Category: post WW2

I often refer to myself as an idiot, because I have been one on many occasions, and because I have that sort of sense of humour. But eating wine glasses? I was a mature student, and so found some of the practices of the other students a little eccentric. We had an extrovert in our rowing club who, for a substantial bet, subscribed to generally, would actually chew wine tumblers in our local bar. No matter how closely I looked, I couldn’t see how he avoided getting cut. I was convinced he palmed the glass and munched something noisy like nutty brittle – if he did, the guys betting him were the nutty ones!

The Battle Of The Officers In 1950, post war, men had returned to jobs, others who should have retired were still in office, the slow deliberate attitudes of the thirties were being stretched, so there was change in the air and the archaic mores were being challenged by circumstance. An amusing confrontation demonstrated this metamorphosis. Barnes, unqualified, held a lowly position in a Design Office. During the war, he had been promoted to acting Lieutenant Colonel on the battlefield, later confirmed; at the other end of the age range was a veteran of the First World War, Masterson, demobbed in 1918 with the rank of Captain. Masterson was a blimp-like character, senior member of staff, the scourge of us all, and hid his inadequacies behind his regimental tie Barnes, was a lig, a character, a comedian, one who took life as he found it and would rise no higher. Masterson paraded round the office maintaining discipline, ostensibly checking work, although I don’t recall him ever being asked for his opinion, a sort of policeman. When he approached, those near Barnes would say ‘Colonel, the Captain’s coming,’ and there would then be, soto voce, derisory chuckles. The whole thing came to a head when another lig, the office was full of them, put a notice to the effect that Colonel Barnes was to go to see Captain Masterson True in detail, as Masterson was indeed looking for Barnes, but unwise in execution. Masterson in one of his circulatory perambulations saw the sign, he could hardly not have, it was the size of a tea tray and intended that none should miss it. The joker, though, had stretched what little humour Masterson had beyond its limit and the Colonel bore the brunt from then on.
Battle Enjoined I have since wondered if the ventilating system made people act the way they did in that office, it was as if some controlled substance was permeating the atmosphere which engendered practical jokes. The ventilating system was admirably designed for such a ploy, we had proof of it by the very nature of the secondary smoking we enjoyed daily. The behaviour of the staff was certainly unique. Perhaps it was because work was so boring, anything was a relief. to the tedium. We had a Greek engineer who grew his own tobacco and smoked it all day long. It was foul smelling and there were varied suggestions as to the additional ingredients including – the least obnoxious suggestion – shredded tram-drivers gloves. As the day progressed a fug, a dense cloud of smoke, no more than two foot deep, of a grey blue colour, eddied and swirled gently down the office from the top corner, where the Greek was stoking the embers, and at average face level so no one was exempt. This atmospheric coincided with some very strange behaviour. The ‘confrontation’ is a typical example.

The ‘confrontation’ started in a high class, ladies’ outfitters, at the scarf counter. Lunch time on a hot day, Matt, a lig, walking past the shop spied our tracer, a beautiful young woman who stood no nonsense from the men. She was standing examining scarves. Matt burst into the shop, strode over to the girl and said in a voice everyone could hear, ‘You spent all the housekeeping last week and the week before, and I suppose you are doing the same this week. Buy the damn thing and come on home.’ He then strode out of the shop. The girl was so taken aback she bought the first thing which came to hand and fled. Would you believe the man had been trying to ingratiate himself into the girl’s favour for some time? A few days later, Matt had left the office for a moment and his jacket was draped over the back of his chair. The tracer picked his pocket, removing his wallet, his season ticket on the train and his loose change. She knew he walked to the station and would not be aware of his predicament until he went to show his ticket at the barrier. It took him some time to find someone at the station from whom to borrow the fare home.

When I worked in Belfast for the council and English travellers came to the little room where we interviewed them, whoever went to the window, returned and said to me, ‘you talk to them, you speak their language’. Just a joke with an edge – in other words, one might be with the Irish, but, with friends and relations excepted, no matter how long one has lived here, one is with the Irish, but not of them.

