Know the Truth

My mother, Ruby Catherine Gurney, came from a more secure and more prosperous working-class home – although the same struggle for existence blighted her life too. Looking at the earliest photos I possess of my mother, she was clearly a good-looking and gentle woman, intelligent, full of life with a great sense of humour. She too was from a large family, and like my father did not have the chance of a decent education.

It was not until many years later that I discovered the extraordinary fact that my mother’s side of the family had close links with Canterbury. My mother’s great-great-grandparents, Thomas and Mary Gurney, were born in Canterbury and baptised in St Alphege’s Church, just fifty yards away from the Old Palace. Their son James was married to Louisa Dawson in the same church on 26 March 1849, and their place of residence was recorded as Archbishop’s Palace, Canterbury. The Gurney family later moved to the East End of London, where my mother was born and grew up. One firm recollection of my parents, sharply etched in my memory, is the fact that they remained in love and cherished one another throughout their lives. I have no memory of them ever having an argument, and with their children they would rely on kindness and good humour to resolve any tense situation.

At some point shortly before the war my parents moved to Dagenham in Essex, which was just as well, as 68 Fern Street was badly damaged during the Blitz. We moved to a larger council house with three bedrooms. The houses around swarmed with young families, and the small number of cars on the roads meant that children could play safely on most of the sidestreets. Impromptu football matches started after school on most days. At the age of five I was enrolled at Monteagle Primary and Junior School, just a few minutes’ walk from home. Later in life I was surprised to discover that my academic year at Monteagle School was not only to yield a future Archbishop of Canterbury, but also a senior officer in the Royal Air Force and the captain of a Cunard liner.

My recollections of those early years are exceedingly vague, and consist of a kaleidoscope of war memories: the excitement of being bundled into underground shelters, the shattering of the calm order of life through three evacuations to Wiltshire, the drone of planes overhead, the sound of the dreaded ‘doodlebugs’ and the destruction they wrought. A tremendous camaraderie developed among the families in our road, and people went to great lengths to support one another, even to the degree of sharing rations if the children did not have enough to eat. Dad became very accomplished at making toffee, and Mum’s cooking became highly inventive, as she had to make do with whatever ingredients she had to hand to produce food for us all. Dad was not called up, but was involved in essential services’, working at Ford’s motor company churning out tanks and armoured vehicles for the army. Often after work he had to take his turn of duty as one of the Home Guard. As youngsters we were tickled pink to see our father donning his uniform, cleaning his Lee-Enfield rifle and parading with other members of his brigade to different parts of the city. In later years I could never watch BBC TV’s Dad’s Army without thinking of my father.

At times in the early days war did seem exciting and rather intoxicating. A sense of urgency gripped the nation, and that feeling of living on the edge of survival penetrated even the world of children of my age. It was impossible to escape the business of war. We knew we were living in desperate days. During the day barrage balloons filled the sky, and the unmistakable traces of fighter-plane tracks high in the heavens were witnesses to the dogfights going on far above us. I became all too familiar with the sound of the ‘doodlebug’, the German V1 rocket, which did so much damage to the East End. I learned that if you could hear it you were safe. It was when the engine cut out that you knew its journey was over, and you had better run for cover. Sadly, my best friend at school, Henry, was badly injured in a doodlebug attack. War invaded our daily lives – everyone, it seemed, had at least one relative in the forces, and at school assemblies prayer was earnest. All children learned how to put gasmasks on, and took in their stride regular visits to the air-raid shelters in the back garden – even though the dirty conditions and the presence of spiders made such times less than appealing.

War also intruded on our diet, in the form of rationing, which affected every person in Britain. Everyone had a ration book, and food was rigidly controlled, with priority given to expectant mothers and children. With five children, my parents had a hard time ensuring that we all received adequate nourishment. But while everyone was hungry in wartime Britain, no one starved. The irony is that, despite people having to go without, on the whole rationing meant that the nation was better fed than it had been in the 1930s. People preferred equality to a free-for-all in which the well-off might stockpile food and the poor starve. Poorer families such as ours were entitled to free school meals. Some of my most exciting memories are of my father saving enough sugar to make fudge for all the family.

