If I Don’t Write It Nobody Else Will

She didn’t smile. ‘Why did you buy a rabbit?’ she said, still holding my wages, and my heart plummeted. Mr Hellingoe had stopped it out of my wages—the crafty old devil. Mother didn’t help matters when she said, ‘And he’s overcharged you as well.’

During the time I was helping to keep Mr Hellingoe’s body and soul together something momentous was happening in an old building just in front of Tommyfield: a new Oldham Scout troop was being formed. As I passed it on the way home I decided to drop in. There were about twenty or so urchins in a circle round the edges of a fairly large room. Half of the boys were still at school but quite a few of us were working for a living. A tall figure in a black cassock down to his ankles stood in the middle and made a short speech, welcoming us all to the formation of the 113th Oldham Scout troop and I relaxed. I noticed three of the older ones holding kettle drums, and as there was one not being used on the floor by them I casually picked it up and stood with the other three. They handed me a drumstick and in no time at all we were marching round the room in single file to the beat of our four drumsticks. By the end of the evening we were all members of the 113th Oldham Scout troop and speaking for myself it was the best evening’s work I’d ever done.

Scouting was to make me fitter and healthier, and give me selfassurance and the comradeship that had been so lacking in my past; but the most important part of this initiation was that I met Bobby Hall, a butcher’s boy. He was also one of the drummers and there was an instant rapport between us. Neither of us could drum. We both showed promise, though; and in a matter of months a banner led the troop on church parade, with four drummers with white ropes hanging beneath our drums and a big drum, and to cap it all looking pretty smart in our new Scout uniforms. The troop was divided into four patrols and I had already been appointed patrol leader of the Peewits. Bobby was troop leader, next in line to the Scout master, who turned out to be the curate at St Mary’s Parish Church. We never saw him in any uniform other than his cassock, but he was accepted nevertheless. The months went by and in that time I gained two armfuls of proficiency badges, all round cords; and my greatest achievement and the most coveted was that I became a King’s Scout. I must have been an awesome figure to the spotty herberts of my Peewit patrol as I explained how to tie knots, put a tent up and recognise the mating call of an owl. I took great pleasure in helping my little band gain proficiency badges of their own, and in return they paid me the compliment of listening to me as if I was Baden-Powell’s grandson.

I don’t know what has happened to the Scout movement these days. I haven’t seen a parade of Scouts for years but the writing was on the wall when I last saw a Scout jamboree on television. Gone were the broad-brimmed Scout hats, which were replaced by berets; and, worse, they all wore long trousers. Perhaps I should move with the times. Well, all I can say is tell that to the beefeaters.

It wasn’t long after the rabbit fiasco that my employment in the grocery trade came to an end, my place being taken by Mr Hellingoe’s daughter, a comely lass, I should think in her mid-twenties. I thought she was smashing but I wasn’t old enough to fancy her. I felt a bit hurt at being given the elbow, but then again she was his daughter and perhaps she worked for nothing as it was all in the family.

I’ve no idea how I came to start work in Shaw, a far-distant cry from the fleshpots of Oldham. Whereas I used to walk to work at Hellingoe’s, from Featherstall Road to Shaw was a fair tram ride. Even more extraordinarily, my new employment was at the Rutland Mill, a cotton mill, but thankfully not in the dark satanic part of it. I was to be the new office boy and I looked forward to it, completely forgetting how I sneered when my brother Vernon started to work in an office, but knowing him as I did I expect he aspired to an invitation to the boardroom table.

At least I had Saturdays off, and I put these rest days to good use, especially in the long summer days. Bobby Hall and I, now ex-Scouts, were still attracted by the lure of camping under the stars, miles from anywhere. For instance, on a typical Saturday afternoon we’d meet at the bus stop in the High Street of Oldham, both of us overloaded with heavy backpacks containing potatoes, eggs, bacon, bread and butter, cushioned by sleeping bags while our rolled blankets were tied securely on the top, frying pan and saucepans, enamel mugs hanging from the straps—we were always well prepared, living up to the Scouts’ motto. From Oldham we went out into the country, perhaps Delph or Saddleworth. Having offloaded our kit and ourselves from the bus, we began our journey to our camping grounds. Our favourite destination was a place called Chew Valley, a massive terrain of huge boulders interspersed with trees and streams. We trekked anything from five to eight miles into this deserted landscape to a rare patch of grass about six feet from a fast-moving stream. We kept our eyes open for dead trees. Within sight of our tiny Shangri-La, and would hurl a rope over a long sapless branch and give it a quick tug to bring it crashing to the ground. Being so dry, it broke into manageable pieces, which we hauled the short distance to our camp.

