Earning some spending money

Volume 2 – chapter 9 – part 2 – post 71 – earning some spending money – taken from chapter 4 – into the unknown – part two – a brief sojourn at stoke – consisting of 7 pages from 90 to 96 (446 to 452) edited on Monday, 10 October 2011

My willingness to take any job I could find proved a winner, when I noticed, while in Hanley Park one day, the large dairy company on the far side of the park which might be worth an enquiry, walking in as bold as brass I enquired about a job and was employed there and then on the spot.

Lady luck had smiled on me once again because I had asked for a job at the very moment that one had arisen, though I did not know it at the time. The Clover Leaf Dairy Co Ltd received bulk supplies of milk which they bottled and delivered both on a retail and wholesale basis. The retail manager had a problem over which he was pondering the day I walked in; when he saw me he must have thought I was the answer he was looking for. Most of his fleet of delivery vans had a trouble free route that they covered each day, but there was one that was giving him trouble. This was a neighbourhood called Cobridge where his delivery men had not stayed on the job for very long, and the state of affairs had slowly deteriorated from bad to worse. When the manager found that I knew the area, and that I had a clean driving licence, he offered me the job, though he never told me that there were problems. So the very next day I found myself with a delivery van and an order book out on my route at the crack of dawn.

My van had been loaded with the appropriate products as dictated by the order book, I had standard milk in pint bottles with a silver cap made of metal foil, there was other types of milk, in bottles with a blue cap, green cap, and the top of the range which was called Devonshire double cream which had a gold cap. There were certain customers who preferred the long life homogenised milk which was in a bottle with a metal cap like the caps on lemonade and beer bottles, and there was a regular demand for cream, and orange juice. The system was to deliver each day, then once a week on a Friday afternoon it was necessary to collect payment in accordance with the order book. It did not take me long to find out that in the Cobridge area many of the customers had not paid their milk bill for quite a few weeks. Nor had they been putting out their empty bottles, which was a requirement if they were to get further supplies. Why was this happening in this particular area I wondered, another little mystery to which I found the answer in the first few days? Cobridge it appeared had become a black ghetto with many of the large houses owned by slum landlords, who had packed in an excess of tenants who were living in overcrowded conditions. No wonder the delivery men were not staying on this particular round, it was a nightmare which they did not want, neither did I really, but it was a very convenient job for me, so I resolved to tackle the problem and keep the job until the time came to move on.

For the first week I made the usual deliveries while I watched and observed the local activity; for example I sat in my delivery van and watched the weekly delivery of ethnic foodstuffs. A large furniture type van arrived and sounded its horn, which brought people running from every direction. Everyone carried large basins and jugs, shopping bags and other such containers, in which to carry the food products they purchased from the back of the van. For a few pence the man with the van weighed out a pound of this or two pounds of that, and away went the people with enough basic food to live for another week. Later I spoke to one or two of the locals who told me that the various races could get their needs from this van and for two or three shilling a week could feed themselves better than they had ever been able to do in their countries of origin. These people were a mix of all sorts, African, Indian, Pakistani, West Indian, some of whom were illegal immigrants. None of them worked, but all lived comfortably on the unemployment benefit; one man I spoke to said: “Why should we work when we can live quite well on what this country gives us? If you are sick they take care of you, if you have a problem or a need they look after that as well.” It is strange that people like me were leaving to seek a better life, and here were these newcomers happy to accept much less, as long as they didn’t have to work for it.

The following Friday afternoon I began to knock on doors and demand the money the occupants owed for milk; I knew who to look for because I had seen many of them entering and leaving the houses. At some houses I was met with a complete refusal to cooperate, my response was to tell them in a loud voice heard by all who were hiding inside that no one in that house would get any more milk until those that owed money had paid. Also I informed them that I would refuse them milk until all the empty bottles had been returned. I had been warned not to enter these tenements where attacks and robberies often took place, but with different families living on each floor, it was the only way I could track down those that were taking in the milk and not paying. I stamped loudly and banged on doors and let the occupants know that I would keep on doing this until outstanding debts had been honoured.

In a couple of weeks I had recovered most of the debts and an enormous number of milk bottles, and the company was delighted with the results. Mind you the state of some of those milk bottles was beyond description. At one house I found a small mountain of bottles on the door step, and the things they had used those bottles for beggared belief. Delivering milk was not a pleasant job at the best of times, what with bad weather and the fact that you worked every day of the week it was hardly surprising. The pay was not very good though I have to say that I was finished before midday most days, and I was allowed to drink as much milk as I wanted, free of charge. The particular difficulties I had with the Cobridge district made my job even less worthwhile for such a meagre salary, but after a few weeks I had it running smoothly, and it improved considerably.

This does not mean that there were no further problems, in a locality as repugnant as Cobridge had become there would always be trouble. An example would be the day that I stopped a one of the tenement houses with the usual high load which made it impossible to see out the back of the vehicle. These streets were side roads with very little traffic, so I had developed the habit of standing with one foot on the accelerator and the other on the platform outside the van door when I wanted to move in reverse. From my position I had a good view up and down the street, and at this particular point in the road I could back my vehicle slowly around a corner before setting off back the way I had come. On this particular day a car had parked right up close to my rear and I could not see it because of my big load. The occupants had entered the house next to the one I had been in, so there was no warning when I began to reverse. Moving slowly I had time to stop when my rear touched the car which prevented any real damage, but the glass in the headlight had been broken.

Being unable to get any attention though I sounded my horn and walked about for a couple of minutes, I had no time to waste so wrote my registration and company name on a piece of paper and stuck it under the wipers on the car. Off I went to continue my deliveries then looking in my mirror I saw the same car following me, it then pulled in front of me and stopped across the road. Out of it climbed three black men who stood side by side across the road in front of me, so I leaned out and asked them what they thought they were doing. In a very threatening manner they said I had to go with them, to which I replied: “If this is about the broken headlight you have my details and the company insurance will pay for a replacement.” They did not know anything about insurance so I had to go with them they said. I told them I had work to do so I would not go with them, and if they did not get out of my way I would flatten them into the road. Whereupon I started my vehicle and drove on, and with startled looks of their faces they jumped aside and returned to their car.

On my return to the depot I reported the incident and prepared to go home, but before I did I decided to ring the police station and tell them what happened. After I had explained to the desk sergeant he told me that he had the three black men at the station making a complaint, but I should leave it to him, and he would deal with it. How he dealt with it I never discovered but neither the company or I heard anything more about it.

This job was not an enjoyable one, but it was not all grim and nasty, there were some lighter moments which I still recall with some pleasure. Most of my customers were Pottery people, the warmest and kindest you could meet anywhere.

