genesis.htmIf you find the early chapters of this a bit too much nostalgia for you please be patient. There is much about how a church came to be built and what a privilege it was to be involved with this. Looking back it was indeed interesting at the time or else how could those involved have put up with being pushed into things quite forcefully--as indeed they often were-- by a very determined Priest-in Charge.

IT WAS VERY INTERESTING AT THE TIME

By William T. Bates (copyright reserved)

Chapter One

Once again it was Sunday afternoon and I made my way towards St.Mark's Sunday school. It was quite a nice afternoon and I would far rather have been out for a walk or playing out with my friends. But no! I had to go to Sunday school whilst they had either been allowed to stay home or never did go anyway. In spite of all my protests I had been given no choice and neither had my two younger brothers who were no happier about it than I was. Although it was becoming more usual for children not to go to Sunday School there were still a considerable number of parents who regarded a good religious upbringing as an essential part of a child's education and a necessary adjunct to building character. There was also the added bonus for the parents of a nice, quiet, uninterrupted afternoon nap with the kid's out of harm's way. Mind you no one could accuse my dad of not practising what he preached. He was a regular churchgoer himself and gave his not inconsiderable talents as a singer to the church choir and was also the choirmaster for some years.

My mother was involved in church too as a member of the Mothers' Union although perhaps she was not there as frequently as the rest of us. My brothers and I were members of the choir and so were expected to be present at morning and evening services as well as Sunday school. Mother was something of a musician herself and played the piano quite well. She tried to teach all three of us to play from an early age. I remember the first touch I had on a keyboard was when I was brought downstairs to see a piano my parents had bought second-hand. I must have been very young indeed for it seems that I first had to learn the alphabet in order to be taught the "lines and spaces”. There came a time however when it was too difficult for my mother to keep on teaching all of us and my brothers gradually gave up their lessons. Perhaps it was fortunate that I had just learnt enough to allow me to really enjoy playing so that I kept practising. From time to time I would retire to the privacy of the parlour and have a go at some piece of music belonging to my mother that had taken my fancy. The resulting weird and wonderful sounds would soon provoke a reaction and mother would come to play the piece for me and give me a quick lesson. Dad would occasionally allow me to accompany him whilst he sang and this also encouraged me to practise. But that's enough about family life, let me return to Sunday afternoon.

I eventually arrived at Sunday School (however reluctantly) and found the curate waiting at the door for me.” Billy", he said,” How would you like to play the hymns for us this afternoon?” How would I like to play the hymns indeed! There was almost no need to ask! My whole Sunday afternoon was at once changed for the better as I relished the thought of playing for an audience. On the other hand I was a little bothered because I really only knew two hymns, so I first asked,” What hymns are we having?”“ Whatever you know best will be fine.” the curate replied.” Can we have 'Abide with Me' and’ All things bright and beautiful?” I asked,"Certainly!"He said, apparently disregarding completely any question as to their suitability or otherwise, and so it was that my career as an organist was launched although I didn't know it at the time.

My first public appearance could hardly have been looked upon as an unqualified success. The only real experience I had of playing the church organ was an odd few minutes snatched when I got the chance and the few times when my father had asked me to play the melody line for a choir practice when the organist was away. I had only the most rudimentary knowledge of that which has been called the” king of instruments” and it was only when I seated myself on the organ bench that I realised what a responsibility I had so cheerfully undertaken. There were, it seemed, a thousand things which might go wrong and a hundred things to do before I could even play the first chord. Which stops ought I to use? Should I use them all and just hope for the best? These, and a myriad of other questions, crowded into my mind. But at least I didn't have to worry about the pedals! I couldn't even reach them!

After what seemed like an interminable length of time it seemed that everything was in order and I nodded to the curate to show I was ready. He announced the hymn and, taking firm control of my nerves, I pressed firmly and confidently upon the keys. To my absolute consternation there was complete silence! In my eagerness to avoid keeping everyone waiting I had forgotten the first essential any pipe organ must have; a supply of air! I had failed to signal the little boy who had been press-ganged into pumping the bellows. Frantically I tugged at the cord, which operated the signal, and this was immediately followed by a frenzy of noisy activity from the rear of the organ. Noisy, because the boy tried, in vain, to make up in enthusiasm for that which he lacked both in experience and strength which led to quite a lot of rattling and banging from the bellows.

Organs "speak" of course; they don't simply make musical sounds in the manner of lesser instruments. Unfortunately, in my confusion, I kept one hand firmly holding down a chord all this time so that as the air filled the bellows the voice with which the organ "spoke" was accompanied by noises from the bellows and sounds like a bellowing cow with a bad attack of asthma from the pipes! The curate looked at me and gave an encouraging smile, as curates no doubt must under such circumstances, and he waited patiently until the organ began to produce a more normal sound before leading off with the singing. I got through the rest of the verses without further incident beyond an odd wrong note or two and returned to my seat in class thinking that this would be the last time I would be allowed to play. I doubted if I would even be asked to play the second hymn. But when the time came the curate beckoned me forward to take the "hot seat" again and I managed to finish the closing hymn of the afternoon without any further great disaster. His smile became much less forced and he thanked me for helping out saying,” We must let you have another try quite soon.”

True to his word he called on me quite often afterwards and I gradually increased my repertoire of hymns. It was to be a long time, however, before I could play the first chord of any tune without recalling the anguish with which the organ spoke on that first Sunday afternoon. Indeed, even today, I recall the incident with a shudder of horror!

Chapter two

Inside every mission church there is the potential to become a parish church and St.Mark's was no exception. The ambition to build a permanent church to replace the existing "Tin Tabernacle”, as it was affectionately known, was one, which was often mentioned when various fund raising activities were being organised. We were probably more fortunate than many mission churches because we had a legacy of £5000 which was left solely and exclusively for the purpose of building a "proper" church and in those days, before the Second World War, this was a considerable sum of money which probably only needed to be doubled before building could commence. Unfortunately it always seemed that all the money raised in various ways was at once swallowed up in routine running expenses and the building fund, if it grew at all, only did so very slowly indeed.

So it came about that the church council in their wisdom decided that as many of the fund raising events as possible during the year 1937/38 should be devoted to increasing the building fund and all the various groups such as Mothers' Union, Men’s Institute, etc. should be called upon for some extra effort. The young people were also to be encouraged to do their share and each class in the Sunday School was asked to help in whatever way they could. My dad, who was a St.Mark's stalwart from way back had much experience of this sort of thing and made the rather cynical remark,"Well, Billy, I hope they do well, but I am afraid that St.Mark's will still be trying to build a new church long after I am dead and buried.” which was his way of saying that it would never be built. In spite of this I nevertheless found the prospect of helping to build a church quite a heady one as indeed did most of the members of my class and, encouraged by our class teacher, we got our heads together to search out a few ideas.

There were about a dozen of us and we were around thirteen to fourteen years old. As a group our reputation left something to be desired and it would be perhaps kindest to describe us as being of a somewhat over enthusiastic disposition and to leave it at that. Sunday School teachers seemed to stay with us only briefly until a certain young lady, whom I shall call Sally, arrived one day and took firm charge of us. The fact that she was amply blessed with feminine charms and knew how to use them was something which was considerably to her advantage because the whole class promptly took a fancy to her and become as putty in her hands. Soon she had us talking seriously about how we might work to get some money for the building fund and made us feel that this was the most exciting thing in the world.

Making a mile of pennies was a popular way of raising funds in those days and this was the first thing we thought about but others had already taken this idea up. By the way they were talking about it you would have thought they were intending to do far more than a mile without any trouble at all but a mile of pennies, although it represented a heck of a lot of money, also represented a lot more work than most people realised. Nevertheless in such matters it is often the intentions, which are just as important as the results, and it was certain that these were well worth pursuing. Of course our class could still help with the pennies if we wanted to but Sally felt that we ought to at least try to do something special of our own and so it came about that, after a lot of discussion, the idea of forming a mouth-organ band was born.

Amongst our number there was one who proudly announced that he could play already and would soon show the rest of us how it was done. There was nothing to it, he said, why he had only been learning a few weeks and already he could play two tunes. He undertook to have us all playing like Larry Adler in no time at all. Some of us, of course, had more of a problem than others because we not only had to learn the instrument but also had first of all to persuade someone to let us have the money to buy one. But parents were badgered and nattered until eventually we all had our mouth organs and furthermore one parent loaned us his pigeon loft to practice in. In fact immediately after we had finished our first rehearsal in his front room he was absolutely insistent that we should use the loft.

For the next four weeks those pigeons were serenaded on two evenings a week and on Sundays after Sunday School. What optimists we must have been! We saw no problems at all in learning to play from scratch and attaining the standard required for a public performance We planned, confidently, to make our debut at the annual Garden Party which was to be held in one month's time. Today I shudder at the mere thought but by our last rehearsal on the evening before the Garden Party we had learnt four tunes; well more or less learnt them anyway. Although we might not be quite perfect if there was any justice in the world we would attain instant stardom.

The great day dawned fine and sunny and we were soon busy helping with the many tasks, which are needed to ensure the success of all social events. We were well used to helping on these occasions by loading tables on to lorries and acting as unpaid labourers. Sometimes we might justifiably be accused of getting under everyone's feet but we liked helping; it was fun; and there was always the chance of an odd "perk" or two in the shape of a free bottle of pop, a cup of tea, or a sticky bun. Riding a lorry or a horse and cart loaded with tables and chairs was great fun in itself. We were busy one way or another right up to the official opening so busy, in fact, that it was with some surprise that I heard a voice saying” I have made all the arrangements you are on in twenty minutes. Will you be ready?” It was Sally and she sounded a little bit anxious. Quickly I felt in my jacket pocket and as I did so my heart skipped a beat,"Oh dear”, I heard myself saying,” I have left my mouth-organ at home."

Sally continued to round us all up from the various distractions of the Garden Party until eventually it became clear that I wasn't the only one who had been forgetful. One by one everyone confessed to the same failing,"Oh dear! I have forgotten my mouth-organ.” Absorbed in the delights of the day we had lost all track of time until it was now far to late to go home for our instruments and be back in time to perform. Sally was a right good sport about it though and simply said, in her most sympathetic manner,” Never mind, perhaps you can play for the prize-giving instead.” She must nevertheless have been most embarrassed at having to apologise to the organisers of the entertainment for our absence. But circumstances conspired to make sure we never did perform together in public as mouth organ band at a prize giving, or on any other occasion, and to this day only the pigeons and ourselves will ever know what the world of entertainment has missed.

Not all of our ideas failed to come to fruition although sometimes the end result bore little relationship to what was originally intended. There was the time when the church council decided to brighten up the image of the traditional walking day by including a number of floats in the procession and these were to have a religious theme. This would, it was reasoned, encourage more people to take part in the procession and, just as importantly, attract more people to watch. A prize would be awarded to the Sunday school class, which came up with the best-decorated float and another for the most novel and original idea.

It was hardly to be wondered at that our little band of enthusiasts could not let this chance to shine pass them by and that we spent all of one Sunday afternoon apparently studying open Bibles, whilst furtively discussing, in badly concealed whispers, just what our contribution should be. It soon became clear that we would first have to overcome a manpower problem because some of us were in the choir and were duty bound to walk with our fellow choristers. It was therefore decided that the remainder of the class would bear the brunt of the responsibility and we who were in the choir would help with any construction work that was needed. After this it was decided that the theme for our float should be based upon some Bible story or other although we weren't sure which it should be. We spent so much time talking about this that eventually those who were not in the choir and were most involved simply said,” Don’t worry about it any more just leave it all to us. We will sort something out and if we do have any problems we will let you know in good time."

Sally apparently decided that it was best for her to stay in the background. That way she didn't get blamed and could more easily pick up the pieces afterwards. She left everyone to get on with it and, strangely, we who were in the choir also seemed to be surplus to requirements for, as the time passed and the walking day came closer, all our offers of help were politely, but firmly, rejected. We were a bit concerned at first that we might have another fiasco like that with the mouth-organ band but when we suggested this could happen we were told quite firmly,” Don’t worry we have everything sewn up and we're going to win hands down."

Walking day arrived at last. The church gradually filled up with people making preparations for the procession and the air became filled with an excited hum of voices above which could be heard the occasionally raised tones of teachers giving out last minute instructions. At one point, when the babble of voices became overwhelming, an even more penetrating voice was heard demanding instant quietness and reminding everyone,” After all this is a house of God let us please behave accordingly.” Which, after the first initial reaction, didn’t make any perceptible difference at all because everyone was far too excited to take any notice. Then finally an even more compelling voice rose over the din as the curate called us all to order and led us, first in prayer, and then in singing the hymn,” Onward Christian soldiers.” The processional cross was carried out into the street followed by the choir and we all tagged on behind in due order ready to start out.

The banner, which seemed to us at the time to be truly immense and magnificently embroidered, was raised up in the teeth of a slight breeze by stalwarts from the Young Men's Institute. They staggered from the initial effort and cautioned each other in anxious tones,” Steady on, I’m not ready yet!"---"Mind how you handle that rope!"----"Be careful!!"---"Mind the gate!” until the banner was at last in the middle of the street and ready for off.

The rest of the procession gradually sorted itself out and, at the very end, came just two floats. Two only, because the idea had been less enthusiastically received than had been expected and furthermore, as we looked back along the procession from our leading position with the choir, we could see no sign of our classmates anywhere. Then, at last, we saw them running pell-mell through the church grounds towards us pushing what appeared to be a very large and dirty wheelbarrow filled to overflowing with rubbish of all kinds.” Could this possibly have any relationship to the Bible at all?" we wondered as our "float" at last joined the procession and it became painfully clear to us all that any religious theme there might have been had been sacrificed on the altar of topicality and originality.

At the time there was a long running, popular programme on the radio in which there was a character called Sid Walker. Based on the traditional image of a rag and bone man he had become quite a cult figure and the theme song with which his sketches were introduced had also become very popular. As our classmates pushed they also sang and the words of their song rose clearly above the choir's rendition of 'The church's one foundation.'

"Day after day I'm on me way,

Any old rags, bottles or bones,

Any old rags, bottles or bones."

There was little doubting that our 'float' had topicality and originality but had it a Biblical theme? Of course it had, as our friends insisted when taken to task by Sally,” Everyone has heard of the valley of dry bones! Haven’t they?"

Chapter 3

Sunday School was gradually becoming less important in the life of the community but was, as yet, still relatively well attended. Regular attendance was rewarded at the annual presentation of prizes and this was a highlight in the church's year because as well as the prize giving there was also entertainment in the form of a concert given by the members of the Sunday School.

The thing I used to look forward to most of all was, however, the enormous tea, which was laid on by the Mothers' Union. They would spend most of the day making their preparations, bustling around preparing great piles of bread and butter, filling cake stands until they absolutely groaned under the weight of home-made cakes and buns, stacking plates with buttered scones, and strategically placing dishes of strawberry or blackcurrant jam upon the tables, But these were only for the "filling up the cracks"(as the saying goes) for at the last minute, when everyone had seated themselves, a plate would be placed in front of each person which had upon it succulent slices of boiled ham decorated with a garnish of lettuce and tomato and then, adding a final touch to the meal, a dish of fruit was also placed in everyone's place. When all was ready there would be a rapping on the top table from the curate's spoon and a call for silence whilst grace was said. Such a meal was certainly a blessing from on high if anything ever was and everyone was indeed truly thankful for the gifts of time and talent, which had gone into providing the feast.

From that moment on all conversation was down to the bare essentials for a few minutes.” Pass the sugar please.” Any more tea anyone?” Has anyone seen the salt?” That jam's good. You must try it. Who made it do you know?” But eventually even such remarks became restrained as everyone knuckled down to the serious business of relieving the groaning tables of their burden of food until, as the end of the meal came closer, other remarks began to be heard,” Come on you young lads. What are you playing at leaving food on the table? I could eat a horse when I was your age. Get those cakes eaten, we don't want any left over.” Such encouragement was really hardly needed as the last remnants were willingly disposed of and a gradually growing trickle of people rose from their chairs and left to take their ease in the grounds or started to clear the tables ready for the evening's entertainment and for the prize giving itself. Soon all the crockery and table-cloths disappeared in the direction of the kitchen where a babble of conversation and laughter mingled with the sound of splashing water and clattering crockery whilst the men added their own contribution to the general clamour as they moved forms and chairs into position in front of the stage.

So many willing hands soon had everything ready and the seats, which were now laid out in neat rows, began to fill with children and their parents. The children, of course, made a beeline for the front rows and these soon filled but the grown ups were not all that far behind and it wasn't long before all the seats were taken and everyone was ready for the prize giving. There was an expectant buzz of anticipation in the air and interesting bumps and bangs could be heard coming from behind the curtains in front of the stage before they opened to reveal the Vicar, the Curate, and the Sunday School superintendent gathered around a table piled high with all kinds of books. Those who had managed to get a prize began to be called to the stage to receive them from the vicar to the accompaniment of unstinting applause from the audience.

Shortly a growing number of whispers could be heard as more and more children returned to their seats with their prizes. Most seemed to be well satisfied with their books but there were some who received theirs as a sort of mixed blessing. These had been given a prayer book, or a Bible, or some uplifting religious work and seemed unsure whether to regard their prize as an honour or an insult. I myself could never quite understand a mind, which could think a religious book, was necessarily one, which a small child would appreciate. I am sure most children would be more thankful for a book of adventure stories or perhaps even a compendium of games or suchlike. Although I concede the point that there may be some of a more serious inclination.

Last to be called to receive their prizes were those in our class and these were to be the last we would receive. At fourteen years of age some of us were already working and the rest would soon be joining them. There were just two of us who still had to spend another year or so at school because we were at secondary and grammar school but all of us, without exception, were looking forward to moving into the young men's class the following week. We received our prizes and returned to our seats and as we did so, whether we realised it or not, we were also losing something of our childhood. At the time the term 'teenager' was something we only associated with American films and this is what we had now become almost without realising it. But at last the prize giving was at an end and now it was time for some entertainment. Sally had asked us to try to do something special since this was to be our last year together and she asked that we should also be a little more serious about it than we had been in the past. I believe she had really expected us to revive the mouth organ band but not only had we come to accept that we could not really play well enough but had become bored with the idea and it no longer held any interest for us. It took a long time before we were able to think of an alternative and in the end it was Sally who suggested we might like to try to do a very short play of some kind. From somewhere or other she managed to get hold of a script for a version of Snow-white and the Seven Dwarfs which, although it was intended for small children, she felt we could use quite well if we made a few minor changes. This was a very good choice because at the time Walt Disney, that cartoon genius, had just produced the classic film version of Snow-white and it was having a tremendous impact on the cinema going public at the time. All the class had been to see this and had found the experience a memorable one and indeed my own family visit had been memorable in more ways than one.

In our town there were more cinemas than I care to remember and in the town centre there were at least five ranging from luxurious right down to 'fleapit' status; but the ultimate in luxury was without doubt the Odeon, which had only recently been built. Our family visit was intended as a double treat because this was our first opportunity to see inside the Odeon and also to see the very first full-length cartoon. So special did my father consider the occasion to be that he actually took the unprecedented step of booking our seats in advance. Normally we would have queued up for seats as did most people and I had often been envious of those who had booked in advance and were allowed to walk straight past we lesser mortals in the queue. So it was that we arrived at the cinema in less of a rush than was usually the case and looked around for a way in.

We were not surprised to see an enormous line of people stretching along the pavement but this was nothing to do with us, or so we thought, and we all walked confidently up to the entrance with Dad as he asked,” Where do we go with these?” and held out our five tickets.” Right to the end of this line.” said the doorman and waved his arm vaguely towards the far end of the building where the queue disappeared from view around the corner.” But we've booked.” stuttered my dad,” So has everyone else.” said the doorman and carefully straightening his beautiful, brand new uniform he turned disdainfully away. However there was no great delay and we were soon seated in the elegance of the town's number one cinema enjoying a truly magical evening of superlative entertainment.

Having gone through such an experience how could our class possibly be satisfied with a mere children's version of Snow-white? Obviously we would need to make quite a few changes to the existing script. We added some dialogue of our own which was largely taken straight from Walt Disney's version and changed the rather inadequate names of our dwarfs which were simply called first dwarf, second dwarf, etc., to Grumpy. Sleepy, Sneezy, and all the other names in the film. Then we added all kinds of stage effects. Mysterious lights were contrived by covering hidden torches with coloured tissue paper and these were shone on the face of the Wicked Queen to achieve our idea of a suitable sinister effect. Weird cries were introduced at suitable moments and we spent a great deal of time rehearsing our stage manager until he could produce the exact effect we needed. Indeed there was no problem beyond our ingenuity! Not having any girls in the class meant that John had to be the Queen and Alan had to become transformed into the beautiful and glamorous Snow-white and this was only achieved by calling upon Sally and a girlfriend of hers to provide suitable make-up and dresses. The film version had been the vehicle for a number of very popular songs and we were convinced that we too would need to use at least some of these if we were to achieve the success we deserved. As a result I found myself conscripted as 'musical director' with instructions to learn to play ‘Heighho, it’s off to work we go', and,’ Some day my prince will come’. I was also asked to play something suitable during the interval and 'The Maiden's Prayer' was suggested. This was felt to be a logical choice for a maiden such as Snow-white but don't ask me why; it just seemed like a good idea at the time.

So with the stage cleared we at last made our debut as actors. I was despatched to my place at the piano and, dressed as a dwarf, I played 'Heighho', as another dwarf pulled back the curtains, and five other dwarfs marched across the stage singing lustily and carrying pickaxes and shovels as big as themselves. The Wicked Queen appeared and was an instant success, being greeted with booing and cheering from all the smaller kids in the audience. The effect was unfortunately spoiled when a torch rolled from it's hiding place and fell at the feet of a small girl in the front row who dutifully handed it up to one of the dwarfs saying,” Please give the queen her torch she has dropped it".

Snow-white 'she' was the star of the evening although he had been completely unable to confess to his mother that he was to play the part of a girl so that at the end of the first act she was heard to say,” Who is the girl was playing Snow-white? I am sure I should know her". Our confidence grew as the audience booed in all the right places and laughed at all the funny bits. The more they appeared to enjoy themselves the more we began to ham it up with the result that we ran well over our allotted time and into the time allotted to the rest of the entertainment. Still no one worried too much and at the end we received overwhelming applause and many congratulations. Our Sunday school careers had ended in a blaze of glory. At last we had made our atonement for the mouth organ band, which failed, and the wheelbarrow float, which went wrong.

Chapter Four

When I left school in1939 the war had just started but as yet it seemed to have made little improvement to the job prospects for school leavers although more and more companies were going onto war work. At our school we left a year after most people but although the extra year of education was regarded as an advantage it could also prove to be just the opposite.

Apprenticeships started at fourteen years of age for the traditional seven-year stretch up to the age of 21, which meant that at fifteen we were a bit late for starting one. This caused me to miss a couple of chances and after a while, feeling discouraged, I decided anything was better than nothing and took what was really a very 'dead end' job with a firm of sheet metal workers who were producing detonator cases for the army. This was, to put it mildly, a right mucky mess of a job. It involved cleaning the half complete detonator cases of the layers of surplus soldering fluid and grease that they had acquired in manufacture. The whole operation was 'Dickensian', indeed almost primitive. No nice, tidy, modern degreasing plant such as you see today. Just a tank of paraffin, a brush and a bucket of hot water, which soon cooled down and needed, frequent replenishing. Under such conditions it is hardly to be wondered at that I began to lose any ideas I had about’ the dignity of labour’. I used to go home smelling like nothing on earth. Then I became matey with a lad about my own age who had previously worked at one of the larger firms in the area and had been laid off. He was called back to his old job and was full of praise for his firm. Indeed he seemed to have appointed himself as their unofficial recruiting agent and promised to ask for a job for me.

He was as good as his word; I duly got an interview, and the job. The work was still a bit dirty but nowhere near as much as the other one had been and I did at least smell decent when I went home. The wage was also much better and I received 15 shillings a week instead of the ten shillings I had been getting. I hadn't been in my new job more than a week or two when, soon after I had returned home from work, there was a knock on the front door .My dad answered it and I heard a voice ask him,” Is that lad of yours still looking for an apprenticeship?” and my father's reply,” Indeed he is come in and have a word.

"A man whom I recognised as the husband of one of the ladies at St.Mark's came in and said to me,” How do you fancy being a motor mechanic?” I could hardly believe my ears for I had really begun to feel that I would never get an apprenticeship at my age.” Come for an interview after work. Just come as you are nobody is going to worry about a bit of muck in a garage. Mind your manners and how you answer our manager's questions and the job is your's". I was duly interviewed and got the job. My first wage as an apprentice was twelve shillings and sixpence a week which was half-a-crown less than I was used to, but there was one big difference which made it all worthwhile. Although I was again going home smelling of paraffin and oil I was at least enjoying what I was doing.

The first week flew by. You couldn't learn this job in half an hour, it took years, and I began to feel that there really was dignity to be found in labour provided always that the labour was interesting and fulfilling. Those first few months of the war were to become known as the’ phoney war’ but nevertheless it was beginning to make it's effects felt upon everybody's lifestyle and young men of the Men's Institute at St.Mark's began to disappear one by one as they were either conscripted into the forces or volunteered. Then there were those of us who, whilst yet too young for the forces, became involved in longer and longer hours of work and all apprentices still had to keep up with their night school studies in spite of this. Young men and indeed men of any age became a rarity in the life of the church.

Because so many men went off to the forces the Men's Institute had to be put into mothballs for the duration although during the early years of the war efforts were made to keep the club open. Eventually, however, all such attempts had to be abandoned and it was decided that the best thing to do was to try to keep the equipment in reasonable condition ready for the time when everybody came home again. Amongst other things, which might well have been expected to suffer, was the traditional concert party but because entertainment was at a premium during the war the Sunday school concert at St.Mark's actually thrived. So much so, that instead of being contrived from a hodge- podgy of varied individual efforts, it became 'The Concert Party' and it's members not only performed at St.Mark's but also were now regularly invited to give of their talents for the benefit a variety of other churches and organisations.

