ELSWICK HOPPER’S CYCLE WORKS.

I left school at fourteen thinking I was God’s gift to the world. Having chafed at the bit during the last year at school, I thought I might give it a rest, the day of leaving could not come quick enough for me. Wel I cud spel an’ cownt an’ ad up, wel wun an’ wun is too or is em eleven. However since time seemed to have a way of it’s own, sometimes it decides to whip by, usually when one is enjoying one’s self, or as in this case drag when something exciting is about to happen. But sometimes when that something turns up one is disappointed, and time goes back to dragging.The clock on the wall tick tocked with a monotonous regularity that almost put one to sleep. If it were a warm day one could sometimes hear a bumping noise as a head would droop and hit the desktop. One such time I had drifted off until I heard in the distance “when Master Barker is fully recovered from his nap we will continue our perusal of the continent of South Africa, WAKE UP BOY! I was extremely chuffed my last name was not Bates. However the day arrived and I got through the morning without mishap. The kid sitting at the desk to my right was busy rolling up little bits of blotting paper, dipping them in his ink well and flicking them. His main target seemed to be a little lad about two desks in front of him, who had ink marks on his back and neck. I thought, “charming, the little lad gets bullied here at school then probably goes home and gets a hiding for having ink marks on his shirt and pullover” Ignoring the smaller boy’s protests my bully type next desk neighbor kept on flicking the ink sodden wads of blotting paper.

I was a caring kind of youth and I would not want to see another kid in pain if I could help, so I leaned over and whispered, “ he’s only little, flick some at me”

His reply of “ funny you should mention it but I was just thinking what a stupid pastime it was”. Then his body language conveyed to me the overwhelming awe and respect he had for my doubled up fist and his reluctance to continue bating the smaller lad.

Mind you I extended that caring only so far.

I had been moved up to the Headmasters class and it was playtime when a kid I had never seen before came sashaying across the playground, his eyes fixed on me and a look on his face that conveyed he was on to something exciting.

I thought he was crossing the playground to inform me he had found the hidden loot of Blackbeard the pirate and was about to share the info with me. So I was quiet surprised when without so much as a “you can kiss my foot, or by your leave” he punched me on the arm and it came a bit sharp. I communicated to him that I did not relish the idea of spending the remainder of the afternoon massaging my now bruised arm, regardless of the fact he assured me it was his way of a greeting, and it amused him. There must have been a deficiency somewhere in his loaf (head) because the message, if it did get through, was garbled, not understood, or it was understood but was ignored completely. The next day at playtime I was talking to a boy when suddenly I got the sharp pain again on my arm, and the ‘thump the arm sicko’ walked away with a stupid grin as I remonstrated with his retreating back. I was at home and out in the garden after tea, washing my hands having dug a bit of garden. Mum wanted to put a few flowers in. Suddenly she asked, “where on earth did you get two bruises on your arm like that?” When I explained to her that there was this lad at school who took a delight in making everyone’s life a misery, she called Dad. Dad was very annoyed after looking at the two bruises, and remonstrated with me, “yu let ‘im ‘it yer, then yu let ‘im do it agin’, well me lad, if’n there’s three bruises theer termorrer, al add another two wi’ me belt across yer backside.

The following day at playtime I was fully awake and hoped the dummy would go for three and I was not disappointed. No matter what the cost I wanted to prevent my father from overtaxing himself after a hard days work, by wearing out his heavy leather belt on my backside.  Besides that, at school if teacher used his cane the thick seat of my pants took most of the sting out. And teacher could be dicing with the law for taking a boy’s trousers down, even in class. But Dad being who he was, was beyond the law in that respect, beside I think he sometimes admired his handy work painting pretty pictures with his belt in reds purples and pink on a slightly cold, bare, blue bum. While Mum would be in the bedroom with her head under the pillow, sobbing. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Dopey Desmond talking to one boy then suddenly he was with another boy closer to me, he was crafty and moving when he thought I was not noticing I just stood there as he came up behind me and I watched the ground as his shadow began to match mine then I could hear him breathing and one arm of the shadow drew back. And I thought how stupid can one get, he’s about to try it again. I turned as D. Desmond with an evil grin on his face he drew back his fist and confidently walked straight into a right hook.  I got in first and gave him a bloody nose. He also got a colour pattern on the front of his shirt in the shape of a red butterfly, free gratis Tom Barker, and it felt good, I rather liked the red pattern also. It matched the front of his shoes, which hitherto had been black. I think shock was his first re-action, he stood there and could not believe his nose was smashed and blood was running down the front of his shirt. Then he grabbed out a hanky from his trouser pocket and held it up to his nose, while mumbling some thing that I was not interested to learn. For the next half hour he sat with his head back while one of the masters patted the back of his neck with a cold wet handkerchief. He learned a lesson that day that was not on the school curriculum, ‘never send your enemy a telegram’. I had also learned that surprise can also be a weapon.