There were periods when the level of bombing in London meant that children had to be evacuated to safe country areas. That happened to us three times, but thankfully, at least when we had to leave the security of home – in spite of the dangers of bombs – we had the reassuring presence of our mother with us. Many a London child of my generation has reason to be grateful for the wonderful care of country people who could not have been kinder and more welcoming to the city kids with their unruly behaviour and their ignorance of the ways of rural communities.

There was, however, one terrible experience which was imprinted on the memory of us all, when Mother fell out with a family with whom we were staying in Warminster. A deserter came to the door one day asking for bread, and Mum gave him some. The woman who owned the house was furious with her, and a violent argument ensued. The woman then told Mother that she was totally fed up with us all – we must go. We left in a hurry, and returned to London. But Mum only had enough money to reach Paddington, and Dad had no idea we were on our way home. It was very late in the evening when the train arrived, and we were all wretchedly tired. I remember that the younger ones were crying, and Mum was forlorn and exhausted. Suddenly, to our relief and joy, a neighbour recognised Mum and greeted her: ‘Ruby! What on earth are you doing here so late? Why, you all look in need of a good meal.’ Mum, in tears, explained her predicament, and the good Samaritan bought us all fish and chips and gave us the money to complete our journey home. It was one of those moments forever treasured in our family history. For my parents it was a real sign that ‘Someone’ was watching over us all.

But we could not stay in Dagenham, it was far too dangerous, and once more we were evacuated – this time to Bradford-on-Avon and to a remarkable family, the Musslewhites, whose kindness we always remembered. Mr Musslewhite was the billeting officer and also churchwarden of Christ Church, Bradford-on-Avon. It was his job to match children and families with hospitable homes. I was told by one of his children that when he came face-to-face with Mrs Ruby Carey and her five offspring he was so touched by this very close family that, acting on impulse, he decided: ‘We will take in this family ourselves.’

We stayed with them for several weeks before a house was found on White Hill, which became our home until it was safe to return to Dagenham. Mr Musslewhite and his family also helped us in more than practical ways. He helped to reconnect us with our church, because it was entirely natural to go to his church every Sunday and to enter into the rhythm of worship and praise, community life and the care of one another. For us children it also meant education at the local church school, which we greatly appreciated. Ever since those days Bradford-on-Avon has had a special place in our affections.

I have little recollection of the many schools I must have entered during those years, except the shock of sitting the eleven-plus examination in 1946, and failing it. Of course, most working-class people then – and possibly even today – gave very little thought to such exams. Life had dealt them such a poor hand that they became accustomed to failure and constant disillusionment. I don’t recall my parents being terribly bothered by my failure, but I myself was keenly aware of its momentous significance. Looking back, I am sure that the shock of failing the eleven-plus had a very important part in my later determination to succeed academically. Even at that age I was aware that this exam could determine, to a large degree, the trajectory of one’s life. I was shaken, angry and very disappointed with myself.

So to Bifron’s Secondary Modern School I went. It wasn’t such a bad place for a boy keen to learn, and I quickly made friends. ‘Speedy Gonzales’ was my father’s nickname for me, because I always had my head in a book, and ‘speedy’ was, to be honest, the last thing I was. School reports from the period inform me that I was regularly in the top three places in most subjects. My favourite teacher, Mr Kennedy, a delightful Scot who had entered the teaching profession directly from the navy, taught English. He opened to me the riches of literature, and I borrowed book after book from him. To this day I owe him so much – for teaching me, with his softly-spoken Scottish accent, the power of literature and the need for precision in language. I recall one time when I had to read out an essay I had composed to the class. I felt very proud to be chosen, and weaved into it a few newly discovered words. Suddenly I came to ‘nonchalantly’.

‘What do you mean by that word, Carey?’

‘Well, sir, I think it means “carelessly”.’