The first thing was to put up the tent. Everything was then piled inside, in case of inclement weather. The fire was next and thanks to the deadness of the wood a saucepan full of water was soon heating while one of us peeled the potatoes. Then the light began to fade and the stars appeared until the whole of the blackness was crowded with a glittering, sparkling ceiling…Sausage and mash had never tasted so good. A few minutes to digest it, tin plates rinsed in the stream, and then, relaxing on our backpacks, sipping our mugs of freshly brewed coffee, we sighed with happiness as we lit our first cigarettes of the day. Even now I feel blissful contentment overcoming my senses as I recall that first drag on a Woodbine. The silence of our surroundings was disturbed only by the spitting hot logs in the fire and the eternal symphony of the rushing stream’s hypnotic melody. Sleep came easily as by and large it had been a hectic day. Being old hands, we knew that blankets piled on top don’t keep you warm: it’s the blankets underneath that do that, as cold comes up from the earth. Automatically now we pounded out a hollow in the ground for our hips—in fact no bed in the most expensive hotel in the world could have been as comfortable—and when the birds and the daylight opened our eyes on the Sunday morning, we were well rested, hungry and ready to enjoy the day. Light fire, wash in the stream, fry bacon and eggs, the whole breakfast including slices of bread toasted on the tip of green saplings and once again the enamel mugs of coffee, followed by…yes, you’ve guessed it, the first Woodbine—not a bad way to spend a summer weekend.

When I was working at the Rutland Mill in Shaw, Saturdays were once again bright and pristine; I no longer had to work till nine o’clock as I had done in the fruit trade. I was older, possibly wiser, although I wouldn’t put money on it, and certainly a few shillings more affluent, and I had two stalwart mates. As well as Bobby Hall, Jack Cleaver was one of my pals. A strange lad, usually the target of our heartless humour, he wore glasses, steel-rimmed and held together by a strip of sticking plaster, and he had light straight hair which he pressed with open fingers to create waves. If the world was not exactly our oyster it was most definitely our winkle. Our main Saturday night attraction was the Gaumont cinema at the end of Union Street. As for the film, the question we first asked ourselves was, ‘Is it a talkie?’ and the second, ‘Is it in colour?’ This didn’t bother us a bit: it was Saturday night, hey, lads, hey and the devil take the hindmost.

The Gaumont cinema was a large, luxurious emporium showing the latest films and up-to-date news, not forgetting Arthur Pules at the mighty Wurlitzer. For many Oldhamers the perfect panacea for the end of a stressful working week was a Saturday night at the pictures. Just relaxing into the armchair-like seats was an experience to savour. Uniformed usherettes busily showed patrons to their seats; one usherette stood against the orchestra pit, facing the audience with a smile as she sold crisps, peanuts, chocolates and soft drinks from a tray strapped round her shoulders; another usherette patrolled the aisles, selling various brands of cigarettes and matches from a similar tray. There was a general feeling of content in the audience, excitement slowly rising under a subdued babble of conversation. The audience were the same people who had gone off to work during the week in overalls, dustcoats, ragged clothing and slightly better garb for office workers, but at the Gaumont cinema they had all, without exception, dressed up for the occasion. All the men wore collars and ties and the ladies decent frocks and in many cases hats as well. What a turn around from my dear old flea-pit Imperial days; no running up and down the aisles chasing each other and certainly no whistling, booing or throwing orange peel at the screen during the sloppy kissing bits. In all fairness, though, I must add that that was only at the Saturday morning shows and we were children enjoying a few moments not under supervision or parental guidance. In fact when I was old enough to go to the Imperial for the evening films the audience even then dressed up and enjoyed the films in an adult fashion.