After the war, my brother-in-law and I decided we would walk from Ballycastle to Coleraine by every inch of the Coast, instead of sticking to the roads. In those days we would hike in the Mournes, and the Antrim Coast at weekends, and with rationing still a serious consideration, our pack weighed about forty pounds because we had to take nearly everything with us. It was our habit to eat a prodigious breakfast and a colossal evening meal and only an orange or grapefruit and a bar of black chocolate for lunch – after all his mother owned a sweet shop, so sweet rationing was not a worry. We stayed in YHA hostels which varied tremendously in quality and facilities, from the luxury of the new one at Dunluce Castle near the Giant’s Causeway to the hovel at White Park Bay. We were sitting above White Park Bay, that beautiful stretch of sand, which is now so popular, but then was hardly known except to walkers and locals. The hostel was as primitive as they come, especially the men’s dormitory which was little more than a cottage with a packed earth floor. It was towards evening and we were anticipating the great fry we would soon be sitting down to, probably consisting of eggs, ham or bacon, tinned beans, a steak and the usual potato bread and soda bread, an Irish fry would never be without. The problem was the eggs. It was my turn to scavenge and I set off up the hill to a small farm. I knocked the back door and politely asked the woman who came if I could buy some eggs. She looked at me very suspiciously and then said she had none. As the place was surrounded by hens I was convinced she was being economical with the truth, but that was that.. I duly reported back to HQ and Ted laughed. “They think you’re the Ministry man checking up,” he said, adding, “It’s your accent.” To prove the point he then went up and came back with a hat full of eggs.

The Irish Conception Of The English An accentless, or near accentless speech was, in my experience generally the trigger for suspicion. This was best illustrated during a political discussion, which had broken out in my office among the younger elements. I generally stayed clear of politics but on that occasion, because I felt things might get a bit heated, I put my oar in. One of the young men, a more vociferous, belligerent and forthright participant, and one who had only just joined us and did not know me very well, listened to what I had to say for a few seconds and then interrupted. ‘What do you know about the Irish situation, you’re English.’ For a moment there was what is called, in novels, a pregnant silence, the others, like me, were taken aback with the virulence of the attack. “How old would you say you were when you became politically aware?’ I asked. He thought for a second and then said twelve was about right. I was sceptical, but any figure would have done. ‘Right,’ I said, ‘That means you have been politically aware for twelve years, but you reckon you have a good grasp of Irish politics.’ I did not wait for his reply but ploughed on. I did notice a gleam of amusement in some of the eyes of the others present, they could see where I was leading. I continued, ‘I have lived here as an adult for thirty-four years.’ I had made my point and although it was seen to be reasonable to some of those present, I am equally sure there were others, including the young man, front and centre, who instinctively believed that Irish politics came down through the generations, in their genes.

The Little Man in Portnoo, Co Donegal In the hotel in Portnoo, one wet Sunday lunch time, I came across a strange little man. We all met for a pre lunch drink and a chat. In those days Portnoo was not as well known and the people who summered there were generally medical or clerical. I was probably the only engineer within miles. Everyone was standing around, a bit like a Chelsea cocktail party not a drinking session in an Irish pub. The little man insinuated himself into the group I was with and started asking inane personal questions, such as where did people come from and what was their profession, and he then followed this inquisition in all the cases but mine by being terribly obsequious. I noticed he was doing this right round the room and inevitably he came to me with the same patter. At the time I was designing a sewage works so when he came up with the questions I had heard him asking the others, I was prepared, I thought I would try him out. In answer to his question of what I did for a living I said I worked in the sewers, a fair assessment, all things considered, and pretty interesting to the uninitiated, or so I thought, but he did not see it that way, in fact he cut the connection and went seeking yet another doctor, surgeon or priest.