‘Then why didn’t you use the word “carelessly”, because all of us know that word better than “nonchalantly”!’

Afterwards, Mr Kennedy said, ‘A good essay, George, but don’t use language to show off!’

And then there was the Headmaster, Mr Bass, who always wrote in green ink. His impact on my life was his belief in me. I remember the time when Alec Harris, my best friend, and I played truant. Alec had been asked by his mother to do some shopping. No shopping was in fact done. With the money burning a hole in his hand, Alec and I went to Barking cinema – known as the ‘fleapit’ – instead, where a horror film banned to children was the main attraction. We attached ourselves to an obliging man and spent Mrs Harris’s money on the tickets, ice cream and sweets. We got our just deserts, because the film was particularly horrible, with realistic scenes of a hand that strangled people. Leaving the cinema, both of us realised the even more horrifying consequences of what we had done. Not only had we played truant, but we had spent someone else’s money on a film we were not entitled to see. Mrs Harris was, not surprisingly, angry, and reported us both to the school. I was caned, but long after the pain had subsided the rebuke in Mr Bass’s voice hurt me more: ‘I am disappointed by you, Carey. You have let yourself down. You are worthy of better things than this.’

What made this incident particularly distressing was that the late forties were very tough for ordinary people. Employment was not a great problem and most men found work quickly, but wages were low, and poverty dogged the steps of most working-class families. Mrs Harris had every right to be profoundly distressed. Luckily I was able to keep the story from my parents, who would have been appalled by my behaviour. As for our family, Dad continued to work at Ford, and brought home just enough for us to pay the rent and get by. Life was hard, but we were a happy family, and entertainment came from fun in the home, close friendships at school, and of course from the radio, or ‘wireless’ as everyone called it.

One day the wireless packed up. We were dismayed beyond measure, but Dad reassured us that we would get a new one, although as we could not afford to buy it outright, it would have to be on hire purchase. I shall never forget the day the salesman came to agree terms with our parents. Soon we would be the proud owners of a new radio, and for the five children it was a moment to savour and look forward to. After the man had left, one look at Dad’s face told the story – he did not earn enough to pay the monthly instalments for a new radio; we had to settle for a second-hand one that Mother bought with some saved housekeeping money the following day. I would not go so far as to say that that incident alone made me conscious of the unfairness of life, and the way that a privileged class controlled the rest of us. It is true to say, however, that the form of Christian faith I espoused later in life had a clear social and political foundation. If it did not make a difference to life, it could never be for me a real faith.

Party politics did not intrude greatly into our home. Mum and Dad were working-class Conservatives, as far as political affiliation was concerned. My father was an intelligent man and enjoyed a good argument. His daily paper was the Express, and every Sunday the People was read from cover to cover. They were Tory papers. He had no time for socialism, believing it to be allied to Communism, and therefore in his view opposed to everything that made Britain great and free. Our parents were also unashamedly royalist, principally, I believe, because the monarchy gave a visible form to British traditions and values.

Nevertheless, even as a young teenager I could not help wondering, as I watched our two happy parents, what the Conservative Party had ever done for them. ‘Look at how poor you are. Look at the way you struggle to make ends meet,’ I thought. I could not understand their acceptance of the way things were. Deep down I felt that there ought to be, indeed must be, a better way.

Shortly after the war we moved again, this time to a three-bedroom council house in Old Dagenham. Our parents had a modest bedroom overlooking the rear garden, which was bigger than our previous one, the girls were in a pokey ‘box room’, and the three boys shared a larger room overlooking the road. It was a house full of noise and fun. Most evenings we listened to the radio which engaged with our imaginations with serials like Dick Barton, Special Agent and many other favourites. We were encouraged to read, and the local library was a great resource. Whenever he had time Dad would disappear into the shed where his tools were stored and make toys for us all. Alas, I never did acquire his practical ability, although my brother Dennis did in abundance.