Back to the sublime at the Gaumont cinema; as the lights went down, so did the level of conversation. A spotlight hit the centre of the orchestra pit and slowly, like Aphrodite rising from the waves, the balding head of Arthur Pules would appear as he played his signature tune on the mighty Wurlitzer. He was a portly figure in immaculate white tie and tails, hands fluttering over the keys and shiny black pumps dancing over the pedals as he rose into full view, head swivelling from side to side, smiling and nodding to acknowledge the applause; but for all his splendid sartorial elegance, having his back to the audience was unfortunate as the relentless spotlight picked out the shape of his corsets. Regular patrons awaited this moment with glee, judging by the sniggers and pointing fingers. We were no exception: having all this pomp and circumstance brought down by the shape of a pair of common corsets on a man was always a good start to the evening’s entertainment.

At this point the words of a popular melody would flash on to the screen—for instance, the ‘in’ song of the day, ‘It Happened on the Beach at Bali Bali’—and, after a frilly arpeggio to give some of the audience time to put their glasses on, a little ball of light settled on the first word of the song. In this case the first word was ‘It’; then it bounced on to ‘Happened’; then it made three quick hops over ‘on the Beach at’; and then it slowed down for ‘Bali Bali’. The women sang with gusto and the men just smiled and nodded.

Happily this musical interlude didn’t last too long. Arthur Pules, the organist, was lured back into his pit of darkness and the curtains opened on the big wide screen. The films at the Gaumont were a great improvement on the grainy pictures at the Imperial, and so they should have been: after all, the film industry had made great strides in the eight years since John and I had sat in the pennies, dry mouthed as the shadow moved across the wall to clobber one of the unsuspecting actors.

After two hours of heavy sighs and wet eyes ‘The End’ appeared on the screen and the lights in the auditorium came up, bringing us all to our feet as the drum roll eased into the National Anthem…no talking, no fidgeting, simply a mark of respect for our King and Queen.

From the cinema we made our way eagerly to the next port of call, the chippie at the top of Coldhurst Street, for our customary fish and chips sprinkled liberally with salt and vinegar, and salivated to the top of Belmont Street, where Bobby Hall lived. Conversation was on hold as we stood in a circle, the steam of the hot fish and chips mingling with our clouds of breath on the cold night air. Finally with sighs of satisfaction we saw Bobby to his door, and then Jack and I made tracks through the darkness to 36 Leslie Street.

Sunday evening was just as interesting. Our little gang met as usual and made our way down to Union Street, where hordes of people strolled down one side of the street to the end, crossed over the road and walked up the opposite side. It was habitual, the Sunday night paseo. Chatting and larking about, we joined the parade, just a few young blokes without a cogent thought between them, but this was not so—we were all of the same mind: GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS! We were growing up; it was the April of our lives. Should we come upon a linkage of girls we immediately locked on behind them, a decent space between us lads and our quarry. The girls threw covert glances over their shoulders and for our part we pretended to be oblivious to them, Bob and I laughing at nothing, and Jack staring ahead with what he perceived to be a steely glint, which didn’t quite work because his eyes were slightly crossed to start with. And another weekend hit the dust.

The offices of the Rutland Mill were palatial, with high ceilings in the boardroom and the general office; these were separated by a washroom, which had two gleaming taps above the basin and at the far end a toilet. All the office doors were either mahogany or rosewood, with shiny cut-glass door knobs; the windows were long and curtained, the bottom half of frosted glass so that the workers would be unable to look in on their betters, and more importantly, we wouldn’t have to look at them. In the first few weeks I felt embarrassed by the cheapness of my suit—Vernon had always been taller than me; but I did polish my shoes so that at least I could walk about the office with more confidence. Filling most of the space were two long desks. On one desk was a girl at one end and me at the other, and at the opposite side an older man facing me and a woman facing the girl, both more important than us; on the second desk a clerk even more important and facing him the big panjandrum, the boss man of us all, the secretary Edmund Taylor. From where he sat we were all within the orbit of his baleful gaze. As he looked at us over his glasses, we doubled our work rate. He never smiled and I surmised that he was either unhappy at home or nursing a grievance that he was grossly underpaid.

