Chapter Four:
Mid Twenties to Early Thirties
1965 - 1970
About Emigration:
I’d discussed my intention to emigrate with Helen before we married, thinking that she might not be happy with me if I tried to take her away from friends and family, but it turned out that she was as enthusiastic about it as I was.
We liked the idea of the USA, and thought we could get used to their affluent lifestyle without any trouble. After that came Australia and New Zealand, in either order. We gave some thought to the £10 assisted travel program being offered by Australia. A friend had taken that route a year or so ago, but I recalled him mentioning that the package came with several caveats, including a pledge to remain in Oz for some time even if we hated it. A colleague at work suggested to me that I should check with the U.S. Embassy whether I would be eligible for their draft; instead of a plush apartment overlooking Central Park I could find myself fighting Viet Cong and mosquitoes the size of small birds in some dense Vietnamese jungle. We took this very seriously, though I doubted that the US Defense Department would be any keener to take me on than the RAF had been.
One spring evening in 1966 I came home to find Helen in a bouncy mood and before I was even into the apartment she pushed a copy of the Telegraph into my hand; it was folded neatly and there was a big circle around the ad which had sparked her mood. The Canadian Government Printing Bureau, sometimes referred to as the Queen’s Printer for Canada, had built a new lab in their Ottawa premises and were looking to hire three technicians to work in it. Starting salary $5,885; close to £2,000.
When I’d decided to emigrate I’d never considered Canada. I knew very little about it. I knew that Diefenbaker was President, it snows all year round, most people speak French and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police always get their man. Four ‘facts’, three of which were wrong, and I wasn’t 100% sure about the Mounties. But this job brought Canada well into the frame.
Interviews were being held at a downtown London hotel. Please contact Mr. Zed at the given telephone number. Zed answered on the second ring. He told me he had heard a rumour that a U.K. University had introduced a degree course in Printing Science, and did I know anything about it? I said I was fairly certain I would have heard of it if there was one, perhaps he was thinking of the City and Guilds Diploma in Print Science offered by Watford Technical college. He asked if I was familiar with the course, and I said “Yes, I’m on it. I sit my finals later this year.” He asked about my GCE qualifications and sounded impressed. He was staying at his sister’s home in High Wycombe, and asked whether I’d mind driving there for the interview. He asked if there was a Mrs. Daniels and I said yes, she’s a computer programmer. He said I sounded very promising, and he’d like to meet us both, if Mrs. Daniels had no objection. We settled on a time and he gave me the address. I hung up the phone. Helen and I bounced home together.
About the Interview:
Zed gave me his card which told me that he was the Director of Research and Industrial Engineering at the Government Printing Bureau in Canada, which sounded very impressive. He opened with the familiar comment that I was overqualified for a lab technician position. I laughed at that and explained why. He said that it wasn’t meant as a negative comment and that if I brought more to the job than it required, that would be the Bureau’s gain, so being overqualified was a positive thing in this case. I thought that was a very good way of putting it and said how pleased I was to hear it.
Zed struck me as an easy going man, always with a slight smile on his lips, and I relaxed a little. He said to me “OK, here you are; here I am; go ahead and convince me to hire you.” I’d spent hours preparing my spiel, so I took a deep breath and hoped I could remember it all:
“I’m sure you’ve heard the old saying that ink is 5% of the cost of a job but causes 95% of the trouble in the pressroom. Let’s imagine that there has been an ink problem in your pressroom; unfortunately, for most printers this is not a difficult thing to imagine. Ink problems can have many causes, but 90% of them fall into four categories: flow, tack, drying and grind. There are tests for all of these, and if the ink goes wrong on the press I’d bet good money that some technician has missed one or more of the tests or at least not done them correctly. Sloppy work. But that won’t happen at the Printing Bureau because I will catch anything the manufacturer’s techs may have missed well before their ink reaches the pressroom. I’ll have a sample of that ink – every ink -- taken to the lab as soon as it arrives at the plant and all tests will be completed within the hour. I don’t miss tests. I don’t do sloppy work. Anything wrong with the ink will show up long before it gets to the pressroom. If it can be fixed, I’ll fix it, otherwise it’s off back to the maker. Obviously you’d have a better idea of your annual losses than I, but if it’s typical of big print shops over here you’re losing $50,000 a year or more due to bad ink. Think of me as an investment of $5,885 to save perhaps ten times that figure.”
There was more. I’d timed my presentation at twenty two minutes.
When I finished Zed looked thoughtful. “What are your chances in the City and Guilds exam?” he asked. “About 90% I’d say. It depends a lot on the practical exam. My Prof says it will probably be a colour match this year, and that’s what I do for a living.
“Are you familiar with the Addressograph machine?” he asked me.