When I did my weekly collection with my order book and a leather satchel to put the money in, I would sometimes take Mark with me for the ride, and he would stand by my side as I talked to my customers. Mostly they were working class people who were as poor as church mice, but many of them would have something for the little blond haired boy standing at my side. Often in was a toffee or a biscuit, but sometimes he would get a silver three penny piece, or even now and again a sixpence. They were lovely people, the sort you would describe as: ‘The Salt of the Earth.’ Neither was it all one sided, I returned their kindness where and when I could. At one house the door was answered by a little old lady, who took a bottle of plain milk every second day. When I said I had called for the milk money she said in a very distressed state that she did not have any money, so would I be kind enough to wait for a few days until she got her pension. The amount was very small just a shilling or so, so I agreed to leave it till the following week, then she said don’t leave me any milk until I can pay in the meantime, and I told her that I would not see her with no milk for her tea. Bring me a jug and I will fill it for you I said, and I did this every second day until she could afford to buy a bottle of her own. (I have to confess that this milk did not cost me anything, because the company allowed for spillages, if a part empty bottle was returned they wrote it off as a job loss.) This pale old lady needed some nourishment so I gave her the best Devonshire double cream with the gold cap, and the following week when she still had no money I cancelled her debt; paying the small amount out of my own pocket; though she never knew that I could not cancel owed but had paid it for her.

All was going well; we had some money coming in so we would have a little to spend on the voyage which would now be more like a holiday. It always seems to be that when your luck is running for you good things happen one after another. So with a difficult job improving I was suddenly offered a promotion of sorts, though perhaps it should be described as a move sideways. The manager of the wholesale department came to me one day and said he had noticed that I had a heavy vehicle licence, so would I consider driving for him; there would be an increase in pay he told me. I agreed to do it and he told me that the next day I would be delivering wholesale to shops and supermarkets using a large articulated truck that would take a load of several tons of crated milk. This was going to be really exciting; I had the licence but had only driven a truck a few times on the Military Police driving course and that was several years ago now.

The next day I found an old man waiting for me who had been given the job of showing me the route and the points of delivery. I soon found that this was not going to be a pushover job, though the driving part was not a problem. It did not take me long to get the feel of this truck which though large, had a high cab with a wonderful all round view. It was powerful and I went rattling down the road at a fast clip with me enjoying every minute of it, until I came to the first corner which I took as though driving an ordinary car. My hair almost stood up straight on my head when I looked out my rear view mirror and saw my enormous load of milk crates leaning over at a considerable angle. For a split second I envisioned the whole lot smashed across the road, with a lake of milk all over the place, but I am glad to say my luck held good and the load rocked back again and stayed in place. Looking across at the old man who was supposed to be showing me the ropes I had to laugh at the look on his face; he was sitting with a look of frozen horror, and he was clearly not breathing.

In some of our new clothes we appeared to be recorded pictorially, to demonstrate how we would look in New Zealand; and we did indeed dress accordingly for a while, though we stood out as new comers. In the picture on the left my suit was to be my every day work suit, it had a light green plaid design on a light grey background. Jackie’s dress was blue.

It took the old man some time to recover his composure, but with me doing all the work all he had to do was sit in the cab and smoke one rather shaky cigarette after another. I had this rather useless companion for two or three days, then I was flying solo. The main problem with this job was the size and shape of the load I was carrying, the tray of the truck was at chest height, and the crates of milk were stacked at least six high, which was just about as high as I could reach. They were slotted into each other and to remove a crate from the top it was necessary to tilt the crate then jump it out of the top rim of the next crate down then lower it down until you had it in your hands. This procedure took some practice, and for the first week I had crates of milk crashing into my chest; when I went to bed at night I discovered that my chest was covered in large bruises, but eventually I got the technique right and the bruises disappeared. I have to say that though this job was physically demanding it was a better job that delivering door to door on a retail round.

Given the choice I opted to stay with this job until the day I left, though the retail manager did try and get me back. There was a big row about it one day when I went into the office for some orders, the retail manager saw me and he came marching up to me and the wholesale manager and began to shout about having his staff stolen from him without any prior consultation. So with me standing there they fought like two dogs with one bone, the upshot being that the senior manager won the day, arguing that although the retail man had employed me, I was much more valuable to the company driving a wholesale truck because drivers with a heavy goods licence were few and far between, whereas they could get plenty of retail drivers who only needed an ordinary driving licence.

At the time of the argument they did not notice I had a big smile on my face, I suppose they were much too busy shouting at each other. It must have come as quite a shock a week or two later when I announced my intention of leaving, at which time I confessed that I had taken the job only as a temporary measure, and had only been awaiting the sailing date of a ship. The manager said that he had thought there was more to me than met the eye, and was sorry to lose me. If I returned he said I could have my job back, he would also include a rise in pay to make the offer more attractive.

A brief sojourn with my parents

Volume 2 – chapter 9 – part 1 – post 70 – staying with my parents while we prepare to depart – taken from chapter 4 – into the unknown – part two – a brief sojourn at stoke – consisting of 7 pages from 90 to 96 (446 to 452) edited on Monday, 10 October 2011

mark with his grandparents in the back garden of their house at Hanley.

Our ties with Wales were now severed but the ship we were to travel on to New Zealand did not sail from Southampton until early in July 1962 which was still some three months away, or a little more. Despite their comfortable position Len and Ethel Grant had made it very obvious that they would do nothing to help. All that was left to us was to fall back on the family tradition of support when in need; we went to live with my parents until the time came to travel. With only a two bedroom house it was difficult, with only the front room, the lounge, available as a bed sitter. We had sold nearly everything we possessed, and paid our debts, but we were virtually penniless and needed to earn some money to pay our way until the ship sailed. We had bought new clothes in which to travel and to make us presentable in a new country and community, but we had nothing to spend on the voyage, or with which to pay our way when we arrived at our destination.

This picture is the passport photograph of Jacqueline taken not long before our departure from Rhyl.

My mother discussed our situation with Jackie, who responded to her like a daughter, feeling more love and affection than she ever did for her own mother. Slowly Jackie had been breaking away from the bonds that had held her all her life, and now she must have felt that she was entitled to make a few decisions for herself. With some encouragement from my mother she came to me and said that she wanted to go back to work; Mark would be well looked after with his grandma so there was no reason why she shouldn’t. I thought it sounded somewhat radical to have a wife who worked, but this was a new world and a new life so why not. Within a few days she found a job as a tracer in the drawing office of a big company, and off she went each day adjusting to her new life with apparent ease.

This was Douglas as the time of which I speak; he was a nice boy though somewhat spoiled being the youngest.

For us the radical changes that were taking place were a great upheaval and very unsettling, but Mark was a happy boy with everyone making a fuss of him. In particular he liked to play with my younger brother Douglas who was still young enough to roll on the floor with him and generally clown about.

 

In this picture I am telling Mark a story and he appeared to be happy though we soon found out how easily children can become upset by changing circumstances.

Mark was content in the midst of his family but when we began our journey he suffered some stress and arrived in New Zealand sick and unhappy. It was not just the changing events that upset him it was the voyage that took six weeks and the fact that we were expected to leave him in the care of strangers who did not care for him as we did.

The ship was an enclosed environment which resulted in the spread of illness which we escaped mostly but Mark became ill with a stomach infection and it took some weeks for him to recover after our arrival in Auckland.