My duties were not too taxing. Most of my time was spent entering crate numbers of cops into an enormous ledger. The sheer size of this book gave me a sense of importance. Another duty of mine every week was to take the wages in a huge tray up to the mule room, where the big and little piecers queued for their hard-earned pittance. That was the only occasion I had to go into the mill, and for the first time my heart went out to my father, who was a big piecer at the Standard Mill in Rochdale. The treadwheel in old prisons would have been preferable to a few days in the mule room, where workers, barefoot on the oily, uneven floor, continuously walked up and down between the in-and-out movement of the mules piecing up cotton strands that broke with monotonous regularity; the heat was stultifying and the noise horrendous. Another regular duty of mine was to top up all the inkwells and distribute new blotting paper to the other members of staff.

When we acquired electricity at home is a mystery. It seems that one day we were holding the taper to the gas mantle to bring soft light to the room and the next we clicked a switch on the wall and a brighter light shone from a sixty-watt bulb. I can’t recall any major upheavals in our lives at 36 Leslie Street—no electrician tearing up the skirting boards for wires and connections. Now we had a wireless plugged into the mains no less, and you can’t do that with gas, but our listening was rationed because of the expense, unless it was something special; and on Sunday 3 September 1939, a fine, warmish day, sitting on the steps to the backyard, face turned upwards to the sun to take advantage of the passing summer, I heard Mr Neville Chamberlain, our Prime Minister, informing us all that from today we were at war with Germany. I was only sixteen years old, so I accepted the news with equanimity; I didn’t honestly believe it concerned me. The next day the air-raid sirens wailed over the land and I still wasn’t convinced it was real; in any case it was common knowledge that it would all be over by Christmas. Here a very strange thing occurred. Aunt Marie received a letter from her brother, Uncle Ernest, who was in the navy, assuring her that there would be no war. It was dated 21 August 1939, but ironically the letter was delivered the day after war was declared. In his letter Uncle Ernest told Aunt Marie that he was now serving on HMS Adventure, which in the past had been in reserve but now was commissioned on active service.

Contrary to popular expectation, the war was not all over by Christmas, and war in the air and on the high seas was taking a heavy toll of British lives; and at home Uncle Ernest was constantly in our thoughts.

During this moment of history, when I was still filling inkwells at the Rutland Mill, only once was I in trouble. Next to me, the girl on my desk was new, a little older than me but very self-assured. I didn’t really get on with her, as she treated me like a minion—‘Bring this’, or ‘Pass me that’ or, once when I sneezed, ‘For heaven’s sake, use a hankie’; and while I appreciated the fact that she was slightly superior in office seniority, she had been with us only for a few days whereas I was an old hand. Anyway, one dinnertime I happened to mention that the cotton mill was a frightening place at night, especially now that the war was in full swing and all the windows were blacked out. Ken Smith, the senior clerk, was about to leave the office and as he was passing he said that the mill was a frightening place during the day. Clever Clogs snorted. He looked at her and continued. ‘Some time ago, he said, when he was doing my job, as he was about to enter the passage a man walked towards him carrying an arm on a piece of paper, followed by two other workers who were supporting the man who had lost it. He’d had an accident with a fan belt and there was blood all over that passage, and that was in the middle of the morning, he said, and some say that his ghost still comes along the passage at night. The story scared the pants off me. A cotton mill at night is never silent: it creaks and groans, and somewhere in the factory something falls to the floor. But when he’d gone she said she wasn’t afraid of the dark.

‘You’re pathetic,’ she said.

That did it. ‘All right,’ I replied. ‘Go up into the mill tonight, then.’

She said she couldn’t tonight as she was going to the pictures and that was that.