My contacts with the church had at this time become somewhat tenuous. Because of the war I had now become an apprentice toolmaker instead of an apprentice motor mechanic. The motor trade really suffered because of petrol rationing and we were, along with many other firms, now making aircraft parts. I rather enjoyed the swap and I liked my new job and became totally involved in what I was doing but, on the other hand, I was still working on cars at weekend with the mechanic who originally found me my apprenticeship. In these circumstances it is hardly surprising that nothing could have been further from my thoughts than St.Mark's when someone from the church stopped me in the street one day. His name was George.

George had been prevented from going in the forces because of a hearing problem and therefore had remained involved in church life.” I was just coming to your house to see you.” he said,” Are you still playing the piano?” Yes, when I have the time.” I answered.” I wonder if you could help us with the concert party." he continued,” We are losing our pianist and you seem to be favourite to take his place. We prefer to have someone from the church if we can." I was happy to try to help so he at once invited me to attend the next rehearsal. I was taking over as pianist for a concert that had already been performed a couple of times and was in great demand around the town's churches. When I realised this I became a bit worried but I really had no need to be because everyone was so well rehearsed that they were well able to cover for me should it become necessary. I also inherited the title of Musical Director, which sounds good, but I actually did very little directing at first and only came into my own when the next concert was being prepared. I soon realised that George was the driving force behind the whole group. Without him I doubt if there would have been a concert party or any kind of concert. As producer he certainly kept his hand firmly upon the tiller and made sure everyone else did a good job and that everything was 'alright on the night'.

In spite of his hearing difficulties George played the organ for St.Mark's during the war and for some time afterwards. It was he who persuaded me to pump the organ for choir practices and Sunday services and he also persuaded me to pump whilst he did his own practising. This I agreed to but only on the strict understanding that he also pumped for me whilst I had a practise and the arrangement worked out fine for both of us. The job of organ-blower carried a weekly fee of sixpence and I did this job until I myself had to go in the forces. I take pride in the fact that I never once let him down during this time.

My dad had found that long hours of shift work combined with membership of the Home Guard were very demanding and, after a short illness, he was advised by his doctor to cut his workload. His enforced resignation as choirmaster was, I often think, one of the war's less obvious effects upon church life. But there were many other effects and not least amongst them was that upon our ambitions to be build a new church. The whole idea began to look more and more like an impossible dream. I was reminded of my dad's words,"St.Mark's will still be building a church when you are as old as I am."

Chapter5

Pancake Tuesday was important to apprentices for more than the fact that it was the last day before Lent. It was the custom that we should have the afternoon off work but there were certain ceremonies and rites attached to the privilege. In fact some of the rites might well be considered to be degrading today especially when, as often happened, some people carried them to excess. There were always those who would use such things as an excuse for a certain amount of bullying and skilled men who had only just come out of their time were often the most likely to abuse the tradition. In fact it was the excesses that in the end led to Pancake Tuesday as the apprentices day being phased out.

My first Pancake Tuesday as an apprentice was one that I approached with certain feelings of apprehension although I was certainly looking forward to day off. It remains particularly vivid in my mind because some of the incidents serve to highlight the dangers of allowing horseplay in an industrial environment.

It was the particular custom for our company to shepherd all the lads to the very top floor of the building so that they were forced to run the gauntlet of all the skilled men who would be waiting on each landing of the staircase. All entrances were closed except one so it was impossible for anyone to leave except by that way. There were however more ways in and out of that place than there were doors and windows and we apprentices knew them all although a certain confidence in our own fitness and a good head for heights was essential if they were to be used.

Preparations for the day, at least as far as we were concerned, started on the Monday morning as we each took a little longer to carry out our various errands. We had every excuse for this because often we spent quite a lot of time searching out suitable second-hand parts for the car repairs. Yes, this was how it was done during the war because there was shortages of everything very little were thrown away. Indeed one of my own special jobs when I was transferred on to tool making was to make up new valves for car engines out of old and damaged ones, which I sorted out of the scrap. This job, and in fact all jobs we apprentices were given, took much longer than usual on the day before Pancake Tuesday.

There was a disused loading door on the top floor which was normally nailed up but by Monday night the nails had been taken out, the hinges had been checked to make sure they were working freely so that the door could readily be opened, and a rope was also tied to an old beam and tucked out of sight ready for use. The loading door on a lower floor was given the same treatment. The firewatchers also checked a trap door to the roof although this wasn’t entirely necessary because it already had a semi-permanent ladder up to it for use during air raid warnings. Once access to the roof was assured then there were many ways down from there to the street below. The particular method used was however very much a measure of the recklessness (or foolishness) of each individual.

When the day at last arrived I and my mate Jack had a couple of plans ready. One meant using the trapdoor to the roof and the other needed a fast sprint to the ropes near the loading doors, which had been prepared earlier. Jack chose to try the roof and I followed him up there but one of the older lads had got there first. His intention was to run up the slope of the roof, round an old mill chimney, slide down to the roof of a disused warehouse next door and escape through another trapdoor and out into the street easily but then, unfortunately, he slipped and began to slide down the other side of the roof until his feet encountered the toughing at the edge, then, because this had become rotted and weakened by age, it began slowly to come away from it's fastenings until it was held by only one creaking and rusty bracket. There he clung for dear life for what seemed an eternity. We who were watching were helpless to do anything and it seemed as if he must fall the full height of the four-storey building. He felt frenziedly along the edge of the roof until his frantically clutching fingers found a hole in the roof tiles and gripped some projection below it for dear life. For some minutes he hung there, still not completely out of danger, until some reserve of strength born of desperation, enabled him slowly and painfully to haul himself back on to the roof and then down through the trapdoor to safety. For our part we decided discretion was the better part of valour and made our way back through our own trapdoor having quickly decided that our alternative idea was much safer.

Jack ran across to the first loading door, opened it and dropped the rope, which was already tied firmly to the beams, and began to shin down it to the street below. By this time some of the men had realised what we were trying to do and began to come towards me. I hadn't enough time to wait for him to reach the ground so I quickly made my way down to the other loading door on the next floor. Here I was surprised to find that the rope had been removed which meant there was now no way out for me except the official one. I duly ran the gauntlet, suffered the usual undignified treatment, and covered by a generous layer of sump oil in some very strange places at last I got out and into the street.

We all came together there and Tony, the roof adventurer, was obviously shaken although he firmly denied any suggestion that he had been in danger. Sheer bravado of course. Jack had a similar close call and had almost come to grief when someone spotted the rope going through the loading door and, not knowing that Jack was already using it, gave it an almighty swipe with an axe severing it completely with one stroke. Jack had quite a limp but again faced things with apparent calm as he assured us all that he had been so concerned to get away that he had hit the floor with his legs already running when the rope was cut.

There was one other near casualty who had taken the roof route but had chosen to shin down a telegraph pole that almost touched the building. He had done very well until he ran out of those metal stanchions that are placed on the poles for the convenience of the engineers. At that point his nerved failed and he clung there at a height of about ten feet completely unable to bring himself to allow the rest of us to support him over this last hurdle. As we urged him to jump, and assured him we would catch him, two of his pursuers hung from an open window and did their best to drench him with the aid of a stirrup pump until, at last, with some difficulty, we finally got him to the ground whilst taking more than our fair share of the water which was flying around. Putting it in a nutshell we all ended up looking like drowned rats.

Our works was quite near the main shopping centre and a fairly large crowd had begun to gather most of who found the whole thing very entertaining and applauded as each apprentice arrived in the street. There were some, however, especially amongst the ladies, who didn't appreciate what was going on at all and could only see a some poor little apprentices being bullied and treated in quite a shameful manner. Indeed the incident sparked of a lot of correspondence in the letters column of the local paper mostly on the theme of how it was time such 'barbaric and primitive initiation rites' were abolished, which was quite embarrassing for our employer and could well have had something to do with the fact that the following year we no longer had such a bad time of it. Although we still got our half-day off and there was certainly a little 'hassle' everything was in a much lower key. Later on during the war the traditional Pancake Day rites practically disappeared altogether. We also lost the half-day off eventually.

GENESIS2

Chapter 6

During the war holidays presented problems which would not normally have existed but we still had the traditional one week's break from work (Wakes week) as usual and Blackpool remained the favourite resort for many. This was because one of the biggest problems caused by the war was a shortage of transport and so Blackpool, being our nearest resort, was the easiest to get to although, on the other hand, it could be difficult to get accommodation due to the fact that many boarding houses had members of the armed services billeted on them.

The R.A.F. was the major user of Blackpool's facilities and so most of the boarding houses and hotels had at least some airmen staying in them. Indeed there were airmen all over the place and it was part of the entertainment in fact, to watch squads of airmen marching and drilling along the full length of the promenade.

I remember one such occasion particularly well when the squad being drilled was obviously made up of raw recruits. The sergeant was quite clearly driven almost to the end of his tether by one of the men who insisted on getting everything wrong, until it all became just too much for his patience and he let fly with a stream of the richest and most kaleidoscopic language you have ever heard, language which would have made even the most hardened veteran flinch. At this point a woman in the crowd of holiday-makers who were watching, perhaps with a picture in her mind of one of her own sons at the receiving end of similar language, became so incensed with anger that she dashed from the crowd and gave the sergeant a series of enormous whacks from her handbag whilst at the same time telling him exactly what she thought of him.

She only stopped when she realised that, not only was she the object of amusement to the holiday-makers but amongst those laughing most heartily were the sergeant and the man who had been the subject of his verbal abuse. She left the scene, looking somewhat shamefaced, as quietly and unobtrusively as she could manage.

This was the year when a number of us, who were taking our apprenticeship courses at the local technical college, decided to take our holidays together but for various reasons Herbert and I were a bit late booking and could not get in the same hotel as our friends. They had booked into a hotel, which was known to be a good one for teenagers and younger families, but, because it was full when we tried to book, we had to be satisfied with a more traditional type of boarding house. As a result we found ourselves at the mercy of the very worst kind of Blackpool landlady. We did not know this when we booked of course, but we soon found out when we got there. After all there was a war on and we were lucky to get any kind of digs and there were other things to worry about before we could even get to Blackpool.

The most popular way to travel was by train but in wartime you couldn't just go to the ticket office, buy a ticket, and then catch the train. During holiday week you also had to 'regulate' your ticket.’ Regulation' was a system intended to ensure that all the trains were equally filled and there was a place for everyone. Please, dear reader, do not confuse a 'place' with a 'seat’, because in practice, although there were one or two extra trains for Wakes week, there were, in fact, nowhere near enough and each and every one of them was ram, jam, packed to the doors. Lucky indeed was the person who actually got a seat.

The neighbouring towns of Burnley, Nelson, and Colne all took the same week just as they do today and the trains started from Colne, stopped at Nelson, then Brierfield, then Burnley Bank Top, Burnley Barracks, Rosegrove and then a multitude of other stations before eventually arriving at one of the three Blackpool stations Colne got the best end of the stick of course but then at each stop afterwards, as you may imagine, the trains became more and more crowded. By the time they got to Burnley Bank Top they were really full and by the last of the Burnley stations (Rosegrove) there was no chance of a seat. Overcrowding was a normal state of affairs as far as we were concerned and we weren't at all surprised when we got to the station to find an enormous queue winding it's way into the entrance waiting for the barrier to be opened.

For all it's length, and concerned, as everyone was to get as good a place on the train as they could, the queue exuded an air of conviviality and good-humoured patience. If we were going to suffer a certain amount of overcrowding and discomfort what did it really matter? Everyone was in the same boat and there were all the pleasures of a week in Blackpool to compensate for any discomfort. Beyond this, of course, I am sure many of us were conscious that we were far better off than those who were at that very moment fighting in far off places around the world.

From the length of the queue it began to seem almost hopeless to expect to get on the train at all, never mind get a seat, but about twenty minutes before the train was due the barrier was raised and we were all allowed on the platform. Nevertheless it still seemed to be outside the bounds of all probabilities that everyone, plus the enormous piles of luggage they carried with them, could be accommodated. Our lot stayed firmly together in a little group jockeying, along with everyone else, for a good spot on the platform.” Let’s go up to the far end its always best there.” calls a confident voice.” Not likely "comes the reply” We listened to you last year and look what happened."

The idea was to try to have an empty compartment stop with it's door right in front of you so that you could step right in but this was a very outside chance really. However the jockeying continued to an accompanying hubbub of excited voices until at last the smoke and steam of an approaching engine were seen in the distance. The shouts of the children echoed through the station,” It’s here! Mum, it’s here!” followed by,” Stand well back! Stand well back.” from the voice of authority in the shape of a weedy looking individual dressed in porter's uniform who almost immediately afterwards made the magical announcement,” Blackpool train! Blackpool special! Stopping at Burnley Barracks, Rosegrove, Hapton, and all stations to Blackpool Central.” As the smoking, snorting, dragon of an engine fussed into sight scattering red hot sparks from it's funnel and pouring great, gushing clouds of steam and smoke into the air the loud clanking and screeching caused the waiting lines of passengers to shrink back from the massive engine which, like some rampaging god, demanded due deference from the lines of lesser beings assembled before it. But then, almost at once, the menace was gone as the monster, apparently suitably appeased, settled down to a subdued, almost hypnotic, hissing as if to assure us that his massive powers were now entirely at our disposal.

There was a great deal of good-humoured pushing and shoving as the train rapidly filled. We found ourselves faced by a bulging carriage full of people who seemed to be almost literally standing on each other’s heads. A head sticking out of one window said, sympathetically, "Sorry lads, we can't help you, you’ll just have to dig in somewhere else." but eventually a kind voice from another compartment took pity on us and said,” Come on, we’ll just about be able to fit you in with us."

We now squeezed into a compartment which held four adults and two children at one side, four adults at the other side, and two adults standing, plus Herbert and I (also standing). Fourteen people in all, in a compartment designed for eight persons. Thankfully the children were very small. The rest of our group had meanwhile managed to squeeze in further down the train and the frantic hubbub quietened down as we were at last ready to start our journey. How everyone had managed to push their way in must forever remain a mystery but the platform was now absolutely empty save for the lonely figures of the porter and the guard.” All clear!” came his call as he blew the shrill blast on his whistle which authorised the driver to rouse the slumbering monster at the end of the platform from the lethargy into which it had fallen and with a Banshee wail in reply to the guard's whistle the great dragon god snorted more clouds of steam, strained against the weight of his increased load, took a firm hold upon the track, and firm control of our journey.

Our overcrowded compartment began to seem less crowded as we all settled down and someone even found enough room to dispense generous cups of hot, sweet tea from an enormous flask. We ourselves responded with the offer of some of our sandwiches. Soon quite a convivial family atmosphere was established and everyone moved around to make sure the children could see through the windows. We were nearest to them and their parents somehow involved us in the well-being of their kids by extracting a promise from us to 'keep an eye on kids' a promise that required an ever increasing vigilance on our part as the children frequently threatened to lose their heads by leaning much too far out of the window. They were, as they kept telling everyone,” Looking for 'The Tower'."

In the towns and villages round our way you don't dare ask which tower is meant when someone says 'THE Tower’. There may be larger towers, there may be more elaborate towers, but there is only one, which matters to us, and there was great competition between the kids in any train going to Blackpool to be the first to see 'THE Tower’. This journey proved to be no exception and it was not long after leaving Preston station that voices began to be heard claiming to have spotted it first. False alarms were numerous and could usually be put down to someone having seen an electricity pylon but soon a voice which would brook no denial rang out in a clear and piercing treble,” Mum! Mum! I really can see it this time! Mum! It's 'THE Tower’, and yes indeed it was Blackpool Tower at last.

It is a characteristic peculiar to THE Tower that as one approaches the resort it appears to retreat into the distance at a speed which exactly matches the speed of the train so that it never gets any nearer for some considerable time. On the other hand at the end of the holiday as one travels home the effect is exactly reversed so that it seems to be only a couple of minutes before 'The Tower' is out of sight and never to be seen again for another year. It was therefore quite a while after the first confirmed sighting before we actually found ourselves drawing into the station and alighting from our carriage.

There was a great deal of good humoured pushing and shoving as we all gathered our luggage together and made our way onto the Blackpool scene. After arranging to meet up with our friends later, Herbert and I got on the first tram we could find heading in the general direction of our digs and soon we were knocking on the door of a rather dingy looking boarding house close to Blackpool North station. It was only then that we began to realise just what we had let ourselves in for by booking late.

The door was opened by a formidable looking woman who might well have been the model for all those stereotype caricatures of landladies which are to be seen on comic postcards and who have been the butt of many comedians' jokes, but the reality was far from funny as we soon found out. We politely introduced ourselves and without any ceremony at all she launched her first question.” Where’s your luggage? Haven’t you brought any?”

Not too sure that we hadn't unwittingly committed some major crime we volunteered the information that it was being brought along by van because we had taken advantage of the offer of a greengrocer at home to bring it over for us when he made his weekly business trip. (Mind you we did have to pay him and he made quite a tidy sum on the side from various 'friends' for giving them the same service.) Our landlady gave an unconvinced grunt and barked,” When’s it coming?"“Oh, sometime this afternoon.” we replied.” Well it had better not come while I'm busy with the meals that's all I have to say.” and she moved back from the doorway.” Don’t expect to have it taken upstairs for you; there’s a war on you know!” she continued as she firmly shepherded us upstairs to our bedroom. People were addicted to this saying during the war and whenever something was below standard for whatever reason sooner or later you would hear one or other of the infinite variations of the phrase,” Don’t you know there's a war on?”

Before leaving us at the door of our room she firmly laid down the law for us (her law)."Breakfast at 8-30 sharp and out of your room by 10-o-clock so they can be cleaned. Mid-day meal at 12-30 don't be late I won't have it spoiled. The bathroom's just there. Don’t stay in too long in the morning there's others want to use it besides you. Tea at 5-o-clock.”We more or less took all this in our stride but then she put in a really low punch,” I want you in by 10-30 at night and I lock up then whether everyone's in or not. I have to be up early in the morning."

Well really, I ask you! The cheek of the woman! Whoever heard of such time to ask young people 17 and 18yrs of age to be in when they are on holiday? Dear me, the days had long passed when even our parents would make such a restriction. But we tried to be reasonable, we told her we understood her difficulties in getting staff and asked very politely if we might have a key then she would have no need to wait up for us if we did happen to be late.” You certainly may not have a key!” she snapped frostily,” What sort of a house do you think this is?” Anyway all my R.A.F. men have to be in by then so I don't see why you shouldn’t.” Still trying to reason with her we pointed out the difference between being billeted on her with the Air Ministry paying and being there on holiday and paying for ourselves but it was like water off a duck's back to her and all we got in the end was,” If you don't like it you're quite welcome to go somewhere else but I shall keep your deposit.” We were beaten. She had us over a barrel and she knew it because there was no way we were going to get in anywhere else as things were in Blackpool at that time.

That evening we met up with our friends and compared notes. We told our story about our digs and then were forced to listen to a glowing account of their hotel with it's ever open doors and a night maid who was prepared to make a cup of coffee until unheard of hours of the night. But then as the evening drew on we totally forgot about the time until we suddenly realised it was 10-15 p.m. and our last tram had gone. (Remember what I said about there being a war on?). We had to make a mad dash along the promenade and up the street to our boarding house and there sure enough stood our landlady, waiting at the door, jingling her keys.” I can't do with this every night,” she said angrily,” If it happens again I shall lock the door and that will be that."

I spent much of this holiday after the first couple of days with the young lady whom I later married. Although we already knew each other casually it was only during this holiday that we could have been said to have started courting which meant that, as the week went by, it became more and more difficult for me to keep to the curfew, which had been imposed on us. Florence was at the south end of Blackpool and I was at the north end and it became quite a nerve-racking experience making the nightly dash to be back for 10-30 p.m. More than once Herbert and I came uncomfortably close to being locked out by our self appointed guardian.

Not only was our landlady a dragon she was not especially generous with her meals either although she was nevertheless quite convinced she overfed her guests. In fact she thought she was a very good landlady and her guests should feel honoured to be allowed to stay with her. Most of her contemporaries of the time, although rationing was a problem, would have been quite indignant to think any of their guests should actually be hungry after one of their meals and our landlady was no exception. Unfortunately she really was so very sparing with her meals that we, being of a very good appetite at any time, constantly had to fill up with snacks.

Most places had a rule about not bringing fish and chips, or other snacks into the bedroom and we cheerfully accepted this but it had been a bit awkward for us getting our nightly snack inside us before going back to our digs so we included this as part of the revenge we planned for the last night of our stay. First we stayed at the dance to the bitter end and I took Florence back to her hotel. Then Herbert and I got our supper and it must have been well turned 11-o-clock as we strolled along the street towards where our landlady stood, arms akimbo, waiting for us at her front door.” What time do you call this?” she demanded in an outraged tone of voice.” We were very hungry,” we replied,” You don't put a very big meal on so we have had to have suppers outside. Sorry it got so late."

She was fuming with suppressed anger but she had to bite it back because this time we were the ones who had her over a barrel. We had not yet paid the bill and had already sent our luggage off home during the afternoon.

Depositing our chip papers in the waste-paper basket with studied care we wished her,"Goodnight”, and made our way to our bedroom almost expecting to be thrown out on our ears but all we heard was a grudging,"Goodnight”, which clearly represented a great feat of self control on her part. When we went down for breakfast the following morning we studiously ignored the bill which had been left conspicuously by our plates and we lingered a long, long, time over our food and over our cups of tea as the tables were cleared one by one until at last, our landlady, or our adversary as we now thought of her, could stand it no longer.” You haven't signed the visitors book yet.,” she said,” And have you noticed your bill?” But we were determined to have our pound of flesh and played things out to the bitter end. Still to all intents totally engrossed in our conversation we returned to our room, made sure we had forgotten nothing, and then, long past the 10-o-clock deadline, came downstairs. We slowly and carefully signed the visitor’s book and then, at the very last possible moment, grudgingly paid the bill.

It might well have been better for the goodwill of that landlady and her establishment if she had not bothered to remind us about the visitor's book. The remarks we wrote in there were completely appropriate to the way she had treated us and representative of our honest opinion. You may well imagine what that was.

Chapter 7

In common with everyone else during the war when I reached the age of eighteen I had to register for service with the armed forces although there wasn't any likelihood that I would actualy be called up because of my job. Even though I was still only an apprentice I was considered to be a key worker because I had been promoted to charge hand. I was still expected to keep up with my studies at night school in spite of working a twelve hour day and many apprentices throughout the country were in the same position having been pushed into responsible jobs simply because there was a shortage of skilled workers We all had a very full schedule of activities as a result.

There were numerous problems associated with keeping up our studies during the war and the greatest of these were caused during the blitz by the raids on Manchester. Throughout that winter every lecture for night after night was brought to an abrupt end by the wailing of the sirens within fifteen minutes of the lecture starting and it was straight to the shelters for the rest of the evening or until the all clear sounded. The timing of the raids became so predictable that as the weeks went by and our town experienced no bombs, many of us would leave for home instead of going to the shelters even though this might mean quite a long walk if the buses had stopped running.

If anyone was to do any studying at all and make some inroads into the curriculum something just had to change and slowly a system began to evolve. As soon as we entered the college the roll would be called and we would be given a programme to cover the studies for the week. The lecturer would take us through it as far as possible until the siren sounded and then off we would go either to the shelters, to our homes, or, if we were on night shift, off to work. It wasn't so much as question of 'if' the warning was given, it was more a question of' when', and even the 'when' was very predictable so that you could almost set your watch by the sounding of the siren.

It is surprising how quickly on can adapt if one really has to and it soon seemed as if it was the normal way of life to leave our outdoor clothes on as we entered the classroom, go through the programme of the week and start for home or work as the siren sounded. The possibility that a bomb might actually drop on our town was pretty remote and we were quite sure our area was of no interest in Hitler's scheme of things but nevertheless we were to have two bomb incidents of our very own, which were probably jettisoned by an aircraft that was in trouble.

In the first incident a bomb fell in the grounds of a park next door to the college and in the second a bomb was dropped on a deserted moor land on the edge of town. The latter incident was most noteworthy for the reaction of the residents on a nearby housing estate whose Air Raid Warden must have had a fit when, within seconds of the sound of the explosion, they opened their blackout curtains and tried to see what was going on. It is said, and the reader must judge the truth of this for himself or herself, that the resulting blaze of light might well have rivalled Blackpool illuminations at their most magnificent. Personally I can witness neither for nor against the truth of that story but I can certainly testify to the truth of the following story about the bomb in the park.

Somehow, although I had heard the noise of an explosion in the early hours, it didn't register as taking place in the town itself and I had no idea that it was actually going to have an effect on my college work. Air raid warnings were no longer a problem at the college since a system of internal sirens had been installed which were only sounded if bombers were actually right overhead so we arrived in class full of beans and compared plans for the weekend as we waited for the lecturer to arrive.

At first we noticed nothing unusual about the room. Certainly the blackout curtains covering the windows were a bit damaged. They looked as if someone had been slashing them with a knife and then someone else had hastily stuck them together with tape but this was of little interest to us. We threw our hats and coats wherever they would go in the same way we always did and chattered away quite happily until one of us remarked,” It’s damned cold and draughty in here tonight and there seems to be no heating on.” In fact many of us had already put our coats back on ass the cold began to strike through. Someone then remarked about the state of the blinds and the fact that they were blowing about.” I bet someone's left the windows open.” he said,” Let’s take a look.” and without more ado began to open the curtains, slowly at first and then throwing blackout regulations to the wind more quickly as he exclaimed in disbelieving tones,” Never mind not being shut. There’s no damn windows in at all!” Yes indeed we now had our own bomb story to tell and we certainly enjoyed telling it for some time afterwards at the slightest excuse.

