home in Devon for his address. In England at that time a letter was often delivered the same day it was sent. I wrote to Nip and told him about the job I was considering and asked if we could meet up if I were to get the job. Nipper wrote back the next day to say that he was living in Harrow, fifteen minutes from Watford on the Bakerloo tube. Though he went to work in the opposite direction, Harrow would be an ideal location for me to find lodgings, or, if I fancied it, we could get together and look for a two bedroom flat. I wrote him that I would love to share a flat, so start looking. That only left the formality of getting the job.
I called the number and made an appointment for an interview, rented a car and took off for the south. I got a warm welcome from the company’s Chief Chemist who showed me into his spacious and comfortable office. I looked around and thought “one day, Barry, one day.” The interview was short and straight to the point. He said “I see you didn’t complete your Chemistry Degree .” I thought ‘He thinks I studied Chemistry at Leeds.’ I’d never studied chemistry at any level but it was true that I didn’t complete a chemistry degree at Leeds so I just said “That’s correct.” “Well,” he said “No matter. Your qualifications are very good; your maths skills can be put to good use here. Would you like to see the labs?” The labs were like any labs, full of technicians wearing lab coats which had once been white but were now covered in every possible colour. I saw that their hands were likewise coloured and so were some of the faces. He asked “How do you find the smell? It gets to some people.” It was a strong smell, full of aromatic solvents and other things which I couldn’t identify. I replied truthfully that I found the smell very pleasant. “Well, Barry” he said “The job is yours if you want it. HR will send you a letter next week.”
I was offered the job at £750 and asked to start a.s.a.p. I wrote back to say I’d like to spend Christmas with my family and start early in the new year. They said OK. Welcome to the Fishburn Printing Ink Company. And Goodbye to Doncaster – again. Let’s hope this time I can make it stick.
About Life in London:
Fishburns had much to recommend it: Someone in Personnel must have noticed that University dropouts have the smarts of degree holders, know almost as much and can be had for less money. They don’t act like Divas or expect to start at Executive levels. As a result the labs were full of dropouts from several English universities, including one young man who had the distinction of having dropped out of Cambridge.
My job was in Quality Control. The Techs were a happy, lively bunch who joked, laughed and sang their way through their days, with Management’s full approval so long as the calibre of the work did not suffer. It did not. Behind the bluster and practical jokes none of us would allow any aspect of our work to suffer. Most of the techs had worked elsewhere before coming to Fishburns. We knew what we had, and appreciated it.
Nipper and I had discovered that two bedroom flats were outside our price range, but found a large room which included two beds, a small kitchen (never used for anything other than tea and toast) and even a dining table. There was a gas fire which ate shilling coins and provided just enough heat on a cold winter day to keep us both warm if we hung over the top of it. I bought a used guitar at a nearby pawnshop, and we were all set and settled.
Bert visited and told us he was a Management Trainee with a big department store chain. Their head office was in Manchester, and Bert figured that if he kept his nose clean, learned the business and got six or seven promotions he would reach the executive level with a big corner office on the top floor with a view of the company heliport on the roof. I thought that those seven promotions might be an obstacle and said so; most people were lucky to get one or two throughout their working life. Bert said not if he married the CEO’s daughter, but I’d seen Bert with his fiancée and knew he was just kidding.
I found out quite early that Fishburns was a thriving enterprise and there was usually work to be had on Saturdays (at double time) and often on Sundays (at triple time). Working a full Saturday and a half day Sunday effectively doubled my wages and I soon had money in the bank and a fat wallet for evenings in the local pub. At weekends Nip and I would often rent a little Austin Mini, and take off to some place or other, sometimes taking roads at random to see where they led. We motored up to Doncaster where I delighted my Mum and confabulated my Dad by telling him that I expected to break the ₤1,000 a year barrier this year, quite possibly by several hundred pounds.
When I had proved my worth in QC I was moved to the Colour Matching section, to which printers would send details of their needs, usually an artist’s mock-up or colour swatch, and we would find the exact match of pigments to produce the ink. The matcher was also responsible for formulation of the ink, taking into account the type of paper, the type of press and all the other factors which could influence the way the job would turn out. I was set to work under an experienced mentor, who was unfailingly helpful and unfailingly kind. His name was Stephen.
When I went before the Chief Chemist for my annual review he said he was very pleased with my progress, and awarded me a ₤17 a year raise.
About The Flat:
Shortly after Nipper and I moved in together he got a call from a friend who lived nearby in a three bedroom flat, the second and third levels of a three story house. Four young men lived there, but one had just received a promotion which involved moving away so there was a vacancy which was offered to Nipper. When he explained our situation he was told “We could probably squeeze in one more, and it would help with the rent. Let’s have a look at your room-mate and see if we could all get along.”