It will not be easy to leave Wales

Volume 2 – a new life begins - chapter 8 – a job does not guarantee a good future – part 2 – it would not be easy to leave Wales– post 69 – taken from chapter 34 – farewell to Wales - consisting of 10 pages from 64 to 73(420 to 429 ) edited on Saturday, 08 October 2011

I view the lake and the camera man views me

In the Clwyd Valley they still tell the story of the Rhuddlan Marsh Men, which describes the slaughter of the people of Rhuddlan. At the time of the Saxon invasion of Britain the village of Rhuddlan was a large and busy centre of trade and commerce. Trading ships were still able to enter the river and land their cargo at the old Roman quay where the castle now stands. With a much larger river the flat land of the valley was mostly marsh and at high tide it was covered in a shallow sheet of water. The locals had developed a way of living and working in this extensive area of marsh and flood, they had learned to move around on stilts, and everyone knew how to use them. This unique ability saved a few of them when a Saxon War Party arrived and with the usual savagery of that time in history, they proceeded to kill everyone, including women and children. Those that escaped kept this event alive with various stories poems and songs of lament to this very day.

Such things make up my memories of the time I lived in Wales; such thoughts help a person to understand in a modest way the meaning and the feeling of the Welsh story. If you have been to Harlech, seen the castle and heard the story, then you understand more fully what the song: ‘Men of Harlech’ is all about. Len Grant took me to Harlech on one of his work trips; it was the day that I saw the place where the perfect turf came from; for bowling greens and other places that need a perfect sward. I had a natural interest in people and places, but it was Len who encouraged me to take it further, and to derive some pleasure out of the search. When I became tied to a job and could not accompany Len on his field trips he had to travel alone, though sometimes he would take Ethel with him and occasionally his grandson Mark.

The next picture I include is one that Len took on one of his outings when I was unable to join him. It is my son Mark a young Welshman in the making, it was taken on 5^th August 1961 which would make him 3 years and 8 months old. The location was in the village of Llanfairtalhiarn which was 19 miles from Rhyl.

Most of Len’s travelling was work related but when I took the family out for the day it was always for sightseeing and pleasure. Some of our journeys took the whole day with our sights set on a particular place of interest; on such place I remember very well were the enormous slate quarries, at Blaenau Ffestiniog, which once produced most of the slate for roofs of houses all over the world. It was said that the miners would leave the village in the valley on a Monday morning, climb to the quarry high on the mountain, and there they would live and work until the following Friday afternoon when they returned home. Though today you can make the journey from Rhyl in a little over an hour travelling about 38 miles, back then it was a full day out travelling over narrow country roads, which though slow was very scenic and worth the slow journey.

Not every trip I made was one of pleasure, my little van served me well when it came to getting some work done. Having a new house with a rough virgin garden I had lots to do to get it looking tidy and attractive; part of my problem as with most things I had to do was a lack of expertise. My father had taught me none of the practical skills that are so useful when you find yourself doing what a man has to do. He was good at many things but domestic tasks he had never done and so had not learned those useful things that might have been of value to me. Where gardening was concerned I had to learn what I was doing as I went along, which meant that in the early years I did not do things very well at all. One thing I did not however and better than anyone in the avenue, and that was produce an instant front lawn of perfect grass. It was only a small lawn being maybe 10 feet by 15 feet, and I hit on the idea of laying turf in the same way as the turf layers who obtained their product from the tidal area down the coast at Barmouth near Harlech. The trick was to find good turf that would do the job, and find it I did.

One of our rides into the country had taken us across the Denbigh Moors where several lakes and reservoirs were situated. At one of these I had noticed an area of grass that was growing close to the edge of the man made catchment area, and it was ideal for my purposes. It was high country which made the grass reluctant to grow; also it was growing on a layer of stone with very little soil, the result being that it was short and totally free of weeds. The moors were a wild bleak empty expanse of country about 10 miles from Rhyl, so I decided to go and collect some turf for a lawn. It took me about four trips to get enough but the project worked to perfection. I measured the area I needed then cut the grass into sods about a foot wide and two feet long; working alone it was hard work and I soon worked up a sweat. On one of my trips I was working away when a fierce squall of rain arrived, lashing down it soaked me to the skin in an instant. Peeling off my wet jersey and shirt I carried on in the pouring rain until the job was done; it is odd to recall the feeling of pleasure and exhilaration I experienced at the time. The more the cold rain assaulted me the harder and more determinedly I attacked the sodden ground. It was a moment of madness, a mental aberration; akin to the feeling I had some months before when I arrived back at the Grants house after a visit to the beach. At the moment we arrived a tremendous thunder storm began, and the bolts of lightning were striking down all around. At the same time the heavens opened and the heaviest rain you could imagine came down in a solid mass. Being in my swimmers I dashed out into warm summer rain and began to leap about like a man gone mad; I just went crazy with no sense of danger from the striking lightening, it was just a rush of blood to the head you might say.

Even the most controlled personality has to let go some times, to me life seemed like one frustration after another, so is it any wonder I had this overwhelming desire to vent my frustrations. I could see what I wanted to do, what I wanted to achieve, but life was frustrating me at every turn. More often than not it was a lack of money that prevented me from making headway, and in addition I had the problem of not being able to resort to the strength of my body to get things done. An impossible situation forces you to do that which common sense tells you not to do; which is why I pushed myself physically though I knew it was a risky thing to do.

Here I show a picture of our new house and my little blue Austin A35 van, the first vehicle I ever owned.

The house we had was new but the garden was a wilderness which had to be tamed; the back garden was about 40 or 50 yards long with a gradual downwards slope that ended at a high brick wall that ran around the old farm house, once the only house for miles around. It would be better if it was terraced, so I began to dig it out, building low walls across the garden in two places. At the same time I laid a path to the bottom of the garden, and for all this I needed a large number of bricks. I used bricks because I was offered a plentiful supply free of charge, providing I would collect them from Old Colwyn which was 10 miles along the coast.

The man who offered them owned land where the bricks would be; when I went for them I found that they were in the form of a row of pigsties. I had to knock down the sties, and then clean up the bricks before loading them into my van; I spent many hours of hard labour doing this, but in the end I got my walls and path, for the price of the petrol I needed to make the journeys to get them.

The price of progress for me was a considerable amount of hard work, though I reminded myself that the improvements I made allowed me to sell my little house for more than I had paid for it. The profit that resulted allowed my family and me to travel to New Zealand, so from that point of view my work has been worthwhile. It is sad to think that my gain caused another to lose; I refer to a little shrew that had its home at the bottom of my garden, a home that I destroyed before I even knew it was there.

The time had come to move on so we said farewell to Wales and began our journey that would end on the other side of the world.

A Welsh legend

Volume 2 – A new life begins – chapter 8 – Working for Chance – Pilkington Ltd – part 2 – a Welsh legend – post69 – (taken from CHAPTER 3 – A LIFE MUST PROGRESS – PART FIVE – FAREWELL TO WALES - consisting of 8 pages from 82 to 89(438 to 445 ) edited on Sunday, 09 October 2011

Here I show a picture of Jacqueline taking a rest in the forest so green and silent?