As I recall those days I wonder how we could possibly have got around to fulfilling all the demands upon our time. As well as working twelve hour shifts and attending night school in three evenings a week, I was in the Air Training Cadets, managed to get in at least one night’s dancing, and even found time to blow for George our organist for two services each Sunday. Also on Sunday I had a thing going with a mechanic friend helping him to recondition cars for sale. (The bit of money I made came in very handy at holiday times)

There were many of us in the same situation of course and the result was that sometimes we tended to overdo things. I remember one Friday morning as we came off shift Jack, a fellow apprentice, asked me if I would like to go round the corner to 'Pie Bob's' for Pie and Peas before going home. Now 'Pie Bob's establishment would never be allowed to exist under the present day laws of hygiene and I am not altogether sure how it was allowed to exist then. It was found at the corner of a street about five minutes walk away from our works and was a converted four roomed house which now rejoiced under the title of 'café’ The conversion work was minimal and badly needed updating but this don’t seem to put the customers off.

The tables were old and rickety and the chairs the same but they were serviceable (just). Through the open door of the back room which was now the kitchen, could be seen an enormous iron pot, not unlike a witches cauldron, bubbling furiously as it gave out a great cloud of steam with an absolutely incredibly, tantalising, and mouth watering aroma. There was room for little else on the ancient gas oven except an old iron kettle, which also belched out a cloud of steam. Inside the oven a selection of pies waited the customer's pleasure.

The tables bore no such luxuries as tablecloths, serviettes, or even a menu to further tempt the potential customer. When you went to 'Pie Bob's' you already knew the menu and the one thing you went for was Pie and Peas. You could have Meat or Meat and Potato pie and indeed you were welcome to have both if you felt the need but that was it. Pie Bob's it was called and that was what you got. You ate your Pie and Peas with an enormous spoon if you were male and a teaspoon of you were female and that was the sole concession to etiquette of any kind.

I have never since tasted Pie and Peas of the flavour and texture of those we had that morning. We sat down at scrubbed tables set out on a paved floor, which was 'donkey stoned' to a pristine whiteness and were served our feast in earthenware basins. The peas, I forget to mention, were Black Peas in gravy. Yes that's right Black Peas. You don't see them served in cafes today. Your glitzy American style McDonald’s, your Chinese takeaways, and your Pizza parlours ignore those humble black peas but they were certainly something to be savoured on that morning as we came off a busy night shift. No need either for that bewildering array of sauces which seem to be essential these days; just a sprinkle of coarse salt and a good dowsing with plain ordinary Malt vinegar is all that 'Pie Bob's' meals ever needed.

It was difficult to be sure whether we were having breakfast or supper but this certainly had no effect upon our appetites and soon Jack and I had empty dishes in front of us and a full belly inside us. Then Jack said,” Let’s go to the baths and have a swim I feel fit for anything after that lot.” I too felt great and the idea of a splash in the pool before going home to bed seemed a good one and I tagged along willingly.

The remainder of the morning passed very quickly and it was almost one-o’clock by the time I returned home. I ate the meal my mother had prepared and she suggested it would be a good idea to go to bed for a few hours but sleep had left me and I had a mechanic friend waiting for my help. There was no point in losing the chance to make a bit of holiday money so out I went.

I returned for the evening meal and got ready for our usual night at out local dance hall and as it happens it was just as well I was going no further. I had my usual quota of dances, a couple of drinks in the pub next door during the interval, and really had a very good night, it was only on the way home that things began to catch up with me. There was no bus home of course the last one had long gone so we always had to walk home. On this occasion all my mates seemed to have a girl to walk home so I set off for home quite perkily. This usually took about twenty minutes or perhaps half-an-hour. Did I hear someone ask,” What about a taxi?” Dear me, don’t you know there's a war on?

By now I had been without sleep from five-o-clock on Friday afternoon until eleven-thirty on Saturday night, a total of thirty hours and a very active thirty hours too, as you have seen. Never in my life have I been so absolutely and utterly tired as I was that night. As I walked along my eyes took on a will of their own and refused to focus on anything for more than a few seconds at a time. I forced myself onward with some success at first but the excesses of the last few hours would be denied no longer and my eyes insisted on closing so that I really believe I was actually sleep-walking for much of the time. Then my leg muscles went into open rebellion and just to move one leg in front of the other took a tremendous effort of will. I could do no more. I had to stop and sit down on the nearest garden wall.

I lost all track of time and have no idea how long it was before I realised I was falling backwards and in imminent danger of falling into the muddy soil of the garden behind me. I rose to me feet with difficulty and forced myself to move again. Thank goodness it was downhill for the rest of the way.

Arriving home I scarcely know whether I undressed or not I was so thankful just to get to bed. It was strange though that I woke up at my usual time and was able to go and blow the organ for George. But it was a damned close run thing as someone once said, and I didn't fully catch up with my sleep for at least the next couple of days.

Chapter 8

It was in the closing months of the war that my employers informed me that I had been given an indefinite deferment of service in the armed forces and I would not be required to apply annually as before. But just how 'indefinite' this was to be became only too clear when some three months later I received my call-up papers and had to attend for a medical. However this still lay in the future and for the time being life continued much as usual and punctuated from time to time by events, which remain vivid in my memory to this day. In common with all those of my generation one such memory is of the night we heard that the war in Europe had ended.

We were in college taking a mathematics examination. Everyone knows how strictly such things are conducted and, even though there was’ a war on’, standards were no less strict. Complete silence was the rule and no one was allowed out of the room except from direst necessity. I hadn't had too much trouble getting through the question paper but was not one of the first to finish so that it was probably about half-an-hour before time was up as I began to sort through and check my papers ready to hand them in. In the meantime some two or three people had already finished and were leaving the room, amongst them Eddie, one of my mates; who gave a self-satisfied grin as he went out and signalled that he would meet me outside but it was barely a couple of minutes later before his face again appeared at the door and in his hands he was holding up a battered piece of toilet paper with the message scrawled upon it,’ The war's over!’

Well that was it as regards examinations and within five minutes everyone suddenly found all the questions were much easier to answer, quickly gathered their papers together to hand them in, and formed up into a jostling, excited crowd hell bent on joining in any celebrations that were going on. Nor was our's the only room in the college to have heard the news so that at every classroom we passed the crowd grew more numerous and more excited as the building emptied.

It was often our practice to go dancing after night school was over and tonight we decided we would see what was happening at our usual haunt where, although this was not one of the most popular nights, an enormous queue had formed ensuring that it rapidly became 'house full’. It was not only the dance halls, which quickly filled up, and soon all the pubs were full as well and their landlords were having a bonanza night as it became clear that the police were ignoring the licensing laws and had declared an unofficial extension to all drinks licences in the area. We left the dance hall around 10-30 and found all our favourite pubs were full but we managed to get a drink at some obscure back street pub we would not normally have been seen dead in. We then did a tour of the town centre where the main focus of all the celebrations was to be found on the road in front of the Town Hall.

Here a big crowd was dancing and singing under the illumination of the streetlights, which had not been seen in full splendour since the start of hostilities, and there were even some 'fireworks' although these were a bit dangerous because they were really thunder flashes, which the Home Guard used during their training. They had quite a tidy little blast effect with them if thrown too close to people but there were very few of these and, in general, everyone just set out to enjoy the celebrations and were thankful that at last we now had peace in Europe even though the war in the far east had still to be brought to a conclusion.

For me the end of the European war simply brought my entry into the forces forward because in order to get men back home as soon as possible the call up was speeded up for those no longer needed on 'war-work' and this was why, as I said at the beginning of this chapter, I soon found out what the word 'indefinite' meant. Within a couple of weeks the papers came through for my medical.

It seemed to be no time at all before I was in the R.A.F. and undergoing training as an Equipment Assistant or to put it more simply as a 'Store-basher’. I won't go into all the details but let it be enough just to say that I did my square-bashing in East Suffolk, my trade course at Kirkham, and then, after the standard two weeks leave, was bundled off to Palestine with the dizzy rank of Aircraftman 2nd.class.In the meantime the war with Japan also came to an end.

We travelled to the Middle East via a route through France, which was known by the name 'Medloc' although where the name comes from eludes me. Some memories of that journey remain and one of the most vivid is of a short stay in a transit camp near Dieppe when we took a walk down to the local market. There we saw chocolate on display at the most exorbitant price for one small piece from a broken up bar. Each piece being carefully and separately wrapped and individually priced. As we walked round the market place we were stopped and offered a fantastic sum of money for just one cigarette, for chewing gum, and for sweets and we were soon made to realise, if we had not already done so, that we in England were indeed relatively lucky compared to the ravaged countries of Europe especially in regard to foodstuffs. But there was not all that much time for a proper look round and within twenty four hours we were on our way again, travelling by train across France to Marseilles where we were to take ship for Port Said.

In peacetime Port Said is a pleasant three-day voyage from Marseilles and we didn't really expect it to be anything other than a nice, lazy cruise. But we were not to be allowed to get away with simply lounging around in the sunshine on deck for we had barely stowed our kit in our bunks when the dreaded voice of a Warrant Officer roared in our ears,” You, you, you, and you; come with me! Move!” and that, we were convinced, put paid to all chances of an easy Mediterranean cruise for us.” You’re down for the job of weather deck sweepers.” he told us as he placed us under the watchful eye of one of the crew. Clearly we had somehow 'volunteered' for something called 'weather-deck sweeping' but what on earth was a 'weather-deck' and where was it to be found? The answer, at least as far as we were concerned, turned out to be any deck which was open to the elements.

We first swept the boat deck, then the promenade deck where the officer’s mess was located, then a lower deck where there was a N.A.A.F.I. of sorts and, after sweeping out all sorts of nooks and crannies in between finally ended up on the foredeck, which seemed absolutely enormous. About the only redeeming feature from our point of view was the possibility of scrounging a few 'perks' from the Officers Mess cooks and the N.A.A.F.I. staff but as it turned out there were also one or two other hidden advantages which weren't entirely obvious at first.

Our duties began immediately after breakfast the next day and straightaway we were introduced to our first 'perk’. We who were on fatigues didn't have to queue for breakfast with everyone else but were given a special pass, which allowed us to jump the queue and this was something which was very useful in view of the enormous time it sometimes took to get a meal.

When breakfast was over we had to report to the boat deck and were issued with brooms by the very friendly seaman who was in charge of us. There was a Leading Aircraftman amongst our number and the seaman was wise enough to know that an L.A.C. had at least some nominal sort of authority. He put the L.A.C. in charge and that was the last we saw of the seaman until much later in the day and no doubt he was himself on a very good thing and had retired to some hiding place of his own for the rest of the morning and indeed for most of the afternoon as well.

We started our morning's work on the boat deck and, as soon as we dared, moved away from there and into the Officer's Mess, which we swept out at breakneck speed. Then down to the deck where the N.A.A.F.I. was located. We were officially supposed to sweep up they’re as well but the staff had already done this and gave us all kinds of odd jobs to do instead. I suppose they must have found us useful because we became grateful recipients of all kinds of perks such as free cups of tea, cakes, and sandwiches. For the rest of the morning a large part of our work, such as it was, was carried out lazing at a table as near to the sunshine as we could get until the time came for lunch when we could again claim our right to jump the queue. Indeed the hardest job we had was looking busy whenever an N.C.O. came past.

After lunch we had to move to the foredeck, which was about the worst one to sweep because it was such a large area but we still managed to return to the N.A.A.F.I. from time to time because after all there was a fair lot of crumbs and rubbish there. At least that was our story and we stuck firmly to it as we claimed frequent offerings of free tea and buns from the staff. Anyway, as long as we went through the motions, no one seemed to be unduly worried how much free time we had.

We thought that we had got everything nicely under control by tea-time on the first day and were looking forward to a film show which had been arranged for the evening but when we went to hand in our brooms we found we still hadn't finished. We were the ones who were expected to prepare the deck for the show. The crewman, who had mysteriously re-appeared, took the opportunity to pull our legs a bit.” Right you lot. Eat your meal and get right back here at the double you'll be at it all night with this job!” It seemed a bit of a liberty, to say the least, that after working all day we should still be expected to do another job in the evening, especially when by far the greater majority of those on board had no jobs to do at all. We complained loudly but to no effect and our 'boss' simply said, "It's nothing to do with me I am only doing what I've been told.”“ What about the film show?” we asked,"Forget it", he said,"You'll not be seeing much of that. You’re going to be far to busy."

Resigned to our fate we reported to the foredeck as requested after our meal and slowly it dawned on us that the crewman really had been having fun at our expense. Far from missing the film we were actually to assist in it's showing. All we were expected to do was to erect the screen and the projection equipment and then to remain on standby seated near the projectionist in case we were needed. (What we might be needed for we never actually found out.) This meant that whilst everyone else was scrambling for the best vantage points on life rafts, ventilator shafts, hatchways and all the other paraphernalia of the deck we were assured of reserved seats. After the show we had to sweep quickly around the deck to get rid of any litter and help to put everything away; which was a small price to pay for the advantage of having what almost amounted to a box seat.

So for three days our 'Mediterranean cruise' continued and was in the end a very enjoyable experience for us all until the time came to disembark and move to a transit camp near Alexandria where we were to wait until we were posted to one of the many airfields in the Middle East.

There was just one other advantage to being a 'weather deck sweeper’, which was purely personal to me. There was a piano in the N.A.A.F.I., which, by order of the captain, was kept locked except for special occasions. After a surreptitious tinkle on the keys one day the staff got me permission to use it whenever I wished and I had a glorious time one afternoon, whilst the N.A.A.F.I. was closed for business, playing for myself and the staff and, of course, for the’ weather deck sweepers'.

Chapter Nine

Our cruise being over we were hustled off the ship and into trucks, which took us once more into the rather basic, if not actually primitive, conditions of a transit camp. Not too bad an experience as it happened for the weather was gloriously hot which made sleeping in a tent on straw palisades an advantage rather than anything else. We were in the camp only two nights but the hours of darkness were enlivened on the first night by a rather dramatic tent fire close to ours. Someone had been careless with a cigarette end and woke to find himself engulfed by flames. He was lucky to escape serious injury but he lost all his kit and so did the rest of those in the tent.

On the second night I woke up feeling distinctly wet and cold and encountered a stream of water rushing through our tent as we experienced a terrific rainstorm. We were told that this was the first rain for months but it didn't make the effects any more pleasant at the time. One compensation of the climate was that the following morning was hot enough to dry our kits by simply spreading our them over the canvass of the tent, which was fortunate for me because on the afternoon of that same day I got my posting to Ein Shemer in Palestine and almost at once was bundled into a lorry going to the station along with those others who were bound for R.A.F. camps in Palestine.

At the station we became the responsibility of a Warrant Officer who was also going to Ein Shemer and, as I later found out, was a store-basher as well. We travelled for a full day and the journey was punctuated by a seemingly endless series of stops at all kinds of small stations all of which bore the stamp of total chaos and utter confusion. Cries of,” Eggs-a-Bread", "Peanuts", "Lovely Peanuts," "Wanna buy a watch," and so on, rose to a crescendo as the train pulled into each station. At each and every one we were surrounded by vendors of all sorts, each striving to outdo the other as they tried to make themselves heard, until eventually their cries were drowned in hissing steam and the train began to move, slowly gathered momentum, and left the station behind.

There was a prolonged stop when we reached the Suez Canal and then, after a long ride through a dreary wilderness, the next station was in Palestine itself and here there was a noticeable change of atmosphere; the hawkers and vendors were still there but the confusion was less; the frenzy was almost non-existent and with each station we passed we experienced a more laid back atmosphere until, as we reached the Jewish town of Ein Shemer, we finally arrived at a station which almost seemed to have fallen asleep under the influence of a rapidly setting sun whilst only a solitary hawker peddled his wares in a comparatively desultory fashion. We left the train and soon, by some miracle of organisation, a lorry arrived to take us to the airfield.

It was a surprise to find that Ein Shemer was staffed by a comparatively small number of people. There were no more than two hundred on the Station Headquarters staff and just one squadron of Lancasters equipped for Air Sea Rescue work when we first arrived. It wasn't to be long before this changed however, and within the next two months the numbers of personnel using the station grew until there were over a thousand airmen there.

The war was well over by this time but in Palestine terrorist activity, particularly from the Jewish organisations, was becoming more frequent. Furthermore this was the time when illegal ships were attempting to bring in immigrants who were the victims of the German atrocities during the war. The Lancasters were given a new role to play by taking part in the detection of illegal emigrant ships and there were also two Spitfire squadrons plus a squadron of Mosquitoes moved onto the airfield.

Apart from the changed role of the Lancasters terrorism, as such, really made very little impact on our life at Ein Shemer at first .The first time it really had any effect upon us was when we went down into the town one day expecting to use the N.A.A.F.I. in the town centre only to find it was reduced to a heap of ashes. This particular N.A.A.F.I. canteen was never rebuilt and this was the last time I remember us being allowed out of camp singly. Afterwards we were only allowed out in two's and carrying rifles. During particularly bad spells of terrorism there were times when we had to travel in fours and there were weeks on end when we were not allowed out of camp at all except in organised parties.

There was only one really major incident as far as we were concerned on the airfield which resulted from terrorist activity and this was really deadly serious and quite frightening at the time but it also had it's humorous side as you will see. Towards the end of one afternoon two heads poked their way round the door of our hut.” Hut 17?"Asked one of them, hopefully,""Yes, what do you want?”“ We’re supposed to bunk down here. Where is there a bed space/"? They were directed to two empty beds and left to get on with sorting their kit out but, of course, as they got rid of their loads of blankets, sheets, kitbags, etc. they were subjected to some friendly interrogation.” Have you been out here long?”“ What was your last camp?”“ How long have you been in?”Etc. Then the question which was always asked sooner or later was,” What’s your demob group?"Which, in this case, brought the unexpected reply,” We haven't got one, we’re regulars, we’ve signed on for three years."‘

We had come across this rare breed of airman before but only at very infrequent intervals, indeed the one regular airman we did know was, we were firmly convinced, absolutely bonkers. Our Warrant Officer down at the Equipment Section (he who was in charge of our train ride from Egypt) had turned out to be a regular mind you and he seemed normal enough but the general opinion in those days was that anyone who joined up as a regular must have a screw loose somewhere. We saw the chance for a little gentle leg pulling.

"I see you've already drawn your rifle and ammo then?” someone asked."Yes, we were told we had to sleep with them in our beds. Does anyone really bother doing that?”.” We certainly do or else they will surely be taken during the night. It’s amazing how people manage to get in a camp so well guarded as this one. The idea is that if sneak thieves get in or the camp is attacked then they are safe and ready to hand for immediate use."

From then on we built up a dramatic picture of the many days and nights during which we had experienced explosions and other forms of mayhem created by terrorists constantly attempting to disrupt the operations of our Lancaster squadron. So commonplace were such attempts, we said, that we treated them as an accepted part of our life and unless we were actually called out to reinforce the guard we took little, if any, notice. As we intended, our new chums began to look a little thoughtful and asked what they should do if we were called out or there was an attack of some sort. We reassured them that we would see they were allright; we would show them what to do for the best and anyway after a week or two they would be just as indifferent to such things as we were. We all went off for the evening meal and then as usual to the N.A.A.F.I for an hour.

By lights out the conversation in the hut had passed to other matters and soon all that could be heard was the sound of a variety of snores punctuated by an occasional grunt and snort. Anyone who has missed the experience of sleeping in a Nissen hut with thirty or forty snoring men has missed one of life's greatest horrors. Some people whistle, some make the sound of sawing wood, some blow raspberries. At whatever time of the night you may happen to waken up there is always at least one pair of nostrils, and possibly two or three pairs, in full song. Once awake the snoring impinges on your ears with ever more persistent intensity preventing an immediate return to the arms of Morpheus but, annoying as this may be one soon learns to bury oneself beneath the sheets to deaden the sound for who knows what they themselves might sound like to others. It is important to be tolerant in such circumstances in the hope that others may themselves ignore our own shortcomings.

So it was with me on this particular night and after a short time I was just dropping off again when there was the sound of an almighty explosion and the whole camp shuddered. This was at once followed by the chattering sound of a machine-gun from quite close by. The sound of bullets ricocheting across a nearby roof sent me slithering out of my bunk in record time and the brilliant moonlight revealed that everyone in the hut had done the same thing and were now peering warily from the relative safety provided by lying down between the bunks. Everyone, that is, except our two new companions who sat calmly up in their beds and asked, with feigned innocence,” This couldn't possibly be one of those attacks you've got so used to could it?"

The terrorists were using home made mortars to try to damage a bridge connecting the Station Headquarters with the aerodrome itself and had concealed themselves in a group of trees on top of a small mound outside the camp. The R.A.F. Regiment spotted the attackers within minutes but someone accidentally shone the camp searchlight right on them so that by the time they reached the trees the birds had flown. The following day the regiment had a great time destroying the trees with their own mortars and getting some practice in at the same time. Thank goodness that we didn't suffer anything worse than this although it did at least relieve the boredom of a life lacking any social amenities beyond those provided by the N.A.A.F.I. and the more basic resources of an R.A.F. camp.

Amongst these were the occasional organised parties organised by the padre to places of interest in Palestine. Most of us were a bit short-sighted when it came to trips with the padre probably because we thought they might be too religious in content but I now realise what an opportunity I missed. Some of the places I could have gone to for a few shillings would have cost a small fortune in those days and are equally costly today. It was only towards the end of my stay at Ein Shemer that I was persuaded to take a couple of trips and began to realise what opportunities I had missed. I have always remembered those two trips.

I am sure Our Lord's earthly life has been a more real thing to me as a result of going first to Nazareth and then to The Sea of Galilee, or Lake Tiberius as it is now called, and as I have got older I have often found myself saying with some justification,” If I had my time to do over again--etc---etc,"

The boredom of life under conditions of maximum security forced one on to one's own resources and there were various societies which were formed with the blessing of the entertainments officer. There was a photographic group for example, there was a squash club, there was a gymnastics team and there was a whole series of educational courses which could be taken. I tried the photographic club for a while but soon lost interest when I became involved in forming a dance band with a couple of acquaintances who I met when I was playing for an impromptu sing-a-long in the N.A.A.F.I.. On this occasion I suddenly realised that I had acquired a drummer in the form of an airman with a tea-tray and a spoon. To say he had such primitive instruments it was marvellous what a lift he gave to my piano playing and when we got talking it became clear that he had been an amateur drummer before joining the R.A.F..I am afraid we rather overdid the beer and eventually got more or less thrown out by the N.A.A.F.I staff but not until we had decided to talk to the entertainments officer about forming a band along with a couple of other blokes we knew who were interested in music.

The officer welcomed our idea with open arms and it turned out he was himself a frustrated professional musician. Within a few days he had pulled some sort of strings and the next time we went to see him he took us to a disused room in the gymnasium and showed us a pile of shiny new instruments and in the corner a really good piano. The N.A.A.F.I.piano, as you will perhaps realise, was a bit rough to say the least. We asked if he would be joining us but some sort of protocol forbade it although he said he would 'guest' with us on a strictly unofficial basis whenever he could. It seems the C/O had ordered that the band was to be a strictly 'other ranks' project.

We practised conscientiously for a few weeks until we had built up a nice little repertoire from a limited stock of band arrangements that were provided with the other equipment and from other tunes which we had to us.We became in fact more of a jazz band than a dance band because it wasn't much use having a dance when there were only twenty-four N.A.A.F.I. girls and over a thousand airmen. A jazz session followed by a sing-a-long was a more viable proposition so that is how we made our debut in the N.A.A.F.I. and it went down very well indeed. We simply walked in there without any prior notice, set up some chairs around the piano, and blasted straight into 'Honeysuckle Rose'.

The dedicated consumers of Gold Star beer and 'Char and a Wad' turned round to see what was going on, the snooker players in the games room gathered at the door to listen, and the N.A.A.F.I. 'bints' leaned their ample bosoms on the counter to stare enthralled at this marvellous new attraction. We had 'arrived’! Instant stardom became ours and we had a glorious night as the customers showed their approval by buying us drinks. We had taken care to inform the Entertainments Officer what we intended to do and we made sure that we were playing our best numbers when the Orderly Officer visited the N.A.A.F.I. and from that time on doors hitherto closed to us became magically unlocked as we received invitations to all the Sergeant's Mess and Officer's Mess parties, to say nothing of numerous free evenings in the N.A.A.F.I..

The first offer came via the entertainments officer who booked us for a Christmas party in the Officer's Mess, then we had one from the N.A.A.F.I. manageress to play for a private party in their quarters and, of course, we also had to play for a 'do' in the Sergeant's Mess. For some time afterwards we had a regular monthly booking at both the Officer's and the Sergeant's Mess. Although we received no monetary reward nevertheless we did very well out of it. A free nosh-up every time and as much beer or shorts as we could drink, and we got off guard duty on many occasions when it clashed with a booking. To say nothing of the hidden benefits which arise from having your face known to the right people. I suppose I was in the band for some fourteen months up to the end of my time at Ein Shemer and I enjoyed every minute of it.

I rarely attended church whilst in Palestine but one can never entirely ignore religion when in a country with connections to so many religions. The only times I actually attended church services, however, was when I was persuaded to do so by Tony, who was one of the original party of us who travelled to Ein Shemer. Tony was the son of a clergyman and I had talked to him about my own connection with the Church. He once persuaded me to play a couple of hymns for a service and I really think he would have liked me to go to church regularly with him but I am afraid the band held more attraction for me.