John of Dunmore Caravans I think the greatest reflection of the attitude of the average Donegal man to cash flow is demonstrated by our purchase of a static caravan in Portnoo. Sophie and I were staying on Gillespie’s site in the middle of the field in a two berth towing caravan. John, the owner, was installing a replacement van on the periphery of the site. We became curios as to what was involved in a permanent plot. When he was clearing up the timbers, ropes and bits needed for transportation I drifted over to him, and asked how much it would cost to buy a static one and have it installed. He told me and added that if I was interested I should make my mind up quickly as he was opening up the field at the end of the site with an incredible and uninterrupted view right across the golf course to the Derryveagh Mountains and Mount Errigal. All there would be between us and the view would be grazing cattle and bad golfers – irresistible. We agreed a price and the model of van we would like a few days later by telephone and when I suggested he should give me a layout of his expansion so I could chose a site, his reaction was typical of the people of the area. ‘Plan?’ he asked. ‘What plan? Just you come up here John and stick your heel in the ground and I’ll have the van on it by the Twelfth of July.’ He was as good as his word. Now, because of lack of planning the ground could only be partially levelled, with the result we are higher than everyone else, as well as having the very best view. We now find the journey too much for us, but the family can’t bear to miss a holiday in it.

The Sweet Cheat At University I came across a talented conjurer who was a medical student. He had sat his finals at least four times. Then there did not seem to be any limit to the number of chances one had to qualify. The reason for the repeated sittings was that he always passed his written examination but failed the Orals, while other students had a nominal 15 minutes with the examiners, he was in for ages going over the whole syllabus again.. They, unlike the students, were not aware of the scam, but they obviously had their suspicions. When he entered the examination room the conjurer would arrive early, find his desk and then scatter granulated sugar in a wide circle so that he would hear the crunch of the invigilator’s feet and have time to palm his cogs before the man was close enough to discover the cheating. Years later he and his wife were the Toast of the Town with their joint conjuring and illusion acts and to be seen regularly on TV. He had found his niche.

Wreaking Satisfaction We were laying a large diameter steel pumping main to carry treated sewage, so the joints had to be perfect, however they weren’t. I had previously visited Crew for details when we place the order, and I telephoned the manufacturers for someone to be sent to advise. When Smith, arrived late, he spent the journey from the airport moaning about being sent to Northern Ireland and that his wife was very worried about him. It was evident he cared little for our situation and wanted home on the next flight or no later than three o’clock in the afternoon. By the time he had left we were a little wiser, but an overnight stay was what I expected. It was my duty to take him to the airport, and to underline how safe he had been I took him through every hotspot in Belfast, pointing out where this man had died or that place have been blown up, on the way. The next day I received a phone call from Smith’s head office, asking me what I done to him, as from the minute he had arrived he had not stopped talking. When I explained, the roars of laughter at the other end were like honey.

My in-laws were generous and kind, and any member of their extended family in trouble was welcome. So it was when Ned came to stay, permanently. Ned was both a character and a knowing old devil. In his late eighties when I first met him, tall, stooped, severely rheumatic, lame and rheumy of eye, he was very amenable. His gratitude to his daughter and son-in-law, were expressed almost daily. The most frequent story I heard of his life, referred to the days just before he set out on his travels round the world on a sailing ship. He was a joiner and ship’s carpenter in the shipyard in his home-town of Carrickfergus where he had also learned to drive a ‘Donkey Engine’. This type of Donkey Engine would be called a steam driven winch or capstan today. A ship, with square rigged sails, had been launched and the skipper was looking for a carpenter cum donkey man, and Ned rushed home to tell his mother that he was applying. Back at the yard his boss recommended Ned and, in short, off he went to sea to sail in a sailing ship round the Horn, with all that implied in hardship in those days.

