Autobiography. I think?

Ten Pound Pom.
Fourteen years old and like any lad of his day, Maurice Gordon Jeffery’s eyes gazed into the vapour trailed sky during the fraught days of the Battle of Britain.
Cleverly the Nazi’s were goaded into changing tactics following a modest air raid on Berlin by antiquated Wellington bombers. Hitler, furious as anticipated, instructed a fatal change in tactics and the blitz of England’s cities were unleashed by the Luftwaffe.
Ironically, civilians now became the target and England’s fighter arm had time to reconstruct and redeploy.
The air war was now thrust deep into middle Europe with massed formations of bombers leaving puffy white vapour trails thundering slowly eastward in vast unremitting numbers.
At nightfall bird sound was drowned by the low drone of four engine bombers that crawled across the sky unseen to maintain the only visible aggressive campaign to thwart German ambition.
Consistent raids were clearly having their effect and casualties mounted as combined air forces flew thousand- bomber raids at no small cost to allied lives. Meantime the enemies infra structure, was slowly being bombed and pummeled into submission.
Meanwhile my Father had joined the newly formed Air Training Corps. Where with some urgency he studiously applied himself to their lessons with diligence and perseverance.
A few short months passed and he succeeded with all proficiency tests, including flight training, through glider tuition. Finally, with a basic knowledge of aerodynamics and piloting he waited expectantly for his turn to join the Royal Air Force.
In the early years skilled pilots were few and far between. Training was scant in the late thirties, as the threat of war had not been fully realised. But now urgency compelled the need for pilots as young and aspiring airmen champed at the bit to clamber into a spitfire and do their bit.
Not without reason he assumed valid insights into navigation, flight experience and discipline would serve him well. Contributions of some worth to developing formation and tactical flight methods that was not always possible in the bleak days up until September 1941. Novice pilots and raw recruits replaced veterans and aircraft numbers were depleted to a frighteningly low number.
Military discipline and attitude were ingredients that should, under normal circumstances; offer great advantage when enrolling for active service. With a young mind not able to grasp the full implications of total war and economic and industrial support of that grim task, he counted the days to his eighteenth birthday.
The great day arrived with eager eyes inspecting postal deliveries where at long last he would get the call. His reward hit the hall floor quietly as his draft papers ordered him with rail pass and scant else to make his way to Durham to serve as a Bevin boy for the duration of the war!
Cheated and deprived at this unkind, illogical twist of fate, and prior to starting in the coal mines, he protested long and loud through his Mother, who was a commissioned officer in the Woman’s Royal Auxiliary Air Force, to get it changed. But, the air war had been won, and the war to assure continued success came through manufacturing power, an aspect that was fast becoming essential to the successful war effort.
Rarely, if ever, would he acknowledge that fact and often reminisced on what might have been and how fate had turned against him to deny him his finest hour. The intensity of his self inflicted shame at having missed the opportunity to fight for his country would never lift.
His life was to end by emphysema, a disease endemic to coal workers and it took three years after his death before the worth and sacrifice of all those young men who had spent their war in the dank, dank mine shafts was finally recognised and they took their rightful place at the Cenotaph commemorations on Remembrance Sunday.
With youthful fear and nervous trepidation he sat in the long line of Pullman coaches and was inconsolable as the carriage was hauled by steam train northward to the Black Country. Quite full, the compartment was occupied by men on leave from the Durham Light Infantry and his heart yearned to be an equal amongst them.
His journey terminated at Durham main railway station along with several other young men from his hometown of Luton. Unfed, given no guidance whatsoever as to their billets or even simple warmth in this cold and alien environment and in short time each downhearted individual felt, lost, abandoned and extremely hungry.
A burly six foot northerner appeared on the platform and directed them to colliery billeting, where to their horror, they discovered the food hall was closed and would remain so until first thing Monday morning and this was Saturday morning!
Frustration, bitter cold, or gnawing hunger simply was harsh partners in this frightening experience. They were ravenous and as far as they could see, they had only one recourse; to break into the kitchen and scavenge what they could from the pantry store.
Of course, as this time, security was at a peak and their capture immediate. My Father’s crime earned him a weekend in the notorious Durham jail where, at very least, he was fed and moderately warm.
Detrimentally his bleak isolation gave him ample time for contemplation to dwell and fester upon his resentment. But in later life became a darned good story that would earn him many a pint as he recounted his experience in the infamous Durham penal system.
Thus, on the following Monday, he was duly delivered and allocated a specific pit at Spenymore and introduced to a tall, well built man, made himself known as Ernest Prest. Designated as his section leader he would take responsibility for both his training as well being along with another five newcomers.
Ernest had survived several pit accidents and due to his many injuries, was promoted to man management to reduce his manual input. With steel plates in his skull and pins in both legs, he remained a cheery man who enjoyed chewing his war-horse tobacco and downing his fair share of northern ale in the local workingmen’s club.
He fathered two children, a boy Alfred, and teenage girl, Olga. Their Mother had walked out on them when her daughter was barely three years old.
As a lone working parent and only son to his Mother, an ongoing resident in the family home. Her vindictive nature because his daughter reminded her of the Mother brought on cruelty over the years that scarred her for life.
Although in later life he did acknowledge he had actually been suspicious of her treatment, his daughter was never able to quell the resentment she held in her heart for his neglect.
Meanwhile her Father Ernest, befriended my dad to be invited him to his home in Ferryhill for a hint of family life and home comfort. In doing so, introduced him to his daughter, a fine looking girl of seventeen. Harsh upbringing gave her an air of independence yet the two were attracted for very different reasons.
Plain to see was that she absolutely loathed her tyrannical Grandmother, learning from her an obstinacy so fierce; that affected her whole life. Whilst her treatment so unfair, was compounded by the favoured treatment of her brother Alfred and thus their estranged relationship marred both brother and sisters whole life.
A bonus to miners was an issue of coal to heat their homes, but the pettiness of the Grandmother was such that she hoarded the coal and allowed little if any to be burnt in the open fire despite many bitter winter nights. Her assumed motive to simply make economies on the most prolific product available and to boot - free! Her rule over the house was total and unquestioned.
If Olga arrived one minute past her appointed return time she was left to sleep outside in rain or snow where-ever she could and would gaze shivering through frosty windows at her Grandmother sitting by the low but glowing fire with. Gently tending solitary lumps of coal, her Grandmother completely ignored her predicament and was simply forgotten until the next day.
In between time, in London my Father’s Mother was still conducting a relentless campaign to free her son from, as she saw it, such demeaning labour. After all, wasn’t one of her brothers a Squadron Leader selected to ferry Winston Churchill from one conference to another over the course of the war! Didn’t that count for anything? Obviously not, as her efforts went unheard and my Father soldiered on down the mine over the later war years only to gain release in the final year of 1945.
Meanwhile he and Olga grew closer together and in spite of the hostility shown by her Grandmother, they determined to marry, ignoring the fact that my Mother was under age, and consent simply would never be given!
A year passed without the family accepting or recognising the relationship. They even considered eloping, but in times of severe financial restraint and with public transport reduced to a bare minimum, it was just a dream. Plus of course, had my Father decided to leave the mines, before release this would have been treated as desertion.
At last, and with great national jubilation, the war ended victoriously, along with his unwelcome secondment. He was relieved to learn that his Mother’s persistence for some military involvement had discovered a training position within the Air Ministry which he applied for and was accepted.
The next step was marriage, and because his wife to be was still underage, they had to get consent from the Head of the Church of England and with his blessing on March 22nd 1947, she being seventeen, and my Father twenty one; they married at St Johns Church in Upper Street, Islington, North London.
Just over a year later I was born and the sounds of that day was ‘Nature Boy’ by Nat King Cole. But I was much younger then and didn’t know that one.
Olga my Mum was barely three years old when her Mother walked out on them and apparently now resided in London. There had been one meeting since, where she discovered she had remarried a Greek man and gave birth to two half brothers neither of whom my Mother met. She was never really that keen, as one of them evidently had a Greek Christian name that was pronounced ‘penis’ and at very least that brought a wry smile to her often stern face.
The nature of my Fathers new work within the Air Ministry was to survey surrounding areas of aerodromes to facilitate their enlargement. The jet engine had arrived with a roar, bigger aircraft were the norm, and the airlift to Berlin soon followed the cessation of hostilities. Plus of course the justifiable expectation that civilian flight would increase from airports such as Heathrow, where he worked until the early fifties.
Before much time had passed his promotion became recognised through RAF rank parallels, if only to give him status and access to sensitive air bases and establishments. In this he achieved the honorary rank of Squadron Leader.
One major factor that held him back in those early years was that he didn’t drive, however his honorary rank qualified him for a staff car and driver to carry him and his equipment from base to base, plus this colleague acted as his chain man or assistant.
Other benefits included access to Officers Mess and billeting if he chose to use them and in essence his claimable subsistence allowance exceeded his monthly salary.
His work took him to all the major bases throughout the UK and he revelled in visits that took him to legendary airfields as Tangmere, Manston, or Biggen Hill. Of course their importance declined as did many others and weapon development dictated alternate use of land and deployment needs such as Bloodhound missile pads, alongside longer runways to serve bombers in delivering the new and deadly atomic weapons that the Second World War had evolved.
Post war years left another legacy that consumed a great deal of his time; the disposal of tons and tons of excess ordinance and weapons, no longer required, or safe to store. In particular bombs had to be safely disposed of and these volatile monsters with inherent deterioration factors were simply dropped and detonated in safe bombing ranges.
One major disposal point selected was a section of coastline for a bombing range just off the coast of Holland. To mark this area required many stomach churning trips in Tank Landing Craft to dissect and convey triangulation’s from other vessels, and sometimes the stars. This allowed the establishing of buoys to determine the target area for dropping and detonation of unwanted explosive devices.
Regrettably the war bred suspicions with fear of uncomfortable alliances and the four great super powers evolved an air of hostility that became known as the cold war.
Old allies had become opponents and conflicts flared over Berlin firstly, then more violently in Korea, where Russian pilots actually engaged their US counterparts but would never publicly acknowledge it, plus flash points such as Malaya, Egypt and Israel.
The world seemed to have contracted with the advancement of aeronautic flight. New airfields to service larger and faster aircraft were under construction generating a sense of urgency causing my Father to drive from camp to camp, staying long enough to complete runway extensions, then moving on to the next engagement.
Civilian aircraft and their design changed radically and some, more ambitious projects required development in testing grounds that were distant and out of sight for a multitude of reasons.
Private enterprise was equally as competitive. Rival air forces were advancing in leaps and bounds. One such aircraft was the Brabazon. Doomed to failure, this great monster raised its prow once then no more.
Having been seconded to set out and ensure the correct take off runway where the Brabazon could be tested, my Father marked the site and listened with great expectation as the powerful engines were revved to airspeed as the ground trembled.
Six engines surged in roaring crescendo to rumble along the beach, lift to a mere forty feet, travel a quarter of a mile and then land once more to its final resting place; Mother earth and there it stayed!
In all, his duties required him to spend a great deal of his working life away from home and whilst he may have missed the company of his new-born son, me, he did enjoy the fifteen shillings a week living away allowance.
His subsistence afforded him ample money to purchase space in NCOs quarters which he favoured over officers quarters, alongside a good life of NAAFI food and alcohol in great quantity from the officers mess.
Financially supportive he was supplementing a job he absolutely reveled in - and, at no cost to domestic responsibilities. He was at last, living the romantic image of his heroes from the war which he had so desperately wanted to be a part of.
The environment, the atmosphere, the responsibility and the lifestyle were idyllic and made good compensation for the many soggy hours down a coal mine, endured without recognition and at great personal cost to his own medical health.
At birth my Mother had been prescribed with serious heart problems, and her health was such that giving birth to me severely tested it. She was only given four months to live at that time and although she came through three heart operations during her lifetime, her condition plagued her until her final passing.
I was born in the oldest surviving hospital in Greenwich in mid May 1948 and the family home at that time was in Peckham. Whilst the strain of bringing me into this world was never used as a weapon in our sometimes turbulent life, it was quoted with conviction as to why I had no brothers and sisters.
As years, passed the hospital was demolished and replaced by a new hospital in which, coincidentally, my son’s partner was born in 1970, then followed their son, my first grandson, on the 3rd of March 1998. The cycle of life had traveled three generations, which, when considering how many miles and countries I was to journey, and also my own son also through the armed services, we both felt a degree of irony in the rotation of this unusual coincidence.
What memories I have of my earliest years are disjointed and appear to have little or no connection. However two distinct events do come to mind for reasons lost to me.
One memory was whilst accompanying my Father on one of the rare occasions we were able to his place of work, we took up temporary accommodation in Belfast; Northern Ireland. The house was terraced and had a hall with a second door on the left, located just around a kink in the passage leading to the dining room.
I opted to crouch behind that door in a game of ‘hide and seek’ I shared with Mum, youthfully convinced I would never be found. That was until she playfully thrust open the door and launched me headlong onto a cross member of a nearby dining chair, landing heavily on the bridge of my nose and splitting it wide open directly between my eyes.
Somebody called a taxi in place of an ambulance and for some reason I recall lying on the floor looking up and screeching out as the white sheet - like cloth, on top of which I lay, was being used to stem the flow from the bridge of my nose and slowly turning it gooey red.
Then, I must admit somewhat graphically, I recount shivering at the image of a doctor sewing up the injury under local anaesthetic. Even now, the thought sends me cross eyed as I recall watching with morbid curiosity this strange ritual of stitching the gash at the top of my nose which stills bares a scar to this day.
The other thing I recall as enormously silly and trivial, was a day’s outing where we had parked my uncle’s car and took to playing on a farmer’s haystack. The centre, unknown to us, was hollow to allow for circulation of air to prevent combustion and dampness. Subsequently under our combined weight it collapsed and we tumbled somewhat frightened into the void as the loosened straw filled the gap behind us, threatening suffocation, and almost total darkness.
My Uncle Laurie wasn’t a real uncle, he was my Father’s boss, and a very close friend within the Air Ministry and they both quite frantically extricated us from our throat choking plight.
Laurie was an astute man with vision which proved revolutionary for its day. At quite a young age, he took early retirement from the Air Ministry at about the same time as my Father handed in his notice, then set up the first of a chain of caravan sites in Somerset.