Tony was the only person I ever knew who actually behaved like the boy in Tom Brown's Schooldays and knelt down at the side of his bed to say his prayers. Nobody threw a boot at him as they did to the boy in the story in fact we were all too surprised to do anything at all when he did it the first time but we soon learned to accept the fact that Tony liked to say his prayers. Later on he lapsed slightly but never gave over the practice completely; he might miss for a week or two but then his conscience would seem to give him a dig and he would be seen to kneel, just for a couple of minutes, before he settled down for the night. Mind you there was one occasion when I am sure Tony found his Christianity a bit of a burden because his conscience would not allow him to lie his way out of an awkward situation.

The first guard duty I did with him when we arrived at Ein Shemer was on the main gate. Next to the gate on the opposite side to the guard room there was a squash court which had an outside staircase leading into it's spectator balcony .The landing at the top of the staircase was a very good vantage point which overlooked the whole area and provided a good view also of the fields directly facing the gates so it was here that one guard was stationed complete with a Bren gun and surrounded by a comforting array of sandbags. The other guard was in the normal place in a sentry box alongside the gate itself.

We worked the usual guard rote of two hours on and four hours off and our turn on was at midnight. We tossed a coin to see who had the Bren gun and Tony won so that meant he had the balcony which was considered to be an advantage since one could get quite comfortable up there and there was little danger of being surprised by the guard commander as he did his rounds. It was a lovely night with a glorious moon lighting up the fields around us and the only sound that broke the silence was the croaking of frogs and the chirping of crickets until, suddenly, there was a burst of machine gun bullets from above my head. I don't even remember ducking into the sentry box but I must have done because I found myself peering from a position well down in the box as flashes from the Bren illuminated the area. I saw spurts of dust and sand travel in a line along the ground in front of the guardroom and then back along the corrugated iron roof which magnified the sound as if it was a gigantic kettledrum. I looked carefully up at Tony and asked, very politely as you will imagine,” What the hell is going on up there?" and he replied in a quivering voice,” I thought I saw someone but I must have scared them off."

A silence then descended around us, a silence unbroken even by the sound of the frogs until eventually the guardroom door opened just a fraction and three weapons could be seen poking tentatively through the gap. The type of weapon was a sure clue to the rank of the person behind it although the persons holding them were wary of showing themselves more fully until they were sure what was going on. At the bottom of the very small opening in the door could be seen a rifle, indicating that this was where the corporal of the guard was, slightly above this could be seen a Sten gun, which indicated the whereabouts of the sergeant of the guard, and above all, pointing out the position of the Officer in charge, could be seen a revolver.

A voice rang out aimed in our general direction,” Where did those shots come from?” It was me” Tony shouted back in a weak and still quivering voice.” I thought I saw someone." but he didn't seem half as sure as he had been at first when he answered me.” Sergeant go and see what's going on.” ordered the Officer in charge.” Corporal have a check outside.” ordered the sergeaant."Airman slip over to the Bren and see what's happened out there.” ordered the corporal, and at last the figure of an airman, who had nobody to pass the buck to, emerged from the shadow of the doorway and came towards us. As he did so Tony's voice was again heard and this time with more confidence. Clearly troubled by that very active Christian conscience of his, he called out,” I’m sorry, I didn't really see anyone. I fired accidentally whilst trying to check the gun"

Further questioning revealed that he had no idea how to use the Bren because he was ill when he should have had instruction so it wasn't to be wondered at that he had an accident and it was fortunate that nobody was directly in his line of fire. Tony and I were ordered to swap duties but not until I had first shown the sergeant that I knew how to use the Bren gun. Tony’s real crime was in not telling the guard commander he was unfamiliar with the gun and this is what he was charged with the next day. He might well have got away with it if he had stuck to his first statement that he had seen someone but as it was he ended up on 'jinkers' and a series of fatigue duties. Ah well; we Christians all have our cross to bear.

Chapter 10

The rumour was going the rounds that we were about to leave Palestine. The Jews were within sight of achieving their objective of having a country of their own again. But all this seemed to have very little to do with us at Ein Shemer apart from the effect it had upon our freedom of movement outside the aerodrome. As the end of my second year in Palestine came closer the only really important thing as far as I was concerned was how soon I would be demobbed and could return to civvy street.

After struggling through a trade test I had reached the dizzy rank of Leading Aircraftsman and had been put in charge of the technical stores. I had a bit more pay, but not a lot, and a bit more responsibility, but not too much more and I knew the ins and outs of Ein Shemer well enough to know just what I could and could not get away with. Taking it all in all I was content enough to stay where I was until it was time for my demob until one day our stores Warrant Officer called me into his office and told me I was to be temporarily posted to 120 M.U..

An M.U. is perhaps best thought of as a wholesale warehouse from which the various camps and aerodromes order their equipment. To be posted to an M.U. was the ambition of most store bashers because their were many more 'perks' available to us than on other postings but I wasn't too pleased at the time. I was close to demob and could have done without all the hassle of moving and getting used to the workings of an M.U.. Although one was trained to work in any stores there were many aspects of the work involved which I would have to revise and re-learn.

No one could change what the powers that be had decided and although our squadron leader was losing almost half of his staff there was nothing he could do about it immediately so at best it was going to take some weeks before the postings could be changed.” We’ll soon have you lot back with us”, he said, but we were not so optimistic. Just before we left our Squadron Leader put a letter into my hand for delivery to the Chief Equipment Officer at the M.U. who was,apparently, a friend of his.” See to that for me please and save me a stamp.” I thought little about it at the time but soon found that it was, for me, a very useful letter indeed.

We did the rounds with our arrival chits when we got there and last of all reported to the Chief Equipment Officer to be allocated to the section in which we were to work. There were various warehouses each for a particular type of goods such as technical stores, aircraft stores, domestic stores, and so on. The plum of them all was, of course, the clothing stores but although those of us from Ein Shemer had been amongst the earliest arrivals we were left kicking our heels outside the office until everyone else had been allocated. I had handed over the letter I had been given as soon as I arrived and thought no more about it until I heard the Equipment Officer ask for me by name. "Ah you're the one I have to watch are you? You play the piano a bit don't you?. I wasn't too sure about the bit about watching although I was sure about the piano but I kept quiet.” Right then you and your mates report to the clothing section next door where I can keep an eye on you. Do you think you can manage that job.” There was no doubt at all that we could. What could be better than working in a clothing stores at an M.U. when one is about to be demobbed ?I have often wondered what Squadron Leader Sanderson had put in that letter to his friend but whatever it was it certainly did us a lot of good.

As a store-basher I wasn't too badly off already because all store-bashers used to stick together and although there were rules designed to prevent any fiddling such rules were easily bent especially as one gained experience and friends. It was as if each Equipment Assistant was at the centre of his own little web of power interlocked at numerous points into other webs with other Equipment Assistants at their centre. Need a new pair of socks? Ring Jack in clothing and see if he could use a few torch batteries. Radio on the blink? Ring Bill in electrical and see if he needs some shoes. So it went on and there was very little any of us could not get if we really needed to. There was even a slender strand of one of our webs leading into the cook's domain which made it possible for a bucket of tea to turn up every night in those lucky huts where a store-basher resided.

There was another spin off from that letter which I had so innocently carried and it led to an invitation to practice with the station dance band although I was only able to take advantage of this once because within two weeks I received a posting back to my old station at Ein Shemer. There I had to go through the same old signing in ritual once more and eventually arrived at the Station Warrant Officer's office. But there had been a change of incumbent whilst I was away and, instead of the rather portly and friendly figure who had so often re-arranged a guard duty so that the band could play in the mess, I was confronted by a much younger and more athletic person who was militarily accurate down to the last shiny button and was obviously filling the role of new broom to perfection and enjoying every minute of it.

Whilst at the M.U. one of the labourers, without my noticing, had splashed the leg of my trousers with white paint. It wasn't a very big mark but had I noticed it I would have been able to exchange them for a new pair almost at once. As it was I hadn't seen it until I actually arrived at Ein Shemer. But that dapper little S.W.O. saw it as soon as I set foot in his office and wanted to know what it was. I explained but got no sympathy whatsoever as he barked out,” Get rid of it! If I see it again you're on a charge.”. Not a very good start to my return but at least I still knew his office clerk and he billeted me in my old hut with my old friends.

As I left the office I glanced at the notice board more or less from habit and realised that the latest demob. list was there. I read through it and I saw my own number up there at last and after waiting so long could hardly believe my eyes. The last thing on my mind after that was a bit of paint on a trouser leg. But it still mattered to that new S.W.O. as I was soon to find out.

The daily working parade as conducted by the old S.W.O. had been quite a casual affair. There was the occasional purge if the attendance fell off too much but beyond that it was accepted that because of the variety of places in which Station Headquarters staff worked, there had to be some flexibility. The rule was that we had the parade and roll call and then marched off to our places of work but in fact the roll was very rarely called and we made our own way to wherever we had to go. We in the Technical Stores down on the aerodrome itself had quite a walk to work and usually could be seen strolling down the road with thumbs in the air begging a lift from one of our friends in the Motor Transport section which was opposite the stores.

The new S.W.O., like the new broom he was, intended to have things done by the book. If the rules said call the roll, called it would be, if the rules said march, we would march. We were all to be re-introduced to strict military behaviour even it killed us. It was certainly a good thing for us that he could only keep his eyes on us as far as the road which led down the hill to the technical site. Once out of sight we could revert to our own rules and get that thumb waving for a lift.

The other thing the new man did was to carry out a daily inspection of the parade. This was unheard of before and I was really caught out on the first morning after my return. Because I had not yet had time to get the mark off my trousers I decided they would do for the time being until I managed to change them for a new pair, although this was more difficult to arrange now that my demob. number had come up. Officially there was no way we could get anything new in the last weeks before leaving. As the S.W.O. passed behind me he stopped. I didn't so much see him stop as sense it and immediately knew what was the trouble. He had seen that spot of paint again. Shortly his voice boomed out,” You’re the airman I signed in yesterday. Why haven't you got rid of that mark?” I trotted out the only excuse I could think of.” Sir we aren't allowed to change any clothing in the last month before demob.”.” You’re a store basher aren't you?”.” Yes sir." I replied.

For what seemed an age he surveyed the offending mark and then he invited me to bend down and take a look. We both glared at the offending trouser leg but the mark showed no sign of vanishing of it's own accord and clearly the S.W.O. was totally unimpressed with a store basher who only had the regulation amount of kit and couldn't find a spare pair of trousers.” We are all aware of the tremendous difficulties the store keepers of this establishment have in keeping up appearances”, he said to the accompaniment of a ripple of laughter from the ranks,” but the indisputable fact that you also have to live with is, that if that mark comes to my attention once more you will finish your service on permanent jinkers."

For the next few days I settled down to the old routine and kept my nose clean, as the saying has it, and then one morning before we all went off to our various places of work we found ourselves unexpectedly marched off in another direction and towards the gymnasium. There we were confronted by a group best described as a 'shouting' of sergeants who were, we were brusquely informed, practising for a tug of war against a team from the officer's mess and we were to have the privilege of giving them some practice. They had decided it would be a good idea to have twenty or thirty airmen to pull against. They were full of enthusiasm but we certainly were not and did not try to be helpful at all. Nevertheless they kept us at it for a full hour before allowing us to go off to our work.

The store keepers amongst arrived at the various stores to find there scenes of utter chaos as great queues of people waited to pick up the various things they had ordered. There too waiting for an explanation were our Squadron Leader and our W.O.. When we told them of the tug of war session they were clearly not at all pleased but, of course, officers don't air their differences in front of other ranks. Nevertheless we knew perfectly well that the new S.W.O. was going to get a telephone call such as would make his ears burn as they had never burned before although we could only guess at the exact form of words. Suffice it to say that the following morning the first order given after the roll was called was,” Store bashers form three ranks over here and march off to your work. Whatever had been said over the phone had clearly had an immediate impact.

It seemed to be no time at all before I was again wandering from office to office around the aerodrome getting my departure chit signed up. The penultimate signature was that of the Chief Equipment Officer who was temporarily acting as Station Headquarters Squadron Leader at the time. As he signed my papers he gave me a pep talk about how good a life it was in the peacetime R.A.F. and how I was assured of promotion if I signed on but he realised very well that I had already made my mind up and soon went on to wish me good luck in my job in civvy street. I then headed for the next office to get the last signature of all from the S.W.O..

I knocked and waited for a while before a voice called me to enter. I hardly had time to say anything before he had me again.” Why is that paint still there airman? You're really in trouble this time.” In my excitement I had overlooked the fact that I was wearing the offending trousers. Then his eyes fell on the paper in my hand and he said,” Leaving us are you? Right wait outside until I am ready for you.” He made me wait for what semed an interminable time and then called me in. As I entered a head popped around the door of the adjoining office,” Hold the fort for me I have to go down to the stores.”, and then,” Hello Bates, I thought you would be on your way by now. Is there a problem? Sort him out S.W.O.! Good luck,Bates."and he left the office and climbed into a waiting jeep.

The S.W.O. slowly and deliberately signed my papers, asked a few perfunctory questions, congratulated me on going home, and finally with completely straight face and a stickler for the rules to the last said,” Get rid of that mark before you leave.” But we both knew that was one order that he could not enforce. I never did manage to change those trousers and only got rid of them when I eventually exchanged them for my demob. suit.

Chapter 11

There was quite a large number of airmen leaving Ein Shemer for demob. and amongst them were four whom I knew fairly well. We agreed to stay together for the journey home if we possibly could and soon we were travelling back along the same route we had taken to get here some two and a half years ago. The transition from the relative calm of the stations in Palestine to the hubbub and confusion of those in Egypt was much the same as we remembered it but there was one incident, as we waited to cross the ferry over the Suez Canal, which is perhaps worth recording.

When we left the train we had been marched into an area close to the ferry terminal where we had to wait for the ferry and there we were at once besieged by a veritable army of peddlers. From previous experience we well knew the dangers to our kit and had been careful to take the usual precaution of standing in a circle with our kit-bags in the middle where they were easy to watch. There has been more than one member of the forces who has seen his kit disappear through a hole cut into his kit-bag whilst waiting for that same ferry or whilst moving from train to ferry. As time went by the persistence of the hawkers gradually eased but they were still a nuisance and one or other of them would return every few minutes.

They offered 'real' diamond rings,’ Swiss' watches, nylon stockings, cameras, leather goods, etc., to say nothing of oranges and other fruit and, as their cries filled the air, above them all as always, rang out that eternal lament which seemed to come from the very soul of the sellers of egg sandwiches, "Ai-ai-ai-gs--aaaah----Brai-ai-ai-d-------------Ai-ai-ai-gs---aaaah----Brai-ai-d!"

There can be no doubt that bargains were there if you were prepared to go through the long, haggling ritual without which any transaction in Egypt seems to be looked upon as being somehow illegal. We rather liked the handbags offered by some of the peddlers and thought that about a pound would be a reasonable price but, on the other hand, we were a bit short of cash which forced us into trying to drive a really hard bargain. One almost diminutive Arab with both arms full of handbags staunchly refused to go below one pound and each time went away shaking his head and rolling his expressive eyes whilst all the time muttering under his breath that this was less than he himself had paid but in spite of all these protestations he kept on returning and trying again. However, determined as he was not to go below one pound, we were equally determined that he should come down a bit more.

Eventually we wondered if we may have overplayed our hand because he seemed to have left the scene until, just as the ferry was beginning to pull in, he came back to us one last time with both arms again full of handbags. Our last offer had been ten shillings(or the equivalent) so we offered this again and, greatly to our surprise, he at once accepted giving us a really good bargain. After selling four or five handbags to those in our vicinity he moved further afield and within minutes had sold his entire stock when, without further delay, he bolted from the area like a scared rabbit.

For some time afterwards we were more interested in watching the ferry and then our attention was brought back to the area immediately behind us by the noise of shouting and fighting a around one of the stalls. A great pile of people was writhing and struggling around and over a individual whom they were all attempting to hit with a variety of makeshift clubs and some very fearsome and not at all makeshift knives. As we watched a dishevelled figure broke free with an enormous heave, and we saw that it was the diminutive peddler from whom we had got such a bargain only minutes before. Whatever it was that passed for a peddlers union in those parts had clearly objected, in no uncertain terms, to the way he had ignored their rules about retail price maintenance. No one at all seemed to be on his side as he was once more submerged by a mass of bodies until the enormous figure of a policeman appeared who plucked the peddlers off each other one by one until he exposed the battered but unrepentant figure of the’ blackleg'. He then subjected the whole lot to a verbal tongue lashing whilst helping their target out of harms way with the toe of his exceedingly enormous boot.

As we made our way onto the ferry our last view of the scene showed us a bloody but unbowed Arab peddler jeering triumphantly from the corner of a building and making obscene signs with his fingers in the direction of his attackers.(Some gestures convey the same message in any language.)

It was quite a short distance from the ferry to the transit camp in the Canal Zone where we were to wait for places on the boat which would take us on the next stage of our journey. We didn't have to suffer the discomforts of tented accommodation for very long however and the very next day we received our draft number and were taken in lorries to the a nearby railway siding.

The Egyptian driver and his firemen had seated themselves on a pile of sleepers at the side of the track as they waited for the train to be loaded. They wore the typical baggy pants of the devout Muslim but theirs had received more than their fair share of the oily soot which is inseparable from the drivers and firemen of all steam trains throughout the world. Completely oblivious to the responsibility they were being given of getting a crowd of impatient airmen home for demob. they slowly finished the remnants of the 'Aigs-a-Braid' they were eating, took great gulps of tea from a jug and then, and only then, when the demands of the inner man were completely satisfied, did they condescend to mount the footplate.

As bursts of steam spouted from a variety of orifices, some of which looked suspiciously like leaks, we were first treated to an almost apologetic’ Toot' from the whistle. At the sound an expectant silence descended on we who were passengers until again there came a 'Toot' from the whistle, but this time of a much longer duration and no longer apologetic as the great engine began to move and our journey to the ship waiting for us in Port Said had begun. Then suddenly, without the slightest warning, there was a tremendous shuddering bump and clatter and we were thrown from our seats and bombarded with an avalanche of kit-bags and packs from the luggage racks over our heads. For what seemed like an age there was then complete silence except for the sound of escaping steam from the engine up ahead of us.

As we all sorted ourselves out into some semblance of order it became clear that it was fortunate indeed that nobody had anything worse than a few relatively minor cuts, bumps, and bruises. But what had happened? Querulous shouts echoed down the train as everyone tried to find out and the language being used was far from polite. Indeed it is probably best described as neither English, Welsh, Scottish, or Irish but just simply good old robust, military Anglo-Saxon which, for the sake of politeness I shall simply translate as, "Oh dear! Something unfortunate appears to have happened. What a shame! I wonder if someone would please give us an explanation!” But the explanation soon became self-evident to any who took a look from the carriage window. How are the mighty fallen indeed for there, leaning forlornly at an impossible angle was the engine. That which had seemed utterly invincible was now brought down in disgrace simply because the fireman had failed in his duty; he had forgotten to set the points and we were well and truly derailed.

The driver and fireman gazed at the points as if to will the engine back into place and then, giving a last despairing 'Toot” on the whistle, they climbed from the footplate and returned to their seats, which they had so recently left, on the pile of sleepers by the side of the track. Clearly they had decided that it was all down to the will of Allah and not their fault at all. As we returned to the lorries and were taken back to camp two, oily, sooty figures could be seen to have produced that big jug again and to be brewing up from a tap on the engine which was apparently there for no other purpose. Oh I probably don't have to tell you that they had also found yet more 'Aigs-a-Braid' to pass the time as they waited for goodness knows who to sort them out.

The following day we got away without any further trouble and soon we were at the quayside and climbing the gangplank of a ship called 'Slotjerdic'.The spelling here is suspect and the pronunciation difficult but certainly the nickname 'Slaughterdick; which we gave to the ship was prophetic and that voyage certainly nearly slaughtered many of us.

This was a much smaller vessel than the one we came out on and we had nowhere near the same amount of room, which meant that our kit-bags remained stacked around the bottom bunk for most of the time. Furthermore the bunks were in tiers of four rather than the three they were on the ship we went out on. Still what was a bit of discomfort? At least we were on the way home and that is all that mattered.

The airman in the top bunk above me had been especially pushy in claiming this prize position. There he was, directly under the air ducts which provided a ready made place for his mug and irons, his shaving tackle, etc. whilst we who were lower down had simply to rely on each other's goodwill in order to find any storage space at all. His forcefulness had led to the four of us who had agreed we would travel all the way home together becoming separated because, whilst we were tossing a coin to sort out the bunks, he had sneaked on top and refused adamantly to move. That nicely worked out arrangement we had made to take the top bunk in turns was also spoiled.

For the first day or so the weather remained quite calm but then it changed. The 'Slaughterdick' didn't take kindly to an increasing swell and to more windy conditions and reacted with some very definite rolling and pitching which inflicted the scourge of sea-sickness upon those with a poor organ of balance. I and my friends were fortunate it seems and indeed we managed to have some rather enjoyable evenings sitting out under a starry sky with a few bottles of beer each. On the first night we even had a sing-a-long by courtesy of a crew member who played the accordion and we returned to our bunks suffering very little beyond the effects of too many beers.

I sat on the edge of my bottom bunk and began to undress only to find it was already occupied by, of all people, our forceful friend from the top bunk. He was, almost literaly, green about the gills.” Can I use your bunk tonight”, he pleaded.” I don't feel well". "Bugger off!!" came the chorus from all of us as we prepared for battle. We had trouble restraining Jock, our Glasgow friend, when the controversy about the bunks had first taken place and now, after a few beers, he was prepared to fight anyone without charge. Thankfully the thoroughly cowed and chastened airman from above was in no condition to argue and tried to struggle back to his bunk until he suddenly had to beat a hasty retreat towards the nearest toilets.

Whilst he was gone we took stock and at first we all reckoned he should be made to stay as far as possible from the toilets using the bunk he himself had chosen but then came the question,” What if he loses control and doesn't make it down from up there?” Clearly there was a risk.” Take the top bunk for now”, said Jock,” and then refuse to change back.” If he says anything I'll thump him.” For once right had triumphed over might and we dumped all the kit from the top bunk and from the air ducts and shared the extra room between us. Rough justice perhaps but surely well deserved.

The weather continued to get worse and after we passed Gibraltar and entered the Bay of Biscay we really began to get tossed around. We stayed below decks most of the time but the arrangements were such that we were forced to cross the foredeck after each meal although it was continuously swept by the sea. The system entailed a long queue almost right round the corridors below decks to get to the dining room and then afterwards a return via the foredeck and back down a convenient hatchway. This journey. which seemed to hold no terrors at all for the crew, was certainly terrifying for us and even though ropes were provided for us to hang on to this was, as far as we were concerned, simply a verification of the dangers and did little to add to our confidence. Furthermore there were other hazards in the dining room itself, not so obvious perhaps, but also caused by the weather.

One lunch time after queuing for some significant time I eventually found myself at the door of the dining room just in time to witness the most amazing happening. Leaving the server with a tray full of goodies was a little airman and the goodies on this occasion consisted of a generous sized meat pie surrounded by equally generous portions of potatoes, peas, and cabbage. On another part of his tray there was a thick slice of bread topped with a lump of butter and a spoonful of jam. He turned to survey the room keeping a firm hold on the tray whilst steadying himself to compensate for the unpredictable movements of the ship; a task which called for a considerable measure of skill and an equally considerable measure of luck. Part way along the passageway between the tables another little airman was about to sit down with a similarly loaded tray and was having trouble moving safely along a floor which, as a result of the stormy weather, was already carrying more than it's fair share of slops from spilt food, tea, gravy etc. This too was a task which called for skill, luck, and indeed a certain amount of daring in judging the exact moment to move.

Then, with no prior warning at all, the already violent pitch and roll of the ship became even more violent and it seemed to rear up on end like some enormous bucking bronco. Even those of us who had not yet started to fill our trays had difficulty keeping our feet but for the two airmen, exposed as they were with nothing at all to cling to, the result was disastrous!

The one who had almost reached the comparative safety of a table now found the floor had assumed an impossible angle and he began to slide like some Olympic ski champion down towards the server on a direct course for the other airman who must just have been congratulating himself that he still had the counter to cling to. But then, as the floor began to tilt the other way, they both found themselves unstoppably sliding towards each other and they came together with a great crash. Their trays catapulted high into the air and then, with timing worthy of some vintage Laurel and Hardy movie, they turned completely over in mid flight and deposited themselves and their contents right over the heads and faces of both men.

It is perhaps a measure of the conditions we endured for those few days that not one snicker of laughter was heard. Those who had already struggled with their own meals were probably thinking,” There but for the grace of God go I.,” whilst the rest of us were too busy wondering if the same thing might happen to us once we had managed to get our trays filled. I have no further memories of that particular meal so I must have come away unscathed but the memory of the journey via the foredeck back to my bunk does remain with me.

Seated beneath the hatchway to the deck when I got there was a group of very wet and sorry looking men who seemed to have given up the thought(at least for the time being)of moving out and across the sea swept foredeck. I didn't realise what they were doing there at first and poked my head out of the hatchway quite confidently having already done the journey a number of times since the weather changed. I made as if to move out and grabbed the hand rope which was provided and then I soon found out why they were sitting there. As I took the first step to the deck it was as if the weather had been waiting for me and had taken a personal dislike to me. The bows of the ship buried themselves into the next wave and a wall of water came rushing towards me. Too late I tried to return to the safety of the hatchway but dare not move for fear of being swept away as the waters engulfed me. I clung on for dear life for a long couple of minutes until I was soaked through and through with salt laden ocean. I could see no other course open to me but to make a dash for the ladder to the boat deck before the next wave came along and I said a little prayer of thanks as I swiftly shinned up the ladder to the dryer conditions on the boat deck. I made it just as the bows again plunged under the waves but now I was well out of reach and precariously made my way to the stern of the ship and down to my bunk..