I had no idea what an Addressograph machine was, but judging from its name I thought it must have something to do with printing addresses. A little desk top thing like I’d seen the secretaries at FPI using. It seemed a strange thing to ask about, but guessing that it used ink I decided to wing it.
“I’ve made ink for the Addressograph,” I told him. “So I know the basics but I don’t claim to be able to operate one. Do you use an Addressograph?”
“Yes, we have over three hundred of them.”
I nodded but daren’t venture anything more. Three hundred of anything meant that it was important to the Bureau. I made a silent prayer that the subject was done and we would move on. There was a pause of about ten seconds which seemed like ten minutes.
“I hadn’t thought of hiring an ink specialist,” he said. “You say the UK’s leading printers are doing that?” “Yes. Otherwise if an ink misbehaves on press it can take hours to get a technician out from your supplier. By then the job is probably ruined, the customer is unhappy and you’re out big money.”
Again the silence stretched, but I knew that the ball was in his court. I had given my best shot. Now all I could do was wait.
“Well, Barry,” he said at last, “I asked you to convince me, and you have. The Printing Bureau needs an ink specialist, and I believe you’re the man for the job.”
I sat stunned. The best I had expected was: “Thanks for coming, we’ll get back to you in a couple of weeks.” Had I just been offered the job? It certainly seemed that way. (I would find out later that this was typical of Zed; once he had the facts he would make a decision where others would prevaricate for weeks.)
I must have been grinning from ear to ear. Zed grinned back. “There’s paperwork to be done before you get official confirmation. In Canada only the Public Service Commission can hire and fire Civil Servants. Just leave it with me; I promise to push it through a.s.a.p. You should get the official offer in two to three weeks.” We chatted for a while and he told me a little about life in Canada. “I’m sure you’ve researched it thoroughly,” he said to me. “Moving to a new country is never something to take lightly.” I smiled and nodded, and made myself a promise to hit the library a.s.a.p.
Then began the longest wait of my life.
About the Longest Wait of my Life:
At work I walked on eggshells. I was bursting with the news and I thought I should at least tell my closest friends, people I’d worked with shoulder to shoulder on the QC bench for almost four years, but even with the best intentions they would still have the story all around the plant in half an hour. I was like the cartoon man with an angel on one shoulder and a little devil on the other, whispering contrary advice into each ear.
“Tell them all and watch them turn green.”
“But what if it falls through like the New York job; you’d look silly.”
“It’s not like that. Show them the salary range.”
“Don’t tempt fate. Show a little patience.”
In the end I kept my mouth shut. Two weeks passed, three, four, still no job offer. In June a letter arrived from Zed. He had got back home and immediately fallen ill with the flu, a particularly nasty case, which had put him on his back for two weeks. As soon as he was on his feet he’d found that the paperwork for my job offer was sitting in a clerk’s in-tray and got it moving again. He was assured that an offer would be on the way within the week. It arrived the following Monday. In a formal letter from the Public Service Commission I was offered the job of materials control technician at the Government Printing Bureau in Hull, Quebec, classified as Technician Level 3, with a starting salary of $5,885, (about £2,000 ) rising in three annual increments to $6,750. Please reply as soon as possible, it asked, and give an estimated date at which you will be taking up the position.
Where the Hell was Hull? We got hold of a map of Ottawa and found that the city was divided into two parts separated by the Ottawa river. The northern part was called ‘Hull’, so I didn’t think that changed the situation at all.
I wrote back accepting the job and advising that I would check into travel schedules and arrange shipping of our possessions at which point I’d be better able to give an accurate estimate of arrival times. Just to make sure there was no misunderstanding I added that I was thrilled to bits to be coming to Canada and would certainly not let any grass grow under my feet in getting there.
The following morning I gave a letter of resignation and the obligatory one month’s notice to the boss. I included a paragraph of how much I’d enjoyed working at FPI and how I appreciated the great working atmosphere in the place – no sense burning any bridges. By four p.m. I think everybody in the building had seen my PSC letter with details of the job in Canada. The head of the research lab was said to have exclaimed ‘Bloody hell, twenty five years into the job here and I don’t make £2,000 a year.’
The next day a FAX arrived from Canada accepting my terms and apologising that they’d mistakenly given me the wrong salary data. The correct starting salary was not $5,885; they’d given me last year’s figures. The 1966 salary range started at $6,013. I forgave them. Well, anybody could have made that mistake.
About Getting Ready to Go:
We had to go to our doctor for a smallpox shot. The disease had been eradicated in Canada and I certainly didn’t want to be the man who brought it back. I told the doctor I usually passed out when I got needled and he said no problem, because this was not a needle only a scratch. He gave me a scratch, which I barely felt, and I passed out cold and collapsed on the floor. He brought me round and showed me out of the back door so that I didn’t have to go through the waiting room and scare half of his patients. I sat on the wall behind the surgery until Helen found me there.