Having chosen the time with clear deliberation, his empire was to expand across the whole West Country and achieve him wealth and a good living we can only imagine. Unfortunately we lost contact with him some years ago.
His personal joy was playing a double bass and he absolutely loved jazz. His passion expressed itself playing at Ronnie Scott’s club in London on the first Sunday of each month and I wistfully hope he continues his great personal pleasure to date.
At some point in the early fifties we moved to north London to a three storey Victorian house with a domestic cellar forming a separate apartment and independent entrance with a stairway down from the street. Externally it had wide stone steps leading up to the communal main entrance and a big bay window to the left hand side.
Each floor had been converted to flats, each housing one family, sometimes spreading to two floors to increase bedrooms, with shared bathroom.
My family accommodation was on the ground floor which included two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen down several steps at the back leading through French windows to the rear garden.
Quite naturally the families in such a confined residence became good friends and our neighbours then included a family called the Bentleys who to this day remain very close. Initially they had a daughter just a little younger than me, then twins, a boy and girl with whom our lives were to intertwine over the next forty years or so.
Bernadette, the Mum of the family, remains a staunch Catholic and was instrumental in my attending many services of that denomination that I cannot deny were sometimes quite meaningful. I called her Auntie Bernie because I had known her and her family all my life, and as religion decreed, fish was the meat for Friday, and to this day no-one has ever equalled her white fish, mash and parsley sauce.
Our lives were also shared with another two families through a series of parties that alternated from one house to another every Saturday night. They were times when a family could host a party at reasonable cost and have enough faith and confidence of that friendship, knowing it would be reciprocal.
The music that got them gyrating was Johnny Ray, partially deaf who sung his song with his hand over his bad ear, long before it was trendy to do so, even if you were a folk singer. His music remains clear in my mind to this day as our home resonated to it so very often.
They were gay times and a great deal of pleasure for the children that also made merry with opportunities to get together and have late nights. Televisions were scarce and many family members played musical instruments and entertained themselves.
Between them were seven children who developed through their early years as an extended family. A friendship seemed of greater value in life then than it seems to today and dare I say locking doors was completely unheard of.
Occasionally the close community was their salvation like the time my Mother entered the bedroom of the Bentley twins who seemed happily gurgling in a double pram.
They both lay on their backs and had water immersing their horizontal bodies to a point just below the chin and soon to be hair line. As she entered their little faces beamed happily out of their makeshift swimming pool. Laying in one of the old fashioned, coach built perambulators it was being filled with water slowly flowing from the ceiling above, below where a bath was over flowing.
Family income, supplemented by a job my Mum held in Spangers toy shop around the corner, allowed us to afford the ultimate status symbol - a seven inch television!!! Noddy and Robin Hood were regular Sunday night viewing on one of the two channels that my friends would sit and gawk at. I, in the meantime, would lord it over selective choice as to who could watch this wonder of science in my house, and who would not.
Home was located in an idyllic London street across the road from flats built on the site of houses destroyed during the blitz just five years earlier. It was perfectly safe to play football in the road outside or nearby Clissold or Finsbury Park.
Cars were rare, and of course there were numerous bombsites, offering the perfect venue for war games that soon superseded cowboys and Indians that children played in the first half of the twentieth century.
There were very, very few black people in England and a lone black family moved next door to us. With childish lack of care or feelings, their daughter Suzy became the victim of the first innocent prejudice as we called her a picanniny and taunted her to wash more often and get the black from her skin. I don’t think there was any malice intended, just childish thoughtlessness?
Life was different in London; there were actually communities who looked after each other, with crime unheard of as the majority had very few possessions. On rare occasion crime was reported, the perpetrators were always from out of town and never locals stealing from locals. Working classes didn’t have much to steal, and jealousy hardly established as an excuse for liberal attitudes of laziness and lack of opportunity, (work).
Primary school years left such an impression that I clearly recall the most memorable event during a school dinner session when a friend had received a roundel of mash with a fly in it, leaving a visual image that returned to me almost every time I saw that dish of food served up in the future.
My Mum worked in a toy shop in Highbury Barn High Street, owned by a Jewish gentleman called Mr. Spanger. A round man, short in stature but kindly and always quick to offer a hot drink of oxo and some toast anytime I went in his shop to see Mum. I enjoyed this snack immensely and became aware of his clear pleasure in actually making it, and presenting it to me with a beaming smile.
Sadly memories comes to mind of domestic unrest and occasion where my Mother dragged me unknowingly to sleep with friends as she left my Father for short periods until reconciliation. Memories of walking down the pavement half asleep, to put up a bed settee to sleep on linger in my psyche.
Life was austere in post war years, reconstruction was slow and gradual, finances constrained, and rationing went on for some three years after victory.
Many Empire soldiers had fought bravely against the common foe and were given places of residence and promissory notes to bring their families over to new and promising lands. At the same time there was a strong leaning to cheap labour and tasks the British worker did not seem to want to undertake, or so the papers told us and immigration was about to become more prolific than emigration.
American service personnel had married local people and settled but the whole nature of domestic life was showing the very earliest signs of decline, as the times were hard and the ‘land fit for heroes’ ceased its appeal in war torn England.
But life was to change soon, and somewhat drastically. Whether it was applied pressure by my Fathers Mother, or the promise of adventure in a land that was full of promise or whatever, but now, we were emigrating to Australia a new land, calling out for people to populate the sheer vastness of its beautiful open countryside.
It seems odd looking back, my Father had served over ten years in the Air Ministry and lived quite a good life, but perhaps he was tiring of constant living on air bases away from home, I don’t know, but a decision was reached.
Thus it was not so strange that relatives in a country over sixteen thousand miles away painted a picture of a land full of promise, where expansion and discovery were everyday possibilities, a likeness that can only be compared with the American west in the nineteenth century.
All these thoughts were enthused over the usual Saturday night revelers until one drunken soul suggested emigrating and the journey embarked upon its initial launch. Emigration in this day and age seems daunting enough, but even now I clearly recall a distant memory and distinct dislike in having to go to Australia House on regular intervals in London city.
The journey itself was compensation in its own right and taken by tram that took us passed Saddlers Wells theatre, which must also have taken us through Islington, a place that was to feature in my life in many years to come.
However, all necessary tests fulfilled, my departure from Roseleigh Avenue was a tearful memory but again for reasons unknown to me, I recall being unkind to one of the Bentley twins with whom I had been brought up.
This remains an odd sensation to this day, not recalling the content of such lengthy remorse, but my conscience, always present, knows that I did something I have regretted ever since, even in my ignorance as to actually why. Equally so, upon more recent questioning, my elongated conscience seems unfounded as their memory simply cannot recall the incident.
Emigration in the early years of the twenty first century was largely indigenous peoples and seen as a means of deserting a sinking ship. Whilst inbound numbers were greater and the infra structure of daily welfare severely stretched.
However in the late fifties the fare was ten pounds for my Father on medical grounds of emphysema plus full fare for his Mother, because of her age, but my Mother and I traveled completely free of charge.
The mode of transport, the Steam Ship Otranto of the Orient Line, just taken over by P &O and dispersing 20,000 tons. Its disposition being little more than a channel ferry but with no stabilizers, nor land close to hand.
It had served as a troop ship in the last war and boasted and bore the proud scar of a shell hole through one of its two vertical funnels on the upper deck. The structure was long and low, with a black hull and white upper three decks, unlike the three mast sailing vessel one of my ancestors traveled in back in the eighteenth century.
This vessel had two swimming pools, several bars, a cinema and a wide selection of indoor and deck sporting activities. The cabins were not cruise quality, more troop ship, with four bunks to a cabin, very little storage space and little else - no family cabins, more gender billeting, male on one side of the vessel and female the other.
Ablutions separate, they were not always the most hygienic place to spend more time than absolutely necessary. But above all I recall the meals, five courses and of the highest quality that I had experienced in my thus far short lifespan.
Little could I know that the outbound journey would take place in the middle of an international incident and to no small extent, influence personal and political conclusions that were to cast a shadow over my later adult life? At the time I had no real understanding of the greater implications of the event but was aghast at the images and scenes that greeted us through the course of that fateful trip.
It started with the morning announcement of activities and features of the day, not unlike the Hi De Hi syndrome of the fifties and sixties. But this time, the words seemed deeper and certainly imposing as it ordered all passengers to remain in, or return to, their cabins for the duration.
Further instructions included putting on personal life preservers in accordance with instructions and ensure we had full knowledge of muster points in case of emergencies - and stay within the confines of cabins until further notice.
Another shock was the distinct scraping sound of metal on metal as the water tight doors were closed at the same instant as the unseen announcer informed us of its event.
Fortunately we had the advantage of a circular porthole which allowed me to peer out on the outside world for what seemed like an eternity. While other passengers in our section speculated wildly as the ships’ engines hummed quietly. But the sound was deep and low and expelled little that would suggest energy or power, other than perhaps the production of electricity, and certainly not propulsion of the ship.
Hours passed, then from the stern of our vessel two Royal Navy destroyers surged forward, steaming in the same direction as we had been traveling. Their ensign proudly visible with colours bright against the morning sky. Their passage implied a distinct sense of urgency as I gawped in amazement at the fast moving spectacle.
Soon after, without warning, the engine hum suddenly grew and the ships great propellers rotated slowly causing the vessel to creep forward but at a much slower pace than normal. Ship speed was probably only a few knots but no cause or reason was visible for quite some time, but when it was, the scene was stark and monstrous.
We sailed through the shadow, more accurate to say below a great light grey warship that towered above us. It was far larger than the destroyers and faced the direction from whence we sailed as if deterrent to our passage for reasons unknown.
Enquiry later revealed that it was the American Fifth fleet, dispersed around us motionless in the water, its power and size seemed almost serene in its silence. To all intents and purposes they formed a steel wall as if to bar our passage with great guns elevated slightly and barrel caps extracted as if to show the first signs of potential anger.
Their nation of origin was equally as visible as the previous vessels; they bore the Stars and Stripes of the United States. Upon its decks were a small number of white clad sailors ambling about as if lost, and uncertain as to what on earth they were supposed to be doing.
Imposing presence clearly presented a frightening show of might or strength as we entered the Suez Canal and only my childish excitement prevented fear of potential scenario that might unfold around us.
In convoy our vessel was at the tail end, traveling eastward and as we passed the opening to the canal and covered less than a quarter of a mile, there were the distinctive sound of explosions to our immediate rear. Later we were informed that block ships were being sunk to deny further shipping access through to the Indian Ocean as the Suez crisis worsened.
Along the canal banks, military vehicles raced, disturbing fine sand asunder. Great clouds were billowing skyward obscuring clear view of anything in its vicinity. Artillery pieces and anti aircraft batteries were located behind sand bags, an abundant commodity in this sandy terrain.
Troop emplacements and deployments were being created with extreme urgency. Military aircraft could be heard above, but seemed lacking in direction as their roar increased and decreased as they circled and swooped in search of something to hunt like vultures waiting to gorge on a carcass, as yet un-felled.
The journey through the Canal into the Red Sea is by nature long and slow and the next sign of civilization not bearing weapons was Cairo. The scene that greeted our eyes is regularly viewed in black and white in old newsreels and my memory is reminded when I see them, as if even then, the images were void of colour and historic life simply had no colour.
In the harbour, ships lie scuttled in shallow water to deny access for military incursion. At the same time it denied opportunity to re-supply food or water to restock ships needs as would normally be the case.
Effect upon us and other passengers was nominal outside of excitement factors, but of course the Suez was blocked and all other vessels behind us had to retrace their route and steam around Africa and the Cape of Good Hope.
We in the meantime steamed onward to the next port and there was no evidence of rationing as supplies must been prepared for such eventuality.
On a lighter note, youngsters had professional minders on board ship, and I recall avoiding them with some energy and imagination. I did however participate in most shipboard games on the journey and subsequently won a chess championship with a first prize of a pocket knife.
A residing memory was opening it with my teeth due to nail biting and suffering its tight closure on my bleeding lower lip as my Mother released me promptly from my self imposed ordeal. None-the-less this was a valued souvenir and was to survive in my possession until 1997 when a friend broke it, using it to open a tin of paint.
Central to many activities, and of particular value to youngsters, was the swimming pools. One example was the ceremony all passengers underwent when crossing the equator. This comprised of patiently waiting by the pool until your turn came and being placed in a chair facing backward to the pool that was not unlike a medieval ducking stool.
What followed would have suited many people, but I personally hated the flavour of the substance that was spread thickly over our bodies, namely liquid vanilla ice cream. No sooner was it applied when the chair was tipped back momentarily into the swimming pool, where the ship’s crew rinsed the sweet smelling cream from our bodies with long handled soft brooms.
Ceremoniously all passengers underwent this experience which was recorded by the award of a certificate by King Neptune and costumed crew members shuffling everyone back to the sides of the pool in order to watch our peers receive the same treatment.
Of course as kids, we soon discovered other areas of adventure which might, on occasion, prove dangerous and therefore be a little bit more exciting. For example, the swimming pool. What harm could you come to other than drowning? Bearing in mind there were always life guards on duty?
The discovery that storms often kept swimmers in their cabins and the pool therefore free, offered an ideal opportunity of a crowd- free period in which to exploit our new game.
With immature abandon, we would monitor the rocking action of the ship as it swayed from side to side, determining that as the ship rolled to starboard the water swell in the pool would adhere to gravitational pull and swell to the port side of the pool horizontally, whilst the shop tilted heavily in the other direction.
Our self appointed task was to estimate to the last second when to dive into the shallow, sometimes empty end of the pool and actually land in the returning flood of water as the ship tipped to refill and cushion our dive. This kept us entertained for hours and luckily never caused any injury that I can recall.
Cairo, Colombo and Perth visited, the Indian Ocean lay behind us as we entered the southern waters below the continent of Australia and after a two hour delay, with much excitement, we docked at the quayside in South Australia.
No sooner had the gang plank been put in place than my Australian relatives swarmed aboard to locate and greet my Nan, many of whom had never seen her other than in photographs shown by her sister.
The two sisters had separated many years earlier and were overwhelmed to greet each other after such a long separation. Aunt Kit had arrived in Australia with her husband in the first decade of the twentieth century and produced seven new Australians whose families the Seeleys and the Dawson’s expanded and served their country in war and peace and productively spread across its territories to found domestic life that expanded their family names even further.