I had thought that all my friends would return in the same sorry state as I but they returned quite dry and they said I had been the last to use that route from the dining room and that they had been directed to return via corridors which had been previously reserved for the crew's use only. But we all knew now, beyond all doubt, that the 'Slaughterdick' certainly deserved it's name!

GENESIS3

Chapter 12

My parents had come up in the world. They had always wanted to own a shop and while I was away they had at last been able to buy a fish and chip shop. It wasn't a bad little business either because it was situated right next to an aircraft factory and some smaller engineering firms which provided a very steady trade. The only fly in the ointment was that rationing was still in force and they couldn't get as much cooking fat as they would have liked, which restricted the number of times they could open.

The living accommodation could have been better and there wasn't quite as much room as we had in our old terraced house. There were only two bedrooms and the living room was behind the shop and, although this didn't really cause any problems when we were all three in the forces, as we returned home one by one it was a different matter and we became a bit overcrowded later on.

John had already been demobbed for some months when I got home but Robert had still some time to serve so we could manage for the present; indeed when I had my first midday meal after getting home it soon became clear that John was managing very well indeed and had got the fish and chip business thoroughly weighed up. The arrangement he had sorted out was that mother would leave 'something in the oven' and when he came home for lunch he could help himself whilst she and dad were busy with customers. That seemed a good idea and so I decided that I too would come home for lunch and join at whatever had been left 'in the oven' or alternatively on top of the oven. It was only when I had my first experience of the system in action that I realised just how well organised John really was and exactly why he preferred to come home even though he had quite a long bus journey to make.

I had a decent amount of leave to come so I took advantage of it and had a few weeks at home before going back my job. On the first day I watched with interest as mother prepared a large pan of tasty stewed meat and vegetables and left it simmering gently away on top of the oven. About half-past-eleven she went into the shop saying,” There’s plenty there for you both you can have it now or wait for John to come. Please yourself.".

There was indeed plenty for two and as soon as John came in we dished the lot out between us and got stuck in. I then went to find the cake which had been left for 'afters' but John quietly slipped into the shop with his now empty plate. There was the sound of good-humoured banter from the customers in the shop and laughter when someone said,” By gum, I’d rather keep that one for a week than a fortnight.”, as John returned to the living room with his plate once more filled to overflowing but this time with crisp, golden chips straight from the pan topped with the largest piece of cod he had been able to find and garnished with a generous spoonful of mushy peas.

From the shop a tantalising aroma had begun to percolate into the living room which was intensified when John returned with his loaded plate. As he began to eat the sight of his plate combined with the appetising smell proved to be just that little bit too tempting and although I had already taken a bite from a slice of cake I carefully laid it down on the table, picked up my own plate, and made my way into the shop.” I wondered how long it would be before you turned up.” said Dad,” Go on then, help yourself! There’s just one rule though. If the shop's full you'll have to wait.” The shop didn't open every day but on the days it did we lived like fighting cocks. After polishing off a first course of whatever was waiting 'in the oven' we would invariably be found, with our plates at the ready, waiting behind the counter for the opportune moment to refill them with a choice from a menu of Fish and Chips, Steak pie and Chips, Meat pie and Chips, etc., etc., etc..

Since most things were still on ration or in short supply, there were other advantages to having a shop.’ Living on the shop' helped out our ration and we were also able to do very well for cigarettes which although not rationed were certainly not plentiful. In most shops it was a case of regular customers only which was quite a bind for people like us who had just come home and therefore hadn't had the chance to become 'regular customers' anywhere. Fortunately for us Dad also sold sweets and chocolate and had a tobacco licence which was unusual for a chip shop. This meant he had an allocation of sweets, which were rationed, and also an allocation of cigarettes and tobacco(for regular customers only of course).

It was a very small allocation and the regulars very few, in fact the most regular customer was Dad himself and then, as we each came home in our turn, so did his regular customers increase one by one, which made quite a hole in the allocation. Furthermore within a the first two weeks after coming home I had become engaged to Florence who also smoked and because dad always made sure she was alright for cigarettes we soon used his allocation and no longer sold any tobacco in the shop at all. The entire allocation was divided up between the family with just the one condition that we all also divide up the bill from the wholesaler when it came. It was some time however before we realised that Dad was still out of pocket on the deal because he had to fork out annually for the licence.

I was now gathering up the threads of the social life which I had enjoyed before His Majesty had decided I could be useful to 'his' Royal Air Force. First of all I tracked down Herbert but all he seemed to be interested in was the new white shirt he had bought for something he called 'the occasion’. We were talking for quite a few minutes before I realised that the 'occasion' was in fact his forthcoming marriage to Dorothy. Mind you he had every right to be pleased about the white shirt because clothes were still rationed and he had done a lot of shopping around to find one of good quality.

Next I contacted Eddie, who had always insisted he would never get married and would remain a bachelor all his life, only to be immediately introduced to his girl friend. I realised, even as he insisted that they were 'just friends’, that she had other ideas and Eddie, whether he knew it or not, was well and truly hooked. Alan turned out to be married already and expecting an addition to his family, Albert was engaged but still had to fix the date, and so it went on as I contacted first one and then another of my friends. Everyone had matured, everyone’s life had moved forward, and it seemed that nothing could ever be the same again.

But then I myself had also changed, although I was only just beginning to realise how much. The rest of the old gang had missed out on service in the forces for a number of reasons; Albert had been a Begin Boy in the mines, for example, and Eddie and Herbert had remained in reserved occupations. I sensed that my attitudes were bound to be different to theirs because of my experiences during life in the R.A.F., just as their attitudes were bound to be different to mine by virtue of their experiences in civvy street and, although I had felt obliged to look up my old friends, it was perhaps inevitable that we would never get back together in quite the same way again. Not so however with Florence. It took only a few days to realise that we both still felt the same way about each other and by the end of the first week home we could have been seen visiting jeweller's shops looking for an engagement ring.

Picking up the threads at work turned out to be no problem at all because my old firm had by now made the transition from machining aircraft parts to machining a variety of other components for commercial products. The main thing they were manufacturing was a washing machine gearbox for a local company and this was just coming into production. I soon found myself back on the job of setting up capstan lathes and other machines much as I had done during the war except that now those machines were being used to produce items that were useful for something other than mere destruction.

Having got engaged the next thing Florence and I had to attend to was the question of saving up for a house. We had decided we would wait if necessary rather than live with in-laws. We wanted to start with our own house. Perhaps we were being a bit ambitious but nevertheless we began house hunting, not too seriously because we were definitely very short of cash, but we kept our eyes open just in case. We also put ourselves down for a council house but this was a rather forlorn hope with a waiting list which was yards long and a points system giving priority to those most in need. Patience was clearly going to be our biggest asset for the time being but then, one evening as Dad was reading the local paper he said to me right out of the blue,” Have you seen this house going up for auction? It looks like it would just suit you.” I saw that it would indeed suit us but I also could see no point in going to view it because it was, as I pointed out, well out of our reach and I also pointed out that we had not yet saved enough for a deposit. Dad wasn't put off,” Talk to Florence about it when you see her tonight”, he said,” It costs nothing to look."

I did as he had suggested but neither Florence nor I could see how we would be able to get the deposit together and the payments on the mortgage would not be all that easy to manage either. When I got home late that night I told my Dad the problems as we both saw them but then he dropped a bombshell,” What if I buy it and you rent it from me until you get on your feet?”. I was sure this would provide an answer and said that I would see what Florence had to say but I returned home from work the next day to find dad had got the bit firmly between his teeth.” Get your tea down quick”, he said,” I’ve arranged for us to see the house."

There was no way to get in touch with Florence so Dad and I had to go ourselves and the house was indeed very suitable. I decided to arrange for her to see it when I met her the following day but Dad still had the bit between his teeth and as I arrived home in the evening I was confronted by a large poster advertising the house with the word 'Sold' printed in glaring red letters right across the front. He had by-passed the auction and put a deposit on the house. I was a bit dazed by the speed of the whole affair and a bit annoyed in some ways because I wanted to involve Florence and for us to decide together. I remember wondering what she might say when I told her and wouldn't have been at all surprised if she had objected to being pushed too quickly and reacted accordingly. Gulping my tea down in great haste I went straight round to see her with the poster rolled up under my arm. I couldn't contain my excitement however, and as I went in I unfurled it and holding it in full view almost shouted the words,"Look! Our house!

I am sure that all her family thought I had gone a bit crackers and Florence didn't seem too sure of my sanity either but once I had explained what had happened she had her coat on in double quick time and we set off together to look at what we had got. I was still a little worried what her reaction would be but I need not have been, for she was delighted with what she saw. From that moment time seemed to fly along as we got started on the decorating, bought carpets, bought furniture, and booked the church, to say nothing of the thousand and one other things that must be done to prepare for a wedding and to move into a new house. Eventually all was ready and the day at last came when I was seated there in the 'hot seat' in the front pew of the church, John was next to me as my best man and Robert, who had got leave for the wedding, was at the back of the church as chief usher. But what a long wait we had!

The church slowly filled with the guests and we waited. We waited some more as more guests arrived and began to shiver because the church was none too warm. We waited some more until the appointed time for the ceremony came and went and we continued to wait until the accepted limits of lateness, which the bride is allowed by tradition, had long passed. I sent John to find out what was going on and as he walked out of the church he was almost knocked over by the hurrying figures of my mother and dad who had only just arrived. Their taxi had been so late picking them up that they were sure the wedding would be over before they arrived There was a murmur of agitated, whispered conversation as they asked John what was going on. He remained firmly in control and told them to sit down whilst he checked.

I wasn't too long before he returned with the information that we had made an enormous slip us.We had chosen to get married on the same day as a cup-tie and half our guests were having to be brought in by a roundabout way because they lived close to the football ground.” It looks like you're in for a long wait yet.” John said, "But they've put a special policeman on for you at the end of the street so it will all work out in the end. I think the bit about the policeman was intended as a joke to cheer everyone up but the rest of it was certainly no joke and the vicar was heard to say, in a voice quivering with emotion, that it would be half-time before he got to his reserved seat in the stand. Our wedding must have been quite a trial for him one way or another because he had already had to apologise for the absence of the organist. It seems the two of them had fallen out the week before and the organist had gone off in a huff.

Once Florence did arrive everything went swimmingly from the time she came down the aisle looking radiant to the time we stood together at the door being showered with confetti as man and wife. In spite of not having the organ the service went really well and, although there were no hymns or other music, everybody joined in saying the psalms and responses with great gusto. It was as though they were all absolutely determined that nothing else would go wrong to spoil our day; so much so that the Vicar clearly sensed the atmosphere and apologised in his sermon, and afterwards in the vestry, for being a bit grumpy about the match. He completely forgave us for making him miss the first half and said,” What a pleasure it has been to officiate at a wedding where all the guests play a proper part. The bride and groom must really feel that everyone wishes them well."

We had determined that we would slip away for the honeymoon with as little fuss as possible so immediately after the reception at a local hotel we quietly left to change into our travelling clothes and collect our luggage before leaving for the station but the news leaked When we got to the station we were greeted by a crowd of wedding guests who gave us quite a hectic time as we waited for the train but, there were compensations. Someone had chalked the words 'just married' in enormous letters right across the compartment windows and tipped one of the porters to lock the carriage door so that our privacy was assured for us as we travelled to our destination. I pass lightly over the week's stay in Southport because after all such things are special to bride and groom alone. Let it suffice to say that after a week of honeymooning and a weekend in our 'new' house we were at once plunged back into the serious business of earning a living.

Florence actually worked quite close to me, just across the road in fact, so we took our midday break together at a nearby café. Those super helpings of fish and chips etc. in my dad's shop were, it seemed, to be a thing of the past and he would probably have had a fit if Florence had turned up for lunch as well; but we ate well enough and had our main meal in the evening anyway. During the first week after the honeymoon I was treated to some samples of my new wife's cooking which wasn't bad at all. The only trouble was that we ate so well on the first four days that we were came close to running out of rations and on the way home one evening we weren't at all sure what we had left to eat. As the bus made it's way home and we got near the shop Florence said,” Do you fancy some fish and chips? Why don't we call in at the shop?"

It was quite a surprise for mother and dad to find that they would still be plagued by their number one son each Friday and, of course, they absolutely refused to be paid for what we had. So for a long time it became the rule that on Friday I would get off the bus at the shop whilst Florence would carry on home to get the table ready and the tea brewed in time for my arrival home with our meal properly wrapped in newspaper and with a supply of cigarettes.

Chapter 13

I renewed my membership of the Men's Institute at St.Mark's immediately on my return home but, because I had been so busy with my own affairs, I had not yet made any use of it's facilities. Neither, as yet, had I made any use of the church itself. I straightened up my subscriptions to the institute whenever I saw the treasurer but I never even set a foot in the building. This changed when my son Billy was born.

Florence and I had long agreed that I should have a night out on my own each week although I hadn't taken advantage of this as yet but, when Billy arrived, we soon found we were having difficulty getting baby sitters because her parents lived some distance away and mine, of course, were tied up most evenings in the shop. So it was that I then began to take advantage of my night out to visit the institute for a game of snooker or darts. I was a little self-conscious the first time I called in especially after being away so long but I need not have been and, although there were a few new faces to be seen, there were also a lot of my old friends. It wasn't too long before someone said,” Come on Bill put your name down for a game. Let’s see if you can still play snooker.” and soon it was as if I had never been away. About nine-thirty one or two people began to put on their coats ready to slip into the pub for a pint before going home and I was invited to join them. My night out was complete and became even more complete when someone said,” Give us a tune Bill.”. I needed no second invitation and stayed there on the piano until closing time being kept well supplied with all the drinks I could manage. I was just a little 'merry' when I got home but Florence didn't mind too much and soon my night out at the institute followed by a sing-a-long in the pub became a regular habit.

The institute ran competitions at Christmas for darts, snooker, billiards, and table tennis and I was just in time to enter for these. I presented quite a problem for the handicap committee because they had not seen me play very much and they could only consider my handicap on the basis of the way I had played before I went into the forces. I had, however played quite often in the N.A.A.F.I. and had improved quite a bit so that my handicap turned out to be a really good one. As the preliminary rounds were completed it became increasingly clear just how good that handicap really was. I got nowhere with darts, billiards, and table tennis but I breezed through the snooker until I found that somehow,I was playing in the final. I was, however up against our top player, Danny, which I was sure meant I had no chance at all of winning.

The finals were played off at a special social evening with a potato pie supper and all the traditional trimmings such as red cabbage and pickled onions. When the handicaps were worked out it meant that I actually received sixty points from Danny which wasn't as bad as it might seem because he was quite capable of turning in a break of anything up to one hundred. If I made just one mistake it could have meant the end of the match in very short time. I had plenty of advice from the spectators and a lot of support too because I was clearly the underdog The consensus of opinion was if I played safe I might very well win because Danny was known to be a bit impatient and would often make mistakes when under stress. It was up to me to try nothing fancy and go only for the easy shots. I took the advice and sure enough Danny's impatience began to show and the game went very well until I missed an easy pot and he was away. From that one mistake he made a fifty break and my lead was down to ten. Then he left me snookered.

I was hopeless at getting out of these and my lead began to be whittled down as one by one we got through the colours and by the time we got to the blue Danny looked like shifting everything. Then the stress took it's toll and he missed giving me one last chance to make a name for myself. I got the blue down nicely, I got the pink, but only just, and with the black hanging over the pocket I played the last shot as if it was the hardest there had ever been and breathed a sigh of relief when, after what seemed to be an eternity, it slowly dropped into the pocket. The competition was over. I had won my first(and last )Christmas handicap.

A game I always enjoyed during the summer season was cricket. Not that I was a good player myself, far from it, but I liked a game and, although I always went in at number ten, I seemed to fill a need and otherwise functioned as an enthusiastic, but not always successful, fielder. We at St.Mark's played our home games on the local recreation ground because the fees required to hire a pitch were, at the time, beyond our means and we were not the only team to use the local 'recs' for reasons of economy. Most of us were however, if we wanted to play a decent game of cricket, being forced to get down to finding the fees for a better class of pitch. The reasons for this being amply illustrated by the following story.

For those without experience of matches played on the 'rec' perhaps I should try to describe what a recreation ground was like. In our case it consisted of a large patch of ash and cinders surrounded by very rough grass. The ground was crisscrossed by two diagonal paths from corner to corner which were eroded by the clogs of the local factory workers going to and from the local mills and these paths were topped up frequently by further lorry loads of cinders and ash. Nevertheless they never actually reached the level of the surrounding grass and were sunk down by anything from a couple of inches to a foot. On such places one was expected nonetheless to find space for either football or cricket pitches according to the season. It was just as well that fripperies such as wearing 'whites' for cricket or shorts for football were unusual. Long trousers for football were probably essential if you were to avoid a kneecap full of cinders every time you fell and similarly whites would not have been white more than a couple of minutes once the ball had kicked up a cloud of ash or cinders. St.Mark's lost the toss and we were put in to bat.Our number one took his place at the wicket,asked the umpire for 'leg and middle' and,as he did so,tapped the mark scored in the ashes which represented the crease.A cloud of dark grey dust rose slowly into the air and settled itself upon his shoes and the legs of his boiler suit..The opposing bowler took the longest run he could without actualy getting involved with the 'quid a man' match which had now started then he charged down towards the wicket.The ball shot from his hand,flew like a rocket towards our man and landed against the raised side of the so-called pitch,where it then 'broke' in the most incredible manner.Indeed it ricocheted almost at a right angle to its original flight path missing the wickets by a mere hairs breadth.Our man didn't even raise his bat.Whatever had happened to the ball after it hit the ground was a complete mystery as far as he was concerned.The bowler gave a wicked grin and prepared for the next ball.

No longer worried about the closeness of the other game he took the shortest possible run and aimed for the same spot in the ashes which had so nearly brought disaster to the batsman before.Again the ball ricocheted and,with even more dramatic effect,as our man gave a tentative wriggle of his bat showing at least a willingness to try,even though he hadn't the remotest chance of hitting the ball.But he had hardly made a move as the three stumps behind him were neatly knocked down almost sideways to the crease.It seemed indeed that the ball had in fact knocked them down from the side and not from the front but,be that as it may,he was without doubt definitely,and beyond all argument,out.Let us save embarrassment for our apparently doomed team as we pass over the rest of the innings gently and quickly and let it be sufficient to record that we were all out for the magnificent total of twelve and some of those runs were byes!But wait!There's more!

None of us were particularly happy about the way our opponents had made use of the peculiarities of the pitch and there were mutterings about poor sportsmanship and gamesmanship as we took a short break before taking our positions in the field.On overhearing these remarks (as he was meant to do) their captain simply shrugged his shoulders and repeated once again,"It's the same for both sides you know."."Right if that's the way you want it that's the way you'll get it.",said our captain and put himself on to bowl the first over.After all we often had to practice on that same path and knew all there was to know about playing on cinders.

Our bowlers took advantage of every lump and dip in the pitch.If our opponents thought they had found one bad spot we soon showed them any number that were even worse.Where they had used one banked up side of the path we used both and also used a bump in the middle of the pitch which they never even thought of but which we knew well because all our efforts before the match to level it out with rake and stiff brush had failed abysmally.Same for both sides was it?Oh no it wasn't,as they soon discovered..

The game had started at two-o-clock and we were all out by twenty past,an innings of twenty minutes.Our opponents went in at two-thirty and were packing their bags at two-forty five.An innings of less than fifteeen minutes and we had won by three runs.

Chapter 14

Because St.Mark's was housed in a temporary building all our various organisations such as Mothers' Union etc., had to make use of an extension which had been added to the original building and which provided an extra room separated from the church by a flimsy wooden partition.This was woefully inadequate for it's purpose and could only accommodate one organisation at a time which meant that it's use had to be strictly controlled.Because of this the Men's Institute had to be content with just three nights a week and could only have a limited amount of games equipment.There was just about enough room for a small billiard table which was supplemented by one card table and one dart board and it was often necessary to wait quite a while to get perhaps just one game of billiards or snooker.

One night as I waited my turn to play snooker I heard someone playing the organ in the church and on enquiring was told that it was George for whom I used to blow the organ.I had some time to wait so I went into the church,stood quietly behind him until he stopped playing,and then took the opportunity to ask if he would mind me practising occasionaly.Having recieved his permission,any time I was waiting for a game I would have a go at a few hymn tunes.It was much less bother to have a practice now because the organ boasted an electric blower which did away with the constant search for someone to pump by hand.My motives for practising were,however, purely selfish and I had no thought at this stage of my life beyond enjoying playing just for my own pleasure.

It was only when George gave up as organist and one of the Sunday School teachers,Eva, who deputised occasionaly took his job,that I began to deputise for services but I would only do this on condition that I was given plenty of notice so that I had time to learn the hymns.Eva found the choir practices a bit difficult to handle by herself and I tried to help her with them.It wasn't long before I was back in the choiromehow got me back in the choir and almost in the same position as I had been before going in the forces.I began to attend church quite regularly since it seemed I had now become unofficial,acting,unpaid,deputy organist I felt this was only the right thing to do.Then the next thing I knew was that Eva decided to get married,moved to another part of the country,and I was asked to become official organist."Well,just until you get somebody",I said, little realising just where this would lead and that a lifetime later at seventy years of age I would still be occupying the organ bench.

Chapter 15

It was very gloomy in the church as I sat at the organ practising by the light of the one solitary lamp suspended over the keyboard.In the vestry there was to be a meeting of the church council but this was none of my concern.From the corner of my eye I had seen various people slip through the gloom and enter the vestry and one of them had asked me to keep an eye out for a visitor and show him where the meeting was to take place.Out of consideration for the meeting I had reduced the organ to it's quietest stop but beyond this I was far too concerned with getting the music right for Sunday to take any notice of anything else.

It was now some months since I had agreed to play 'just until you get somebody' and,although I felt I was improving,I was still very far from confident of my own abilities.For the past hour I had endeavoured to improve the singing of a number of unresponsive choirboys and now it was my turn to try to improve my own very inadequate talents.I was still at the stage where each week presented me with a hymn I had never played before and moreover I had already gone through a rough day at work so that life,for me,was proving a hard experience at the time..

It wasn't long before I noticed a figure peering through the gloom at the far end of the church which proved to be that of a clergyman whom I had never seen before.There was little communication between us beyond his brief reply to my greeting but he was indeed the visitor who was expected so I showed him where to go and continued to practice as quietly as possible.

Curiosity made me carry on until later than usual hoping to find out what was going on but when the time got past nine-thirty I had to leave in order to keep my promise to be home early.However,just as I began to make my way to the door,two people came towards me from the vestry.One I knew very well because he was the vicar of our parish church but the other was the stranger I had seen earlier.Introducing me as,"Bill, our organist at St.Mark's" the Vicar said, "This is Mr. Bolt who will soon be your Priest-in-Charge.".I must have looked completely mystified so he took great pains to explain to me just what the meeting had been all about.

St.Mark's Mission Church was destined for greater things and was to become the base for a new Conventional District which would eventualy become a parish in it's own right when a suitable church was built.The fascination which the idea of building a new St.Mark's Church had always had for me returned in full measure and the fact that St.Mark's was also to become the focal point of a new parish came over to me as a magnificent opportunity for the work of the Church to grow and move forward but the first conversation I had with the clergyman who was to lead us in this project could hardly have been said to be earth shattering.

"I am very pleased to meet you.",said Mr.Bolt,"I was so pleased to find we have a proper organ and an organist.It's so much better than having to rely on a piano or harmonium as so many mission churches have to do.".I could only hope that he would still think the same way after he had heard me play for a service.

It was always 'Mr.'Bolt from then on.No one ever had the temerity to call him by his first name of Phillip and he never encouraged any form of address other than 'Mr.' throughout his incumbency.I believe he would have liked us to use the title of 'Father' Bolt but there was a streak of low church tradition in St.Mark's people which refused to accept this.'Mr.'Bolt he became and 'Mr.'Bolt he remained to us all but he always insisted on giving the same measure of respect to everyone else.In my case I was always 'Mr.'Bates,and our churchwardens were 'Mr.'Redhead and 'Mr.'Bland.The ladies too were addressed respectfully as 'Mrs.' or 'Miss' and soon it became the most natural thing in the world to use these formal modes of address when we were with our parish priest although we would slip comfortably back into the use of Christian names when he was not present.We soon came to accept this as the proper way for people in a Parish Church to address each other although,of course,this is far from the case.Christian names are for Christian use after all and it should always be the completely natural thing for members of the Church to get onto first name terms immediately they are introduced to each other.

We were a funny lot at St.Mark's in many ways.It was as if the consciousness of mission had gone astray until it was more important to build up 'our' church rather than build up 'God's' church.We were 'parochialy minded' Christians without a parish to be 'parochialy minded' about and had become very inward looking even to the extent of being fiercely resentful of anything that might be construed as interference from the parish church to which we owed our allegiance,that is,the Parish Church of All Saints.How much would we have to change I wondered.It was certain there would be changes because there had to be.Would we become more aware of the wider Anglican Church to which we belonged?Would there be some who would find change too difficult to accept and would leave our ranks?It was not long before such questions as these had to be asked and answered.

When I first began to play for services we were still firmly tied to the apron strings of our 'Mother Parish'.There was Holy Communion at nine-o-clock on Sunday morning presided over by the Vicar from All Saints and Evensong at six-thirty taken by their lay-reader.Evensong was regarded as the main service.I chose my own hymns and nobody worried what they were as long as at least one of them was suitable for the season and this meant that if any were a bit too difficult for me I could always practice them in good time or choose something else.However I was getting more used to things as time went by and,since we only had hymns for Holy Communion,I didn't have to worry about all the other things which in a parish church are usually sung,such as The Gloria,The Creed;the Agnus Dei,and so on,although for Evensong I was expected to play everything.