With a Welsh mother and maternal grandfather it is not surprising that I was able to settle in Wales without apparent difficulty, I did not feel an alien or out of place; I was never a stranger in a strange land, as many English people find themselves to be in similar circumstances. On further reflection maybe it was the beautiful countryside that I liked so much and it was not the Welsh people that attracted me during the time I lived in Wales. It is places I remember not people, anyway most of the people I spent my time with were not Welsh. A large portion of my time I spent at work and there I was with English people mostly. Over the years my recollections of people I met at Rhyl the strange thing is that most I remember, and those that made an impression, were not indigenous. Like the odd crew that entertained under the very appropriate name of ‘The Quaintesques’ with the exotic Mickey Renton, and the equally strange owner Billy Manders. ‘The Naked Civil Servant’ had nothing on these two I can assure you. I had many trips into the hills and valleys of Wales which I shall never forget, but I have to say that I never got to know a great many Welsh people.

In the picture below we are walking in a forestry area by one of the numerous lakes in mid-Wales.

When I had time to spare our pleasure was derived from regular trips to the Potteries, so again I have to say that I was not becoming part of the Welsh community, when we explored the local scene it was usually in our own company. My family and I still shared outings with Len and Ethel Grant, though we were doing our own thing more and more.

We had no special tramping gear though we often covered quite a few miles. Though Mark is walking in the next picture, most of the time he would ride upon my shoulders, a job that fell to me on these outings. Len was behind the camera, and in charge of the primus stove and making the tea. Although I was now working in the Production Control Office I still wore my old uniform trousers for these outdoor trips, they were old and baggy, but they were still hard wearing and warm.

My father – in – law had an enlargement made of this picture because it was a favourite of his.

Len was well practiced with his camera taking pictures wherever he went, mostly they were for his own pleasure, but occasionally his ability as a camera man came in useful at work when he was able to record work situations for future reference. I am sure that he had a large number of photographs, but I have very few of them. I do have two others taken on the day we walked in the forest as shown above, so I shall include them to give a better impression of the day and the place we visited.

This lake was one of those that few people knew or visited, it was off the beaten track and I have forgotten its name and location long ago. It was one of those lovely places that only a few locals know; a place they try and keep to themselves. How could you fail to be attracted to place with so much natural beauty? The trouble is that so much of this splendour is reserved by the privileged and the wealthy and made inaccessible to the ordinary man in the street. This was one of the opinions I had which helped to sway me in the direction of New Zealand, which I imagined had similar natural attractions, and was not yet spoiled by a privileged few. I say that the obvious attractions of the country of Wales is what made me feel reluctant to leave, and I appear to discount the people, but that is not a totally accurate picture. The Celtic people have sensitivity a depth of emotion that they wear on their sleeve, and if I am honest I felt some rapport with that emotional character. I admire and have tried to live up to my father’s Saxon strengths; his determination, his phlegmatic ability to keep calm when under stress. These are qualities that we all wish to have, but the Welsh let their feelings show, and they have such a depth of feeling, which shines forth like a bright light, in their music, and when they express themselves with words.

I stand and contemplate the beauties of the lake, while the man with the camera hovered with his constant thought that it deserved a picture.

Some of the finest expressions you will ever see in the English language come from Welsh poets and writers. Who could ever forget hearing the Welsh sing? The most simple of songs are sung with such feeling and expression; I can still hear the locals in a village pub singing together like the most perfect choir ‘Saucepan Bach’ (The little saucepan) which is in a minor key as many songs from Wales are. The melody will always be with me, but the words and what the song was about I shall never know because it was sung in Welsh. In another pub and on another occasion I can recall a local bard reciting a poem for the entertainment of the house. He spoke in Welsh so I did not know what the poem was about, but the feeling and pathos in his voice was so strong and vivid that I could not resist asking a member of the audience what the poem was about. I was told that it was a poem written to commemorate a local legend, which went as follows.

Many years ago there was a man who lived in the forest, who went to chop wood for the winter fire. His wife was away visiting relatives, and he had a baby boy in a cradle to watch over, but he was sure the baby would be safe because he had a faithful dog that could be trusted to stand guard over the child. On returning from his work he found the door of the cottage open and when he entered he saw the cradle over turned and the room in disarray. The dog lay in front of the babies overturned cot with blood all over his chops and his chest, the woodsman concluded that the dog had attacked the child and killed his baby, so taking his axe he struck the dog and killed it. Afterwards he began to tidy the mess and on picking up the overturned crib found his baby safe and sleeping soundly, next to it lay the body of a large wolf which was dead. The loyal dog had defended the child and saved it from the wolf, and the man suffered from his ghastly mistake for the rest of his life.

The stress in the voice of the bard as he told this story was such that many of those in the audience sat with tears in their eyes, as they pictured the scene so vividly described. This depth of feeling is part of what has kept the Welsh together as a race; at times they came very close to extermination; so many invasions that have driven them into the hills to survive under the worst of conditions. From the Romans to the Saxons and Normans they have been invaded, attacked and harried, but still their spirit sustains them, and their emotional character helps them tell their story.

Many years ago there was a man who lived in the forest, who went to chop wood for the winter fire. His wife was away visiting relatives, and he had a baby boy in a cradle to watch over, but he was sure the baby would be safe because he had a faithful dog that could be trusted to stand guard over the child. On returning from his work he found the door of the cottage open and when he entered he saw the cradle over turned and the room in disarray. The dog lay in front of the babies overturned cot with blood all over his chops and his chest, the woodsman concluded that the dog had attacked the child and killed his baby, so taking his axe he struck the dog and killed it. Afterwards he began to tidy the mess and on picking up the overturned crib found his baby safe and sleeping soundly, next to it lay the body of a large wolf which was dead. The loyal dog had defended the child and saved it from the wolf, and the man suffered from his ghastly mistake for the rest of his life.

The stress in the voice of the bard as he told this story was such that many of those in the audience sat with tears in their eyes, as they pictured the scene so vividly described. This depth of feeling is part of what has kept the Welsh together as a race; at times they came very close to extermination; so many invasions that have driven them into the hills to survive under the worst of conditions. From the Romans to the Saxons and Normans they have been invaded, attacked and harried, but still their spirit sustains them, and their emotional character helps them tell their story.

Wales felt like home

Volume 2 – a new life begins - chapter 7 – a job does not guarantee a good future – part 5 – Wales felt like home – post 67 – taken from chapter 34 – farewell to Wales - consisting of 10 pages from 64 to 73(420 to 429 ) edited on Saturday, 08 October 2011

With a Welsh mother and maternal grandfather it is not surprising that I was able to settle in Wales without apparent difficulty, I did not feel an alien or out of place; I was never a stranger in a strange land, as many English people find themselves to be in similar circumstances. On further reflection maybe it was the beautiful countryside that I liked so much and it was not the Welsh people that attracted me during the time I lived in Wales. It is places I remember not people, anyway most of the people I spent my time with were not Welsh. A large portion of my time I spent at work and there I was with English people mostly. Over the years my recollections of people I met at Rhyl, those that were strange, and those that made an impression, were not indigenous. Like the odd crew that entertained under the very appropriate name of ‘The Quaintesques’ with the exotic Mickey Renton, and the equally strange owner Billy Manders. ‘The Naked Civil Servant’ had nothing on these two I can assure you. I had many trips into the hills and valleys of Wales which I shall never forget, but I have to say that I never got to know a great many Welsh people.