Nip’s friend, who went by the name Em, was a lovely young man, naturally friendly and with a great sense of humour; very easy to get along with. When Nip and I went to see the flat Em and his friends had prepared a full roast dinner for us, complete with Yorkshire pudding. I told them “Let’s clear this up at the start; I can boil an egg and put butter on toast but I can’t compete with this haute cuisine; it’s as good as what comes out of my Mum’s kitchen even if I wouldn’t say it in her hearing.” “Glad to hear it!” Em said “Because it’s usually takeout fish and chips.” Nipper and I gave notice the next morning and moved in the end of the week.
My Doncaster romance was under a strain. Even though she was making preparations to move to London I think we both knew it was on the rocks. She was a beautiful, good hearted young woman but I could not provide the high-flying lifestyle she needed, and I doubted that I would ever be able to do so. I scouted apartments in south London for her and the girlfriend who was moving with her. I found a nice flat with views of a park in the area she wanted and put down the £5 security deposit thinking it might be my farewell gift to her – which turned out to be true.
I asked the boys if any of their girlfriends had a lovely blonde buddy who was unattached and looking for love, but it turned out that none of them had girlfriends. That was easily fixed. “We have to go where the girls are,” I told them. “Where are the girls?” After some discussion we decided that the Young Liberal Association might be a good place to start. Young Labour girls dressed in leather and fancied bikers while the Young Conservative girls would never look twice at a young man who owned anything less than a late model Jaguar. I asked directions to the nearest phone box and was pleased to learn that the apartment had a phone, and that it came with a directory! Once we found the phone (behind the sofa) and the directory (under the sofa) I rang the Young Libs’ number and spoke with a nice sounding young woman. I told her we were five university grads sharing a flat in Harrow and we were just starting to take an interest in politics and were eager to learn something about the Liberal Party. The lady was as good to look at as she was to listen to when she arrived the next evening with an equally good looking friend. We were invited to a party next Friday and a tennis get together at the local park on Saturday. I locked horns with a Young Liberal chap who thought we were just there after their girls until I assured him that nothing could be further from the truth; however, five girlfriends, three engagements and two marriages followed from that phone call. ‘R’, the eldest of the five of us met a girl at the tennis tourney, proposed the following weekend, married the next month and put a deposit on a house before the year was out; so we were back to four.
About Moving On:
By the middle of 1964 I was an accomplished colour matcher, formulator and quality control technician. I was also working morning and evening shifts occasionally during which I was the sole technician and the gatekeeper to prevent problematic inks leaving the factory. This was a great show of confidence in me by the company, and I was very pleased. It also meant more money. With shift work pay plus several weekends I made enough to buy a small car – a BMW Isetta, a three wheeler ‘bubble car’ with room for two, powered by a legendary BMW motorcycle engine. To my amazement, girls loved my little car and it got me more dates than my friend Tony got with his Austin Healy Sprite sports car.
Fishburns was good to me and treated me fairly, but I could not see a future there. The lab employed about thirty technicians, many as well qualified as myself, and most of them senior to me. My prospects for promotion were therefore small to none. There was one lab chief, who was not much older than I, and two section heads who looked to be settled in their current jobs for life. A rumour went around the lab that FPI intended to open a sub-plant somewhere near Liverpool, but the rumour also said that the manager would be our Cambridge drop out, a man of uncertain abilities, it was said, but with impeccable connections. (In the event the job went to Stephen, a wise and popular choice.)
Anyway, I would not have moved back north for any amount of money. I found Londoners to be, for the most part, considerate and polite. Drivers on a major road would even stop to let me in from a side road sometimes, with a nice little wave and a smile. Civilised. Very civilised.
Sideline: Confirmation:
On a trip back to Doncaster a parked car was blocking a parking space I wanted to use. I honked my horn and the driver moved on for me. I waved my thanks to the man and, being in a hurry, started to run to the store where my Mum was waiting, but the man apparently felt that the wave was not good enough recognition for his noble act and started shouting obscenities at me. I walked back to him, smiling. He squared his shoulders and clenched his fists, ready to fight over this! I extended my hand and said to him: “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much. You’ll never know how much your gesture means to me. I’m absolutely certain now that I’m making the right move. Thanks again.” Thoroughly confused he took my hand and shook it while I continued to express my thanks. As I trotted off I heard him say to the woman he was with: “E’s not right in t’head, that one.”
My mentor, Stephen, introduced me to the Daily Telegraph cryptic crossword, which became a habit for the next half century. I took to buying the paper at the Harrow station and working on it while on the train to Watford. At work the Techs would compare notes and trade clues, and if the crossword was not completed by quitting time I would take the paper home. One evening after I’d finished the puzzle I browsed the paper and found the ‘situations vacant’ section. From that time on I would read the ‘sits vac’ section even before turning to the crossword page. Within the first week I found a posting for a lab tech in a paint manufacturer’s works in New Zealand. I wrote an application, heard nothing for weeks and then a brief letter saying that the post had been filled.