We went to Canada House where we were given a medical exam which included an eye test but with glasses; I was 20:20. I was sent to a room where an elderly man at a counter asked questions and awarded points for the answers. Further down the counter a man was screaming that he had a right to go to Canada with his eight kids because he was a citizen of the Commonwealth; two security men arrived and escorted the family out. “I guess he didn’t have the points,” said my man by way of explanation for the commotion. ” “How many do I have?” I asked. “Not enough. What is your line of work?” “Lab Technician.” “Will you be looking for work as a Lab Technician in Canada?” “No.” This wasn’t the reply he’d expected, and he looked up from his papers. “No? Why not?” “I already have a job,” I said, and passed the FAX to him. “Has this offer been confirmed by the Public Service Commission?” I passed over the documents. He studied them briefly then crumpled the scorecard which had me less than half way to a pass mark, and said “The job alone gives you enough points.” He took a card from a drawer in his desk, wrote on it, signed it and whacked it with a large rubber date stamp. “Hang on to this,” he said. “You’ll need it when you get to Canada. Congratulations, sir.”
A letter arrived one morning from Watford Technical college; the results of my City and Guilds exam, I presumed. The practical exam had been a colour match, so I was pretty sure of what I’d find. I opened the letter and my eye jumped to the only word that counted. The word was not ‘pass’. I refused to accept this; if I’d been staying in the UK I would have appealed the decision. I would demand that whoever had failed my colour match be tested for colour blindness. Instead I closed the letter and wrote on the front. ‘No longer at this address. Gone to Canada,’ and stuck it in the big red mailbox at the end of the street.
We gave away most of our books and records and the odd little pieces of furniture we’d accumulated in the short time we’d been married. I was pleased that my father in law wanted my hardcover set of Churchill’s memoirs. He was a really nice chap and I felt a bit sad that I was taking his little girl to the other end of the earth. I’d become very fond of my mother in law too, but she didn’t fancy any of my books or records. Everything we had left went into five cabin trunks, which were loaded the next day onto a truck which would take them to the ship. The trucker said to me: “Getting out, huh? Can’t say I blame you.”
After thinking about it a bit we’d decided to take the sea route rather than fly. It turned the move into a sort of holiday for us, and cost a bit less than the air fare. I went to the travel agents in Watford High Street and they advised the “Alexander Pushkin”, a new Russian ship. There was a rumour of a pending shipping strike so the Pushkin, which would be exempt from strike action was filling up fast. Two tickets cost £100, and I only had £50, so I ran down St. Albans Road to my bank and told the teller I had to see the manager urgently. I begged and I pleaded, I offered my car as security, I told him I had £50 coming in unused vacation pay, but all to no avail. The bank had a strict policy of not lending money to a young person who was about to hop on a ship and take off to the new world never to be seen again.
In the end my father in law lent me the fifty, and I paid him back the following week when I sold the Anglia.
In late August Helen’s parents drove us to Tilbury docks and we walked up the gangplank to board the MS Alexander Pushkin and start our new life in the new world.
Sideline: The Pursuit of Happiness:
As I write this it brings back memories of those events, close to half a century ago. It brings back also a shadow of my emotions at that time. I think that I was happy. This may seem like a strange thing to say, but I have always had trouble with the concept of ‘happiness’. I do not believe that up until my fiftieth year I had been happy more than a small handful of times and never for more than a couple of days at a time. The best I could manage was ‘content’. Even during my epiphany under the star filled skies of southern England, I felt a sublime contentment, not happiness; bliss, perhaps, but not happiness. It was not until 1991 when I was diagnosed as Clinically Depressed and started on Nortriptiline, that I came to know true happiness with my loving wife Marion and family. Yet I believe that in the summer of 1966 I was happy for a while.
During that same period I was busier than I’d ever been. As soon as the job offer had been confirmed Helen and I found that there were not enough hours in the day to do all of the things that needed to be done. Problems popped up at work when a clerk in the pay office made an error with my vacation pay and claimed that I owed a refund. We’d made modifications to the gas fire in our apartment and the landlord was not happy about it. A problem which I can laugh about in hindsight was that Nipper and the lads in my old flat found out that their phone was still listed in my name – I’d forgotten to transfer it to Em – so they made calls to random countries and had a lot of fun talking to Chinese people, amongst others, for long periods of time even though neither party spoke the other’s language. They ran up a monstrously high bill in the name of ‘getting even’ with me for stealing Nip’s fiancée, but I didn’t hold it against them.
On other occasions since that time I have found my Depression eased by being busy. Since I was pretty much always busy at work this may go some way to explaining why my mental illness did not significantly interfere with my career advancement.