In this picture we are walking in a forestry area by one of the numerous lakes in mid-Wales.

When I had time to spare our pleasure was derived from regular trips to the Potteries, so again I have to say that I was not becoming part of the Welsh community, when we explored the local scene it was usually in our own company. My family and I still shared outings with Len and Ethel Grant, though we were doing our own thing more and more.

 

Jacqueline takes a rest

We had no special tramping gear though we often covered quite a few miles. Len was behind the camera, and in charge of the primus stove and making the tea. Although I was now working in the Production Control Office I still wore my old uniform trousers for these outdoor trips, they were old and baggy, but they were still hard wearing and warm.

 

 

Len was well practiced with his camera taking pictures wherever he went, mostly they were for his own pleasure, but occasionally his ability as a camera man came in useful at work when he was able to record work situations for future reference. I am sure that he had a large number of photographs, but I have very few of them.

Though Mark is walking in this picture, most of the time he would ride upon my shoulders, a job that fell to me on these outings.

I do have two others taken on the day we walked in the forest as shown above, so I shall include them to give a better impression of the day and the place we visited. This lake was one of those that few people knew or visited, it was off the beaten track and I have forgotten its name and location long ago. It was one of those lovely places that only a few locals know; a place they try and keep to themselves. How could you fail to be attracted to a place with so much natural beauty? The trouble is that so much of this splendour is reserved by the privileged and the wealthy and made inaccessible to the ordinary man in the street.

 

This distinction of class was one of the reasons I had which helped to sway me in the direction of New Zealand, which I imagined had similar natural attractions, and was not yet spoiled by a privileged few. I say that the obvious attractions of the country of Wales is what made me feel reluctant to leave, and I appear to discount the people, but that is not a totally accurate picture. The Celtic people have sensitivity a depth of emotion that they wear on their sleeve, and if I am honest I felt some rapport with that emotional character. I admire and have tried to live up to my father’s Saxon strengths; his determination, his phlegmatic ability to keep calm when under stress. These are qualities that we all wish to have, but the Welsh let their feelings show, and they have such a depth of feeling, which shines forth like a bright light, in their music, and when they express themselves with words.

I contemplate the beauty of this place while Len hovered with his camera.

Some of the finest expressions you will ever see in the English language come from Welsh poets and writers. Who could ever forget hearing the Welsh sing? The most simple of songs are sung with such feeling and expression; I can still hear the locals in a village pub singing together like the most perfect choir ‘Saucepan Bach’ (The little saucepan) which is in a minor key as many songs from Wales are was a favourite. The melody will always be with me, but the words and what the song was about I shall never know because it was sung in Welsh.

In another pub and on another occasion I can recall a local bard reciting a poem for the entertainment of the house. He spoke in Welsh so I did not know what the poem was about, but the feeling and pathos in his voice was so strong and vivid that I could not resist asking a member of the audience what the poem was about. I was told that it was a poem written to commemorate a local legend, which went as follows.

Many years ago there was a man who lived in the forest, who went to chop wood for the winter fire. His wife was away visiting relatives, and he had a baby boy in a cradle to watch over, but he was sure the baby would be safe because he had a faithful dog that could be trusted to stand guard over the child. On returning from his work he found the door of the cottage open and when he entered he saw the cradle over turned and the room in disarray. The dog lay in front of the babies overturned cot with blood all over his chops and his chest, the woodsman concluded that the dog had attacked the child and killed his baby, so taking his axe he struck the dog and killed it. Afterwards he began to tidy up the mess and on picking up the overturned crib found his baby safe and sleeping soundly, next to it lay the body of a large wolf which was dead. The loyal dog had defended the child and saved it from the wolf, and the man suffered from his ghastly mistake for the rest of his life.

The stress in the voice of the bard as he told this story was such that many of those in the audience sat with tears in their eyes, as they pictured the scene so vividly described. This depth of feeling is part of what has kept the Welsh together as a race; at times they came very close to extermination; so many invasions that have driven them into the hills to survive under the worst of conditions. From the Romans to the Saxons and Normans they have been invaded, attacked and harried, but still their spirit sustains them, and their emotional character helps them tell their story.

We decide to emigrate

Volume 2 – a new life begins - chapter 7 – a job does not guarantee a good future – part 4 – We decide to emigrate – post 66– taken from chapter 32 – I become a progress chaser - consisting of 10 pages from 64 to 73(420 to 429 ) edited on Saturday, 08 October 2011

It often occurred to me how unreasonable and unfair was the biased view of parents who so often accept the worst possible behaviour from their children. I never compared such attitudes to my own when I turned a blind eye to dishonest and underhand behaviour by my Aunt and Uncle. Several times they had harmed me in different ways, but it never changed my affection for them, nor did it this time when they tried to cheat me by selling things to me at an inflated price. Uncle had bought an old banger for a few pounds and had made it road worthy, but only just. I discovered later, then he came to me and offered it to me as a gift for £60 or £70, he knew I was trying to get my own vehicle at the time, and he wanted to make as much money as he could in readiness for his planned departure. Fortunately I had learned how unreliable he was and had little trust in his word, so I refused his offer which did not please him at all. The next thing they did was try to sell me their modern gas stove for a price that was higher than I would have paid had I purchased a new one from the showrooms. This was another little trap that I avoided; anyway we already had a good gas stove of our own. It was sad really to see how low they had sunk as a result of the hard times they had gone through. That is probably the reason I did not think too badly of them at the time, I knew they were struggling, and no one knew better than I what that felt like. I would have helped them out if I could but I had nothing to give. Not long after these kind offers they made, they departed and I knew little about their going; one day they were there the next they had gone.

There appeared to be so many reasons why we should act on our belief that we would find a better life in New Zealand.

• · It was a land of opportunity
• · The people were said to be more welcoming than in other colonies, such as Australia, and Canada.
• · There were no dangers there, no venomous reptiles; even the natives were said to be friendly.
• · With the best social system in the world they were leaders with free health, cheap loans from the government with which to buy a house; and a host of other benefits. New Zealand was well on the way to becoming the perfect Britain that we were supposed to have in the United Kingdom. With a bit more work from people like me we could finish the job; then lock the doors to keep out the undesirables. (Naturally I did not see myself as one of the undesirables I have just mentioned.)
• · With only a small population I imagined the country as being open and free for every man to explore as he wished; I would be able to step over my back fence and go hunting and shooting to my heart’s desire.
• · The climate was perfect with the sun shining every day; it would be like living in the Mediterranean, somewhere like Spain, or the South of France.
• · On the other side of the world NZ was just about the safest place to live on the entire planet; with the cold war showing no signs of abating the UK was like a bull’s eye in the middle of a target. In the last few months there had been frightening headlines in the news papers warning that the level of radiation over the Welsh hills had climbed rapidly due to the fallout from Russian atomic tests held in Siberia. We had seen the films showing the effects of radiation; to think that it might happen to us was not a happy thought.