He was an old rascal,. He would sit in his corner and think up statements designed to shock and there were none he liked to shock more than maiden lady visitors. On one occasion it was the spinster daughter of a Presbyterian minister who was visiting, and you can’t get much more unworldly than that, and as a gesture of kindness she went out to the breakfast room to have a word with the ‘old gentleman’ – what a mistake! The family always had someone on duty in these circumstances – they knew him of old. In this instance he was heard to say, ‘I’m not as young as I used to be daughter,’ which he pronounced more as do’gh’ter, ‘Come, steady me on the Po.’ after which he chuckled at the expression on the lady’s face with a sort of Billy Bunter glee-noise, an aspirated’ he-he’ which seemed to come from deep within his chest, and would go on for what seemed ages. There was another instance when a lady of similar background went to talk to him about his travels round the world and he admitted having visited quite a few places in the Southern Hemisphere, ‘Like that sharp place,’ he said. ‘You know, wallop you’re arse with a razor.’ He was referring to Valporaiso, and we were sure he knew the name as well as his own, he was just out to stir the pot, it was all the fun he had left.

Old Ned and Laura. Laura is my elder daughter and at that time she was not yet two years old. He and Laura often had running battles, and sometimes he behaved like a child himself. Laura would sit on the floor and play with her wooden bricks, building them higher and higher, as carefully and meticulously as she does all things, with the result they reached considerable heights when one considers her age and dexterity. Ned was lame and walked with a stick. He dozed a lot, but when he was awake he would reverse his stick and hook the handle round Laura’s tower and topple it, at which time he would cackle with laughter and she would get cross. She, however, was resourceful, and on one occasion waited until he was asleep with his head supported on a hand, itself supported on an elbow, on the arm of the chair; then she attacked. She drew back the door behind which he sat and then hit his hand with it as hard as she could. The shock to the poor old boy must have been devastating, he complained to everyone as they entered the house and as the bruising on his hand developed as it does with old people, he complained even more. I have a feeling the toppling stopped after that encounter.

NED AND THE HAIRCUT Because he was so lame the time came when he could walk very little; so we employed a hairdresser to cut his hair at the house. It seems the visits were too far apart to suit Ned and one Sunday, when the rest of the family were out for a walk, Ned insisted that I cut his hair in spite of my protestations that I was unqualified and the result would be a disaster. Nothing would deter him and still complaining, I put a towel round his neck and proceeded to operate in the best way I could with the cutting-out scissors. When I had finished, or rather, when I dared to cut no further, we went through the ritual with the two mirrors, as in a reputable hairdressers. Ned was delighted, I was relieved. He kept eulogising my many talents, as a barber supremo – his eyesight was not of the best. Then the rest of the family returned and he immediately showed off his tonsorial transformation, explaining who had done it. I tried to intervene and explain that I had been press-ganged against my will, but the hoots and roars of laughter at the remnants of the poor old man’s white locks drowned me out. I have never seen such a transformation, it was lightning, it was quick-silver, it was instantaneous and it was virulent. Now I was cast in the roll of the villain who had taken advantage of a poor old pensioner and made a mess of his hair. Fortunately his memory span was as poor as his eyesight and next day all was sweetness and light once more

Study And The Benzedrine Pill For years I have known I can’t be taught, I prefer to read books and find out for myself. Whether, as I suspect, the droning of another voice hypnotises me, or whether I just nod off, all I know is I tend to get on better on my own. My wife, a teacher of Modern Languages was a little miffed as French was one of the subjects I was to sit for the entrance exam, Demobbed, hoping to get into Queens University to read Engineering on an ex-service grant, I started the cram course. The guy I went to for a cram, had a classroom over the Fifty Bob Tailors at the Junction in Belfast. He was also none too pleased when another student and I started to teach him mathematics instead of the reverse. Learning French was pure memory, so a tutor merely had to mark exercises. In the case of the Crammer, he was so far behind current day thinking in mathematics, he was practically using the abacus to calculate what we owed him in fees.