My personal entry into their life was somewhat undignified, having rested my belly on a hand rail of the centre staircase to the ship and sliding down it ungraciously, to bump clumsily into them.
They were so friendly and welcoming that it was truly heart warming and having found my parents, they offered to look after me while the adults dealt with the intricacies of departing the ship with all belongings intact.
My first impression of Australia was of a regular skyline of bungalows and dwellings of single storey height. There was an abundance of trees everywhere and the horizon was blanketed by a deep blue range of hills that stretched from east to west.
Everything seemed clean and void of the scars of life, almost liberated by the absence of history, wars and a heritage that due to its absence had little impact upon its architecture and development.
My enhanced family extended the most positive sense of hope and belonging into what at first glance appeared an atmosphere of opportunity available to everyone. To new arrivals however, without the advantage of resident, natural born relatives, may well have looked upon this new land as cold and foreboding.
Genuine warmth extended the most hospitable welcome, offering temporary accommodation and guidance over our first months in our new land. Whilst traveling companions were not so fortunate and the size of their family denied any of our clan being able to offer them accommodation.
Subsequently, they were initially housed in what was little more than internment camps, not unlike user- friendly prison camps. There they remained until job, home and good fortune smiled their way and was able to support themselves independently of state or community.
Proven job skill, employment, self reliance, and independent financial means were conditions of departure and acceptance in the wider community of this expanding country, but opportunity abounded and prospects were good, so flexibility often applied.
My principal family of Aussies was the Seeley’s, whose lives centred on Aunt Kitty, my Nan’s sister. It was she that opened her home to all of us until such time as we were able to secure our own place.
Down the road from her were Rona and her son Allan, a third cousin with hair that was almost white with bleached sunlight. No sooner had we arrived than he grabbed my arm and dragged me out the back door to conduct my first tour of the near surroundings.
We passed a ramshackle garage, down a long straight dirt track at the rear of his bungalow on to the coast and straight out to sea on a jetty. It was not very long and designed specifically as a shark warning post. Half its length and men were fishing happily under the bright blue, cloudless sky.
All seemed calm and tranquil until one hooked something that was far from keen to participate in their sport.
Frantically it thrashed and swam for its very life; snagging other lines and causing the other fishermen close by to get snared into the maritime drama as it unfolded. Previous experience guided all their attitudes to co-operation as they gently reeled in the catch as if each one were reeling in a fragile treasure.
The last few feet were the worst as the creature desperately struggled for life. Then upon one mans command, over the safety rail, dropped a large shark that thrust its deep blue grey body wildly and heavily on the centre of the timber floored pier.
Every now and then one of the Aussies lunged forward with an axe and hewed at its head. Savagely, slowly it was decapitated, its body still writhing, its head tossed carelessly into the deep.
I never cared for fishing after that!
This particular stretch of coastline became the centre of our lives, including two of the places of residence we were to occupy over the next three years. One house was on the sea front, another just below the coastline called Military Road.
Running parallel to the coastline was a railway much a like that of a western town, simply lain alongside the road with a platform raised for an embarkation point which, if located in England probably wouldn’t have achieved the status of station.
Youthful stupidity was to later devise a dare whereupon we hid in the hollow just below the platform next to the rail lines as a train drew alongside to pick up its passengers. The most perilous part being upon arrival and departure. The movement seemed to create suction as we crouched; giggling at our great, potentially suicidal achievement, but it was fun!
A little further down the line, the train crossed acres of marshland where legend had it that it was full of quicksand, but I never saw any. It was however routed over a single line railway bridge, built on timbers across a wide tidal creek on which we played at regular intervals.
Its location offered the greatest of all dares; to wait for a train to round the corner in the distance and then tip toe across the open bridge structure, jumping from one sleeper to the other, to race- over the bridge and beat the train.
Timing was quite tight and hearts raced as its carriages thundering toward us and its horn blaring to our rear. On occasion we simply didn’t make it and had to leap for our lives into the tidal river near the opposite side. And with howls of laughter we clambered wet and bedraggled up the reed filled bank on the other side.
Activities such as this followed me throughout life, but few left the lasting legacy of nightmares of being sucked into oblivion in the quick-sands of this region.
This train also gave rise to my greatest scientific revelation and youthful imagination. I contrived that by countering gravitational pull and generating a hover like action in order to raise the train off the ground, it would thus remain stationary. Thus the world would simply rotate at its normal axis, and normal and predetermined destinations would simply come to the train, where it would gently drop back to earth for passengers to disembark.
Time and education never did really remove the concept from my head having traveled half way around the world, but it did put it into some form of perspective.
School was quite an experience, not state school as we enjoy it in the UK with everything provided, but timber classrooms built like billets, with acres of open ground surrounding the only formal area of a paved parade ground outside which, each morning we stood to attention for morning assembly.
Immediately after a morning service the Union flag was drawn skyward first, duly accompanied by the Australian flag, raised slightly quicker to establish its precedence on an adjacent pole and reaching its pinnacle just in front of the Jack. Whilst in the background piped music bellowed the National Anthem as the whole school stood respectfully to attention.
School meals were unheard of and pupils took sandwiches or money to buy gorgeous hot pies or pasties from the tuck shop. One such shop was owned by our friends Betty and Ray from the off license where we once lived and served as an ideal lunch spot being just down the road, only a short distance from the sea.
It was here that I had my first driving experience. Uncle Ray had left the keys in the ignition of his slate grey Austin A5 commercial van and I simply turned them whilst pretending to drive. With this simple action the car lurched forward being in gear and hit a tree. Not much pleased, we were barred from his vehicle from that point on.
Another choice for the grand sum of a ha’ penny, was batter crackling, alternatively one and six (7.5p) would buy the freshest fish and chips ever. Purchased at a chip shop now recommended by the Australian Tourist Board.
One indelible image of my life I enjoyed immensely was when I watched my school burn down one volatile night. What joy and revelry from the wide eyed pupils as the tinder dry structure disintegrated into the inferno!
Fire was the constant blight of Australian life and could spark up through a simple reflection from broken glass, magnified by the intensity of the sun. The cause of this particular blaze was never known. As a result we proceeded to take classes on Henley beach and on the rare occasion when the weather deteriorated, we took to makeshift caravans in much reduced class sizes.
All this followed much exaggerated personal claims for books, coats, shoes, and belongings that had allegedly been left in the unfortunate school building. Insurance claims much exaggerated replaced everything with surprising speed.
This beach was another source of my scientific disappointment having dug a hole as deep as I were able, I did not reach England, which I was reliably told, was on the other side of the earth; straight down.
During trips to one particular stretch of coast we passed a butchers shop, which for some reason had a dog the owner was most horribly cruel to. We used to hear it whining at night as he left it hungry in an outside shed and in the most sorrowful state.
Smuggling snippets of food from lunches and the pantry at home we threw them over the fence along with constant appeals to the owner to treat the animal better. Finally, succumbing to appeals we made to our parents, my Mum confronted him with his cruel treatment and he simply gave the animal to her, possibly just to extricate himself from her energetic nagging.
Named Blackie, he and I were inseparable, that is until one day, when walking down the road reading a comic, my attention lapsed, and he chased me loyally across the road to be struck down by a car, breaking his spinal cord.
The accident occurred very close to home and my Father placed the injured animal wrapped in a blanket on the back seat of the car and took the bleeding Labrador to a vet next door to where he worked.
The extent of his injury and the quality of life the dog would have had to endure was relayed to me during the appraisal of his condition. I was asked whether I really felt it fair to treat the dog’s superficial injuries, knowing what its future life would be like paralysed.
Thus the first major decision I had to make was thrust upon me, and I decided it would be best to have the dog put down and that memory was to haunt me in my sleep for many years after, including following my return to England.
We had secured our own place in Military road in a house constructed upon a gentle sandy slope with a veranda at the back offering a welcome, cool sleeping space during the long hot summers Australia enjoyed.
An abiding memory is the background shrill sound of crickets and with an insect life that was so profuse, every door and window had net frames over them like decompression chambers going in or outward.
It was here, when unpacking our trunks at long last that I found with great interest, maps, and plans of RAF bases in the UK. My Father was bound by the official secrets act to keep them secure. Perhaps taking his responsibility too seriously, they were in a foreign country some eighteen thousand miles from home still in his care. Where they went after that, I will never know?
From my early youth, it fell upon my Nan to instill my Christian teachings and, after my refusing to continue Sunday school she finally settled for me reading the bible at home for an hour every Sunday morning.
Religious instruction did have some impact on my thoughts and attitudes to Christian values but my journey through life was inevitably to question my belief in the substance and content of those endless volumes.
As Gandhi said,
‘I like your Christ, but I do not like your Christians; they are not like your Christ.’
Like everything else in life, there is a price or cost for everything and in the absence or decline in Christian ideology there are few tangible gauges upon which to base family values and standards. Western theology applies common-sense code known as the Ten Commandments, but it is hard to accept its dictate where so much blood has been spilled to enforce its implementation.
The church itself had refined interference with material things and nations over many centuries. The only difference now, was that it was visible through the global growth of the media. Plus international travel would highlight abject poverty and misery that prevails in vast tracts of the world I had visited.
Testimony to the incompleteness of the Christian ethos was visible to all, not of those in sufferance but in the great imbalanced wealth of the western community. Its loss or decline is debatable amongst its believers, but schools are instructed to deliver multi religion lectures, with nothing solid and offering little guidance, just simple information gathering and data collation. This liberal attitude has even affected our use of the standard timeline of BC to AD because it is not politically correct.
Nan retained her faith until she passed over in 1997 and her death raised the anchor that gave her comfort in to the last vestige of belief. Upon reflection I can say that I sometimes miss it and occasionally envy the convincing belief of born again Christians. But how convenient and reassuring to have such life insurance, at the same time, pure joy if you actually believe in it.
During the three years we lived in Australia, my parents were able to create three separate homes of relative comfort. Quite an achievement compared to the flats and digs we had to live in back in the UK. One of our Australian homes was in a place called Croydon, slightly inland, and near to my favourite relatives place, the Dawson’s.
Peter Dawson the Father had served in the Far East during the war and like many of his Australian and British colleagues felt he was part of the ‘Forgotten army’. He was duly decorated for his service and retained a Japanese sword taken in surrender, yet this was small compensation for the loss of innocence and dignity he had endured throughout that brutal, ugly campaign.
His wife, my Auntie Bub looked after me after school and I had some great times with her oldest son Richard and his twin sister Julie. Their family had embarked upon a project I have never ceased to admire them for. They built their own home.
They purchased a plot of around two acres and with careful planning they built a kiln for firing bricks, gathered materials and then embarked upon constructing a comfortable bungalow.
Construction started with the largest room first, with power supply being integral and installed. It was made weather proof and secure, then the parents moved into it! Meanwhile their two children remained in a large caravan located safely within the boundary of their land.
Priorities established, and after careful consideration, they would start building the next room, repeat the process and by this system of slow but complete construction, they built a magnificent home that was totally to their own personal design and specification.
Adjacent they laid tennis courts, one of Australia’s favourite participation sports and which one I for one could never get on with and the obligatory swimming pool. There was also ample space for an aviary, ducks and geese so lovingly kept by the children.
One Christmas saw the demise of the family pet Charlie. This dearly loved animal obligingly put its head on a block and lost it. Needless to say when the children of the family learned of this none were able to consume their Christmas dinner.
Julie, the older daughter of the family was, much later to become God Mother to our first daughter. His transpired in the early seventies on her one and only visit to England and Europe. She returned home to marry an English émigré and musician with several children from a previous marriage, but they were and remain very happy, sharing the joy of a son of their own.
Habitation prevailed within a six mile green belt alongside the coastline which had short jetties every mile to allow diligent shark watchers easier viewing. But the best, uncrowded time to swim was directly after a shark warning, as they offered an uncluttered sea and complete freedom of movement.
The last of our Oz houses was at Kirkcaldy, right on the sea front. Absolutely great from the point of view a growing young boy who would come home from school, change to beachwear and then straight into the sea and surf in all weathers.
Sharks were irregular visitors but some gained great notoriety even names bordering on affection, such as the great white called ‘Cheeky Charlie’. Even still, the normally efficient shark watch missed one of Charlie’s visits prior to his departure taking both legs of a young lady swimmer.
Another threat that could not be ignored from nature came in the form of deadly poisonous jelly fish, which thankfully never posed much of a problem for me as I developed an aversion for their whole species and kept well out of their way.
As sea sports go, surfing was terrific fun although I never really got proficient at it and another curious custom occurred every Easter, with poles some twenty feet high being erected in the square near the main Jetty, with men clambering up them and staying put for what I believe was a record time of twenty two days.
Contestants climbed up the poles unaided and perched on small platforms that were smaller than you would imagine a crow’s nest on a galleon to be. When suitably established and often strapped in place, food and water etc. were hauled up by ropes when requested.
I never cared to see how they disposed of waste products that the profuse amounts of beer must have produced; all consumed with enthusiasm, to keep their spirits up! Such activities were thankfully seasonal and weather was not so much an obstacle as might be thought.
In contrast, particular tides brought about a strange phenomenon that radically changed the very structure of the coastline and material content of the beach. It all was becoming apparent by smell before even reaching the affected area, of a deep and quite foul aroma of seaweed.
The sea would force dense depths of seaweed, sometimes up to three feet thick along the foreshore during certain tidal movements. Then the tide would pass over it and on its decline, create passages like rivulets that would allow the outgoing sea’s egress.
Deep green, this slimy mass would stay perhaps for twenty four hours, and then be gone on the next tide, but it was a great playground for a nine year old albeit the stench was pungent.
Of course I got homesick for England every now and then, or argued with my parents to the extent that I would leave home on a regular basis. Such occasions seemed fortuitous being on the coast, as I rowed my boat happily toward the horizon, bemused when the coast of Australia grew small in the distance but England never seemed to be in sight.
Once I was so determined to persist with my quest that I rowed out a considerable distance and erected a sail. Then noticing the wind was taking me toward the horizon and obviously the place of my birth, I chucked the oar over the side resolving not to need it with such a clear course being set by nature. Thankfully, I lost my nerve and swam to retrieve it, take down the sail, and swing the long slog back to the mainland rowing.