For a few weeks things went on much as before.'Mr.'Bolt did some things a bit differently and he put an extra hymn into the Communion service but that was all.However,as soon as he and his wife had got themselves settled into the house we had bought for use as a Vicarage,I was no longer allowed to choose all the hymns,which meant I was more frequently faced with tunes I didn't know;but I managed,and although wrong notes became a more regular hazard,I consoled myself with the thought that anyway I was only 'temporary' and no doubt 'Mr.'Bolt would soon find someone more professional.

One thing I had to get used to was the presence of two new faces at each and every choir practice.Our new Priest-in-Charge and his wife always turned up for practices and although I found this a little disconcerting at first,so did the choirboys,who were indeed so completely overawed that they became models of correct behaviour and total concentration on their singing;at least for the first few weeks.After each practice Mr.Bolt and I would exchange little other than a few pleasantries until as we got more used to each other we began to talk a little more about each other's ideas in regard to the conduct of services.It was then that I began to realise that in these matters at least we had a great deal in common and we both wanted the services of the church to be enjoyable vehicles of worship and praise.

Although the form of the Sunday services remained essentialy the same it was clear that for Mr.Bolt the main emphasis had to be placed on Holy Communion.This was to become the most important of the Sunday services and was,for him,the first and most essential step in our growth towards parish church status; but there were a significant number of the old stalwarts of St.Mark's who could only see this as a move towards 'High Church' practices.Of course in a sense this was true but this was far too simplistic a view and the fact was that St.Mark's services were quite dull and we simply had to move up to a more attractive form of worship if we were to get anywhere at all.More music and indeed more ceremonial were not so much a move towards 'High Church' as a move towards the kind of services which were becoming common to the majority of parish churches.Personaly I found a new and more rewarding form of worship than I had known before and as I gradualy learnt more and more of the music for the Holy Communion service I found this was adding a new dimension to my personal view of the Christian faith.

As the weeks went by we progressed to the use of the full Merbecke setting of the Communion Service and with more music came more ceremonial, which some people complained about, although I was so busy trying to teach myself and the choir that I didn't really notice this too much.However I could sympathise,because people were,after all,being asked to suddenly change something which had served their need for worship for a good number of years.In most cases these were people who had worked faithfully to keep the mission church going most of their lives and felt they deserved some consideration.On the other hand there were some who were too inclined to put the label 'High Church' on each and every change regardless of it's nature and this could not always be justified.Surely the simple rule in such matters must be,'Only the best is good enough for God'.Each one of us knows in our heart whether we are offering of the best and should we not also have a tolerance for those of our fellow Christians who seem to need a different aproach to worship to ourselves.In the end all we are all concerned to do is to obey the basic command of Jesus,"Do this in remembrance of Me." to the best of our abilities,and to follow His teachings.

As I had become more confident I had learnt to play a few voluntaries,although they were very simple ones,and I played for a much longer time prior to each service than had been the accepted thing in the past.Indeed someone objected to this at a P.C.C. meeting saying a former curate had ruled that only a few minutes should be devoted to organ music before the service.Mr.Bolt took the trouble to tell me personaly of what had been said and asked my views about this.I replied that I thought the only restriction on voluntaries should be the common sense one that they should enhance the mood of people as they entered church and should be played reasonably quietly.I was relieved to find we saw absolutely eye to eye on this and I feel that from then on we supported each other as the existing Holy Communion service became transformed into a fully fledged Sung Eucharist.

Each time something was changed or some new form of ceremonial was added to the service My.Bolt took great pains to explain it's significance and usually did this during one of his sermons.The change of name from Sung Communion to Sung Eucharist was explained by making comparisons to the other names used for the service such as,The Lord's Supper,and the Mass which really in a nutshell ammounted to saying,"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." but I began to wonder whether this was really doing any good when only some two weeks later one of the men in the choir remarked on the changes to the service and ended by saying,"You know, I rather like this service of Sung Eucharist but I make nowt of having Mass as they do in High Churches."Perhaps he was one of those who can only hear that which they want to hear.

Nevertheless it must have been increasingly clear to everyone that it was not just the service which was being changed but attitudes.We had been accorded the priviledge of building a new power house for God and with that priviledge there also came responsibility.The responsibilty of preparing ourselves to use that power house properly and well.

Chapter 16

When our 'Priest-in-Charge' came to St.Mark's the weekly income was somewhere around two or possibly three pounds per week.In fact three pounds would have been a very good week such as one might expect at Easter or Christmas.We just about managed to get by on this but only because it was supplemented from time to time by income from special events such as the Annual Garden Party,Jumble Sales,and so on.Without such things we could never have survived so how then were we going to raise enough money to build a new church?

There was a rule at the time that a paid servant could not be a member of the Parochial Church Council and I came under this category because I was paid the princely sum of œ8 per year for my work as organist and choirmaster.I didn't particularly mind not being on the P.C.C.and anyway those who were members seemed quite capable.My job was to play the organ and try to build up a choir and I was quite happy to do this(untill they got somebody else of course).I had noticed however that all was not exactly sweetness and light in the P.C.C. and there seemed to be much more argument after every meeting than there used to be.It seemed that Mr.Bolt was a man with a mission who knew exactly what he wanted to do and intended to do it even if he had to tread on a few toes in the process.

Strange isn't it how some who say little during a meeting will wax most eloquent in informal groups afterwards?It would seem only logical that the exact opposite should apply for people are,presumably,elected to committees and similar bodies for the purpose of airing and discussing all possible points of view.Not to do so implies either that one has no special points to make,or that one agrees with what is going on.To say nothing and then to argue afterwards means that the deliberations and decisions made during a meeting are more likely to be wrong or ineffective because they have been made without adequate information.

Many projects were undertaken during the first two years of Mr.Bolt's 'reign' although not always successfully.There was no shortage of ideas and there seemed to be enough people who were willing to put them into effect.That hardy old standby of money raising "The Mile of Pennies' was revived in the form of a 'Ring of One Pound Notes' around the church. For the purpose a scale drawing of the existing building was placed on the notice board and a line shown which grew progressively longer as pound notes were given.Then of course it wasn't long before someone suggested we put up a 'thermometer' at the entrance to the grounds to show all the world how far we had got each month. > >

That thermometer became a damned nuisance as far as I was concerned because each week I had reason to walk past it quite frequently and as the months passed by it began to look more and more like an accusing finger pointing up to heaven. The red line, which was supposed to show how well we were progressing and thus encourage us, never seemed to get any closer to the target. Indeed, however many events were held and however successful they were, all that thermometer ever had to say was,” You’ll never do it!”. It only told us how far away from success we still were and not how near. The memory of that stark finger pointing heavenward left an indelible effect upon my attitude to church fund raising. Show me a church with a thermometer in front of it and all I see is a dinosaur waiting for extinction!

Much of the existing building fund had already been used to buy land for the church and to buy a house to use as a vicarage and now a large cross was erected on the land we had bought bearing the simple statement,’ Site for St.Mark's new church.œ20,000 needed!’ Much better than a thermometer in my opinion and although money didn't seem to be coming in any more quickly at least everybody must know what we wanted to do and the fact that land had been bought was in itself an encouragement..

In spite of the fact that money was being raised there remained too many who refused to see any good in anything that was done by "Mr.Bolt". There were none however, who would not have paid tribute to his sincerity of purpose. He was a man of God who had been given a job to do and he intended to do it to the best of his ability. Nor did he concentrate entirely on the need for money although he was sometimes accused of this. There was a noticeable increase in the size of the congregation, especially for the Sung Eucharist, and there were many completely new faces to be seen in church. There were also stories beginning to circulate telling of acts of kindness carried out for parishioners during his visits although, one must add, there were also other stories telling of a rather too authoritarian attitude.

We continued to hold the annual Procession of Witness in the traditional way but many of us began to think that this was being wasted as an opportunity for putting the message across that we were building a new church and a new parish. We were persuaded to splash out a bit by paying for a brass band to lead us instead of the scout band we usually used even though it would cost quite a bit more and to help to defray the extra cost a fund was opened to which people contributed a few coppers each week. In a surprisingly short space of time we had the whole of the money we needed.

This small success led to more ideas being put forward and amongst them was the suggestion that, because there was still a certain amount of cynicism concerning our ability to build a church, we ought to have as much as possible in the procession emphasising the fact that we really did intend to build. Someone said, laughingly,” Let’s borrow a lorry load of bricks and have that in the procession. You couldn't have anything more connected with building than that.”, and so an idea was born. It was amazing how easily we were able to put the idea into effect, as first of all someone found a man who was connected with a brickyard locally, then someone else knew a joiner who would make a cross to go on top of the bricks, and so it came about that on the morning of the procession a large eight wheel lorry arrived in front of the church, polished to absolute perfection and piled high with a pyramid of bricks each one looking as if it had been lovingly polished and cleaned specially for the occasion. A team of helpers soon added the finishing touches of the cross and some strings of bunting..

In the afternoon a truly magnificent procession left the Mission Church and made it's way around the newly established Conventional District of St.Mark’s. In the lead, carried by the head server, was the Processional Cross symbolic of the Cross of Christ which all Christians are called upon to follow, next the choir, and then the Vicar flanked on each side by the churchwardens. The banner, flapping noisily in the wind, was next closely followed by the band and the various organisations of the church in due order. The Rose Queen and her attendants, the Sunday School, and of course the Mothers' Union, which is the most gently militant union of them all. Then last of all, looming over the tail-end of the procession, came that magnificent lorry bearing it's load of bricks with, perched perilously on top, a small group of men struggling to hold up a very simple wooden cross against the pressure of a very stiff breeze. A cross bearing the message,’ We have the site! Now help us to buy the bricks!'

As the brass band belted out it's ponderous rendition of 'The Church's one foundation' and I looked back from my place in the choir, I couldn't help but remember another 'float' from before the war and a group of lads singing,’ Any Rags, Bottles, or Bones.'

GENESIS4

Chapter 17

It was Coronation Year and the whole of the day's ceremonies were to be shown on television. In our part of the country it had only been possible to receive pictures for a few months which meant that those who had a television set were very much in the minority and the ultimate in status symbol was to have an 'H' aerial on your chimney. Not all areas of the town could get a signal and part of the process of buying a set was to have a test for reception unless, of course, someone nearby had got there ahead of you but gradually more aerials were appearing until eventually one appeared on a chimney in our street, and then, as the coronation got nearer Florence and I began to take more lingering looks in the windows of the T.V. shops until we too eventually decided to forego our holiday and buy a television instead.

The set we bought had become known as a 'Nine Inch Bush' or a 'Forty-nine Guinea Bush' based in the first instance on the size of the screen and in the second on the price. Forty-nine guineas (Forty-nine pounds and Forty -nine shillings) may seem a very small sum in these days but relative to the wages being paid at the time it was a very tidy sum. The wage of a skilled man was about eight pounds a week including overtime, so forty-nine guineas represented six or seven weeks wages. A modern black and white, or even a colour set with a twelve inch screen can easily be bought for far less than one week's wage. Be that as it may we took the plunge, bought a set, and found we had well and truly got our money's worth.

At the turn of a switch the world now came into our home. No longer need we go running for a bus on a rainy night to get to the cinema or the theatre but could enjoy entertainment of a high standard right there in the comfort of our own home. The telly was such a novelty that those with a set would often invite friends around to watch and it was also noticeable they were prepared to introduce the topic of last night's viewing into any conversation at the slightest excuse. Gilbert Harding's latest bit of rudeness to a contestant on 'What's My Line' became a major topic even for the newspapers, and cricket fans would talk for hours on end about the marvellous view they had received of each and every bowler's action, and each and every batsman's stroke play. So much so that when two of the new breed of 'telly-addicts' got together it must have been an excruciating experience for their victims. One could even maintain a lengthy conversation solely upon the merits, or demerits, of the interludes.

These breaks between programmes were necessitated simply by the fact that they were transmitted 'live' and therefore provision had to be made for changeovers, for programmes running over or under their allotted time, and of course, for the inevitable breakdowns which we had on most evenings. These breaks could last anywhere from a minute upwards and on occasion were known to last an hour. Whilst the engineers and the actors were struggling to get us back to the programme we would be treated to a scene of tropical fish doomed to swim in an endless circle whilst trapped inside our nine inch screen or, to a panoramic view of a line of combine harvesters in perpetual motion across a Wheatfield towards an ever receding horizon which they were fated never to reach. Of course the daddy of all the interludes was undoubtedly the potter's wheel upon which an unknown potter worked ceaselessly to produce a vase; a vase which was never finished and which he must perforce continue to work upon during the next interlude and the next, and the next. Are those tropical fish still swimming in their tank in some dark forgotten corner of the B.B.C.? Are those harvesters still relentlessly heading for that far horizon and did that potter ever manage to finish his vase? I suppose we shall now never know.

But let us return to the coronation. This was the topic which took over from all others as the great day drew nearer and it seemed that more and more people were either buying their own sets or had arranged to watch at a friend or relative's house. We were expecting a houseful of people most of whom appeared to be friends of our son Billy. On the day half the kids in the street were in our living room and we found out later that the other half were in the only other house in the street with a telly. We ourselves had also been very liberal with invitations and as a result we had a shortage of seating so that a few of the kids had to sit on the floor; but they were quite happy there, especially when they saw the mountain of sandwiches and cakes Florence had prepared and the large supply of iced lilies, jelly, and crisps. Everyone soon settled down and, as we fortified ourselves with the first of many generous mugs of tea and plates of food, the events of that memorable day unfolded behind our little nine inch window on the world.

From the very first minute of transmission to the very last we were transfixed in our seats spellbound by the pageantry and splendour of it all. There we were on the streets of London! There we were in the Abbey! There we were with the crowds thronging the processional route and, at the end of it all, there we were in front of Buckingham Palace waving and cheering as the Royal Family appeared on the balcony. We didn't miss a thing and during those few periods when there were gaps in the pageantry there was always some kind of refreshment to fall back on. Furthermore the transmission never broke down even once!!

About five-o-clock everyone began to leave for home. Everyone, that is, except our next door neighbour. The only thing left to watch was the children's programme 'Muffin the Mule' but, as Muffin cavorted across the screen, our friendly neighbour showed little sign of movement. Eventually he was the only person left and even then he showed no sign of making a move but just sat there as if hypnotised. Soon the signature tune 'we love Muffin, Muffin the mule.' signalled the end of the programme and still he showed no signs of going home. Florence began to make a great show of clearing all the empty plates and mugs away and started washing up with as loud a clatter of crockery as she could manage without breaking something, but even this had no effect until finally there was only one thing for it. I turned the set off and said,” Well, that's it, there’s nothing else on now until half past seven. It’s been a right good day hasn't it?"

He stayed there for a long moment still hypnotised by this amazing example of modern technology. The last glow of light faded from the screen and then, at last, with a tremendous effort of will, he heaved himself out the his chair, shook himself out of the magical world into which the telly had transported him and with a profuse show of gratitude returned to his own house. But the story doesn't end there for, one week later, that ultimate status symbul, the double H aerial, could be seen displayed upon the chimney next door and another 'telly addict' had been hooked.

Not only did the advent of the telly have it's effect upon theatre-going, cinema-going, and other evening entertainments but it also had a great effect upon all the traditional church groups. Mothers' Union, Men’s Institute, etc, were bound to suffer when you think about it simply because people no longer needed to leave home and walk through wind and rain to find their entertainment.

At St.Mark's we may well have felt these effects earlier than most. I, for one, no longer found a night out playing snooker at the club to be half as attractive, especially when the attendance began to fall as others began to feel the same way. I started to go to the club later in the evening until I realised that there were just two of us who were bothering to go at all and we were really just passing the time. After playing an endless series of games against each other night after night for some months just to keep the doors open we gave up the fight and allowed the Men's Institute to die as gracefully as possible.

It is debatable whether this loss had a good or bad effect upon church life. There are those who would argue that we lost a valuable contact with the community and there are those who would say that time and talent was made available for better things. Perhaps the answer to this will never be fully known but the fact remains that today a new church does exist dedicated to St.Mark’s and amongst the present day community of Christians there has been no call, as yet, for the revival of a Men's Institute.

The Church of England Men's Society now became the organisation to which men looked for fulfilment in their role as Christians. The society not only became concerned to find out in what ways they might best help with the work of building the church but also had a variety of speakers at monthly meetings, although there weren't all that many speakers available who would come to such a small branch as ours. Which led me to suggest, shortly after I was elected secretary, that we try a book discussion for a change. “Mr.Bolt” recommended a book which had been published by a certain Canon Ernie Southcote who had a formidable reputation although I had never heard of him at the time. The book was called,’ It begins in the parish.' and much that it contained was very appropriate for us in our situation. Frank,a committee member, undertook to start the discussion off so I gave him the book and left him to get on with it.

There was an excellent attendance for the next branch meeting and what little business we had was soon out of the way whereupon Arthur, our chairman, keeping the formalities down to a minimum, said, "Right here's Frank. You all know him and he is going to start our discussion off for us.”. Frank rose to his feet and dropped the book with a gentle thud on to the table. "Well",he said,” They call this book 'It begins in the parish' and I don't think much about it."

A nice controversial start.”, I thought, it seemed to me that we might get a good argument going and we certainly seemed to thrive on argument at St.Mark’s waited for him to continue but Arthur just looked at me and said nothing! The rows of expectant faces before us also waited for his next comment but we all waited in vain as Frank left the book on the table between Arthur and I and returned to his seat, clearly content that he had done his job; he had read the book, he didn't like it, and he had said so! I almost expected him to end with the classic phrase,” I have spoken!”. Disaster stared us in the face and there was only one thing to be done. I had suggested the discussion and chosen the book recommended by “Mr.Bolt” so it was up to me to show it was worth talking about.

One thing in the book had struck me particularly forcefully. Ernie Southcote had made a great point of the fact that it was essential for Christians to be prepared to move outward from their church and into the parish and the community around them. In this context examples were given of ways in which this might be done and indeed in which it already had been done in some parishes. Some, for example, had regular distributions of newsletters besides the more usual monthly magazine. I was a little unsure of my ground but thought this might give us a start so I lobbed a gentle 'first service' in the direction of Mr Bolt by mentioning the newsletter idea and asking what he thought about it. To my relief he took up the theme as I frantically thumbed through the pages of the book in case someone wanted a quote from it.

Almost of it's own volition the idea began to grow that we ourselves might find it useful to send out some sort of news letter .First one and then another expressed an interest and a very good discussion took place. I was only too relieved that things had worked out the way they had and would have left it there but one member insisted that we adopt a resolution to the effect that we, the C.E.M.S., should make ourselves responsible for financing and carrying out the delivery of at least one letter on a trial basis. The resolution was passed and I ended up with the job of writing the letter and getting it printed, a task in which I was only too happy to pass on to “Mr.Bolt”. I have often wondered since if he had pushed the meeting along just the way he wanted it. It was certainly strange how that pilot letter of ours later became the basis for another one which went to every house in the parish.

Arthur and I took Frank firmly to task afterwards but he was completely unrepentant.” I still don't like the book!”, he said,” Anyway what are you bothering about it was a good meeting, wasn't it?” There was no answer to that!

Chapter 18 Because Lent is such a solemn season in the Church's calendar it was the custom that the various organisations of the Church should suspend their meetings from Shrove Tuesday until Easter and attend together for a mid week service instead. It was Mr.Bolt's opinion that this was an essential part of the special efforts that are expected of all Christians during this time although, as you might expect, not everyone took kindly to losing the weekly Mothers' Union meeting, or the monthly Men's Society meeting. However these were not necessarily abandoned completely because if any organisations wished to do something in the way of extra voluntary work for the church at the time they would normally have held their meeting this was entirely acceptable. It was put on the same level as giving up smoking and using the money for charitable purposes. The organisations gave their meeting time and channelled their talents into church projects which might otherwise be neglected..

So it came about that the Men's Society was approached by “Mr.Bolt” with a suggestion that we might like to take on the task of giving the old 'tin tabernacle' a really good spring clean.” Especially the roof trusses.”, he said,” They really are in a terrible state.” Although the building was cleaned regularly by a part time cleaner her work was normally confined to polishing and dusting once a week and mopping the floor once a month. It would hardly have been possible for her to clamber up a ladder to clean the beams especially for the money we paid her. Her work was supplemented by that of a number of volunteers whose main task was polishing the brasses and arranging the flowers but no one had ever thought about cleaning the beams until “Mr.Bolt” came.

Once our attention was called to it the amount of dust and dirt up there in the roof began to bother us all and memories were ransacked to try and remember just when they had last been cleaned. The plain fact gradually dawned on everyone that those roof trusses had never been cleaned since just after the church was built some fifty years ago when it had almost been destroyed by a fire in the roof. There was only one thing for it; the men of the church must take up the challenge. There were some who counselled the need for caution but this advice was hardly considered and the society agreed to use one of their monthly meeting nights during Lent to put their time and talent into this very necessary task.

We did not proceed without a certain amount of planning. First of all a couple of us did a preliminary reconnaissance to check just how much dust there was and how we would carry out the work. Clearly it would be necessary to keep the dust under control as it was swept down and we decided to damp the floor thoroughly beforehand. We would need to stack the forms and the various furnishings of the church out of the way and the altar must be covered and the organ protected. The actual sweeping would have to be carried out with extreme care by teams with two men in each and which would have to take turn and turn about so that they would not be too affected by the dust and all the volunteers would have to be warned that it was going to be a very dirty job indeed and they should wear the oldest clothes they could find.

About a dozen of us gathered together on our meeting night ready to start work. Most had taken the trouble to find some suitably old clothing and some sort of head covering and the left overs from the last jumble sale came in very useful especially as head coverings. The bags of left-over jumble would normally have found their way to the nearest rag and bone man but on this occasion they were piled there waiting to be used as extra protection for anyone who might want it but principally they were intended as extra cleaning materials.

One person had found an old knitted woolly hat and wore that, another had wrapped a piece of old curtain around his head, and everyone had some weird or wonderful headgear. Even “Mr.Bolt” had turned up in an old gardening suit and found himself a floppy hat from somewhere so that the end result was that we looked more like a band of pirates led by some fearsome pirate chief than like a society of churchmen. This all added to the enjoyment of the occasion, however, and we all had quite a time laughing and joking about the way we looked until eventually we got down to the job of stacking everything and covering the altar and organ. Then we damped down the floor with generous amounts of water to keep the dust under as much control as possible before at last the first pair of sweepers put up the ladders and started work.

The first few strokes of the brushes revealed the fact that we had completely misjudged the nature of the dirt up there. It turned out to be quite a thick, greasy dust which seemed to have a mind of it's own when it came to falling to the floor. It came down in thick, rich clouds which did not simply fall straight down but hung sluggishly in the air for what seemed an eternity before at last reaching the damp and glistening floor which was waiting to imprison it. At first this was no problem because we all quickly realised what was happening and were able to handle it, although the sweepers on the ladders had to take much more time with their task as we down below endeavoured to get the dust into the bags and containers we had got ready. Nevertheless the first truss was soon cleared.

The sweepers changed teams and moving to the next roof truss continued their work but the dust was piled even more thickly on this one and seemed to have even more of a mind of it's own until soon the air began to fill with greater and ever greater clouds of choking, greasy dust which seemed to be determined never to get anywhere near the floor. Eventually the flow from the beams became like some great Niagara into which we were plunged wily nilly without hope of rescue and about five minutes of this was enough to put we, who were down below, into a hasty retreat. We called to the sweeping teams to stop work but they seemed not to hear us. Being above the cloud they were the last to be affected by the black, sticky dust which threatened to swamp us down below them and remained oblivious to what was going on. we. It wasn't long however, before even they realised the futility of it all and joined the general rush to get outside where we all thankfully gulped great mouthfuls of unpolluted air. It was a long, long time before the dust inside began to clear and then gingerly made our way back into the church with handkerchiefs wrapped around our mouths.

What a job we now had to face!Everything,even the items which we thought we had stacked well out of harm's way, was covered in a layer of what looked like chimney soot and we were now faced with even more clearing up than before we started work. No longer could we have been described as a bunch of pirates but had been transformed into a crowd of miners just up from the coal-face and waiting for their baths. Clearing up as best we could we returned home for a much needed bath but it took another couple of days before the place began to look anything like it's old self. Certainly that we had moved a great deal of dirt into the dustbins but even more certainly much more of it had simply moved to a different part of the building. The rest of the roof trusses remained untouched and from that day on the whole subject of dust and dirt in the roof trusses became strictly 'taboo’. Whatever there was up there in the roof would have to stay there until we at last had our new church.

Chapter19 It was one of those evenings such as we often get in the depths of winter. The street lights were half obscured in a frosty mist and my breath showed itself in the cold air as I hurried along the street towards the church. It was certainly not a good night to be going anywhere, least of all to a cold and barely heated 'tin tabernacle' constructed of wood and galvanised, corrugated sheets. Still I had to go because it was practice night and there would be at least some of the choir who would be braving the cold just as I was.

Everything appeared to be much as usual as I opened the door and walked down the nave of the church towards the organ. Certainly the atmosphere felt cold and frosty but that was not unusual for the time of year and, considering the wintry weather, it was only to be expected that the heating would not be up to the job of coping with what was, after all, a very nasty night. First of all I went into the vestry to get some music out for the choir to practise and then I seated myself and began to sort out my own music. I turned the blower on and, as I always did, settled myself down for a few minutes at the organ before everyone else arrived. It was only then that I began to realise that there was something very wrong.

The first organ stop I tried to pull out moved only slightly and with very great reluctance until I gave a more positive tug but, although it was very stiff, it seemed to be alright otherwise. It was no surprise to feel a quite excruciating stab of coldness from the keyboard as I tried a quick scale because I had come to expect this in wintertime but to find that hardly a note would play was quite another matter. As I tried again, and again, and yet again, there was little response beyond an anguished, pitiful wail like a sick child crying for it's mother.