This other student was a real character, he was doing the same exam as I because he had been in the Naval Commandos and been demobbed at roughly the same time. We would meet at the Crammers’ and then go for a drink afterwards. We discussed our relative careers and when that palled we worked at examples we were sure the Crammer was making a mess of. Slowly the time drew near, we were both working hard and comparing notes when we met, and on one occasion he showed me some Benzedrine tablets he had which were left over from beach-landings he had taken part in. He was using them from time to time so he could study through the night without sleep. I warned against it without success, in my case I was merely resorting to coffee and tobacco.

The day of the Exam dawned and I entered the world of the university for the first time. We sat in the Great Hall, with darkened oak or mahogany woodwork, stained-glass windows and a gnarled, stained, wooden floor. The little desks in rows in isolation. The atmosphere was austere and not a little intimidating. I was mesmerised just by being there, in a place I knew all my family in England would revere. My wife had trod those boards two years earlier. We had been given examination numbers and when I looked across to where I expected to see my friend his desk was empty and stayed so. I found later he had succumbed to the Benzedrine and when he should have been at Queens he was in hospital. I have said he was a character, that is true, he was larger than life and when his name hit the headlines in Northern Ireland it only went to prove the point. Failing to get into Queen’s he had left and gone to the rigorous climes of Northern Canada to work in the oil fields, and it was there he walked for days in the harshest conditions of blizzards and ice, without food, to fetch help, when he and some of his work mates had been involved in an accident. The feat was so extraordinary it was even carried in the press here.

The Boxing Match In second year, I offered an opinion, it always heralds trouble. The men were wondering what sort of show to put on, on Rag Day. Instead of just a procession, I suggested a static show, slap stick, to gather the crowds and collect more money, – provide ourselves with a captive audience. I was inveigled to join another ex-serviceman in An Olde Time Boxing Match. We were to wear combinations, I was to black my face and wear a Fez. I was six foot two of Great Mustapha. He was the British challenger – five foot nothing of cheeky chappy. We set off in the procession with our seconds and marched from the University to the centre of High Street. There was an open space left by the demolition of bombed buildings In the meantime some of the gang went ahead and set up a ring. The performance predictably followed the usual circus ring craft, although we were probably not as crafty. A lot of water was thrown about, punches were thrown and of course, Mustapha must-ave-a beating – which he duly received.

To finish it all off, absolutely cold sober, but with adrenaline running high, I obtained a crate and, standing on it in the middle of the main thoroughfare, brought Belfast to a halt with community singing. I arrived home, soberly dressed, sat down for the evening meal when my Mother-in-law, told of how this idiot, standing on a box in his underwear and black face, holding up the traffic was conducting the crowd in a singsong. It was some time before I enlightened her who the idiot was. In the cold light of day and without the stimulus of adrenaline, I agreed with her, he was an idiot.

In spite of what follows, I still stand by what I have previously said, working for the Council is still preferable to direction from Central Government. Not only for the worker who has immediate contacts and sees the work in detail, but for the public he serves.

When I was looking for my first engineering job I had taken part in an interview at the City Hall where I was faced by a phalanx of councillors, probably about fifteen. They had asked a number of questions without getting to the meat, when I decided I would ask the question in the forefront of my mind – How much? The answer appalled me, they were only offering two hundred and fifty pounds a year for a graduate, aged 28, with a wife and two children to support. I refused and went and took a job with a consultant at two hundred and sixty. Those were hard times.

Thinking of the phalanx reminds me of when Sophie was looking for a teaching job and the occasion when I tried to help my boss-of-the-day to get a job in a rural County Council. In Sophie’s case we had to write out her application, her CV, have her references photocopied and send copies of everything to twenty-six councillors. We were not so much surprised as astounded, but even that was nothing to the indignity suffered by John, a friend, and my boss at one stage. He had never learned to drive, or if he had he had allowed his licence to expire. For whatever reason he had no car and so he asked me to chauffeur him around from councillor’s house to councillor’s house. The councillors were mostly farmers and their homes were scattered over a whole county. The weather had been wet for some time with the result the lanes were like scrambler tracks.