Alternatively of course I had tried to dig my way home but the sand itself was as fine a powder as you could imagine and blew stinging into every crevice of your body or home with the slightest wind.
On hot summer nights, when the tide was on the way out, it became common practice to dig a body size hole, crawl into it, and pull the sand over yourself as a blanket. It was absolutely glorious to spend the night under the clear starlit night. Whereby during the day, sands reached such temperatures that you could only pass over it by wearing flip flops, then tossing them inland as you went into the drink.
I suppose it was here that I first realised just how much my Father enjoyed his alcohol. The pubs at that time closed at six in the evening, but wine was very cheap and a leather flagon would be filled and consumed whenever thirst or need occurred and in the long hot summers, liquid was essential, especially when working out in the open even though water would have been more advisable.
Of course a major asset was that you couldn’t tell the content of a personal flagon, only that this particular liquid was prone to advance dehydration, not quell it. I clearly recall more than once his drunken returns to our house being defused by my dragging him out on my boat to get him away from my Mother.
Both of us would embark laboriously against the raging sea in the most horrendous storms, only for me to toss overboard an anchor and floating buoy, and simply wait for the inevitable wave to turn over our vessel forcing a sobering swim back to land. Next day, at low tide, I would collect my boat being appropriately landlocked.
He came to recognise this as a bit of fun that not only got him out of trouble with his wife, but also sobered him up in some of the heaving seas that South Australia was prone to. Whether this idea was in his head when he bought me the boat I don’t know, but it was great fun, unsinkable being all timber construction and easy to shift in and out of the water having a flat bottom.
The sea of course offered many sources of adventures. On a hot summer’s day it would be cobalt blue yet as clear as tap water. Swimming in it or under it was a sheer joy, and often, when conditions prevailed, several of us would row my boat to deeper water and we would all go crabbing.
Fifteen, twenty feet of clear viewing revealed not only the rippled white sand on the bottom but distinct ground movement of crabs or the gentle swaying action of fish as they passed beneath.
Diving for crabs was but one means of capturing this maritime delicacy, another, somewhat simpler method, was to walk out when the tide was low and simply pick them up and put them in buckets for later consumption.
On one such occasion, my Father waded out of the sea with what looked like a stingray in tow. In self defence, he had bashed the creature across the head with his netting pole and brought it ashore triumphantly, although I must admit today, I sometimes wonder if it was a skate.
But, don’t let anyone con you into believing that Australia is one long summer. Far from it, especially as the nearest land mass to us was the South Pole. The sea was violent, all powerful and totally unforgiving and the weather often bitter and extremely cold.
This point was graphically brought home one morning having woken up after a particularly heavy storm and gazing out of the window to survey the sea. The shoreline image had changed drastically and for a little while it didn’t sink in as to what was different to normal.
Across the road but slightly right of our place was the only structure that obscured our view of the sea. It was a Cafe built on a concrete peninsular, which did of course suffer from the battering waves. The un-moving structure suffered a continuous battering and it survived years unscathed. On this particularly lively morning it had simply gone, with little evidence that it had ever existed.
Apart from this complete change of scenery to our front, there was also the unusual absence of crickets that incessantly chirped out their morning call. I must admit to having a long spell where these observations were all that occupied my life for a period of around four months.
My right knee was injured when crouching down onto a block of wood holding a rusty nail. Pierced very deeply it was removed medically and I suffered a paralysis that doctors could not understand or explain. The only treatment was a form of heat ray application on a daily basis and this, in time, was to prove successful.
If my memory serves me right, my Father had already secured a job in Australia. He had received employment gazettes and local papers and an interview was all but dispensed with in the light of his previous Air Ministry experience. Although I do recall a tentative meeting at Australia House, almost as a matter of form, on one of our fairly frequent visits before leaving the UK.
Taking up his pre-secured position within local government, his prime responsibility was conducting surveys toward establishing new road links that spread from this relatively lightly occupied area of South Australia, outward into the other territories.
The nature of the country was such that habitation tended to spring up around coastal regions and spread inland, perhaps up to eight miles to the foothills of the mountain ranges. Then humans moved inland according to geographic disposal and water supplies into the outback stretching thousands of miles in all directions except south.
Nearest neighbouring states being so distant required days of travel into the outback for limited stays and then long weekends back home. This proved of particular interest to me during the long hot summers, where I would often travel with my Father and initiate my first interest and training into the type of work he did, as well as living the great adventure of the outback.
The land itself was sandy but often reddish brown in colour and the dried up river beds caused me to realise an aversion I appeared to have unrecognized till then. Silly as it may sound, I can’t (and couldn’t then) abide cracked up surfaces. I simply can’t stand bumpy, erratic surfaces and if the surface is on me, I simply scratch them off with a knife, much to the consternation of my parents during my spotty, early, teenage years.
Undergrowth was largely shrubbery, with eucalyptus trees scattered erratically. As for Koala bears; they were as regular a sighting as a badger in the UK, although Kangaroos were a little more prolific.
Drought was a constant companion and water, especially inland a real scarcity and a major feature of all young Australian upbringing were not to waste it. Three years of this left me with an obsession of not allowing taps to drip or water to run any more than strictly necessary. It did rain, but mostly between the mountain ranges and the coastal belt, but the dry land soaked it like blotting paper.
Landscape altered by nature change, recycling was precipitated by the bi-annual destruction of the sun and careless visitors into the wilderness by way of bush fires. Plus the shortage of water allowed such devastation to span literally thousands of acres.
From our coastal home I viewed deep grey smoke spiraling skyward across the whole mountainous horizon and once, when our family went outback for a weekend, we got caught by a bush fire ourselves.
Well versed in how to cope with this phenomenon, the emergency services immediately went about clearing the area of civilians and public with specially trained teams who would venture into the grey fog and give directions to the public.
Blinded by smoke, drivers had no way of identifying even a basic sense of direction, or way out of it and these directions was literally life saving. Within a very short period, a convoy appeared to grow from dirt tracks and established roads and push steadily through the smoke, each vehicle following the flashing lights on the one in front.
At one point this caused us to drive under the burning trees that surrounded a semi derelict structure very similar to the old chapels back in England. The building had long since been deserted but for a colony of tarantulas that scampered madly from every crack and opening in its structure, all trying to escape the fire.
Some were on fire and exploded somewhat colourfully in the intense heat, others scurried along overhanging branches dropping loudly onto the car, or being run over by it and cracking like the sound of a large twig breaking or a whip cracking. Like cooking oil spilling from a container, the crawling creatures spread in their hundreds away from the licking flames in a terrifying image only possible with special effects in an arachnophobia horror film.
Thankfully these fires were not regular and have long since been proven to be an asset to the growth and regeneration of the outback and thus serving the greatest master of all, nature; and if anyone could exploit this apparent wilderness, it was native Australians.
Trips inland were sheer beauty, the foothills glorious in colour and natural walks and park land areas were enhanced by state built barbecues for use of visiting picnickers. Of course this was not just a public service, it also contained the use of fire and fire watching posts, but the location was always well planned and established in places of glorious natural beauty.
One such place in particular we visited regularly. It had an open air swimming pool which was completely free, surrounded by a great woodland to one side of a valley. To cross the great chasm was a fairly mobile rope bridge over the great expanse that was supported from above by cables.
Crossing it took a modicum of courage and was not best helped as petrified parents and female cousins neared the centre of the drooping span, when my cousins and I would rock it violently from one side to the other to make it sway to the rhythm of their terrified screams.
Leisure time I sometimes felt, was treated with much greater seriousness than a working day and was always well subscribed to by family and friends alike. The coast was vast yet sometimes overcrowded, as people swam in shark protected areas for safety. Whilst the outback a wilderness of such hostility that you would have to prepare for all eventualities, rather than risk mishap in the unforgiving landscape by impromptu visits.
Where my interest in military matters started I do not know, but Australia offered me first hand stories of the campaigns in the Far East and the Middle East where most of my uncles had served. Some had souvenirs, others painful memories, but they were all part of a military tradition that was soon to fade away.
Disillusionment was rife with victory small compensation. All too often they echoed stories of their senior generation about the Great War, twenty one years before, as the war to end all wars.
Not withstanding the suffering and loss in that war, they came to the colours again in 1939 when many embarked on a Middle East campaign in vessels that could have included the very same troop ships that their forefathers had traveled in all those years before.
It was then they had first learned of Sir Winston Churchill, because of his terrifyingly expensive errors of judgement and resultant extreme loss of life the ANZACS suffered at Gallipoli in 1915.
Yet even this did not hold back the general willingness to embark on a Second War in defence of the Motherland. It might however explain the cold shiver or hair raising experience I endured through life when hearing music or stories of that landing costing fourteen thousand out of sixteen thousand young ANZAC lives. Whether a result of relative’s memories or some distant reason, I could not explain I found it often moved me to tears.
England was still held with great regard and they had no elusions about the potential outcome and impact of this second conflict, especially after the air attacks on Pearl harbour and anticipated Japanese Imperial expansion being so very close to home.
Distant relatives with a firm tradition based in the United Kingdom bred a proud bunch of people who were far from anti English, although I do remember times when it suited an unequal argument to claim Irish, Scottish or Welsh ancestry as the early hints of fashionable anti Englishness reared its head.
Nostalgia did not seem too important to the Aussie character as their nation gradually succumbed to American influence and, it was not too surprising to see that the urban layouts mimicked that of America.
Vehicle design, music and youth culture were strongly influenced by cinema and radio remaining unchallenged for years, before Australia got its own TV. Then, when the first power surge turned that little black screen into lines of light and dark, TV it opened on its first night with seven stations.
There were just two channels when we left England, and still only two when we returned. Needless to say that programme content was also very American. Elvis Presley had emerged as a rock idol and I clearly remember one of my many visits to a Drive In to watch ‘Jailhouse Rock’ with my Mother.
Such nights were family treats and great adventures with screens often located on the outskirts of town. Children would go shoeless as was normal, dressed only in their pyjamas to play in the adventure playground below the massive outdoor screen. Parents amused themselves in their vehicles and enjoyed supper in the car, having placed food orders through the intercom and sound delivery systems located in the columns next to the parking bay.
The only other film I recall was the Eddy Duchin story. My Nan had taken me to see this film as she was an enthusiastic pianist herself. It was a sad story that still retains a profound effect on me today. Why, I don’t know? But it left me in tears at that tender age and I cannot deny, I still shed a tear discreetly, even after all these years at the sound of the signature tune in memory of both story and life when first seeing it.
The story revolved around a struggling Jewish pianist who had neglected his family over many years, in pursuit of success and recognition. Then, having achieved it, he realised the great loss of the love and affection of his young son that his career had cost him.
Recognising the extent of his loss, he strove to re-establish lost love and through pain and tribulation he gradually succeeded. Then the hammer blow! His doctor confirmed terminal cancer and he had the immense problem of telling his son that he was going to leave him again.
First, to avert deep hurt, he told him of a musical tour he would have to embark upon, but time brought out the truth and the two became close until the end. Not so much a happy ending, the son learned to play the piano and see the film out playing the signature tune in place of his Father.
What a load of dribble, but I like it?
Looking back, the memories of Australia are as vivid as yesterday with time being measured by the moment it is lived, and the three years passed like a flash of lightning. Suddenly, the year was 1959 and our life in Australia was drawing to a close.
We made a final trip inland, which almost proved to be our downfall; we drove hundreds of miles of outback on our last weekend in this great continent to a place called Mount Gambia, an extinct volcano, nicknamed the Blue Lake.
You could view the whole area by driving up a peninsular of rock to one side and gain an overview of both volcanic chasm, now silent and full of the bluest lake water, with the surrounding mountain range disappearing powerfully into the far distance.
Following a glorious last weekend there in the forest surrounds of the national park we left feeling we had seen one of the great natural monuments of this continent. Then, on the return journey, literally hundreds of miles from any habitation, our Hillman car broke down under the stress of intense heat. Isolation forced us to sleep under the stars until the second day when a car came dustily from the horizon and gave my Father a lift to the nearest repair station to get help.
Memorable as it may have been, without the arrival of that one passing vehicle we may well have missed our boat home.
When asked what I thought of the country, I must be honest in saying that as a youngster still at school, I enjoyed it immensely and as far as adult life goes, my parents achieved more in those three years in Oz opposed to the eight years previous in England.
Would I go back? Well once I would have answered ‘no’ England has such a wealth of character and depth and will always be my home, our shared heritage with its impact and union has been much eroded over the last half of the twentieth century to my deep regret, but this is home.
Time moves on, nations evolve, the state of Australasia is enjoying natural development, although I do dislike the republican direction it seems to be evolving, but in this case, certainly orchestrated by the United States of America.
Theoretical progress implied that the gradual demise of British interests was normal and not induced by US influence, but this was evident over the whole sixteen thousand mile journey I had made.
Simply another manifestation like that of the fifth fleet at the Suez Canal and a growing power base that in effect, also put England in the front line for America. Australia, like Great Britain was little more than an outpost for the US and if this were not palatable, then the individual may well feel like the Ancient Britons did of Rome.
Today the much publicised special relationship remains no more than a defensive measure to ensure the security of the United States and a growing number of population accept we are no more than a sacrificial lamb in the event of nuclear war.
A land locked aircraft carrier that would be eliminated at the outset of hostilities just to deny the US this outpost. Nineteen sixty witnessed our sad goodbyes to my Fathers Mother who stayed behind happily in the arms of her new husband, an émigré from Germany and the three of us departed believing the reason for our return to England was ostensibly because my Mother needed a specialist heart operation, which could only be done in England, but really I think they were both homesick.

Don't know if I am doing this right? Chapter 2.

Homeward Bound.
Upon reflection, leaving my Nan to spend the rest of her days in another country was not only her own decision but it was the right one. She enjoyed a happy second marriage in a country with more climatic sympathy to the elderly and survived her husband by many years.
Living to the ripe old age of ninety-nine, she died just three months short of her hundredth birthday, which was sad as she so wanted a telegram from the Queen, as acknowledgement of her Englishness.
We left thirty two cousins and second cousins behind, of whom only one was ever to make it to England; we also left a lifestyle we were never able to replace or equal since our return. The Steam Ship Orontes was our ship home and another in the fleet of the Pacific and Orient line.
This vessel had only slightly less a pedigree than our outward bound vessel, and its journey heralds easier memories for me to recount, having aged a further three years, plus of course a fair few decades before putting pen to paper.