With romantic notions of the ocean, I decided to join the Sea Cadets at the age of twelve, and I stayed with this great youth organisation until I was sixteen. Admittedly I had to lie to get in, as the minimum age of entry was thirteen, but I was a tall, strong lad and managed to convince the CO that I was old enough. The Sea Cadets helped me to mix with other teenagers and gave me confidence in holding, my own with them.

At thirteen I was able to sit another examination to see if I was up to the level to attend high school, and this time I passed. I can still remember the feeling of happiness. I was not a failure after all. But then came another let-down – my parents visited Mr Bass, and the conclusion of the meeting was that there was more to be gained by my staying at Bifron’s than moving on at that stage. I was not unhappy with the decision, because I was comfortable at the school, was cruising through the classes and had made many friends. The blow was to come when, at the age of fifteen and a half, I had to leave Bifron’s with no qualifications whatsoever. Secondary-modern pupils did not sit the matriculation examination.

This did not bother me at first, because I did not realise the significance of matriculation. My reading had made me thirsty for adventure, and I dreamed of joining the Merchant Navy and becoming a Radio Officer – no doubt the legacy of Mr Kennedy’s tales of his life in the Royal Navy before he became a teacher. The outside world, however, brutally woke me up to reality. For the vast majority of working-class children, school ended at fifteen and work beckoned. So I was suddenly pitched into the world of employment, and became an office boy at the London Electricity Board in East India Dock Road, Bow.

The adult world I now found myself a member of was certainly not dull or lacking interest. On the contrary, it was a bustling, urgent world of caring for customers and serving others. As office boy I was at the bottom of the heap, and the servant of all. At the top of the pile was Mr Vincent, a tall, emaciated figure who swept through the outer offices to sycophantic calls of ‘Good morning, sir! Good morning, Mr Vincent.’ Without acknowledging any of the greetings he would disappear into his office, closing the door sharply behind him.

I fell foul of Mr Vincent in my second week. I was summoned into his office and given instructions to go to a shop in Whitechapel and collect some goods he had ordered. He gave me £5 to cover the cost. I was thrilled at this opportunity to show him that I was up to scratch. I jumped on the bus happily and then, for some reason known only to the brain of an absent-minded fifteen-year-old, I started to clear out my pockets of their debris, discarding some items and shredding others. I arrived at the shop, and after I had been handed the parcel I reached for the note I had put into my top pocket. With mounting horror, I realised what I had done. From my pocket I withdrew – half of a fiver. The shopkeeper refused the tattered remains of the note point-blank, and with panic I returned to face the music, knowing that my job was on the line.

A stern-looking Mr Vincent heard me out in total silence. ‘Now go to the bank,’ he ordered, ‘and in return for the half of the banknote, you may be able to get a new £5 note – otherwise you will have to pay for this yourself.’ As that represented at least two weeks’ salary for an office boy, I was relieved when the bank gave me a whole £5 note for the fragment I sheepishly presented. It was not a happy start to my working life.

There was, however, another side to this unpopular boss whose grumpy personality made him seem a tyrant to his staff. One lunchtime Mr Vincent found me in the corner of the open office reading a book I had withdrawn from the local library. As I was by far the youngest in the office I had no one of my own age to chat with, and reading was the only way to pass the time – not that I, of all people, complained. No doubt Mr Vincent had observed me reading on other occasions, but this time he approached me with a book.

‘Carey. Have you read much of Charles Dickens?’ he asked.

I replied that I had not.

‘A pity,’ he said. ‘He is in my opinion one of the greatest writers in the English language. Here, borrow this book, and tell me what you think.’ He disappeared into his office, slamming the door behind him.

Within a few days I had read Nicholas Nickleby and returned it. The following day I was called into Mr Vincent’s large office and, standing on the other side of his desk, I was required to give him a critique of Nicholas Nickleby. His muttered grunts indicated approval, and another Dickens novel was passed across the desk. I must have read my way through most of Dickens’s oeuvre before I left to do my National Service at the age of eighteen. How I thank God for Mr Vincent for giving me such a wonderful apprenticeship in learning. It dawned on me later that it wasn’t only the reading of Dickens he encouraged in me, but the articulation of ideas. He made me use words more effectively, and made me listen to the rolling cadences of prose. ‘Read that again,’ I was often ordered. ‘Do you see the way he was combining nouns, adverbs and verbs to bring the reader into the story?’ He made me pay attention to the uses of language, as well as to its beauty.