A week later a post appeared for an Ink Technician in New York at an incredible starting salary of $12,000 a year – about four times what I was making at FPI even with all my extras. I replied to the ad and was later interviewed by a London Head-Hunter recruiting on behalf of his client -- which turned out to be one of Fishburn’s competitors. The Head Hunter seemed enthusiastic at the interview, but nothing came of it, and I heard later that the New York CEO had written to the Fishburn CEO to say we won’t steal your Techs if you promise not to go after ours. I was pissed off, but not downhearted. Fishburns was losing its Technical staff at a rate of three or four a year, and I was determined to be one of them.
About Emigration:
In 1965 the British Brain Drain was in full swing. One of my colleagues took off for Australia on a £10 assisted passage, having been assured by the people at Australia House that he would have no difficulty in finding a job. His wife would follow when he was established. Another colleague left for the USA.
I’d looked at employment possibilities with other Ink companies and even gone to a couple of interviews, but if I was seeking a substantial increase in pay or better opportunity for advancement I decided that I’d better look offshore. Remembering the $12,000 starting salary for Ink Techs in New York, I decided to go to the U.S.A. To celebrate my decision I traded in my little bubble car and put £50 down on a 1961 Ford Anglia 105E.
Sideline: Going Anywhere Getting Nowhere:
Between leaving university and arriving in London I’d had little opportunity for hitch hiking or midnight walks. I slept poorly and woke often, but the possibility of getting up and hitting the open road was just not there any longer. I knew that my whole standard of living depended on holding my job at Fishburns and I dared not put that in jeopardy. If I lost my job I would be convinced that my father had been right. I’d rented a garage close to the flat and I thought that rather than go back to Doncaster under those circumstances I would drive into my garage, close the door, open all the car windows and turn on the engine. My wanderlust was therefore held under very tight control.
Once I got my Anglia the desire to be out on the road came roaring back. Some times it was enough just to sit in the car inside my garage but at other times I would be overcome by the urge to go somewhere, anywhere. I would head off towards the city and might find myself at Piccadilly Circus or Marble Arch at two a.m. When I started to feel better I would drive home and go to bed dressed so that I could get up when my alarm buzzed and be at work on time. I was aware that by going to work after only two or three hours sleep my mental sharpness was likely to be impaired, and I would be specially attentive on such days and double check everything I did. Nobody seemed to care if I came to work untidy and unshaven occasionally. I spoke to Stephen of my midnight wanderings and said that I was surprised nobody had ever noticed. He told me they’d noticed that I seemed to be the worse for wear some mornings and my friends covered for me on such occasions. Apparently my double checking had not been as thorough as I’d thought. He said the most popular theory was that I was a secret binge drinker, and/or that I’d been up to some mischief in the Soho red light district. Whatever it was, he said, they’d considered it none of their business. I told him that I’d be proud and pleased to return the favour for any of the techs, and he said: “We know. That’s why we do it for you.”
About Nipper’s Fiancée:
After we had found our girlfriends we had little to do with the Young Liberals. Nipper’s girlfriend, Em’s and mine were, not surprisingly, already friends so group dates were not unknown. My romance fizzled after a few months, and the girl shortly started university, reading History at, by odd coincidence, Leeds. By this time Nip and his girl, Helen, had become engaged.
With my ‘new’ Anglia I made regular trips north to see my Mum, and Helen asked me one day if I would give her a ride to Doncaster and drop her at the station so she could get a train to Leeds and spend some time with my ex. I told her that I wouldn’t dream of dropping her at the station when Leeds was only 30 miles away, so on a beautiful sunny Friday afternoon we set off for the north.
There was no motorway route from London to Doncaster at that time and the A1 road meandered through several towns and hence several traffic jams. The trip from London was not insubstantial, and though only 156 miles the journey could take four hours or more -- one historic drive from Doncaster to London had taken me 13 hours. Therefore it was common practice to take a break half way, find a nice country pub and stop for a pint and a snack. Helen and I took our drinks outside and sat by the river watching the ducks and their offspring pass in formation. Then Helen dropped a bombshell on me. She said that she was going to break up with Nipper. Apparently this had been coming for quite a while and would have happened months ago except that she knew he would take it very hard and wanted to avoid this if there were any way to do so. She’d arranged this little trip because as Nip’s best friend she wanted my help in making the break as painless as possible for everyone involved. She was very teary and came to me for a hug.
Helen was a good looking 18 year old girl; she had a stunning figure, was vibrant, full of energy and fun to be with. It shames me to say that my first thought was ‘she will soon be available’. I couldn’t offer much in the way of advice except that she should not keep him hanging on. Nip was a sensitive soul and must be aware that something was wrong, so perhaps it wouldn’t come as a complete surprise. To cut a long story short, Helen and I became an ‘item’ and married in the fall of 1965.