No doubt experiences of both trips might well merge, but I recount them as these words offer reminders of two trips across some of this globes greatest and sometimes most violent oceans. The first sea I believe was called the Australian Bite and a meeting place for the cold currents of the South Pole and the hot climatic tides of the Australian continent.
Over turbulent waters but parallel to the continent our passage was too far south to see land from the vessel and we arrived at the first port of call Fremantle, in Western Australia. Elapsed time reinforced once more the shear size of this nations land mass, moreover the territory we had recently left was in strong contrast to the history, architecture, and basic atmosphere presented in Fremantle and Perth.
High raise buildings mixed amidst western style horse rails, with horse drawn carriages as plentiful as motorised vehicles traveling side by side along often unmade streets and byways. By coincidence, if you believe in such concepts, this small part of this globe was to welcome and house a man that was to become one my second daughter’s partner’s in life some thirty years later.
Departing Fremantle we entered the Indian Ocean and some of the most beautiful images of porpoises, dolphins, flying fish and even a whale and probably the longest stretch of water without benefit of landmass or harbour.
Known to be turbulent, it was certainly a choppy journey but the weather was constantly hot and the greater part of our activity was spent in the swimming pool or lounging about on deck.
Landings at far off places were always accompanied by excursions to places of interest. Generally booked at the purser’s office, they were a time proven way in which to view the more tourist based sites and perhaps keeping visitors away from the less savoury locations.
We would also be issued with a list of do’s and don’ts, including warnings about such things as the spiders that dropped from the roofs of outside toilets, to enter your eye socket and slowly eat away the contents. Nice! Or be alert to the prolific variation of beggars that saw tourists as potential income and means of earning a living.
Scant information never really appraised visitors of exactly how much pressure a tourist might feel when threatened by the sheer volume of sad people that fitted this category.
That is until reaching Colombo and my first memory being the vast array of differing smells. Spices seemed the strongest, but then there were animal smells and an aroma I had never experienced before that was distinctly unique to this part of the world.
No one element could be isolated, but the dockside was little more than a market place and the pleasing smell of spices intermingled with elephant droppings and raw sewage. And of course the heat was so intense that heat haze obscured most images like a mild fog and only served to exasperate the array of sensations this unusual image thrust at me.
Following advice, we saw the sense in using the toilets on board and filling our drink containers with water before disembarking. Astounded at the variety of sense that were tested we took up seats upon fairly dated coaches with open windows for ventilation, yet still close and clammy in the absence of any breeze.
Around thirty passengers gazed excitedly at the beauty of scenery as they journeyed their way through the mountain regions toward the religious centre of the island. Dense forests were intermittently broken by vast sloping fields of tea plantations and mostly female land workers picking manually their produce, as if posing for an advert to go on tea packets advertising the crop on shop shelves in western supermarkets.
Regular tourist spots were well known and established, with dutifully versed drivers halting for a break at a waterhole. Suggesting we stretch our legs we viewed elephants bathe, or lumber at their toil pulling freshly felled logs from behind with chains.
In the foreground dozing youngsters clambered to life up the muddy slopes with hands outstretched, now beggars trained from birth in this national preoccupation.
Scenery was breathtaking and unchanged for centuries. The temple at Kandy was magnificent in its splendour and wealth. Pure white, it glistened in bright sunlight with annexes that expanded its internal size to an immense maze of temples dedicated to different Gods.
The magnificent structure housed an absolute abundance of gold, ivory, and jewels featured in every aspect of architecture and idol alike. Everywhere exposed a wealth of every kind that shone in the sunlight magnificently.
As a twelve year old I could not have experienced a greater expression of wealth that even at this tender age harboured thoughts of possession and never ending riches the jewels could bring. Such dishonest thoughts were tempered by guides telling stories of curses and terrible deaths that befell anyone who attempted to remove any of them from this sacred place.
The curse was so great that no would be thief had ever succeeded in leaving the country, except in a shroud. Opulence could not be greater contrasted than the abject poverty that clambered around the marble steps outside, or any other area where tourists might travel and fall easy prey to the beggars sad plea’s.
Children, blinded at birth, begged for coppers, others had limbs hacked off deliberately, casting misshapen images clawing for a piece of coinage at every exit leading inward and outward of the temple.
Moderately alert to worldly things, I learned of India and Ceylon, as ex colonies at school, and a richness perhaps exploited by the British Raj at some length during the occupation.
However, we left a legacy of extremely wealthy indigenous people who practiced a system that made apartheid seem innocent. Our alleged guilt as an occupier seems to shroud the continued guilt of their own caste system that made the word ‘untouchable’ into a tangible reality.
Gleaming white just outside the temple, was another monument to the old Empire, a great hotel where we were to dine on our indigenous meal as part of the guided tour. Here, I tried curry for the very first time in my life, and what a shock.
Unknowingly I took a full mouthful of this national dish, and the sensation of intense heat remains clear in memory to date. I raced to the clinically white tiled ablutions and signs which read ‘Don’t drink the water’ and I didn’t!
Setting sail from the harbour at Colombo was a welcome relief and I review that experience with a knowledge rarely witnessed by bleeding hearts and empire dis-solutionist’s as our ship sailed gracefully through the Indian Ocean and onward toward the Red sea.
Notorious for its stormy weather its reputation did not disappoint and we were struck by a storm, the likes of which caused us to be confined to our cabins once more, with ships watertight doors firmly closed.
Adding fuel to our natural concern the ship tumbled and rocked most violently in the waves that stretched above the ships hull at times some fifty feet high. Luckily, we were in a section where the hold dropped down the centre of the hull of the ship and access to it was through some concertina type doors, much like French lift entrances.
Because I was quite small I was able to squeeze through the padlock and chain security and clamber up an iron rung ladder two decks high and through a small window onto a bread table located just inside the dining area and it was from this area I was able to reach the main deck.
Having spent some time at sea, I was fully aware that the rocking and heaving action of the vessel was somewhat extreme to that which we had previously experienced and I took the precaution of ensuring I wore a belt through my trouser belt loops, and then, I looped another through that one to hang loosely to my front.
This elementary precaution enabled me to loop the loose belt through the handle rail of the ships deck and allow slow and gradual movement along the tossing and turning decking. Every step was slow and deliberate; having to pace progress through constantly undoing the securing belt and reattaching it to get past hand rail fixings, or upright posts denying me uninterrupted progress along the empty deck.
Thoroughly drenched by the raging waves I slowly but surely I reached the front of the ship, having been hurled bodily off my feet more than once to gaze awe-struck and excitedly to the ships prow.
Lurching heavily forward and downward, the prow sunk deep into the heaving sea and disappeared under a rush of white spray. Then, thrusting skyward as the tern repeated the process it tossed a great torrent of salty water towering well over my head, even though I stood on the highest point available to passenger access.
Like a wild beast thrashing about in its death throes, the ship lurched from side to side to exaggerate the seesaw action as it steamed, or so I thought, directly into the eye of the storm.
Human insignificance forever impressed upon me by the fiercest storm my thirty two and a half thousand miles round trip was to experience and it left me elated, with fond memories of the pinnacle of my love for storms at sea and the power of nature.
Nature rent its fury, then settled to the following evening as the hottest yet experienced. Stifling heat and scant relief caused numerous passengers to take basic bedding on deck to sleep that night. Excitement subsided and now happily relaxed, my eyes gazed dreamily upward at the star studded night that was uninterrupted by light pollution and glorious in the infinity of that view. The Milky Way could only be better viewed through optical lens but from my perspective, it was awesome.
The Red sea had thrown a whirlpool at us which was no real threat as we steered well clear of it, but the ship did strike something hard that we assumed to be a piece of debris or wreckage that was never witnessed.
A second night was spent on deck enjoying the little natural breeze that there was in the absence of air conditioning of modern liners. However the sun had hardly peeped over the horizon when I was rudely awoken with the most fearful start when Middle Eastern boat traders bumped into the hull, then threw up grappling hooks to scale the ship sides like pirates.
Eager to make first contact and make good souvenir sales, they clambered upon the lower decks like a swarm. Ship’s crew in the meantime loudly engaged themselves in hurling the traders bodily overboard knowing full well that gentle persuasion in their own tongue would fail, and we, startled, half asleep passengers looked on cowering under our single linen sheets, as the invaders were duly repelled.
When finally docking for our first physical landing in Aden, we aimed for the market and traditional place of souvenir hunters. Now we were confronted by a new and menacing experience where I found myself hoisted onto my Fathers’ shoulders to prevent the outstretched hands of the young beggars touching me.
Unlike their Sri Lankan peers, they had a different weapon in which to eke out a living and openly threatening to pass on to us, leprosy! In those days this frightening disease remained a threat, and, theoretically, averted by sufficient coins which rarely sent them away as there was simply never enough. Whilst those remaining, untouchable, and untouched by silver, became more persistent, resolute, and alarming.
One regret I now have is that my parents did not opt for a coach excursion to the pyramids, and then meet up with the ship at the next port. Excursions embarked from Aden and traveled by coach to the pyramids for a day long visit and then on to rejoin the ship at Port Said, but neither my parents nor I had any wish to leave ourselves open to the ongoing threat of beggars and refused this option with a terrific opportunity lost.
Remembering the unusual circumstances of our last journey down the Suez canal., we were now able to view the long sandy banks unscarred by the human war machine and whilst magnificent in its sparseness, soon boring to the inquisitive eye and the majority of the passage reverted to normal ship board activity to wile away the time.
Port Said came and went and we resigned ourselves to stay on board, but my parent’s thoughts of viewing classic monuments remained as we continued to Athens and made our early booking for the excursion to the Acropolis.
It was quite a climb to the ruins and we were escorted by guides who retained enough enthusiasm in their job to keep even a whinging twelve year old boy interested in their commentary. The splendour was stark and real. Magnificently, the ancient monument exuded a power in sheer size and scale of a culture that these ruins highlighted, now declined to a nation designated as a third world country.
Flying fish and porpoise escorted the vessel with flights of seagulls that plucked at ships refuse from the sea. These sea scavengers were our constant escort between ports, sleeping on deck at night, and scavenging during daylight hours and of course the albatross that bode such fierce some legends of foreboding became rife amidst the imaginative boys on board.
Suddenly, without warning the pitch black seascape exploded into a deep crimson light as the eruption of a volcano somewhere in the distance, hurled molten lava skyward, highlighting the peak and rewarding us with another momentary glimpse of the power of nature.
The volcano, if I recall correctly, was an island called Stromboli and whilst the light seemed luminous, it also seemed suspended from the sky and the host of outdoor sleepers looked on with awe.
Naples was a heaving grey, white cosmopolitan mass that merged with the shadow of Vesuvius, and my only real memory here is drinking thick black chocolate likened only to tar and yearning for a drink of water that would have to remain unquenched until returning to the ship.
Once again youthful ignorance of opportunity and little wish to absorb culture and history at that time, I declined to visit Pompeii as yet still buried in ash and recognise now that another opportunity was lost that I would regret in later life.
Inherent dislike for France and the French is possibly an exaggerated manifestation of genetic memory, almost a declaration of ancient Englishness in that it bears no logic, yet records one of my youngest, more immature recognition’s of racial intolerance.
If only that I recall this ancient culture by images of public urinals with streams of pee trickling between male feet, protruding just below corrugated screens doing little to conceal the urgent flow of urine running into channels down the gutters into road drains.
Finally our last port of call before England; Gibraltar! What a sight for sore eyes as the grand old rock towered above and even to my youthful memory, presented an image of British ness that was forever England.
Dutiful tourist guides took us to the peak of the mountain and safe haven to the Barbary apes. Playfully mischievous there presence shares similar reputation to the ravens of the Tower of London, as symbols of Britain’s downfall should they absent themselves from these stony strongholds.
At the summit we gazed down upon the fortified harbour and the first overview of our ship of passage, plus, a fair element of the Royal Navy that no longer exists outside of memories. The populace gave off an air of British ness that they clung to. Their pride in that allegiance, believing it as something of value, created a great deal of effort to de-Spanish themselves in a manner far exceeding their wish of just tourist consumption.
The trip on board ship was most memorable, the food gorgeous and I had taken to helping to lay tables, an act that secured me extra rations whenever need arose. The swimming pool, outdoor cinema, and images of flying fish, porpoises and even a whale, are as vivid now as if they had just happened.
Yet the over riding memory was the poverty and depravation of the countries we had visited leaving an impression of ugliness that led me to believe at that time that if there was a God, he could never let such things remain so. And the argument that these poor suffering souls will be repaid in the after life if they were Christians, is destroyed by the fact that the greater majority were not of that persuasion.
No one is blind to the malnutrition and depravity in this age of progress. Token gestures of charitable aid and assistance regardless of religion and national wealth, is little more than an insult to the suffering parents of a starving, dying child, where only death will release the non believer from perpetual guilt.
In all, as the last leg of the journey seemed mild and tranquil I reflected upon the distinct advantage I had enjoyed and the many adventures denied to the greater majority through their lives. Yet I also wasted many opportunities that, had I been a bit older and a bit wiser would never have been missed.
Nonetheless, the six week return journey home was pure bliss. I had the absolute luxury of being able to view, select and witness some of the worlds greatest wonders and through my own youthful inexperience, blot out the images that didn’t fit or conform to my happy memories. Yet in later life and in a deep state of depression brought those ugly images back to life, they had cast an imprint upon my mind that I would take to my grave.
Then after six glorious weeks, we docked at Tilbury, we were home.
My age upon our return was twelve years and the trip had triggered my interest in the Second World War. That interest was to grow steadily, and as it developed, I was fortunate enough to be able to listen to the stories of old soldiers and relatives that had fought in that war and survived it with such great expectations.
Now that generation was ageing and passing on, but this did not deter me from continuing my study of politics, history and warfare through research and reading and in many ways this was to taint my life beyond measure.
At that time, even the word conspiracy was unheard of, unlike now, where it is propagated to conceal and camouflage the real thing amidst the abundance of hoaxes and deliberate misleading dis-information.
This however did not nullify the information I accrued and – to be perfectly honest, made me feel positively sick to my stomach at the extent of deception, lies, and above all, complete absence of conscience, compassion or quite simple common decency toward the ultimate pawns, the working classes. Or! The people of my parent’s generation.