I left my seat and stood back to look into the gloom surrounding the upper reaches of the pipes. There was an unusual sheen along each and every one of them and as I turned some more lights it became all too clear just what this was. My faithful old friend was well and truly in trouble. He was indeed freezing almost to the point of death in the grip of a terrible and all embracing sheet of ice! I opened up the side panel and took a look at the rest of his 'plumbing' and there found even more ice, some of which was in the form of small, but nonetheless perfectly formed, icicles. It was not hard to see what had happened. The roof, which had so far remained sound over the organ had sprung yet another leak in the very worst place possible and the dripping rainwater from this had spread around the pipe work and become frozen into the bargain. Yet one more result of having to use a building well past it's sell-by date.

Needless to say that put paid to any thought of having a choir practice and as first,Mr.Bolt, and then the choir arrived I enlisted them as first aid workers in an attempt to get at least some semblance of music from the organ before Sunday, although clearly there was need for much more than simple first aid and we would have to get a specialist in urgently.

For the present, however, all we could do was to borrow electric heaters from anywhere we could and surround the organ with them. Inside we placed a couple of fan heaters and as the ice melted and dripped down we mopped industriously in an attempt to dry everything out. Although we didn't seem to improve things very much we were quite hopeful that there was a least an outside chance of the organ being usable by Sunday and we left as much heat on as we could before we went home.

The following day was Saturday and “Mr.Bolt” and I were there early to survey the damage in daylight. By then the ice had cleared and we could see roughly where the leak was. He at once disappeared to press gang someone into doing a temporary roof repair and in the meantime I tentatively tried out a few chords which unfortunately, only served to confirm that on Sunday we would have a problem. This is exactly how it turned out and, as I struggled through the Sung Eucharist, I had to be thankful just to be able to get a rough melody going from the one stop which showed any semblance of normality.

The 'specialist', in the form of an organ tuner, arrived during the following week and more or less diagnosed a terminal illness but we somehow managed to soldier on for quite a while after that until the new church at last began to grow on it's site in Rossendale Rd..

Chapter 20

Some two or three months before Easter members of the congregation were approached by Mr Bolt and asked to take part in a Passion Play. I have always been a little careful about such things because I have difficulty memorising lines but I agreed to help provided I was given a non-speaking part or one with hardly anything to say. I thought little more about it until I heard the first rehearsal announced in the church notices a week or two later.

There was nothing unusual about the play. After all a Passion Play is a Passion Play and there is no way to change the storyline. It is the presentation that matters as much as anything. We had all the usual characters in our play, Annas and Caiphus the high priests, Pontius Pilate the Roman Governor, Judas of course, and a Roman soldier for good measure. The crucifixion was not actually presented on stage in our version nor did Jesus actually appear because the author had seen fit to allude to these as events off-stage and the Last Supper was not referred to either. You may conclude from this that it wasn't the best passion play that had ever been written but it suited the cast we had available and the little scenery that was needed was such as we could easily make for ourselves.

It was a mystery to me where the script came from but “Mr.Bolt” found it from somewhere as indeed he later found scripts for a couple of other plays we were persuaded to have a go at. Clearly there are those who supply such things for churches and evidently Mr.(or perhaps Mrs.) Bolt knew how to find them just as one of them also knew where to get the costumes which eventually arrived in a couple of tea-chests. At the first rehearsal we just sat around the room and read our lines and I couldn't help but notice the very stilted nature of the language used in the script which was very much like that in the play Snow-White which I had taken a part in when I was younger. Often it is the simplest statements which produce this effect for example,’ did it not?' rather than,’ didn’t it. 'or, 'would not it' rather than ,'wouldn't it’. From the nature of the language I got the impression that it may well have been written for a cast of children. However by the second rehearsal some of us became bold enough to attempt our lines without the script and although this inevitably led to a number of hold ups the words gradually began to flow more naturally. Personally I was pleased that I had insisted on a small part because it made for a much easier life.

From the very first rehearsal there were problems getting everyone together at the same time. For example Annas and Caiphus missed one of the earliest rehearsals because they were doing some decorating and at the same time Judas was in bed with influenza which, since heir’s were probably the main speaking parts, left the rest of us in a mess. Someone read their parts but this proved less than satisfactory and apart spending a great length of time getting John, who was playing a Roman soldier, to pronounce Annas and Caiphus correctly we soon found we were at a loss to fill up the time We eventually used the last half nor or so to talking about problems we were having with the scenery, checking out the wardrobe, and deciding how we might improve the overall performance.

It was mentioned that a little background music might be a good idea and somehow it was arranged that I would play 'There is a Green Hill ' between the scenes and any other music which might be appropriate to help the whole thing to flow, which led to everyone enthusiastically suggesting ever more difficult pieces of music until that which I had thought was going to be easy work began to become quite a responsibility.

The wardrobe we had hired turned out to be quite decent and most of us were well suited, with the exception of our Roman soldier. The so-called 'uniform' we had received was so poor that we thought at first that it had been included by mistake. In the first place it was nowhere near big enough, and in the second place, it was totally unrealistic and not a bit like the pictures we recalled from our school history books. The helmet, for example, looked far more like an old-fashioned fireman's helmet than that of a soldier.

The rest of us looked on with dismay as John tried to get into the 'uniform' with no success but, strangely, he showed no concern at all. Indeed he was surprisingly confident that our worries were groundless and assured us all that he knew someone who would sort it out. After all, who did you turn to when you had a hole in your sock, or your shirt needed mending? Why none other than your good lady wife who knew all there was to know about anything to do with clothing of any sort. With simple and unswerving faith he said, "Oh,don't worry, I leave all that sort of thing to the wife. She’ll soon sort something out the way always does. What she doesn't know about dressmaking isn't worth knowing."

One cannot argue with a man of such deep and sincere faith or for that matter with one whose wife is clearly the apple of his eye. Tactfully we pointed out that something other than dressmaking might be needed, and there might be difficulties which all his wife's skills could not cope with, but he firmly brushed our well meant advice aside. Convinced of his wife's ability to solve any clothing problem, ancient or modern, he left the rehearsal room loaded up with what materials were available from the wardrobe and the last few words we heard from him as he headed for home were,” The wife will see to it. Don’t worry!"

Since we all attended to our own costumes from then on we saw neither the soldier's uniform or any other costume except our own until the time came for the dress rehearsal when they were revealed to be admired or criticised. Considering the state we had received them in, they all looked reasonably impressive although, perhaps somewhat less than authentic and even our Roman soldier's costume, about which we had such reservations, looked absolutely splendid. It was perhaps rather too elaborate but it would serve our purpose admirably and that old helmet positively gleamed!” The wife”, we were informed,” has fairly used some elbow grease to get it like that."

Her real genius however was best revealed in the construction of his coat of chain mail. Over what had been an old-fashioned night shirt were fastened layer after layer of overlapping pieces of aluminium foil such as is used for chocolate wrappers. Closer examination revealed that they were indeed chocolate wrappers which had been carefully and lovingly trimmed to shape, ironed flat, and glued into place so that they might make a very creditable representation of a coat of chain mail. None of us was really certain that a Roman soldier at the time of the Crucifixion would have worn chain mail, but who was going to notice that anyway? Certainly, from whatever point of view you looked at that uniform, the simple faith that John had in his wife's capabilities would seem to have been entirely justified. In fact those from whom the wardrobe had been hired would get back from us all much better costumes than we had been sent in the first place.

Because the 'Tin Tabernacle' had to serve as a dual purpose building there was a curtain which could be drawn across the chancel step and because the play was to be performed in the chancel and sanctuary this served also as a stage curtain. At the side of 'the stage' opposite the organ there were temporary drapes which provided a dressing room on one side plus space to be used as 'wings' where we could wait for our cues. The organ was a fixture of course so this limited the area available but we managed and it suited me especially well since I was able to get quickly to my seat to play the background music. Most of the cast used the other side of the 'stage' for entrances etc. whilst the scene shifters and I used the organ side.

There was quite a good attendance when the great day came and a buzz of anticipation percolated through the curtain from the audience as we took our places for the first scene. Annas and Caiphus played their parts almost like professionals as they duly got involved with Judas and arranged the betrayal. I was playing the part of some temple official and had only a couple of lines. My role was really more ornamental than anything else and as the time came for some background music I bowed my way out of the scene just before it ended in order to get to the organ seat at the appropriate moment. I replaced my spectacles ready to play the interlude I had so carefully worked out and I was agreeably surprised to find that my playing could hardly be heard above the almost thunderous applause which heralded the end of the first act.

At the start of the next act we first saw Pontius Pilate on stage with a Roman soldier guarding the door whilst Annas and Caiphus waited in the 'wings' for their entrance. Now was the big moment for John for he it was who had to announce the presence of the two high priests with the words,” My Lord, Annas and Caiphus await without.”. But that once magnificent costume had suffered a bit as he was wearing it; no longer were those overlapping pieces of foil quite so firm, no longer were they quite so precisely anchored in place, no longer were they uncoupled! Whilst waiting for his entrance John had actually had the temerity to sit down and unfortunately, even his wife, with all her skills, had been unable to allow for that.

As he moved to the wings ready to go on stage to make his announcement, first one piece of foil, then another, fell fluttering to the floor until finally a whole row of his 'chain mail' disintegrated.’ Mary', who was just behind him in the wings, grabbed a handful of pins to try to repair the damage but it was too late, and our noble Roman had to move quickly before he missed his cue. With bated breath we all watched as he took a step forward and then a rustling sound followed by a gentle tinkle was heard as a piece of foil detached itself and floated to the floor. Gazing accusingly downwards at the offending chocolate wrapper our undaunted hero took another step only to see another piece of foil follow the first with a more insistent rustle and tinkle. Firmly placing his arms so as to cover as much of the offending area as he could he continued to walk forward until he arrived in front of Pilate whom he had to salute before giving his message.

Frantically we signalled him to miss out the salute and had he done so all might yet have been well but that salute had been the subject of a great deal of rehearsal and he had spent hours getting it right just as he had spent hours getting his pronunciation of the names of the high priests right. There was no way he was going to leave anything at all out. Standing to attention before Pilate he moved his arm to the saluting position and the chain mail inevitably lost what little support he had been able to give it. A sound as of autumn leaves falling from the trees and a tinkling as of a chandelier blown in a light breeze then filled the air whilst a whole series of chocolate wrappers fell in a silver shower around his feet. He took his courage in both hands, finished the salute, exactly as rehearsed, (the show must go on and all that sort of thing), then confidently announced to the whole audience,” My Lord!’ Cannas' and 'Ayaphas' want a word with you!"

How any of us kept a straight face must remain forever one of life's mysteries as we quickly carried on with the rest of the scene. None of us was without fault ourselves however and as Annas came off stage I noticed he had forgotten to remove his very modern spectacles and told him about it only for him to turn the tables on me when in reply he said,” That’s funny Bill, I was going to tell you about your's." I too, as I moved from organ to stage, had dropped a clanger and left my glasses on!

In view of all that had gone wrong we were almost afraid of the comments that might come our way afterwards but strangely everyone was keen to tell us our play was marvellous and if they had noticed our mistakes they were far too polite to say so or perhaps they took pity on our distress. But the fact remains that you can't beat the spontaneity of rank amateurism such as ours for providing great entertainment both for those who take part and for those who watch. Part of the fun is that the players are known to everyone and another part of the fun is anticipating the mistakes that they are sure to make and enjoying the evening anyway. It is a shame that such home produced 'magic' is no longer seen as often in this present day and age.

Chapter21

“Mr.Bolt” was never afraid to point out our responsibilities or, for that matter, our failings. We were always being reminded that the successful completion of the new church would only come through total commitment. "Building a church”, he would say,” is a privilege with duties attached in which we are all called to share.”, but often it seemed to many of us that any duties which didn't include the raising of money were being pushed into second place and furthermore those duties made ever more insatiable demands upon everyone's time. Nevertheless there could be no relaxation of our efforts as long as “Mr.Bolt” was about for he was unswerving in his purpose. It was very rare to hear a sermon from him in which there was absolutely no reference to the goal of building a new church and he could make some very pointed remarks when it suited him. So much so, that our men's society treasurer was heard to say many years afterwards that he often left church on Sunday feeling a like a whipped cur with it's tail between it's legs. However there could be no denying the fact that without strong, unswerving ,leadership there would be no hope of ever doing what needed to be done.

It was unfortunate that there were many very devout Christians in the congregation who seemed to shy away from all but the traditional methods of raising money although these were obviously failing to do the job. Some different methods of approach certainly needed to be experimented with if we were to move forward and get the œ20,000 which was the minimum we needed. There were no rich people amongst us and the average income of the congregation would be not more than about œ8 per week so there was no possible way to make progress except through the maximum commitment of all the Christian community both regular and non-regular worshippers.

Many were the ways we tried in the first two or three years. Dances were held for a time but support soon fell away and on one occasion those who were running them had to dip into their own pockets so that the church didn't make a loss. Possibly the best supported events were those which came under the general heading of 'Social Evening' and for which we provided all the entertainment ourselves. There would be some dancing to the piano, perhaps a short play or a sketch from one of the organisations such as the Mothers' Union, and I well remember once being enticed into a Barber Shop quartet. This proved to be great fun for us and good entertainment for everyone else although we certainly wouldn't have won any competitions. Refreshments were the domain of the Mothers' Union of course, and might be anything from the traditional 'Potatoes Pie Supper' to a quite elegant 'Running Buffet'.

All these things were great for our morale but not necessarily quite so great for raising money. They were well supported, mainly by the church people themselves, but were not attracting a lot of outside interest. We could hardly expect to compete with the professional places of entertainment for luxury and presentation any more than they would pretend to compete in providing a suitable venue for worshipping God. Social events such as we were holding then, and such as most churches hold today, are great vehicles for extending that Christian Fellowship we enjoy in and through our worship into the other areas of life but any profit made is best thought of as a bonus Anyone who hopes to use social events as a means of financial gain or as a way to attract people to church should prepare to be disappointed and all the more so in these days of television, videos, and satellites; but there is great profit to be made in terms of increased fellowship.

Some of us were reluctantly coming to the conclusion that we could expect very little assistance from the uncommitted Christians in our new parish. If the church was to ever get built we ourselves would have to do it, aided by grants from various church sources perhaps, but nonetheless our own efforts would be essential to success. There was however,one more road by which we might involve the fringe elements in the parish and “Mr.Bolt” started us off on this venture by writing a follow-up letter to the one the Men's Society had sent out some time before.

The letter was quite brief and to the point. It was on the theme that every individual who saw fit to call themselves members of the Church of England had a responsibility to help in the provision of a worthy place of worship and they had an obligation to support the work being undertaken on their behalf by a commitment to worship or by a commitment of money.

The letters were intended to be delivered to every house in the parish but not all at the same time. I was now the proud owner of a rather ancient motor-bike and I took on the job of delivering a suitable number of letters on my way home from work according to how many men had promised to help that particular week then we would all set out together about 7-30 p.m. on Friday evening to follow up each letter with a visit. Although at first there were only two or three of us going out we slowly grew in numbers until sometimes there were as many as twelve or fourteen men knocking on doors.

The first question when someone answered the door was,” Did you get our letter from St.Mark's?" and it was surprising how many people said they hadn't received one although I knew perfectly well that I, personally, had pushed one through their letterbox. But we soon learnt how to deal with this and no-one ever went out without a few spare letters which the recipient could read there and then. The next question could then be asked,” Are you a member of the Church of England?” and if the answer was,” Yes." then we were in with a chance. We didn't try to go beyond the practical issues but concentrated on the fact that they were now in the new parish of St.Mark’s, that we were trying to build a church, and that we needed their assistance. Most people would listen and there were always those helpful few who not only listened but tried to help. In rare instances we would come across someone who just slammed the door in our face but these were amply compensated for by those others who invited us in for a cup of tea and on one memorable occasion I was given a very nice plate of potatoe pie which went down very well on what was a chilly and rainy evening. This made a very interesting anecdote to relay to everyone when we made our usual rendezvous at the local pub to compare results It could be an encouragement to know that others had done allright even when you yourself had not and anyway a pint always goes down well after a job well done!

In general we found quite a large measure of goodwill and sympathy around the parish for what we were doing but a general lack of willingness to accept any sort of commitment. Nevertheless within a few short weeks we had distributed well over four hundred free-will offering envelopes to people who had agreed to help and we began to feel we had achieved something worthwhile when, after a few short weeks, the income of the church more than doubled to about œ25 which was a magnificent sum in those days.

Following up the men's work entailed having a team of collectors to call for the envelopes from people week by week and this work was do

new by the ladies of the church although with the coming of winter weather this became a more difficult task. It was here that the inherent weakness of what we were doing began to show itself. I first became aware of this when my wife Florence, who was one of the collectors told me that there were a lot of the ladies who were becoming disenchanted with what they were doing. The cold winds and rains of winter had changed what had been a pleasant walk round the parish, into a demanding trudge and it was extremely discouraging to find, at the end of their effort, that the twenty or more envelopes they had collected were only yielding a very few pence for the funds even though they were aware that altogether the financial gain was quite good. Something less burdensome was needed! St.Mark's had not yet found the best way forward but where were we to go from here?

Chapter 22

"Rebates, have you heard about the Wells organisation?" Without any preamble “Mr.Bolt” sprang this question upon me after the weekly choir practice.

I had heard about this American fund raising group which had recently started to work in this country but I really hadn't given them all that much thought. What I did know was that our neighbour parish of St.Mathew's had recently had something they called a Christian Stewardship campaign which the Wells people had organised for them and. I had also heard vague rumours that as a result St.Mathew's had more than doubled their income even after forking out quite a large fee for the services of these professionals. I had also heard a variety of rumours about people getting upset by high pressure salesmanship but otherwise I really had little idea what a Christian Stewardship Campaign was all about. I said something on these lines to “Mr.Bolt” who then informed me that he had got one of the Wells people coming along to talk to our Parochial Church Council so that we could learn all about them. Anything that would double a church's income seemed to me to be worth hearing about so I looked forward to the next P.C.C. meeting and I think most of the P.C.C. members looked at it much the same way although there were some who were sure they knew exactly what the Wells organisation was and did not approve. All of us however expected some very high pressure American style salesmanship.

When the representative came he was exactly opposite to what we had been led to believe and he didn't try to talk us into anything at all, in fact he hardly seemed to care whether we employed his company or not. He simply went through the basic principles of Christian Stewardship saying that everything we have comes from God and we cannot give to God we can only give back to Him that which he first gives us. This is a way in which can show our thanks to Him for all that we have, and indeed all that we are, and we give a thank-you present to God of our time, our talent, and our money, so that the teaching of the Gospel might never flag or fail. That was about it and he then let us ask as many questions as we wished but mainly left us to talk about the whole idea ourselves.

The practicalities of how we were to put these principles into practice were quietly brushed aside or ignored beyond confirming that it would cost quite a lot for their fee and there would be some substantial expenses as well. When he left us we were all quite unimpressed and I, for one, felt that Wells didn't think we were a suitable parish for them to take on. I saw nothing wrong with the principles of stewardship which were always a part of Christian teaching but which, in those days, was pushed far too much into the background of church life but as far as paying someone to run a campaign, I just wasn't too sure. Before leaving us the Wells man made the final point that they would not run a campaign unless there was a very substantial majority of the P.C.C. in favour and invited us to vote there and then. We did so and there was an almost unanimous vote against a campaign, which he accepted and without further ado wished us goodnight and left the meeting.

To talk about money as a gift from God was not a usual thing to do; one could talk about food being a gift, the air we breathe, etc, etc but the connection to money was never pushed. The fact remains, however, that money is a gift from God or, has become representative of God's gifts. Because we are alive we are able to work for money and exchange it for a crust to eat. Money, in a real sense is food, money in a real sense is the roof over our head, and money is essential therefore to life in present day society.

These ideas became more and more a part of the Sunday sermons as the next two or three months went by. We had Christian Stewardship almost coming out of our ears until the time came when “Mr.Bolt” got in touch with another company called Planned Giving Limited which had been formed in the United Kingdom by some people who had gone through Wells and similar campaigns in the United States and who had tried to tailor the system to be more suitable for this country. The sheer professionalism of Wells had been largely responsible for putting many of our people finding them unacceptable and the vote of the P.C.C. had been very much influenced by this but Planned Giving Ltd. seemed more acceptable. Although they charged a substantial fee for their work they were non-profit making and gave anything they did make towards charities or to help struggling parishes. Eventually a visit from Planned Giving Ltd. was arranged by “Mr.Bolt” although not without some opposition

Their man was listened to very attentively and with much more sympathy than the man from Wells had received and rightly so because he went out of his way to be informative. We got a re-hash of stewardship principles and because we all knew more about these because of all those sermons we were able to discuss these more knowledgably. The representative didn't stop there however and gave us more information about the actual work involved in a campaign. Those who were opposed to the whole idea had also been in touch with friends at St.Mathew's and had come well prepared but although they fired one question after another at our visitor he never batted an eyelid as he answered them and showed us all that many of the more unacceptable practises of the American companies had indeed been changed for the better or, in the worst cases, taken away altogether. At the end, when the vote was taken, many of the waverers had obviously been convinced and there was a reasonable majority who were now prepared to try this controversial thing called Christian Stewardship. We would still be forking out a lot of money but, hopefully, it would be a good investment and at least it would not go to line the pockets of an American who already had too much anyway. Nevertheless, in spite of all the discussion and the care with which the decision was made, there were many of us who might have voted differently if we could have seen into the future.

These days most dioceses have their own stewardship training programmes and volunteers with the know how to direct campaigns. It is also usual to expect a near unanimous vote in favour from the P.C.C. beforehand because otherwise a campaign can prove to be quite disruptive. But because we were only the second parish to conduct a campaign in the Burnley Deanery we were moving into virgin ground and, although we had already learnt from St.Mathew's mistakes, and Planned Giving had learnt from Wells' mistakes, there was still a great deal to learn as we soon found out. Today, of course, it’s a much different ball game.

We had expected controversy but we hadn't expected it to be such as to cut down our available manpower as much as it undoubtedly did. There were some whom one would reasonably have expected to be most active who opted out completely and others who gave less than their best. The hard fact is that pioneers always travel a hard trail and the ones who come after them benefit from their path finding. The brash American style was not liked and although Planned Giving had softened the system there yet remained much that the Church of England character could not live with. It is not my intention to give a blow-by-blow account of that first campaign or to re-write any training manuals there might be, but let me pick out a few salient features.

After an initial meeting of the P.C.C. with the professional directors present the front room of a house central to the parish was rented, office equipment was hired, and a typist engaged. The juggernaut began to roll and members of the P.C.C. were appointed to various positions, a dinner chairman who had to attend to all the catering arrangements, visitors chairman who had to get the men together, hostess chairlady who was to get the ladies together to be hostesses for the meal, and so the list went on.

As visitor's Chairman the first thing I was asked by the professionals was where there was a suitable pub with a room big enough for a meeting. I told him of one but couldn't help asking why we should pay for a room when we could have the church extension free or if that wasn't big enough we could even use the church itself. The director insisted that if we were to achieve the atmosphere he wanted we must get away from the church and so the first visitor's meeting for the men was held upstairs in The Junction Hotel.

Maybe the novelty of the church having a meeting in a pub had something to do with it or perhaps more likely the hard work the professionals put into persuading people to attend had a lot to do with it but, be that as it may, there was quite a good attendance. There were men there who I hadn't seen in church for years and there were even men there who had publicly and forcefully expressed their intention to have nothing to do with St.Mark's ever again because of some fancied slight or insult from years past. Then, as always, there was that sprinkling of stalwarts who always turned up to help no matter what was asked of them.

Although I was in the chair I remained quite ignorant of how the meeting was to proceed but I opened the meeting with prayers from “Mr.Bolt” and introduced the directors and the company they came from then let the professionals get on with it. They, for their part, covered much the same ground as they had covered with the P.C.C. and talked about the aim of building a church, in what way everyone was being asked to help. They spent some time making the point that the way we responded by the giving of time, talent, and money towards the work was a measure of our faith and again, in much the same way as they had done with the P.C.C. they let everyone talk it through for a while.

The debate became quite heated and clearly there was a great deal of opposition to a whole number of things so much so that I began to feel that maybe Wells had known something about the people of St.Mark's which Planned Giving had overlooked. When the time came to find out who was and was not prepared to help the whole thing went wrong. The question put to the meeting was,” Who is not prepared to help?” rather than,” Who is prepared to help?” I have been told since that some people felt they were being pushed into a public denial of faith and some felt they had been put into some kind of psychological trap. There were quite a few men who went out of the room there and then and I too felt that the question was unfairly put in view of the fact that the directors and “Mr.Bolt” had been pushing the idea over and over again that the giving of time, talent, and money was a measure of our faith.

Another meeting which sticks in my memory is one during which the procedure which has become known as 'card-throwing’ took place. First of all we were confronted by cards bearing the names of all the people we were to visit which were laid out neatly upon a table and were asked to go through them making an estimate of what they could afford to give based on what we knew about them. We then threw the cards into various piles ranging over sums from half-a-crown up to five pounds. Now Americans may see nothing wrong with this but I assure you that many of us did and I am sure that, as a result, the whole exercise became meaningless. This procedure has long been discarded in Church of England stewardship campaigns and a good thing too. The actual potential of income measured by this method came to something like œ80 and this was seem as giving a boost to our efforts when we did our visiting but none of us believed the figure anyway so it was irrelevant. More meetings were held, invitations went out, hostesses followed up the invitations, and the Parish Dinner at last took place. Speeches were made, the visitors were introduced to everyone and then a day or two later the men went out knocking on doors. It was six weeks later after the visiting officially ended that the reckoning was made.