We started after work and finished in complete darkness with the humiliation of sliding into a gate post and damaging the car. That, however was not the real humiliation. At each house we came to, he went and knocked the door while I stayed in the car. As the evening wore on, when he returned to the car he became progressively disheartened at the berating he received from some who resented being canvassed and said that they were totally against it, while others told him it was a good thing he had come because they would not have voted for him if he hadn’t. The only way he could have succeeded was to have learned more about the system and done his homework better. He should have sought out someone on the Council to advise him of whom to canvass and whom not to, all he had been told was that if he hoped to get the job he should canvass all, which he did; but then he was English, with the mistaken idea that professional people were employed purely on their merits and that interviews were above board. He didn’t get the job.

I remember a case where the engineer to a road contractor fell out with that contractor and resigned. A while later he answered an advertisement for a job with a Council and was told by a senior member of the staff that it was a walk-over as he was more experienced and better qualified than the other candidates. When he asked later why he had not been successful he was told, in confidence, that the contractor had objected to his candidature, saying he, the contractor, would not get fair treatment from the engineer in future dealings, and the Council then appointed another candidate. As I have said before, such is the way of the world. I remember when a senior member of staff canvassed the liftman, because the latter had political influence. Everyone knew – they tend to in a council, and probably in consequence that was why he was not appointed.

These days there are rumbles in the jungles of local authorities on many counts, Water tax at the head, but those Councils are no longer as autonomous as they were until the 70’s. It was then Central Government lived up to its name and took over most of the powers and things have gone down hill ever since. Local Government means by the people for the people, if you have a beef about something, you can actually hammer on the Councillor’s own front door, or vote with your feet at the next election. Central Government is remote, can’t see the local detail, can’t address local problems – paints with a broad brush. There is the iniquity of the Manifesto, which few read for National Elections and is a license to do anything, as voting is on Party lines not policy; but is devoured for local ones because it is local

It Is A Prescription For Disaster I worked with a man, Fred, who, upon demob, took a temporary job to feed himself and his family. He became a civilian clerk to the Royal Army Service Corp. The barracks where he worked was a ‘Holding Company’, somewhere to take soldiers in between periods of active service. Their stay was minimal, a few days or a few weeks at most.

When they arrived they brought with them all their relevant papers, about ten in all, history, medical, dental, punishment, and so on, and Fred had to annotate each paper with the details of the man’s arrival, place, date and time. He then had to place these sheets in folders designated for the category of each sheet. On departure he took all the sheets from the folders for each soldier leaving, annotated them all accordingly, and then put them together in an envelope to follow the soldier.

Fred, hated the repetition, even though that was what he was paid to do. He decided that initially, if every man had a personal envelope, with his main information printed on the cover, including the arrival and departure dates etc., this would save time at every new appointment. Very logical as far as it went. So logical that he managed to persuade his boss, another demobbed, temporary clerk, that it should be implemented, and it was. However, they had forgotten one vital component of this utopian scheme, ‘Human Nature!’

Fred thought he had everything covered, he supplied bits of paper for those using the papers to insert in the envelopes saying who, which and to where the papers had been withdrawn, the slip being removed on return. But then people are always in a hurry and full of good intentions, They didn’t need slips of paper, they only needed the papers for a moment. Within a fortnight there was chaos, some men had departed with a few papers missing, others remained but no amount of searching replaced their history. Today there would be no bits of paper, but the computer would probably crash.

To make radical changes presupposes the new ideas really are new, and have not been tried and rejected. The fabric of life has been arrived at over generations by attrition, and modification by experience, not instant inspiration, followed by sweeping implementation, further followed by chaotic tweaking of something which should never have been broached, a prescription for serious cost and chaos.