However, it was not long before my attitude toward England changed immensely. It seemed claustrophobic and to some extent grubby, but then it was buried in the dust of time and if the Australian education system had taught me anything, it was respect.
The nation of my birth had a provenance hardly equaled in the western world. Its ancient monuments had not yet generated full enthusiasm for conservation and remained so for some twenty years or more, but, they did offer an immense sense of belonging, time, and pride.
Initially my family lodged with friends as my Father’s attempts to return to Ministry work proved fruitless, and over the course of 1960 we were able to reunite with some of our more affluent friends who lived in the same road as my primary school in Highbury.
Hayes was the family name and their house towered above the leafy street and was considered opulent at a time when Emergency Ward Ten was popular and filmed in a modest studio just down the road.
I am not sure of whether they owned the house. But I think not as two generations of their family occupied only three of the five distinct floor levels, but it was a magnificent structure. At the rear was a large walled garden around which were ancient lime trees that offered shade through the day as the sun swept across it.
Mr. Hayes earned his living as a wine taster and seemed to do very well at it; he also had one of the most wonderful collections of British stamps I had ever seen. Mrs. Hayes was kindly and the least assuming of the family who maintained a sense of personal discipline and care over their only son Paul.
His Grandmother lived in an apartment below. Although I never visited it, a scant glance through the open door revealed the sheer extent and number of specimens of her favourite pastime in embroidery. Cushions, table cloths, dust covers were adorned with brightly coloured beautiful wildlife embroidery were every where and her latest project accompanied her where ever she went.
As a family, they annually rented a bungalow on Canvey Island for a holiday, and I had the good fortune to be invited along. From there we were able to embark on walks that took us around the complete perimeter of the island and find the most bitter, dry tasting sloe’s you could want to eat and I loved them straight off the hedge.
The island itself enjoyed a wealth of beauty in its marshes and nature trails and is much besmirched by the fuel storage facility that scars its skyline; enjoying a notoriety that threatens to erase the island off the map of England should it ever ignite either accidentally or by terrorist attack.
Every morning, bright and early, Paul and I would walk the short distance to get a daily paper guided by the luscious aroma of fresh loaves of bread being extracted from ovens in the bakery next door to the paper shop. Eagerly purchased the bread was, needless to say, eaten with great relish, smothered in thick melting butter as soon as we returned to our holiday let.
Nana Hayes would slice the remainder; let it cool for a while and make sandwiches with it, following which, we would embark on one of the many popular activities that our regular visits had evolved.
My favourite area was the wartime gun emplacements, intended as defence against unwanted enemy entry to the Thames estuary. Largely intact, the great concrete bunkers rambled underground as well as skyward. Intermittently, towers for range finding rose on stilt- like legs, above massive concrete emplacements housing great cogs to allow rotation of artillery pieces.
These were served by chain fed shell lifts rising from the now damp powder stores rusting underneath, their mechanism seized with the erosion of salt air and the all powerful enemy of such engineering - time.
Most of our days though, were spent on the beach lazing on the sand and waiting for the tide to raise enough to use the paved sea defences as a diving board at our favourite part of the day, high tide. And once, while gazing lazily seaward I was astounded to see to see the old familiar silhouette of the SS. Otranto, the ship that took us to Australia.
Woefully she steamed tired and empty to her demise at a breakers yard up the Thames. The discoloured, sad state of her hull and paintwork indicated she was not a well ship and the kindest action would be to put her to rest.
That same year we also reunited with our old friends from Roseleigh Avenue, the Bentley family. They now lived in a house in Enfield at the bottom of a cul-de-sac, and that house was to remain their family home for fifty years or more.
It was a corner plot with a massive orchard garden and shed for tools; the house itself was three bedrooms and was decorated in a manner that mesmerised me when I first saw it. Something unknown in Australia, patterned wallpapered!
Employment options for my Father at that time were bleak. Surveying of military establishments or massive inter-linking road developments were scarce to say the least. Constrained by little choice, my parents considered options for creating a family business and putting the modest amount of capital Australia had allowed them to save, to good use.
Job hunting was a skill I had not yet cause to learn, but I was alert to the fact that they appeared constantly absorbed by trade and business journals that, after lengthy hours of study did guide them to a conclusion that put as back on our feet as a family.
We moved to an off-license that was part of the Galleon Wine group at an outlet in Peckham, south London. It was located in Maxted road, on the corner of two roads in a fairly heavily built up area, just behind Peckham Rye.
Across the road was a Jamaican bakery that made the most gorgeous dense white bread I enjoyed enormously. The proprietor was a friendly man who struck up a relationship with my Father, and resulted in sharing a delivery vehicle, mutually spreading the cost and in many cases the delivery service of alcoholic beverages from our off-license as well as fresh succulent bread from his bakery.
Schooling took me to an old Victorian red brick building of immense size called Thomas Carlton Secondary Modern, where, because I had missed my eleven plus during my time in Australia was immediately dropped a level in education. My apparent plight being that they could not compare me to any recognised standards within which to monitor my place in the UK education system.
However, before much time had passed, it became apparent that the Australian education system was such that I was further advanced than where they had placed me and this resulted in another class move, only this time, moving me up a year higher than my age group.
This elevated me through the first term, into one that I should never really have been placed in, if only in recognition of the fact that I was obviously younger than those I shared a class with. Conversely this too was not to last, and I was dropped back a class before the first term was over as I simply couldn’t get on with the older pupils.
No sooner had I acclimatised myself to the education stream and finally settled in, when I recognised the radical difference in treatment, respect, and attitude the British education system applied to its own nation’s history.
Australia taught history with pride from the first Roman invasion of Britain until Captain Cook’s arrival on their shores. Lessons given made highlight of the cultures that were instrumental in creating the British character and of course similarities to migrants from respective homelands to develop and flourish in the larger landmass of Australasia.
From the arrival of Captain Cook, Australian history moved with emphasis into respective, parallel history to ours, but with obvious priority placed upon their own.
European cultures found easy assimilation at that time but native aborigines remained downtrodden. Afro individuals were unknown and Asiatics' had hardly been acknowledged as their nearest neighbours.
Nazi Germany had precipitated the omission of such words as assembly and physical training as being militaristic, which as an adjunct, seemed to impact to its detriment on national pride. Now, as we extracted such vocabulary and attitude from the education system, we also seemed to initiate a policy of guilt and reparation, as if we had something to be ashamed of as a nation.
Evacuees and immigrants from across the world entered society, and after several years in the education system. I deduced this was not just the attitude of this one school but more a national directive and that policy dictate was to propagate a sense of watering down achievement, as if aimed to compensate for other nations shortcomings.
This remains to this day, an absolute mystery to me as having traveled many countries touched by our expansion, they didn’t seem to expect or require such a degrading attitude from us. Moreover, there was a sense of expectation and hope that our achievement could be shared. Yet I could not fathom why I was being taught to be ashamed of my nation’s heritage.
If schooling moulds the person, then this could not fail but to create a decline in self-esteem, personal pride, sense of duty and moral standards. The confidence and character of pupils was being forcefully moulded into a multi cultural society that made little attempt to recognise the religious and often cultural barriers inherent in immigrant populations.
On the whole immigrants introduced a culture that they clung on to, in essence retaining as much pride as I wished we had shown when we lived in Australia. Assimilation may have been the objective but denying the reality that prejudice occurs on both sides could only act as a retardant to integration.
Solace came to me in the belief that youth often reverses the teachings of its elders and that young people would reject this state imposed philosophy. However, I don’t think I ever realised the intensity and sheer impact selective or censored education would have upon my generation’s development. By the same token, how they could express such public surprise when witnessing the extent and growth of unruly, criminal action as this grouping matured beggars belief.
Character building was sacrificed in the ‘Nanny’ state, causing a whole generation to lurch purposely toward an anarchic society. Being weaned to feel belittled, degraded, if not guilty of the actions of our forefathers, was no way for us to pay back the debt of our explorers, inventors and Empire builder.
In effect this served my developing an eager interest in my nation’s history quite simply as an act of rebellion. Not sparked by the national education system but in spite of it.
Recommended reading was state controlled, victors write the history books, and none of the acclaimed works even hinted at the earliest suspicions of conspiracy and deliberate misleading of information, details and facts. Any other treatment and publication would hardly happen.
National pride was clearly out of fashion! However, left to my own devices I felt distinct pride in what we had achieved in the light of being such a small country, especially when viewing the sheer landmass of what was once known as the British Empire, and – having actually visiting much of it.
My thought as a twelve year old whether militaristic, religious, or otherwise led me to become a member of the Boys Brigade and was able to prove beyond all shadow of doubt that I was incapable of playing a bugle, although I played a mean, if not loud kettle drum.
Perhaps my thoughts were of the religious teachings my Nan had tried to guide me toward. Regardless, I found voluntary service in helping the elderly quite rewarding and visited and did chores at fairly regular intervals for one particular pensioner who lived opposite our off license, sadly a resounding memory is that of repugnant aroma, the smell of age.
During this time I only had one real friend, Peter Tate, a carrot top with whom I lost contact after moving my family home once again. Although the Off license was probably the most successful business my parents ever embarked upon, I did often wonder if our best customer was not my Father!!
Whether this was the reason, my parents relocated and bought another business I did not know? This time it was a high street transport cafe in Enfield, Middlesex, and by no coincidence not far from the Bentley family home. All this was occurring at a time some might claim was perhaps one of the most romantic and enviable eras in which to have lived in modern history.
Fashion was to evolve into a major industry, British music was a major export, and - we were to gradually seize the lead set by America to forge new sounds and set the pace of modern music for generations. True, Elvis was still the king and demolished established barriers, but our musicians picked up the music sheet and exploded it into whole new styles and trends that carry on to this day.
Popular music thundered from our juke box at five plays a shilling, or 5p in today’s currency, and a go on the pin table cost the princely sum of thru pence, just over one 1p. The prime Teddy boy era was drawing to a close and the next generation of youth was wearing leather jackets rather than velvet collars. Our place, the ‘Black & White café’ became a popular haunt of teenage youth, especially as we stayed open from eight in the morning until ten at night.
Juke box playing, pintables clacking, it was a hive of activity at the time Chris Montez brought out his song ‘Lets Dance’. Its background sound thumped away to drown out deathly serious schemes and plans to make our young clientele rich, undress the girl on the table opposite or simply banter on about a future where amateur guitar playing would lead to fame and fortune. Above all, there was a degree of hope and expectation in the hearts of young people of the time. Anything was possible.
Of dubious repute a new school was located and by now I had established a level or place for myself within education structuring and merging into a year group with relative ease. As the new boy there were obvious pitfalls, but the fact that my parents owned the local cafe and that it was the haunt of older brothers and aspiring teenagers, gave me a place of almost deity status.
Never much good at sport I regularly bunked off the lesson, but I reveled in outdoor pursuits of all kinds, especially those that took me off the school grounds. At the same time, one of my classmates was a member of the local Air Training Corps and with very little persuasion, secured my interest.
Encouraged by my Father I joined 1288 Squadron located just behind the council waste disposal yard in Carterhatch Lane, Enfield. Thus I and several school mates immersed ourselves in the opportunity that this new pursuit offered, including several camps on RAF Bases such as Oakington and Leconsfield.
Activities were varied but by the far the most exciting were quite a few hours flying in twin seat, Chipmunk trainers, or once in an old veteran aircraft called an Avro-Anson, along with other such flying monsters as Varsity’s a Britannia - and - then of course gliders.
One of my earliest experiences of flight occurred at Northolt in Middlesex and the sheer joy and pleasure of glider flight was an experience that had to be embarked upon to gain appreciation of its sheer splendour. Having been strapped into the two-seater aircraft, the first movement is a firm jolt as the winch takes up the strain of the pulley cable hooked into the nose cone, then lurches forward.
Bouncing along on a body slung ski, the sleek crafts motion and speed picked up very quickly causing it to lift majestically and silently into the air, the only real evidence of flight is the gently dropping, silent earth below.
A height of several hundred feet is achieved before the tow cable is released and drops to earth, with its downward passage inhibited to a moderate speed by a small parachute. Free flight then is the most graceful, peaceful feeling and the absence of mechanical sound makes the whole experience almost transcendental.
The panorama of land, cloud and birds in flight, present a feeling of oneness that is a dangerous elusion when considering the impact of gravity as the whole image transforms perception to one of screen imagery opposed to reality.
Of very few gauges on the control panel the most immediately recognized in one depicting horizon and horizontal flight and once the moving silhouette touched the fixed cross hair, the pilot asked did I want to take control or did I wish to experience aerobatics.
My logic was flight control, and then I could do the aerobatics. Perhaps humoured, if a little annoyed he didn’t really show it, as no doubt others had tried this ploy before, so in lightening the load of inquest I nervously asked, ‘Are gliders capable of doing a loop?’
His response was instant and stomach churning. The nose cone dropped ninety degrees, my body lurched forward instantly causing my torso to hang loosely in the aircraft’s harness and my eyes gazed wide and bulging directly downward at the ground below as we dropped dead in the air for what seemed like an eternity. Then - just as suddenly, the nose cone rose up and began a wide arch now aiming directly skyward.
My body was forced back with motion and gravity, having reached the peak of climb the aircraft simply rolled over and backward onto its nose leaving the open cockpit and me hanging once again from my harness upside down.
This vision left me breathless as I witnessed images of perspective that I had only ever seen on a television screen before. Soon after, the craft nose-dived and came out of the roll at a height very similar to that we were at prior to the manoeuvre.
What an experience and what a broad grin that pilot aimed at me, expecting I am sure, to see an ashen white face, or a void opening to release that days breakfast. Instead he saw a joyous, excited, and bouncy human who had adrenaline unused in this magnificent experience, which, I recall to this day as one of the most brilliant pastimes I had ever experienced.
Gracefully, almost swooning across the sky we remained air bound for another twenty minutes or so and I concluded with considerable resolve that this was to be my chosen career. After a while we lost height and gradually came down to earth with a gentle thump at the end of the runway. Behind us two aircraftsmen supported the wings horizontally while I disembarked, thanking the pilot profusely.
Landrovers were used to ferry cadets to the other end of the airfield to await with eager anticipation their mates who were also enjoying flights. The rough journey across the grassy field and taxi bay took us literally under the great swept back wings of a Vulcan bomber, pure white and dormant, like a primeval monster awaiting its prey.