The reasons for making our decision seemed endless, there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; I for one could see it clearly. Now looking back I can see that some of the things I expected and hoped for did come true, but most did not, and I was to discover that there were so many facets to the whole question that never even occurred to me. I never gave a thought to my family, my roots, my duty and obligation to my parents and my brothers. When it came to Jacqueline’s parents I even felt a perverse pleasure to be leaving them behind; we were slowly breaking free of their control and their influence, but I could not see us being totally independent unless we move far away from them. I had enjoyed some good times with them and would have probably enjoyed many more, but the thought of that made little impression on our desire to make our own decisions.

Without revealing our plans until we had to, we began the operation by selling everything we owned, discovering immediately that it was not going to be easy. The impression I got was that no one had any money, there seemed to be very little chance of selling a house, or a vehicle. Items of little value went without too much trouble, but the house was on the market with estate agents for some weeks and there was not a single enquiry. I asked around the garages and was told that there was little chance of selling a second hand van. Another difficulty was a lack of births on ships to the Antipodes, there was nothing to be had on British Shipping Companies who were all booked out for the next couple of years. All I could do was put my name down on a waiting list with every shipping line I could find; I might get lucky and be offered a cancellation. For the time being I did not have to worry about slotting the different parts of my plan together, but I wondered which would come first the chicken or the egg. It all looked like mission impossible but the finger of fate has an uncanny way of writing its own script, if it was meant to happen it would, and I soon discovered that it was meant to happen.

To me it looked as though a number of minor miracles happened in quick succession, it was all very much unexpected but very thrilling. First we received a letter from the Nederland’s Shipping Line which offered us a cancelled birth on their ship the Johann Van Oldenbarnavelt which would be sailing for New Zealand from Southampton in July 1962. It was one of their older ships which had been re-fitted to carry 1200 passengers, some tourists but most emigrants travelling from Holland. The cancelled birth was an inboard cabin for two with no porthole, which was in the less attractive part of the ship towards the stern. They could also offer us an additional birth for one on a better deck in the centre of the ship close to the purser’s office; this would be in a four bed cabin which would be shared by four male passengers. Our luck was in and I wrote back right away accepting their offer, though the sailing date was still several months away.

The next miracle came a few nights later when there was a knock on our front door, when I answered it I found a middle aged lady standing on the door step who had come to enquire about the house. She had recently met Ethel Grant who had told her about our intention to sell our house and it so happened that she was looking for that very thing. She and I went to the lounge and negotiated very politely with both of us obviously very eager to come to an agreement. The traditional procedure took place with the buyer asking for a reduction in the price, and with me responding by asking her to offer a little more. Since we had purchased the house property values had risen as they always appeared to do, so I had asked for £2,575; I ended up getting £2,450 though the figures are a little hazy now.

It was all happening and quite fast, so I now tendered my resignation at work, with the news travelling like wild fire around the work force. With work hard to come by in North Wales my employers would have no trouble replacing me, so they showed little interest in my impending departure; apart from the fact that the plans for the concert at the quarry would not be possible. The interesting thing for me was only two people spoke to me about my plans, and both of them were negative about it. One of the two interested parties was the foreman off the shift I had worked on, his name was George Kettle a name that suited him; he was a large rotund man with a brassy sort of character. He was a bossy sort of fellow, but then I suppose he had to be to be a good foreman; he was not one who tried to make friends, but he knew his job and always kept a firm grip on his crew. When we met on this particular day he asked me about the news he had heard that I was going to emigrate, which I confirmed. “You won’t stay, you will end up coming back, and where will you be then?” I gave no reply but felt determined that I would prove him wrong.

A more interesting reaction I received from a Mrs Jones who was one of the clerks in the Production Control Office. She was a woman about 40 years old with a thin unfriendly looking face, who also showed some hostility to my departure. I had approached her to get some details about one of the orders I was chasing, when she mentioned my intention to emigrate. “You are leaving us in the lurch with no thought for anyone but yourself. You are nothing but a rat deserting the sinking ship.” There was little I could say in reply, though I felt somewhat taken aback at her hostile attitude, to me it was excessive I thought. Later I discovered there was an explanation for her behaviour, when I found out about it I felt less badly about what she had said. The story was that Mrs Jones had a sister with whom she had never got on; her sister was married to a man that had landed a very good job in South Africa, and they had emigrated. She was constantly writing letters in which she boasted about the wonderful life she was having in SA, the marvellous weather, the retinue of servants she had, the big swimming pool in the garden, and so on. In comparison with that Mrs Jones was finding it hard to make ends meet, which meant that she had to go out to work for a low wage. There must have been other circumstances that added to her feelings about it, but the end result was that she had strong and bitter views about people who had a chance to improve their lives while she was trapped in an inferior position.

Ethel with her grandson at her house at Ronaldsway in Rhyl; she was a charming lady but emotionally unstable and used to getting her own way.

We try to steer our course on the seas of life, but so often we are taken by the mysterious and unseen currents that set our course for us. To leave our lives in Rhyl had looked like an impossible task, yet it was happening with apparent ease; the only other obstacle remaining was what we to do with our little blue van. I had a great affection for my transport which had served us so well; it performed well and had given no trouble at all. I cleaned and polished it with great pride; it was like one of the family. This was the only thing I felt some regret about, parting with my favourite possession, which is why I wanted to keep it with me until the last possible moment. It was quite a shock therefore when one evening there came a knock on the back door, and when I answered there stood an elderly man I had never seen before. He was a typical little Welshman with a polite manner and shrewd brown eyes; he lived at St Asaph and had come about the vehicle I wanted to sell. He would have had a good look at it before he knocked on the door, noting its good condition and well cared for appearance, though it did live in the open as I had no garage.

My visitor explained that he provided board and lodging for a young man that worked at Pilkington’s and his lodger had told him about me and my van. I asked about the lodger and found to my surprise that it was the son of the autocratic manager Mr Anderson, his name was Peter and I knew him quite well, a likeable young man who I had imagined lived with his father. When I realised that he was in lodgings it made sense that he did so, considering what sort of man his father was. Considering that I was not popular with the father, who must have said a few unflattering things about me, it surprised me that Peter had taken the trouble to put in a good word on my behalf with his landlord. With the details being open and known to my visitor he quickly expressed complete confidence in both me and the vehicle, saying that he needed no further details or even an examination of the van. He would have known that I had to sell and was not likely to quibble about the price, so he revealed that he had cash in his pocket and would offer me £300 if I thought that acceptable. This was an excellent offer because up to that moment I couldn’t give it away, and the best price I had expected to get was in the region of £200, so I accepted his offer there and then and we shook hands on it. True to his word the man pulled out a roll of bank notes and placed it on the table, suggesting that I confirm the amount, which I refused to do. He was clearly a man of honour and I was going to show that I knew it by not counting his money. I also insisted that in addition to the vehicle documents I would write out a bill of sale for him and endorse it paid in full.

Ethel’s father was Jewish, which made her half Jewish and her daughter Jacqueline quarter Jewish. Mark also would come into this equation as well I suppose.