But another discovery – an even more important discovery – happened during this period. I discovered there was a God.

My family was not religious – at least, not in the sense of feeling a need to go to church and worship. To this day I am not religious in that way. Worship is of course important, and people who claim to be Christian should belong to a congregation and attend as regularly as they can. But if worship is the outward badge of being a Christian, putting one’s belief into practice will always be its heart.

It was Bob, one of the twins, four years my junior, who first started going to Old Dagenham Parish Church. From the back of our three-bedroom council house at 198 Reede Road we could see the tower of the church in the old village of Dagenham. Bob loved the people he met there, and told me about them. So after work one day I decided to go along to the Youth Club that met on a Monday evening.

I made friends instantly. Every Monday the open Youth Club met, and on Tuesdays there was a meeting of ‘Christian Endeavour’. It was these that really interested me. They took the form of a service lasting one hour, led, in the main, by young people. Most of them were from lower-middle-class backgrounds, and they were zealous and bright. A few of them stood out, and would become special friends: Ronald Rushmer, Edna Millings, and the twins David and John Harris.

They were all a year or two older than myself, and I was impressed by the depth of their faith, the rigour of their thinking and the breadth of their lives. There was nothing ‘holy’ or ‘religious’ about them. They seemed to me to be whole people, and their interests were certainly mine. The fact is that, whether religious or not, I was deeply interested in philosophy, and particularly the meaning of life. I can’t even begin to date this interest, although I know that as soon as I was old enough to get a library ticket I started to read books by great thinkers. I vividly remember reading a book by Bertrand Russell for over an hour at Becontree library, and being asked to leave by an impatient member of staff who wanted to lock up.

The war had deeply unsettled my generation, and led many of us to ask fundamental questions about the meaning of freedom, democracy and peace. Working-class men returning from six years of conflict were determined to put behind them forever the nightmare of the thirties. Winston Churchill’s stock in the country was still high, but it was felt that even he represented a period that demeaned the vast majority of people in the land – as was demonstrated by his defeat in the general election of July 1945.

War affected me too: not in the sense of unsettling me psychologically, so much as making me aware that there were exciting questions concerning the meaning of life. Later I would find that Immanuel Kant’s classic formulation expressed my search succinctly: ‘What can I know? What must I do? What can I hope for?’ The three questions, focusing on epistemology, morals and the future of humankind, seemed to me to identify the truly crucial issues. For me as a teenager, however, the questions took a less sophisticated form: ‘Is there a God? If so, what is He like? Is He knowable?’

Old Dagenham Parish Church, with its open and evangelical style, suited me perfectly. A new vicar had arrived, the Reverend Edward Porter Conway Patterson – or ‘Pit-Pat’, as the young people instantly baptised him. Pit-Pat had recently returned from service in Kenya as a missionary. His preaching was direct, and always contained an appeal for people to turn to Christ. Many did, and the congregation grew. There could be no denying Pit-Pat’s great abilities and focus. His theology was Christ-centred and Bible-based. He was against anything that watered down the heart of what he believed to be Anglican theology, and particularly disapproved of Catholicism in any shape or form. If there was anything worse than Roman Catholicism, it was Anglo-Catholicism. He urged his congregation to abstain from drink and to avoid cinemas and theatres: ‘Come out from among them and be separate’ was one of his favourite Pauline texts.

Pit-Pat’s great strengths were his directness and simplicity; his weaknesses were the same. It did not take me very long to discover this, and in time I became concerned that he was projecting a joyless and stern gospel that fell short of the faith I was discovering for myself. Sadly, the negative influence of his teaching resulted in my feeling guilty for the next ten years whenever I saw a film or drank even a glass of beer or wine.