All planned I felt, as part of the carefully calculated days schedule to give us maximum excitement and experience, all contributing to the feeling of being treated as fledgling recruits in the best air force in the world.
On a more light-hearted note, I recall a minor incident at home that was loosely linked to the Air Training Corps or at least it’s uniform. Just prior to a parade night, I had rushed to sew on my second stripe awarded the week before, and thought I heard a noise downstairs in the cafe, that shouldn’t have been there.
Half heartedly, I crept down the carpeted stair case, sewing as I went and opened the door at the bottom with a degree of speed based on impatience rather than surprise. Having almost fallen through the close boarded door I was shocked to be confronted by an older teenager standing very nervously by the counter in the darkened, closed cafe.
Dimly lit I couldn’t make out any facial features and stood rigid and somewhat surprised with a pair of scissors in my hand. Perhaps the sight of these influenced this unknown’s person’s nervous response.
He claimed nervously that my Father had said he could wait there until the cafe reopened, which was always a possibility, as my Father was generous to a point sometimes of naiveté, so I chose to check with my Dad and called back up the stairs to confirm this.
Holding the door to my chest to stop it closing, my face left his view just for a moment as I called up and in that brief moment he took to his heels. I heard the commotion of him bolting for the disturbing furnishings as he went and having alerted Father I chased in hot pursuit.
The intruder ran from the premises onto the high street, then turning right down Green Street towards Brimsdown. I pursued him at a distance and hurled a cotton reel at him out of frustration, but chose to hang onto the scissors in case they came in handy! The thought of a hue and cry never entered my mind, as by nature I just wasn’t the sort of person to cry out, even for assistance.
Two of us raced down the gentle paving slope and then right into a cul-de-sac where David Bell, a friend of mine, lived and through a tall hedgerow that separated the road from the church grounds next door. We had entered the graveyard and ran disrespectfully over tombstones for a relatively short distance where, for a brief moment I lost him amidst the clusters of marble statues.
Resolving to follow his footsteps through the freshly laid snow, I was extremely surprised to find that they appeared to have stopped abruptly and left no visible evidence whatsoever of human movement other than perhaps straight up. I resolved, not unhappily, to not catching him, especially as I didn’t know what I was going to do if I did, and put his vanishing trick down to one of life’s strange unknowns.
Meanwhile bulling ones uniform was not to everyone’s taste, but I for one enjoyed it. I learned to iron trousers with a sharp, central crease better than my Mother, and discovering tricks of the trade like how to clean ones boots properly.
One strongly prescribed method was heating the polish before applying the lengthy, rigorous, circular polishing strokes that often meant dipping cloth in tea and rotating ones finger softly to apply a fine layer or skin of polish upon which to build a high gleam, in particular to toe caps.
Laborious as this was, shortcuts rarely worked and having commenced this preparation later than usual, I opted to speed up the process of toecap cleaning to recover lost time. Starting with a fairly thick coat of polish administered on the toecap, I chose to heat it, or more accurately, melt it into a malleable texture.
Taking a small tin of lighter fuel I tipped it over the toecap of my boots and applied a naked flame. Common sense should have prevailed but the fluid had run onto the paper placed upon the carpet and both, along with my boots, were now ablaze.
Leaping back from the blue flames I decided quite quickly that I wasn’t going to try and stamp out the flames with my sock covered feet and called, panicking, to my Father who was serving behind the counter downstairs in the cafe.
Polish on the boots by this time was melted soft and had burning rivulets dropping on our front room carpet. No sooner had my Father opened the door to the obvious urgency of my shout, than I hurled the blazing boots down the stairwell to fall at his feet.
Thankfully, buckets were plentiful in the kitchen area and his reflexes were really on the ball, he grabbed a bucket of water he noticed already filled, and raced up the flight of stairs to throw it over the flames - it worked instantly but it didn’t cook the chips that had been pealed and placed in the bucket ready for use later that day!
The humour of freshly peeled and sliced chips all over the floor, at least elevated the situation to one of raucous laughter as both he and Mum saw the funny side of the scene that unfolded in front of them. I in the meantime, was barred from cleaning my boots anywhere upstairs from that time on and got off very lightly from my first - accidental arson attack.
More dutiful of cadet activities saw an annual camp takes us to Leconsfield in Yorkshire. This was the base of the Blue Diamond display team who flew Hawker Hunters at the time. It was also the station where one of my distant relatives acted as senior officer, and my presence noted, he asked to see me.
Attending his office in true military fashion I accorded him the respect of his rank and was asked to take a seat. For a while we reminisced about who we knew and where and what they were doing and I told him of my aspirations to join the Royal Air Force when leaving school, but of course it went without saying that he could not influence the normal entrance process.
Of course this resulted in some ribbing from my mates but it didn’t gain me any advantage, not that I would have known how to recognise it in this truly professional and highly tuned military establishment, but it did impress me further and set my resolve for my chosen career.
Such a front line station was fascinating as we were taken on tours of radar and ground control facilities, and gazed proudly up at two aircraft manned awaiting a scramble, whilst two others were already on constant patrol over a designated area. My squadron shared a naïve respect for our nation’s front line role in the ‘cold war’, little knowing we were little more than an advance party to be sacrificed in the first moves of deterrent and political intrigue.
Perhaps the pinnacle of that camp was watching as the first Lockheed Lightening fly in for trials, as the squadron was to take a full consignment of this ultra modern machine for its time in the very near future.
Weapon training included live firing practice on the ranges with the .303 rifle and Bren gun. The kick back on the .303 rifle was quite shocking to start with, but any discomfort was distracted by watching one of the smaller cadet’s fire the light machine gun.
He took up the advised position carefully; prone with a straight line of body down his right leg running along the line of the barrel of the weapon, his right leg slightly wide as an anchor and the weapon firmly pulled into his right shoulder.
Squeezing the trigger to detonate short bursts was all as instructed, but it didn’t prevent his whole body to shake n backward with the violent vibration. Its path only quelled by one of the officers wedging his boot on the sole of the cadets foot to retard his movement, due to the recoil of the automatic fire.
Another example of kick back was vividly displayed as we witnessed a trial of a Hunter as its guns roared whilst stationary on the ground. Taxied into a firing line to the front of a purpose built brick wall, it instantly cut it in half with a blast that only lasted a few seconds. The aircraft itself vibrated madly and was clearly seen to roll back steadily with its breaks off rather than put them under the tension of such explosive, fast firing recoil.
We were also briefed to act as an enemy in an escape and evasion exercise. Our orders were that we would make our way from an undisclosed destination back to the base. In doing so we were instructed to avoid detection by patrolling vehicles, helicopter observation and defending forces of the RAF regiment.
Clambering up the vertical steel of a four toners tail gate that evening, we were taken an unknown distance along a convoluted route from the camp and had to get our bearings as best we could from surrounding lights, church spires and the natural terrain.
We had been issued two days rations, a map, compass and very little more. The first thing we did when our position had been determined, was find an isolated Inn and with the Landlords consent, set up camp in the field behind, with home comforts provided by one of the senior NCOs and the night passed with eager chatter and nervous anticipation.
Then, taking advantage of the dawn light we commenced our cautious journey homeward. It became clear that the lorry had driven an erratic route in order to give the impression of distance and we were actually only about eight miles away from camp.
True enough, helicopters were in flight, but they were probably just carrying out normal duties. None the less, we took to ground when any came even remotely near to us and chose to believe they were part of the exersize and seeking us.
We did however, stumble upon a pair of RAF landrovers in the undergrowth. Causing one of the bigger lads claiming to have let air out of some of the tyres. Romanticizing, I could not say whether it was true, the vehicles did not pursue us on our departure, but perhaps they were doing something else anyway.
Maintaining our cautious return, a helicopter passed overhead and we dived for cover in a wheat field. Immersed by the long limbed crop I remember gazing upward with some humour when I realised that from the air, our quest for cover may well have looked like ten or so worms moving about under the surface of the tall wheat sheaths, which we must have displaced leaving a distinct trail through the crop as we squirmed around in it.
We may not have been seen, but if that was not so, it was only because they weren’t looking. Nonetheless we were never detected and opted to enter the camp through the main gates rather than challenge the security of the outer perimeter or the safety of air transit by compromising the runways in any way.
Forming in true military fashion we marched proudly to the main gate and reported in. Proving to be the first squadron to return, we were greeted with some degree of pride by our Squadron Leader, a large, red faced man with a heart of gold.
Success at achieving our goal was rewarded by our senior NCO being given a flight in a two-seater hunter jet whilst we enviously watched from the ground below. In addition, after some instruction in a lecture room, we were taken by coach to the coastal harbour of Bridlington and embarked upon an Air Sea Rescue launch.
Then, having been briefed us once again on how to conduct the next actions, one by one, we leaped backward off of the vessel into the bitterly cold North Sea. Impacting the water was a total shock to the physical system and the training we had received went into clockwork motion as if we were true professionals, but the truth was, it was the quickest way of getting out of the freezing cold water.
Coughing and spluttering was quite difficult between chattering teeth but the life preserver was inflated and dinghy boarded within fifteen seconds, well within allotted time. Then came the matter of overlaying the rain and sun cover over our bodies like a tent, whilst still leaving freedom to paddle the hundred or so yards that separated each of the six or seven rafts, bobbing about independently in the cold, grey waves.
Without paddles the task proved fruitless and I felt particularly hard done by as my rubber base had sprung a leak and whilst a finger denied much water access, I did sit in a puddle for the duration. Accepting there was little fear of sinking, the base was adequately supported and inflated by the bulbous walls of the dinghy, thus I waited shivering until being picked up by a RAF rescue helicopter at the culmination of the exercise.
As we travel through life, we tend to equate major events with what we were doing, or where we were when they happened. As if by some miracle this offers some form of association with the event concerned, but of course it doesn’t, but then it does serve as datum points in which to rally memories and thoughts - and recall personal events of much lesser import than world activities and its effects.
For example, the Cuba crisis. I had just left my mate John South at his home, having made our way back from a training evening at our HQ and was just opposite the church near the café when he caught me up puffing and panting and simply bursting at the seams to tell me something.
Breathlessly, he blurted out the contents of a news flash recording Kennedy’s ultimatum to Khrushchev to turn a Russian convoy about on its way to Cuba. He continued that the convoy was clearly showing missile pods on deck destined for deployment too close for the United States to tolerate.
This was tantamount to a declaration of war and both of us raced back to the cafe and switched on the TV to gain the latest update as to what was happening. Two thirteen year old, naive teenagers were pining for a war we could get into, making no measure of the finality of such a war and placing little credence on the training films that showed the sheer destructive power of modern ordinance a joint threat to both east and west in policy known as M.A.D. Mutually Assured Destruction.
Thankfully, Kennedy’s metal was not tested and Khrushchev turned the ships back, averting what could well have resulted in a nuclear conflagration of World War Three and thus the Cuba crisis passed.
In the meantime, disappointed at the scarcity of the contact this particular armed service might have in combat I reflected on Cadet activity and realised that flight hours were few and far between and training was restricted to navigation, aerodynamics, and matters where practical application was rare and all but non-existent.
I had thoroughly enjoyed our land exercise and felt I would gain more benefit and, I have to say, satisfaction, by transferring my loyalty to the Army Cadet Force, who had a much more earthbound emphasis.
The nearest detachment was located at Cheshunt, about three miles north and several ATC mates and I went to enroll. We were a small part of the Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire regiment which in the future was to be merged in with the Royal Anglian regiment
We soon evolved quite proficient aptitude at ground movement and skill at arms. Having basic skills in map reading, an understanding of drill and discipline as well as marksmanship badges with rifle and machine gun application. It did not take long to achieve various stars and training awards in the new detachment so settling in was just a matter of very few attendances.
Before long, the established comradeship of cadet activity blossomed and new friends were made including a young chap called Bill Whyte and his neighbour Bill Merry. Thinking back, I do not recall ever going on a regular army base for a week long camp but enjoyed many weekend field exercises in training grounds in and around Hertfordshire and Thetford.
Somehow, somewhere along the line, our platoon appears to have been noticed as being a little bit better, if not different to any of the others within our regiment and an order from above authorised our participation to be all but covert and to participate in manoeuvres without the other detachment personnel knowing we would be there.
In effect we were to specialise in acting as an unknown enemy for most battalion exercises. Reputation and fear took us to numerous exercises that we never attended, detachments only achieving confirmation of presence by the launch of surprise attacks.
Perhaps to make identification easier, we were given permission to purchase and wear our own choice of camouflage to differentiate us from the good guys, and bearing in mind the British forces were still wearing the blanket material BD’s post war khaki battle dress, it was an absolute luxury, if not honour, to don clothing that would mark us out as something special or different.
Thus, on a trip to Silverman’s, just outside Trafalgar Square, we chose brick pattern camouflage that had originated in Germany during the 1940s. Each set of jacket and trousers cost just a few pounds and we purchased about fourteen full sets, plus net scarves and soft caps.
The camouflage was efficient in most terrain and also had the additional benefit of being basically waterproof and padded at knee and elbow joints. Little did we know that whilst we wore these jacket and trousers for numerous childish adventures, time would prove they could well have turned out to be a great investment had we only known, as these uniforms increased in value over the years, and became worth hundreds of pounds per set to collectors of Second World War German Militaria.
Developing hormones altered my emphasis or priorities and females first entered my life. The first noticeable female was one of the Bentley twins, Geraldine. I always did fancy her although she was a little bossy, but she was a Catholic and a good girl and outside of a few cursory manual explorations, more often than not rebuffed, nothing was to develop between us. Marie her older sister was more my age and had a crush on me.
She was a lovely person with a beautiful personality that was blighted by epilepsy. Nothing materialised between us but evidence suggests she has retained this yearning for me even to this day. Fred, Geraldine’s twin brother, was my best mate, but he was also a few years younger than me and whilst it matters little for male /female relationships, it does when you are with a load of biker mates and he was too young for their company or activity.
We were still close, but sadly our lives developed at a different pace and we were to slowly drift apart and lose contact through our more formative teenage years. The Bentley house backed onto an alley and a short cut route to one of the still existent playing fields that were then little more than leveled out bombsites.