There was one further detail to the sale of the vehicle that I have always remembered with some amusement. When the negotiations were over and the buyer was ready to depart, he turned to me with a somewhat embarrassed look on his face and asked me for a favour. Could you drive me home in the van because I cannot drive he said, I must have looked askance at him when he made this request, but I did not ask for details and agreed without hesitation. I still had my bicycle so I put it in the van and off we went; I never did find out who was going to drive the van for its new owner.

With the last of the major problems resolved there was only a few days remaining before we had to move on, taking the first step on our journey to a new life. My parents had agreed that we could go and live with them until the date of our departure, which was to be in just over three month’s time. With only a two bedroom house it was going to be a tight squeeze, but with no other alternative we had no choice in the matter; I was just grateful that the traditions of my family included the belief that their home was our home. Even my Aunt and Uncle recognised this family rule, no matter how difficult their circumstances they never refused to help us when we need a roof over our heads. They may not have been the most trustworthy of people in other respects, but in this regard they always did what we all believed was the right and proper thing. I have always held to this belief that we have a duty and an obligation to others in the family, and on a number of occasions I have responded to that self same responsibility. I would have thought that all families would have a similar belief that they should support each other in their hour of need, so it has always been hard for me to understand why my in-laws did not recognise this same commitment.

Ethel had a love for Mark as she did for her daughter but she never felt strongly enough to put herself out for us as a family. There may have been reasons that I do not know why this would be so, but even though Len sometimes talked to me over a drink, he never really revealed the extent of his problems with Ethel. I believe that for a long time beginning before I arrived on the scene, Ethel had not shared a bed with her husband, and though she was very feminine and liked to flirt she would not allow any man near her from an emotional or emotive perspective. These feelings might explain why she was unable to welcome us as part of her family regardless of her obvious love for her daughter and grandson.

From the time Jacqueline and I married we had to struggle, which meant that a number of times we were in great need of family support. With a three bedroom bungalow the Grants were in a good position to have helped us, but they never did, and it is natural that I have wondered why. Until now I have given it little thought, at the time I accepted their inability to help us without question, assuming that they would not have stood by and watched us in difficulties without a good reason. I never knew what Jackie’s thoughts were on this matter because we never talked about it, and thinking of that now I realise that it was strange that we never did; perhaps we did not like the conclusion we might have come to if we had talked about it? The fact that my in-laws refused to help us certainly made life difficult for us, but I never let it colour my view of them. Thinking of these things now with the benefit of some years of experience and a better understanding of life, I realise that they were probably not happy that I was taking their only child far away from them, and of course their grandchild as well. I can also see in retrospect that their attitude and behaviour had much to do with the reason this was happening; If they had helped us find our feet and establish ourselves we would never have been forced to look for a better life, we would never have had to fend for ourselves to find our own way unsupported.

Perhaps others would not agree with the view I am expressing, but be it right or wrong the fact is that the Grants were instrumental in creating how we felt and how we acted. Decisions I made, no, I should have said we made; (Jackie was part of the decision making process, and if anyone could have stopped it or changed our course of action it was her.) were the direct result of the feeling that no one was going to pull us into a lifeboat. It we were to survive we had to find another lifeboat somewhere else. I suppose if I am going to carry this allegory to its conclusion I should add that if a lifeboat had come to our rescue we would never have learned to swim.

I become a progress chaser

Volume 2 – a new life begins - chapter 7 – a job does not guarantee a good future – part 3 – I change to production control – post 65– taken from chapter 32 – I become a progress chaser - consisting of 10 pages from 64 to 73(420 to 429 ) edited on Saturday, 08 October 2011

A new department was to be created to control production and this appeared to have good prospects for advancement. I had done this sort of work before so saw it as a golden opportunity to get ahead and so I applied for a place in this new office. I was successful and joined the new Production Control office which was to have about five ladies in it initially. They were recruited from local people and were all experienced in clerical work. Their job was to record all orders received and the details of their movement through the factory recorded until they were finally dispatched to the customer. In charge of the office was an office manager, who liked to call himself Assistant Production Control Manager. Then there was me the Progress Chaser with a job they said was of utmost importance; when I commenced this new work I was told that I was the only one who could assess the time it would take for an order to be completed. It would take dedication and hard work they told me, I had to know how long each process took, how much work was waiting to be done in each department, and any other factor that affected the delivery promise I would provide. I was the only one that was allowed to control the production, so that my estimations and promises were be accurate.

In the beginning I really enjoyed this job, I was suited to it and good at it, and by working hard I soon had the whole thing at my finger tips. My delivery promises were always good, in fact I usually had the goods out the door a day before they were due, and that earned much approval from most of our customers. There were problems at times, such as machine breakdown, and operators off sick, but I had the measure of that by having easy jobs ahead of schedule, and halting them when necessary, while keeping the urgent or essential orders moving on time. I could do, and was doing, a good job which I thought would earn approval from management; I could see myself up with the bosses yet, having proved my worth and earned that pay rise I needed so much. My ideas were good in theory but there were other factors which soon began to intrude on my smooth running operation. The problems that came to plague me originated from a number of sources, some of them I was able to deal with, but others remained a headache. In fact some of these problems grew to unmanageable proportions and would cause me trouble till the day I left the job.

One of my problems was the office manager Ron Uren, who more often than not tried to live up to his position. I never discovered where he came from, but he wasn’t a Welshman, though he may have been recruited locally. He was a short stocky man who, like many small men had an air of belligerence about him; in his case I suspect his manner covered a feeling of inadequacy which made him constantly bully the staff and try and assert himself. When he tried to establish his authority over me the battle between us began, a combat that I won because he eventually left me to my own devices, and concentrated on the ladies in the office. My victory did not come overnight it took some weeks to establish, with the early skirmishes taking place nearly every day. Ron was going to show me how to do my job and intended interfering constantly, I maintained that he had no say in what I did and that I would only take orders from the manager Tom Hodgeson, who we both knew showed little interest in what went on around the place.

My view was that Ron was the office manager in charge of the clerks, but I worked outside the office and had to be independent, he disagreed insisting that he was the Assistant Production Control Manager. Being the pompous little man he was he even tried to make me call him Mr Uren whereas I addressed him as Ron, this particular battle became very heated at times. The more hot under the collar he became the more I rubbed it in, calling him Ron in a loud voice much to the amusement of the ladies in the office who hated the sight of him. We never went upstairs with our dispute but it would be my guess that he would have tried to get backing to bring me into line. When he finally gave up his efforts I assumed that he had been told that I was right and he was wrong.

The other problem I had with Ron Uren was his inclination to make promises regarding deliveries. It was impossible for him to change delivery dates without throwing the whole system into chaos, and it was not his job to do that anyway. It took him a while to accept that he could have no say in what I did, but in the end he recognised that his authority ended as the office door.