But the following night when everyone else had gone and the factory was deserted apart from us, as she was stamping the mail she gave the last stamp a violent thump, turned to me and said, ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’ As she stormed out of the office, I thought, What’s the matter with her? Then it all came back to me—my challenging her to go into the empty black mill. I dashed after her to the beginning of the long stone passage that led to the steps up to the card room and stared into the blackness, but it was too late: there was no sign of her. I hadn’t a torch or anything—it had never really occurred to me that she would take up the dare. I gulped. Then again, she was so cocksure and I hadn’t forced her. Tentatively I called her name. The silence was deafening, so I called again, louder, but to no avail. So I shrugged and wondered if she’d gone home, leaving me standing there like a bridegroom wondering if it isn’t too late to call it off. But when I went back to the safety of the bright office, I saw her coat over the back of the chair, so I knew she had gone into the card room. Suddenly I’d had enough. If she wanted to play silly games, that was up to her. I had a tram to catch, and when she returned to the office full of triumph I wasn’t going to be sitting there to applaud, and she could put that in her pipe and smoke it.

However, when morning inevitably came there was a strained atmosphere in the office when I arrived. The girl was not there, but more remarkably the secretary was, and he looked as if he’d had a serious illness and hadn’t yet shaken it off. ‘Come into the boardroom,’ he rasped, and I followed him into the hallowed magnificence reserved for the chosen few. He sat at the enormous table. ‘What happened last night?’ was his opening gambit. For a moment I didn’t understand; then the events of the night before came back to me and I told him as much as I knew. In a quiet voice he filled in the rest. At about three o’clock in the morning he had been called out of bed by the police. The front door of the office was wide open and on entering they’d spotted the pile of mail unposted and the girl’s coat slung over the back of the chair. The secretary dutifully posted the letters and put out the lights. Nobody gave going into the factory itself a thought and it was only when the women arrived in the morning to start work in the card room that the girl had been discovered in a half-full skip of bobbins, fast asleep. Again the secretary was called back to the mill and, observing that the girl was on the verge of a breakdown, instructed the other girl in the office to take her home and call a doctor. Then I arrived, the only one in Shaw apparently unaware of the calamity at the Rutland Mill.

The secretary gave me a severe rollicking, ending with the fatal words, ‘Get your cards,’ which in everyday parlance means, ‘You’re sacked.’ I was appalled by what had happened to the girl and ashamed at my cowardice in not going to find her. Anyway, head down, I shuffled from the boardroom and sat at my desk, still in heavy shock. Then the secretary came back and sat in his place, and, probably from force of habit, on seeing him in his familiar seat I opened the enormous ledger and started, in a daze, to enter the numbers in the correct columns. The fact that I had just been given the sack never entered my mind and the secretary didn’t press the matter; we both carried on as if it had never happened. The girl didn’t return to work, so in all probability the secretary had concluded that he couldn’t afford to lose two members of his staff in one day.

When I travel back in time to when I was just gone sixteen years of age, one particular incident in that historic year of 1939 springs immediately to mind. It was not the declaration of war but something more significant in my life than the inevitable conflict to come.

It all began to snowball one Sunday afternoon, when I found myself in a friend’s house. How or why I was there I’ve completely forgotten, but one thing sticks in my mind: in the front room there was an upright piano and anything musical had always attracted me. I should add that I played the mouth organ, which hardly entitled me to call myself a musician. Any fool can press a piano key and get a result, and we all do it, but when my friend sat down to play, I listened with awe as he knocked out a popular dance tune. What impressed me more than anything was that he never once looked down at his hands, and without a break in the music he looked towards the door and said, ‘Come in, Arthur.’ Another youth entered, carrying a violin case, which he opened, and after a few tentative tuning notes they segued into ‘The Blue Danube’. Then with more panache they went into a swing version of the same thing. I was transfixed, absolutely spellbound. If only I could play the guitar, we could form a British Hot Club de France. Surely the guitar wasn’t too difficult to learn? I desperately wanted to be a part of the action and before I could stop myself I blurted out that I played the drums, which wasn’t strictly accurate: all I possessed was a pair of drumsticks from my Scout days. The next Sunday afternoon I brought them along. I was the last to arrive and I was introduced to another member of the group, who played the bass, which belonged to his father, who fortunately was in hospital for a month or two. In a short time we were into the first few bars of ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’. I was perched on the arm of the settee, drumming on the seat of a chair, and I’ll tell you something: it wasn’t at all bad—we were definitely in the groove. My friend on the piano had a healthy pile of sheet music and the rest of us busked it.