To the rear of their house was another family, the Franklin’s. They were seen as the local rogues and were always in trouble somewhere, but I found them a good bunch and befriended most of the brothers at some point over the years. I attended a school with one of the younger Franklin’s, who suffered a poor academic reputation.
Our cafe attracted all sorts of custom and of course that included some of the less savoury villains of the area. Perhaps inevitably, this resulted in my Father being accused of receiving stolen goods. Of course there was no truth to the allegation as his honesty was beyond question and whilst this point was never put to the test, my Mother threatened to sue the local constabulary for one thing or another, then suggested she would retract this if they dropped the charges against me and they did!
The cafe often drew police attention simply because of the people that frequented it. On several occasions I recall punch ups occurring at the Top House, a pub on the corner of Green Street. These were territorial disputes and were ridiculously repetitive.
Contestants, travelers and teddy Boys. The format; a dispute starts at the bar, the traveler women take to their feet and hurl glasses, bottles, ash trays and anything close to hand at the optics beg hind the bar. Bar staff suitably diverted, the men of both factions get stuck in.
Chairs, tables and sometimes bodies vacate the pub through its windows, with the police meantime, often stationed over the road in the parking bay to the shops still caught on the hop. A warning of their arrival would ring out and a pre planned operation would go into place.
Regulars would vacate the pub through the back doors and scamper atop the yard wall along three properties, then down, through our back yard and into the cafe through the back door. Once inside and seated, they found playing cards in place, along with drinks and music playing as police raids failed to secure arrests as alibis seemed water tight and numerically supportive.
My career as a professional accident began at about this time and having had my left leg broken when run down by a car, I was housebound for three months and often at a loose end and bored. Other regular patrons were an aspiring young band, who hit the charts as the Dave Clark Five and one of them loaned me his spare guitar to try and learn.
My Mum was possibly one of the first people to act how she felt rather than how others expected her to act, i.e., according to her age, and she reveled in the atmosphere of young people. The thought of me playing a guitar certainly appealed to her and she encouraged me with the possible reward of buying me my own if I could learn one complete tune in a week. I learned Hava-Nagila, but never got my guitar.
As for Dave and his chums, before they ever cut their first record, (Glad all over), they were involved in a serious car crash resulting in the fatality of one of their number, I believe the bass player - and for a while, probably humouring me, they suggested I take his place, but I was too young and certainly not good enough. Things that might have been!
Meanwhile one of many regrets in my life is wasting the opportunity to go and see the Beatles live at the Finsbury Park Astoria. Tickets had been given to us for promoting the event in our café, but I, in seeking more cash for my newly started militaria collection sold all three tickets for six pounds, a considerable sum when pocket money would then be an equivalent of 50p per week.
Running a cafe was extremely hard work. It was labour intensive, demanding, hot, long hours of preparation before even considering opening the doors. Profit margins were low, a cup of tea cost less than 1p in today’s currency, and financial commitments my parents had undertaken were such that my Father simply had to get a second job just to keep on top of financial demands.
He first became a milkman and then a bus driver which quite naturally put a strain on my family’s stability. The tension of long working hours by both parents and the worry of making ends meet, led inevitably to domestic rows and friction, but this had been a strong feature in my upbringing for as long as I could remember.
My parents had evolved a means of earning a living that put them in each others company for the greater part of a seven day week and free time resulting in hard play and sometimes antagonism. In their case, it reached such a pitch that I recall yet again my Mother leaving home and taking me with her.
We took up temporary residence in a bed-sit in Finsbury Park and I whiled away my days in the park opposite with school being totally neglected for the duration, but thankfully, their rows always resulted in reconciliation but this one left a cloud hanging over my mothers fidelity that she had been caught out with another man Peter, a young good looking regular customer, but I never saw any evidence of this.
At about this time I began to take interest in collecting, items of Militaria and any pocket money simply couldn’t sustain such costs. Thus to support this embryonic obsession I delivered papers, did a bread round with my Father when he had that job for a while. I also worked in the supermarket over the road, stacking shelves. This all being supplemented by a job in the stockrooms of Woolworth’s during summer holidays.
Earnings were added to bus fare money I saved by walking everywhere, and unlike many of my peers, I did not smoke. Indeed, I found it much more profitable to sell single cigarettes from a packet, for tuppence each which all went toward supporting the costly demands of my new, lifelong hobby.
At fifteen, I had a sixteen-year-old girlfriend, Ann Waters. She was not particularly good looking but to a fifteen year old, and she having left school was a terrific status symbol. When my part in her life became known to her single nursing Mum. I was banned from seeing her and never actually knew why. She threatened to make a ward of court, which only served to make us more cautious and devious. Which resulted in me sneaking in to see her late at night, as her Mum was regularly on night shifts?
However, she needn’t have worried, my knowledge of the female body stopped at the differing colour of socks and we never got up to any mischief as I simply didn’t know how. What transpired to change things I do not know, but a message reached me asking me to go to the house and talk to her Mother, which I did with great trepidation.
For reasons unknown to me she had concluded that keeping us apart was counter productive and that from now on we had her blessing, but sadly, that seemed to have the opposite effect as our relationship dwindled away and poor Ann was to die of bowel cancer within that same calendar year.
Expectations at the school were low; seeming more designed as class containment and offering little encouragement toward academic ambition or ability, simply maintained the status quo in blissful ignorance of opportunity and career.
My ambition remained with the RAF as a pilot, but only then did I realise the standard of my schooling was such that I had to take exams to even qualify to take the exams acceptable for enrolment. Nonetheless I persevered into the fifth year and was literally the only one doing so, which was quite a brave thing, as education, was far from fashionable in my peer group.
My schoolmates had left and acquired employment with steady incomes, giving them the financial freedom to start enjoying life. Their teenage youth was launched free of constraint leaving me out on a limb and having to defend myself against all comers.
As a loner, I witnessed the new fourth year acting the traditional bullies and setting about the younger kids to establish their place of seniority. I could never stand bullying and set myself up as school protector. This led me into all kinds of scrapes during my short-lived stay on at school, but I was rarely challenged and held the position with some degree of self-esteem.
One particular evening I walked the normal route home down Brick Lane and came to the Railway Bridge upon which was a grocers shop. Just below its summit, three youths from another school were tormenting a lone boy who was clearly in great distress and under serious physical duress.
With little thought for consequences, I ran up the slope and across the road surveying the opposition as I went. I chose to tackle the one who was the same size as me, and then take it from there. His back was to me and was punching mindlessly at the boy cowering under a rain of blows from all three of them.
The projection and motion of my body frame struck my chosen target, sending him reeling away from the centre of the fray, but in doing so, his head hit a lamppost and cracked open with a bright crimson gush of blood.
His two mates stood aghast momentarily, then simply ran off, the shopkeeper had watched the assault on the single child and done nothing to aid him, and then proceeded to harangue me for my action.
I, in the meantime, was absolutely stunned at the result of my actions and implored him to phone an ambulance, with which he turned about claiming it was nothing to do with him and left me totally bewildered as to what I should do.
Removing a white sports shirt from my hold all I placed it upon the injury to quench the flow of blood, but before long, it had changed colour. Then, lifting the disturbingly silent lad’s right arm over my neck for support, and half dragged the stunned person down Brick Lane, along the High Street and into the reception of our local police station, to get help.
Quickly responsive, the lad was rushed to hospital and treated for what turned out to be a superficial wound. Meanwhile the police began questioning me and threatening me with the charge of Actual Bodily Harm, an outcome they seemed particularly pleased to impose when I told them my home address.
Academically, the school had a poor reputation enduring all kinds of mischievous activities such as getting the French teachers car towed away for scrap metal, or telephone boxes blowing up. Yet there were several good teachers, one of whom tried very hard to introduce me to the concept of green fingers garden. Another made use of my agile running skills as PT teacher and sports manager, but -after some months of soldiering on as the only pupil to enter the fifth year, I became very disillusioned.
My RAF career ended abruptly and resentfully and I explored other avenues of joining my peers in the adult world by securing a job. From an early age I had demonstrated a talent for art, design, and drawing and whilst most of the subject matter was strictly martial I had hopes that this might evolve into something more practical and positive.
My art teacher supported my assignation prior to leaving school and created an opportunity for me to apply for and receive; a place at the Hornsey Art College, but fortuitously, a place was not immediately available for me to take up. Unlike the early twenty first century, expectations were wide open to those that went out to grab them.
Unemployment was almost unheard of - and work was the only source of income to purchase the things my old school chums had taken for granted for months previous. We had not yet reached the media based psychology designed to convince youth of simple right of ownership and that someone else will provide for you, providing you ask nicely. As a youth in the sixties you got what you paid for and no more.
The cafe recorded teddy boys on the pages of history and motor bikes now entered the scene with a roar, but I remained too young to have one whilst we still lived in the café. To speed the process up I calculated the quickest and best way to make up for lost time in the teenage world, was to apply to become a telegram delivery boy and let the GPO get me past my motor cycle test!
My parents had recognized the strain the workload was having on their marriage and sold the business to by a terraced house in Lower Edmonton, north London. It was a three bedroom place, quite small, but comfortable enough. My Mother created the home whilst Dad secured a staff position with a building company called Gilbert-Ash, part of the Bovis Group.
Five months remained until my sixteenth birthday and I took up a temporary post at the GPO Brimsdown factory in the foyer, here I met a man who had served in the eighth army was only too happy to tell me tales of his exploits when time permitted.
The location was not unpleasant and allowed a great deal of free movement implementing deliveries or liaising with visitors. Not difficult work but convincing me once and for all that my working life was not to be in such a claustrophobic atmosphere and that an outdoor life was the only way for me.
Soon after, on my sixteenth birthday, after having been on motorbikes off road for some time and receiving GPO instruction in the interim, I took my motor cycle test one morning at their Head Office on the North Circular road. I failed, primarily because I got lost on the prescribed route, followed by lunch in the canteen, another test - and a pass.
With a full licence, I was transferred to the Enfield Town Telegram despatch centre and settled into my new responsibility cheerfully. The waiting area for dispersal of telegrams was much like a station waiting room and any opportunity to get out on the road was taken eagerly, and, being resident in the area offered me at least a basic knowledge of the road and street layout that was quickly built upon.
Personal service through delivery of sometimes highly personal notifications was, in time, to disappear, but we became the harbinger of greetings and demise, on a vehicle which in my opinion was a safety hazard in its own right. Weather was no deterrent to service and accidents plentiful, but there was an air of freedom worth cherishing.
We rode BSA bantams which were powered by a 175cc engine. However, this under-powered machine had two governors placed in the carburettor to slow it down even further and whilst we learned to remove one of them, the other ensured a maximum speed of just 28 m.p.h.
In my year long stay with the GPO, I wrote off five of their machines in poor weather because of their lack of grip and lightness of frame. Either that or their complete lack of pulling power made it impossible to extricate oneself from danger, thus a whole series of accidents waiting to happen.
Unofficially, I and a colleague would park our own bikes at his house and after concealing the bantams, make deliveries on our own machines and whilst this was probably even ill-legal, we never did get caught out over many months when this occurred.
My first proper motorcycle was financed within days of taking up my new position. I purchased a 500cc Norton for the princely sum of eighteen pounds. The bike itself was a single cylinder engine ES2 with sidecar and chassis fitted to the passenger side, basically offering a powerful machine I could gain road experience on prior to taking the frame off to ride the bike solo.
To those who do not know, driving a motorcycle and sidecar without advance knowledge of its traits, is quite an experience. Firstly, they naturally drag to the left as the free wheeling nature of the sidecar has to be literally dragged along the road and steering compensated accordingly.
Secondly, when turning a right hand corner, unless you slow right down, the sidecar is prone to lift off the ground and tip you up; even with the weight of a passenger inside if the speed is anything above fixed balance levels.
It took me days to learn these idiosyncrasies. The first, day, or the first hundred yards, I found the draw into the left almost completely uncontrollable and the first relaxation of pushing forward with the left hand on the handlebars resulted in the machine veering suddenly left and into a garage door. Thankfully my reflexes being quite fast, breaking prevented any real damage upon impact.
Shocked and somewhat embarrassed, I cautiously decided to ride the infernal thing around the block homeward bound and attempt to discover what was wrong with it, and it certainly had to be somewhere a little less public.
Decision reached, I knew the route, but there was a removals lorry unloading its cargo into a house on the junction of the corner I needed to turn at. To my surprise, passing it went without incident, but relaxing for a moment, the leftward compensation when pulling back into the near side lane resulted in my mounting the pavement and straight into another garden fence and wall.
Was I annoyed? We remounted the machine pushed it back onto the road and by now, finding the situation just a little hilarious, set off again around the corner to tackle a long straight stretch that was homeward bound.
However, as it joined the road leading to home there was an ‘S’ bend that challenged my skill to its limit. The vehicle lurched leftward surging up the pavement through a gate with the sidecar, whilst the bike ploughed into a low brick wall and demolished it.
The best part was that the lady of the house was chatting to her neighbour across the dividing wall, both looking distinctly like a pair straight out of Coronation Street, hair net on one, another wearing a head scarf. And rather than interrupt the flow of conversation that must have had at very least, international implications, they simply cast a cursory gaze in our direction and carried on talking,
Stunned perhaps by their obvious disinterest, plus the fact that Bill my passenger, had been launched skyward to land indignantly on his backside, we dragged the machine from the rubble, placed our hands over the registration plates - and pushed it with some speed the rest of the way home.
Thankfully a an Irishman that lived over the road saw our plight - and having biking experience himself, pointed out the intricacies of damper adjustment, thus improving its steering function instantly, and then he gave me a short but effective driving lesson in the car park behind Edmonton Green.
Religiously, Saturday mornings were dedicated to cleaning and repairing our machines and might well result in a partial strip down as an elongated means of dabbling with mechanics and cleaning the vehicle properly.
Our terraced house was blighted by a small paved front yard that offered no weather proofing whatsoever and severely impaired by a hedge that consumed half the space that was left. Clutch adjustments on sidecar outfits were regular and located low down directly adjacent to the bullet nose sidecar body, thus separating the two was a natural recourse, but, made no allowance for the fact that the weather would greatly hamper any continued maintenance.
With a clutch all over the pavement, in foul weather, I found myself in a predicament which my mother didn’t seem to sympathise with, after I had rebuilt it in the front room whilst she was out shopping.