There were others who had the same attitude as Ron Uren thinking that they could decide what work would be done first; I suppose it was to be expected with a new system that everyone thought they could have a say in what should happen. The worst of these interfering people was Mr Anderson the manager of the manual production shop. He was elderly with many years of experience and he certainly knew all about the technical aspect of moulding, grinding, polishing and packing the various products that we made. He was the manager and I had to bow to his authority over the men and machines that were doing the work, where we had a difference of opinion was again in regard to the order in which items would be processed. He was a manager of the old school who thought that his word was law, and could not conceive that a young chap like me could have a say in anything important. It took Mr Anderson a long time to adjust to the reality of my involvement and accept it, though he did eventually, that is he had no option but to live with the changing rules, but mentally he never agreed with them or approved.. Sadly it soured his liking for me as a person in the process, he was never other that rude and offensive to me afterwards. Believing that he was ruler of all he surveyed, he expected obedience, respect, and no argument, so is it any wonder that he was hostile to me when I made it clear that I was going to do my job come hell or high water.

Individuals I could do something about but attitudes and rigid opinions I could not; there was nothing I could do to change the way many saw me, nor could I change their resulting determination to keep me in the place assigned to me in the pecking order. I had been around for nearly two and half years and everyone knew me as a security man, a job that was not very high in the structure of the organisation. Until the day I left for good there were many that had never changed their position on where I belonged in the organisation. The opinion of many I am sure was that you could not make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. It never made any difference how well I did my job; that counted for nothing in the eyes of those who had made up their mind, determined that they would never recognise me as being anything but a serf from the lower regions.

The problems and difficulties I have mentioned above were manageable, but the one difficulty I could do nothing about was the interference I was subjected to from the sales office. These people were seen as the most important in the whole organisation, the part they played was so important that they were treated accordingly. The rules did not apply to them and they could break them with impunity; it was disgusting the way senior sales people did what they liked and rode rough shod over everyone including me. It was madness really because they changed a well organised and well run factory into made it a total mess. You can well imagine the sort of thing that happened, sales would get pressure from an important customer, who would threaten and bluster until the sales rep gave in and promised them a totally ridiculous delivery dates. Then they in their turn would try and get someone to meet the promise they had given, they would coax and bully anyone and everyone, usually ending up with me. To comply with their wishes would throw the whole schedule of production out which in turn would destroy every other promise we had given, so naturally I refused. Later I would go about my work only to find that the sales chap had gone into the factory and physically changed things to get what they wanted. This was a ridiculous state of affairs and I objected to their boss, to my boss, to anyone who would listen, but it made no difference. Everyone gave me the same answer, it was vital that the sales office were allowed to keep the customers happy, so they went on doing it, and our delivery promises kept going down the drain. When the orders failed to go out on time I was the one that got it in the neck, and it was not good me telling them why; they knew the reason anyway. Management wanted their cake and eat it and when it didn’t happen I was the one that got dumped on, while the people in sales escaped unscathed, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in their mouth.

When I got this job I had thought I was on a good thing, now it was beginning to look as though I had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. With the way the job was being run I was in the worst possible situation; they were not out to get me though it seemed that way, anyone who had my job would find themselves in the same boat. All I could do was work on and do the best I could; I even continued to believe that my efforts would earn me some recognition, looking at it now it is laughable that I really thought I would get pay rises and even promotion. I might have gone on thinking this for years, but I did have one little piece of luck that changed my life, and my whole view of my situation as Chance-Pilkington Co Ltd. The useless Personnel Manager Mr Brian Love was finally recognised for his valuable services and promoted to some higher and better place. In reality I did not know what happened to him, but it was safe to say that it was more likely that is what happened. If fair play and honesty had prevailed he should have been kicked down the road all the way to St Asaph for his pathetic performance, but I am sure that was not the outcome. The replacement of the Personnel Manager would not have had much bearing on my situation under normal circumstances, but as fate would decree it, this change was to affect me extremely.

The replacement for the inept Brian Love was one Horace Foster who was a different kettle of fish all together. He was hard working and diligent chap who I liked very much when I met him; he had the one attribute that all men in his position should have, an interest in people, especially the people who worked for the company. Horace was easy to talk to and in my opinion he was an honest man who told you how things were, in other words he was straight with you and this was apparent. I think it was one lunch hour that I bumped into Horace and we talked casually until I said to him that in spite of the difficulties I was having with the Sales Office, I still had high hopes that I would earn promotion. Turning to me he gave me an odd sort of look then said: “It is my job to keep you and everyone else happy, but it seems only fair that I tell you that you will never get promotion.” This came as quite a shock to me so I asked him why he was so sure about it, and he told me that the company policy was to recruit all management staff at Head Office and they would only consider people with university qualifications.

This news stunned me and I said: “So I am wasting my time am I?” His answer was as you would expect in the affirmative, but he did not want to see me leave so he added that a new office was to be opened and there could be some prospects there. They were going to introduce a Time and Motion Study Office which would be well paid and with opportunities to study and gain advancement. Put my name down for an interview he said, it was the only opening that was going to get me anywhere.

A couple of weeks later the T & M experts arrived and carried out the interviews, which included mine. The first thing they told me was that they would be in charge of this new office and they were looking for a couple of additional staff; their demeanour told me immediately that they knew who they wanted and it was not going to include me. Their attitude was cold almost hostile, it seemed apparent from the outset that they had rejected me before we had even begun the interview. They asked me what experience I had and why I thought I could do this sort of work, to which I replied that I had been given work of this nature in previous work I had done; I had read some books on the subject so knew what the goals and objectives were. What were these books and who were the authors they asked, and I replied that it had been some time ago, so I could not recall the titles or the authors. The look on their faces made it quite clear that they did not believe me and so had concluded that I was not being truthful. The interviewers did not try very hard to hide the fact that the interview was a waste of their time, and it was ended rather abruptly and with little ceremony. Needless to say I did not get the job, and soon observed the people who began this new work were known to each other and friendly in a way that was well established.

There was no future for me in the job I had, I could continue to earn a mediocre salary, but I was not going to achieve the good life, there was no use pretending otherwise. There are many others that have found themselves in the position I was in, but with no way out they just had to accept it. It appeared to be no different for me but I had learned that there is always a way of solving problems, and I would solve this one somehow. The solution I came to was a drastic one, I would take an enormous gamble and emigrate; look for pastures new where a man would be given a chance, and was judged by his ability to work and do a job rather than by who he knew.

In retrospect I can now see that my decision was a rash one, with nothing having changed why would any other country or employer give me a chance? But I thought I had it worked out; for years I had been looking over the fence and seeing greener grass, finally circumstances had pushed me to this momentous decision. There were some factors that I knew were essential if this very difficult task was to be achieved, the most important of them being that Jackie had to be willing to do this, without her approval it would never be a successful venture. In our relationship we shared everything so she was well aware of my feelings about my job and lack of prospects. One thing I really liked about our relationship was the way she took an interest in all the things I thought important, what is more she had something intelligent to say on the subjects; she was not just a pretty face. She understood my desire to get ahead, she wanted that also, she knew any success I might have would be to her advantage. We had talked about moving to New Zealand many times before, everything we had heard about the place and the people had been good. My Aunt and Uncle had departed for that destination, following in the wake of their friends who had sent glowing reports of their new life in Auckland.