The rise in our income, which you will remember had occasionally peaked at £25 per week, was minimal. but this was difficult to assess properly because of the nature of the Free-will offering scheme we had been running before. The number of envelopes taken by people fell dramatically in fact but only because many of those who had been giving token payments of one or two pence gave over altogether when they knew their envelope would no longer be collected but would have to be brought to church. Some others had accepted stewardship principles to a degree but balked at signing a promise card for a definite amount every week and in the end these people were given envelopes to use weekly anyway. There were however, a considerable number who had put their giving on a firmer and more regular basis and that minimal increase in our peak income became an average income which carried more of a guarantee that it would be maintained. But the expected dramatic rise which had been predicted did not materialise and we were going to have to be satisfied with only a very limited success.

Personally I have always believed that that first campaign revealed a potential in time, talent, and money which has still to be realised in full even as I write this many years later. I believe that this was the time when many of us first stopped treating our commitment to building a church as if it was only a hobby to be pursued when we had nothing better to do.

St.Mark's has had a campaign every three years since that first one which have been directed by volunteers from the diocese on a couple of occasions but more usually on a do-it-yourself basis. They seem to have worked most of the time and each one has led to some improvement in church finance. At this present moment however, it is some four or five years since the effort was made principally because those who have conducted campaigns in the past are less able to do so by reason of age or infirmity. The church income is falling as I write and I ask how long it will be before the lesson is learnt that God is completely on our side but He does like us to do at least a little bit for ourselves.

Chapter23

Although most of the social events we planned were done with an eye on the money we would raise for the new building, there were a number of events which were purely and simply social affairs. From time to time the Men's Society or the Mother's Union would arrange coach trips to seaside venues or to places of historical and religious significance. One such outing was organised by the men's society and arose largely because the membership of the branch was quite small.

Because mini buses were unheard of at the time the smallest available coach was about a twenty eight sweater which made it necessary for the men to invite their wives along so as to make up the numbers but they mentioned the trip at the next Mothers' Union and some of them asked to come with us so they were invited too. Then the whole thing snowballed until so many people wanted to go that a thirty six sweater coach was filled and the outing turned into a full blown coach trip.

We had booked in a Manchester theatre for an evening of variety and top of the bill was Ken Dodd. Those of us in the men's society whose idea the trip was were well aware of this of course and indeed we all thought that everyone on the trip was going because they liked his brand of humour. But there was just one exception to this and that was Jesse, the wife of Linton Jack man our treasurer, who was persuaded to come along because there were other acts on the bill which she did like. Principally however, she came along because she felt duty bound to support her husband, who was largely responsible for the organisation of everything. Comedy is very much a matter of one's own particular sense of humour and the same applies to comedians. One person's meat is another one's poison and Ken Dodd's brand of comedy is the kind which you either like a lot or do not like at all. Jesse Jack man came well and truly into the latter category as we found out that evening.

We had quite good seats in the circle and were seated in two rows one behind the other. Florence and I, who were seated in the next two seats to Linton and Jesse, had always been great fans of the theatre and during our courting days, and for some time afterwards, used to make a regular weekly visit to the Victoria theatre in Burnley either to a play or a variety show according to what was on offer. The 'Vic' had recently closed and there wasn't another local theatre so this trip was a real treat for us. Well pleased with what the artists had dished up before the interval we now looked forward to the rest of the show. Florence wasn't a particular fan of Ken Dodd although she enjoyed him well enough, but personally I find him irresistible even today. We bought our ices and, as we ate them, we commented on the artists we had seen already and looked forward to the second half of the show which was to be largely taken up by Ken Dodd's act.

If I remember rightly there were no diddy men in those days but his act did include his own unique version of the songs,’ On the road to Mandalay', Boots, boots, boots, boots', etc., and also on offer were all the marvellous jokes and innuendos associated with his famous tickling stick. I was in stitches and it was some time before I noticed the nudges which Florence was giving me in order to get my attention. When I turned to her I realised that she was almost helpless with laughter but not from the antics Ken Dodd was up to but from something going on further along the row. By now speechless and choking from the attempt to hide her laughter she called my attention to Jesse who was next to her.

There in the half-light reflected from the stage she sat, arms firmly folded across her ample bosom, directing her most piercing stare at the stage. Clearly she meant it when she said she didn't like Ken Dodd and her whole attitude emphasised the fact that there was no way she would allow him to make her laugh. Florence leaned forward giving a nudge to the person in front of her and I nudged my next door neighbour and it wasn't long before every member of our party was turned towards Jesse. Then, as you would expect, some of the other people around us became curious and began craning their heads to see what was going on. So determined was Jesse not to enjoy Ken Dodd that she was completely unaware of the attention she was getting and was oblivious of the fact that her facial and bodily antics were providing an alternative entertainment for the people around her.

As we returned home in the coach she was careful to let us all know how she had enjoyed the show apart from Ken Dodd but I remain convinced that far from not enjoying him the opposite had been the case and her facial antics were the inevitable result of suppressing the belly laughs which were trying to get out. Be that as it may the whole thing ended in the traditional manner as we queued up for fish and chips at the first available choppy on the way home all of us having found something we liked during the evening out..

Chapter 24

The P.C.C. meeting was extraordinarily well attended and the atmosphere was electric with anticipation as it's members waited for proceedings to start. To find out why this should be so one only had to look at look at the agenda where, immediately following the apologies for absence, was the item,’ The plans of the new church will be submitted for appraisal and approval.'

We sat impatiently through the preliminaries and then “Mr.Bolt” rose to his feet and unrolled an impressive looking drawing on one of the largest tables.Everyone crowded round to have a look but it soon became obvious that many of the council were completely mystified by what they saw. An architect's drawing is not the easiest thing to read for anyone without some understanding of such things and even those of us who were used to engineering drawings had our own mental adjustments to make so that we could make sense of the plans. The buzz of questions and answers flying to and fro across that table went on for some considerable time but even so there remained many who were still unable to picture how the building would look.

After a time “Mr.Bolt” called us to order and asked us to move to our seats, whereupon with a grin and a flourish he produced yet another drawing of the new church. I think he had been having a little joke with us by holding this second drawing back, for here was what everyone really wanted. A picture of the building, coloured for effect, and with a few of those weird humanoid figures, which architects use to show the scale of everything, scattered around. Now we could all relate to that which we had before only been able to imagine. Our project, our dream if you like, was getting closer to being realised. Then with a flourish like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, Mr.Bolt unveiled the last piece in the jig-saw by diving into a large box he had previously placed in a corner of the room out of our sight and producing an actual scale model.

The concept was very modern and there were some who were unsure about the shape and design, but although no one chose to reject it out of hand, it became an entirely different matter when we were told how much the cost was to be. We had asked that the architect keep the cost in the region of œ20,000 because we felt we could get that amount from various sources but instead we were given a provisional figure of œ25,000.

The sharp intake of breath from everyone when this was revealed almost created a vacuum in that small room. Dare we, as a responsible body, accept such a large extra cost? Could we possibly expect to raise such a sum from the grants we had been promised and from our own resources? Dare we indeed leave the new parish church with such a large millstone of debt hanging over it's future? A further meeting was arranged so that ample time might be given to discussing all these things but in the meantime the architect was given the authority to appoint a firm of builders so that a firmer estimate might be arrived at and we could then make a final decision.

Some three or four weeks later, as I passed the site, I saw a number of lorries and a lot of men there who were working with great gusto on what were clearly intended to be the foundations of the church. I was very surprised to see this but, as it was some days since I had talked to either Mr. Bolt or the churchwardens, I assumed that something had happened to make a start possible which I didn't know about. In any case there was a choir practice the following evening when I would be able to find out what was going on. After telling Florence what I had seen, I dismissed it from my mind.

Almost before I had time to say hello to “Mr.Bolt” the next day he broached the subject himself and went into quite a story about getting up one morning and looking across from the vicarage to see all the equipment arriving.” I was absolutely flabbergasted.” he said, shaking with indignation."Yes, I noticed it myself.” I said,” What’s going on? Has somebody left us a fortune? Well of course no one had. Somehow the builders had got it wrong or the architect had not been clear in his instructions and they had jumped the gun. The work had obviously to be stopped before it got too far and, in any case, we had not yet decided whether or not we wanted to take on such a massive debt. Perhaps it wasn't all that bad a thing that this should have happened because it forced us to bring forward the date of the next P.C.C. meeting where it was decided to ask the architect to think again and design something much more basic which we could afford.

In his next sermon “Mr.Bolt” told the congregation what had happened and using the analogy of a brand new car had to be run in and treated gently for it's first few hundred miles( a procedure which modern technology has largely rendered obsolete).After this initial period it gradually became possible to ask more and more of the vehicle until at last everything was running well. Sometimes an over-eager driver would make demands upon his new car too early in it's life and the result could well be a lot of damage and expense “Mr.Bolt”, our 'driver', clearly felt the 'engine' of our new Christian community was not yet 'run in' and it would be best to wait a bit longer before 'letting things rip’. There were some who said the driver was more at fault than those he drove but be that as it may there was no getting away from the fact that we had to build according to our means and the time had not yet come when we could allow the builders to start work.

It wasn't very long after that sermon however, before new plans were submitted and were accepted, although there would still be more than œ20,000 to find. The only way anyone could see a way forward was that the Lady Chapel would have to be left to be added at a future date. Anyone who looks at St.Mark's today will readily see that the plan view was intended to be the traditional cruciform shape but that there is one arm of the cross missing. On the other hand, so sure was the P.C.C. that the whole church would eventually be completed, that above and behind the choir stalls a concrete lintel was fitted as a support for the wall when it is opened up in the future for the Lady Chapel to be built. A contribution of one generation towards easing the burden they had to leave for another generation of Christians. It is interesting to note that to build the chapel at the moment this is being written would cost almost as much as did the church itself..

I think back to that original design which we had to set to one side and have re-designed and then I look at the design we had to settle for with it's missing arm and often it seems that God knew was right for us. It could well have been that we would have found the original design far to expensive to maintain and the amount of glass included in it might well have been a bit of a temptation to certain elements who are around today. God doesn't always answer our prayers in the way we think best but it is surprising sometimes how much better what we get is, when we compare it with what we might have had. I do not doubt either that when the time is right for it the church will be finished and the Lady Chapel will be built.

Chapter 25

On three occasions we went to the site of the new church as it was being built. The first of these was to unveil the cross we erected to mark the site and to advertise the fact that we were working to raise money and the second occasion was the laying of the foundation stone which seemed to take place amazingly quickly once we were able to give the architect and the builders authority to start work.

The Bishop of Blackburn conducted the ceremony and we all processed from the old building up to the new one together. All the organisations were represented, Mothers’ Union, Men's Society, Choir, Sunday School, Scouts, etc. but there was no 'dressing up' such as we used to have for a Procession of Witness although we were, of course, in our 'Sunday Best'.

The site itself had been tidied up a for the occasion but only in the area around the sides of the porch and the doorway, which had reached a height of about two feet. The foundation stone had been prepared beforehand and was suspended by unusually shiny chains from a polished set of block and tackle which appeared to be brand new. I suppose builders keep special pulleys and chains for these events and certainly the ones supplied for the Bishop didn't appear as if they had ever been near brick and concrete dust before. Also supplied by the builder was a workman dressed in suit and bowler hat to do the hard work.

The actual ceremony as I remember it was a very simple affair. Almost too simple in view of all the work which had been done by so many people in order to get the project to that stage. It was almost an anti-climax as, with a few short congratulatory words and some prayers from the Bishop, a rattle of chains from the hoist, and a final tap from a stone-mason's hammer, the stone was put in place and everything was over. Before leaving we sang the hymn,’ Christ is our Cornerstone' with greater fervour than we had ever done before(in spite of being unaccompanied) then we turned and processed back to the so-called 'Tin Tabernacle’, sure at last that we would not have to put up with for very much longer.

Promises made during the stewardship campaign were made to cover a three year period but when they came to an end the company had agreed to come back and help us to do what they called a 'follow-up' during which promises would be renewed in order to keep the income on a stable footing. As chairman of the stewardship committee I found I was expected to do much of the organisation of the follow-up although this wasn't quite so onerous a task as might at first appear. I was first treated to a meal by their company representative during which he told me what was needed and then he kept in contact with me whilst those few of us who were still available got on with the job.

The stewardship committee had become seriously depleted in numbers but with a lot of pushing from Mr Bolt, one or two other helpers, and I, somehow we did manage to get through the follow-up without difficulty and, much to everyone's surprise, there was even a small, but definitely noticeable increase in the weekly giving. This was certainly sufficient to keep our heads nicely above water for the time being but about a year later, as costs rose yet again, it became painfully obvious that still more would have to be done.

Although another campaign seemed to be the only way forward yet there was little, if any, enthusiasm for one. Planned Giving Ltd., even though they were a non profit making organisation, were still too professional for our liking and indeed for Mr.Bolt's liking as well. There was much that they would have to change before we could be persuaded to use their services again. Another factor had also come into play because the diocese now had it's own stewardship service and also had a number of trained volunteers which parishes could now call upon for help. After some intense discussions and one or two stormy meetings of the P.C.C. we were more or less forced by financial circumstances take advantage of the help offered by the diocese and run another fully fledged stewardship campaign but although this help was invaluable we still had to take on a lot of hard work ourselves.

Nevertheless we certainly gave that volunteer director a hard time of it. He had run a campaign for his own parish with good results and another somewhere else in the diocese with excellent results but he was soon to find out to his cost that a stewardship campaign in an established parish was one thing but a stewardship campaign at St.Mark's was a different kettle of fish altogether. He could have had little concept of the sort of criticisms he was going to have to answer, many of which were a direct result of the professionalism of the first campaign. There were many who still couldn't accept that the cost was simply an investment. All the old arguments were bandied about once more.” Why send all this paperwork out?”.” Why have proper invitation cards?"."Why? Why? Why?",and the inevitable,” If we're short of money why give a free meal?” Who is paying for it all?”. But at least we had got the biggest one out of the way because we were no longer paying the professionals. With diocesan help the paperwork costs were enormously reduced and we got many items from existing diocesan stocks either at cost or entirely free.

The campaign was a much more laid back affair than the other had been but we still had to work hard for what our harassed volunteer director thought was very little gain, even though we attempted to reassure him that we ourselves felt he had done very well indeed. What if we had bent a few rules about signing(or not signing)promise cards all the expenses had been comfortably met and we had pushed up the giving quite a bit besides? What did it matter that we could have done better? We certainly could have done a lot worse as we well knew by painful experience but in spite of all our assurances we never quite convinced him that he had done all he could have done and had indeed conducted a reasonably successful campaign.

When the building work was coming close to completion. the weekly offerings began to fluctuate alarmingly once more. It was as if people now felt that the project was coming to it's end and there was no need to bother as much about giving a regular weekly amount. If it came to the crunch, of course, no-one would have allowed the work to grind to a halt for financial reasons, especially now that the work was so far advanced, yet the possibility of another hiccup was there and had to be faced up to; this led once more to us all coming together in the partly built new church. Since “Mr.Bolt” had never been one who would let the grass grow under his feet or under anyone else's for that matter, the next thing I knew was that he was asking me to say a few words at a meeting he was going to arrange for all the congregation but it wasn't until he announced the meeting the following Sunday during the Eucharist, that I realised his intention was to hold the meeting in the half completed shell of the new church itself.

There was no seating and the bare concrete of the floor held all sorts of equipment which had been roughly moved to one side to give us room to stand. The raised concrete platform where the sanctuary would eventually be was to serve as a platform for those of us who had been persuaded to speak. It was a bit draughty too because there was no glass in the windows nor were there, as yet, any doors. Mr,Bolt was quite sure that curiosity would ensure that we had a good number of people present. Those of us who passed there frequently were always being quizzed about how the work was getting along so he might well have had a good point there. On the other hand it soon became clear what else he had in mind and that we were due for a good talking to so this may well have had a balancing effect. Be that as it may we had a reasonable attendance.

“Mr.Bolt” gave us the now familiar hard words about stewardship principles and pointed to the alarming consequences of not having a reliable income. I put in my two pennyworth and so did the churchwardens and that was about it but we could not do much more because it soon became quite dark and we had no lighting. The gloom that had descended on the building may have affected me but I felt quite despondent afterwards. I was talking to Fred Bland, our Vicar's Warden on the way home and we both seemed to be in much the same mood,” How much longer could this continuous harping on about money continue? How much longer before the work was done?”, were amongst the many questions we asked each other.

Fred never used to say a lot and just did his job as treasurer and churchwarden to the best of his ability but, to my surprise, he took the trouble the following Sunday to take me to one side and tell me that the income was up for that week. Then after a few more weeks he again sought me out and took the trouble to tell me that the income had settled itself again. He seemed to be trying to boost my spirits and to some extent he succeeded. I was pleased that the meeting had achieved it's intended purpose but then, only a couple of days later, I got a greater boost still when I heard the really good news via both Fred and “Mr.Bolt” that we had found a benefactor!

Mr. Bolt had been talking to a parishioner about the new church and all the problems we faced when this person suggested, quite casually that we should get in touch with a local retired industrialist who was looking for good causes which he could help. The man's name was Mr.Thompson and he was, it seems, more or less without living relatives and wanted his money to be put to good use. A letter to him resulted in an invitation to tea for “Mr.Bolt” and an offer to pay the money which we were still needing for the church. The money was in fact first offered as an outright gift which “Mr.Bolt” saw fit to decline on the grounds that it would be better for the people of St.Mark's to work for the money themselves but he accepted an interest free loan.

There were many of us who questioned the wisdom of that decision and still do. However shortly after giving money to build the Thompson Centre in Burnley and making a substantial contribution to Blackburn Cathedral Mr.Thompson said he didn't see why we should be the only ones to have to pay him back and changed the loan to a gift, but this didn't come about until we had been using the new building for a while and after “Mr.Bolt” had moved to another parish.

-Chapter 26

The bricklayers had finished their work and the carpenters and decorators were hard at work putting the finishing touches the church ready for the dedication service which was to take place in two weeks time. I waited amidst all the noise of hammering and sawing for the new organ to arrive.

The choice of organ had not been an easy one and money, as always, dictated what we could do. We had been advised that it would not be a good option to renovate the old one and as an alternative had been offered one from a recently demolished church to replace it but this was far too big for our requirements and was entirely unsuitable. Then the firm of organ builders who had struggled to keep our existing instrument going for us over the last few years suggested that we might be ideally suited if we bought a Wurlitzer electronic organ with a view to replacing it with something more traditional at a future date. They invited us to see one they were using at a church in Mythomroyd in Yorkshire and the P.C.C. accepted the invitation appointing Ernie, Linton, and I to report on it's suitability. At the time I was the proud owner of a new Bond three-wheel car which was really only designed for two adults plus two small children in the back but it would carry three adults for short journeys at a pinch. Because Mythomroyd is not too far from Burnley and neither of the other two had a car of any sort I said I would provide the transport.

Ernie settled down in the back where he seemed content enough as we got on our way and he acknowledged that there was more room than he had expected. It was better that Linton should be in the front with me because he often travelled into Yorkshire where he had a number of relatives and could point out the way. He also had a good idea how to find the church itself so that we had no trouble getting to our destination in good time to meet the organist as arranged.

I was surprised to find that rather than being taken into the church we were led across the churchyard into the school where one or two people were busily engaged in setting up scenery on the stage and others were putting out seating. The organ had been installed in front of the stage and the organist told us it was actually on hire to them for use in an amateur production of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta and he volunteered the further information that we would not be disappointed in what we were to hear. Indeed he himself wouldn't hesitate to replace their own church's organ with a Wurlitzer such as we were about to see should it ever get beyond economic restoration.

He gave a short demonstration and then invited me to have a go and I must say I was very well impressed. There was a magnificent array of voices compared to those of our own worn out old instrument and, of course, everything worked! Linton and Ernie went to the back of the hall to listen and after a short while I followed them whilst the organist played a few more short pieces to allow us all to make our own judgement from there. The sound was certainly very impressive and as near to a pipe organ sound as we were likely to get for the money. There and then we agreed to recommend that the P.C.C. buy a similar instrument.

We walked back to the car as we discussed our decision and squeezed in again to start our journey home. The whole thing had taken much less time than we had expected so I suggested we might call in a pub for a bite of supper and a drink on the way home or perhaps go somewhere for Fish and Chips. Linton came up with an idea and asked if we would like to visit a relative of his who had an Off-Licence in Halifax and had just stocked up with wines from the cask for Christmas. This, we agreed, was a much better idea and without further hesitation took the next turning for Halifax, even though it meant our journey would be lengthened by at least an hour. Following Linton's guidance we could later have been seen entering an interesting shop full of all kinds of drinks and other Christmas fare where we were at once made very welcome and invited to go through into the living room.

Our arrival turned out to have been times extraordinarily well for, as well as being offered the predicted range of wines from the cask, we had arrived just in time for supper and were immediately invited to share a variety of sandwiches and cakes. It was unfortunate that I was driving and at first I felt unable to accept anything to drink other than a cup of tea to go with the sandwiches, but eventually I allowed myself to be persuaded to take just one glass of sherry. This, of course, led to the offer of a further drink before we left for home but this had to be my limit. On the other hand I was certainly not allowed to restrict my food intake and had a very good supper to compensate. In such pleasant company and in the face of such hospitality it was difficult to drag ourselves away but all too soon we had to squeeze back into the car and start the journey home.

Ernie in the back no longer had the remotest kind of trouble fitting into the children's seat and again remarked how much more room there was than he had expected and how comfortable it was once you were used to it. Linton, for his part, was quite happy next to me and settled himself well down into his seat. Mind you they had both had rather more than their fair share of the sherry, as well as tasting more or less all the wines which were available from the cask, so they would have been comfortable anywhere. I wasn't too sure of the way home but when I later turned to Linton for directions he had dropped off to sleep and Ernie couldn't see where we were anyway from the back so, rather than disturb them, I decided I could find my own way. What I did wrong I don't know but that journey which should have taken no more than an hour stretched to over ninety minutes and it was very late when we got home. Ernie lived some distance away whilst Linton and I lived on the same street so wasting as little time as possible I dropped Ernie off first and then Linton before putting the car, and myself, to bed.

It was Sunday morning before I next saw Linton who couldn't wait to tell me that he had been 'in the doghouse’ since our night out. Florence was quite used to me arriving home late because I did a little piano playing in the local pubs from time to time so she accepted my lateness without undue concern; neither did Ernie have a problem with Emily once he had explained what had happened; but Linton, it seemed, was very much in trouble. I don't think Jessie really trusted that little car of mine, or perhaps it was my driving she didn't trust; but either way she had apparently had a mental picture of all three of us lying in a heap of mangled wreckage on some lonely, deserted, moor land road.

At their next meeting the P.C.C. accepted our recommendation that the Wurlitzer be bought but there was really no other choice, it was the best we could afford. We had quite a bit of leg pulling to put up with about taking the long way home and "losing ourselves in an off-license". Linton was asked to report on the state of his marriage at which point he described Jessie reaction most colourfully and told everyone he had been on "silent meals" for a week. Jessie, for her part, simply said, "Oh we're speaking again now, but please send someone else with Bill if you want another organ inspecting!” I said nothing! I was getting enough of the blame already.

So there I now stood amongst the debris which was still lying in heaps on the floor of the new building waiting for the organ people to arrive and go about their business of setting up the new instrument. I had taken some music with me in the expectation that I would have the opportunity to have a practise but it was quite some time before the tuner allowed me to sit on that shining, new, organ bench. I tried first one, and then another of the voices, and he made a few more adjustments until at last he pronounced himself satisfied, got back into his van, and left me to try everything out for myself. The conditions were not ideal however; the carpenters and decorators were still at work in the vestry and there was still an enormous amount of hammering and banging going on. I had taken a day off work just to be there from the very first moment the organ gave voice but I soon realised I could not compete in the face of all the noise and returned to work for the afternoon Later in the week however, when things had quietened down, I took another day off which gave me the opportunity to be there on my own without having to contend with all the noise and you can be sure I had a glorious time trying out all the voices of that new organ.

When weekend came I played for the very last service in the old "Tin Tabernacle" but not without some feelings of sadness. It was almost as if the old organ was aware that this was to be his "swan song" and that within a few days the organ builders would be stripping out his various parts to salvage what they could. He played for me as perfectly as his many infirmities would allow and I almost began to regret that financial strictures meant that we could not afford to save him but by the following weekend all such sentiments were put to one side, as I played for the service of dedication in the new St.Mark's.

So busy was I with the music indeed that I am afraid much of the actual ceremony escapes my memory. I know that the Bishop had to perambulate around outside the building for some reason and had to knock on the door for admittance but further than that I hesitate to commit myself. What I do remember is that the almost electric atmosphere of the densely packed congregation seemed to waft itself in waves towards the altar and to be thereby enhanced and returned a thousand fold. It was as if the Christian community was willing God to take up residence in His newest and latest house and He was indeed sending His blessing and His Holy Spirit upon the building and into each and every one of those present.

There was also a great remembering! A remembering of some long ago P.C.C. meeting of the Parish of All Saints which had first been inspired to build a temporary mission church at the far end of their parish. A remembering of many years of endeavour when, unfortunately, the early hopes for growth became pushed into the background by two world wars, and by the day to day struggle to survive through the years between. A remembering of how the concept of building a new church, which had become little more than a dream, became a vision once more. A remembering of how a Christian community had at last been privileged to build a centre for Christian worship in a new parish. A remembering of a priest who pursued that vision with the single-minded dedication, which alone could make it possible.

The Lady Chapel was left to complete at a later date and because there still remained the debt we owed to Mr.Thompson the church was only dedicated and not fully consecrated but nevertheless a permanent church was there where none had been before.