Later one of the teachers suggested we shake hands and be friends, so with one hand holding the wet hanky to his nose he nervously stuck his other hand out and I took hold of it and it was like holding a bit of limp, cold wet dead fish. Then I took off for my favorite place near the pear tree. Sometimes the wind blew down the big ripe pears But if there was no wind and no one looking, I assisted gravity by throwing a stone up to shake the branch, hoping to dislodge a pear. But I was more elated that Dad didn’t have to tire himself by giving me that promised hiding.

At school the atmosphere was a lot more pleasant because wherever I moved in the playground the ex arm thumper was always on the opposite side, I noticed he had ceased in his endeavor to become the bruiser of the year. Later I noticed when we went back into class he always hung back until I got through the door within sight of the Headmaster, unaware that the Headmaster applauded what I had done. If Dumbo and I did chance to meet he would venture “hello Tom” and I noticed he was now wearing running shoes. I later became aware the Headmaster knew all about it, and I did hear that he echoed my thoughts on the matter. The kid was a bully and it had to happen one day. Only another boy could solve the problem. I made a lot of new friends that day, including teachers. Then Mum decided she would buy me some long trousers. She was browsing Mrs Clark’s little clothing shop in George street and lo and behold she spotted a pair of pin striped Gentleman’s trousers.
“ Oh Mrs Clark “, gushed Mum, that’s our Tom to a ‘T’, and removing them from the hanger she asked  Mrs Clark if she could take them home for Tom to try on. Mrs Clark had the trousers folded and wrapped in brown paper and secured with string before Mum had got her mouth shut. When I got home I sensed there was something different the way Mum was carrying on. Then the mystery was cleared up as I was presented with a brown paper parcel and told, “right Thomas, get into your bed room and try on your new trousers” I was delighted, I wondered how much longer would it be until my patched shorts fell to pieces. Then I got the paper off and saw the pin stripe pattern. I felt sick. This had to be a joke. With pinstripe trousers and my old scruffy coat a tatty cap, I would look more like Charlie Chaplin than Charlie Chaplin. I transmitted my hurt feelings to my Mother and of course the balloon went up. I responded by being adamant, there was no way was I going out in the street to make a spectacle of myself. Someone would grab me and stick me in a wheelbarrow and put a card round my neck requesting alms for the guy to be burnt on Guy Fawkes’s night. Mum relented and grabbing her overstuffed handbag from the dresser drawers and with a glare at me she departed the front door a bit like the H.M.S. Sheffield leaving Immingham dock.

Arriving at Mrs Clarks Mum was soon in her element browsing jackets and caps. The outcome of this foray into men’s and youth’s wear was I departed for school the next day like someone going to a race meeting, all that was missing was the top hat and a pair of binoculars slung round my neck. The only time I had seen trousers like these was on Pathe News when the Prime Minister was going into no 10 Downing Street.On arriving at the schoolroom I opened the main heavy door and entered. Immediately the room which hithereto had been humming with activity suddenly fell silent as if Dracula had suddenly appeared. The schoolmaster was the first one to break the spell with a casual warbel, “good morning sir, can I be of assistance” then with a look of mock shock he followed with, “my word, it’s Sir Thomas Barker” With smirking glances from my fellow inmates and the odd remark, “ did you hurt yourself when you fell into those long trousers” and , next thing yu know he’ll be goin’ aht wi’ lasses”

After lunch the afternoon wore on. I glanced at the blotting paper wizard and noticed he had now turned his attentions to his ears. I leaned over and whispered, “would you like me to nip to the toilet and bring you a toilet roll?” With a puzzled look he replied, “wot fer?” I replied “Ah wus wunderin’ what yu wus goin’ to clean out next?” he just grinned and replied, “oh very droll”.

Then the Head Master wandered to my desk and reminded me to make sure I had everything out of the desk and to leave it clean. His parting shot as he turned to leave with a twinkle in his eye was “Don’t forget to come and see us when you become Prime Minister”. I went bright red and thought he was having a go at my pinstripes. He came back about ten minutes later and said, “you can go at three o’ clock if you wish, no point in dragging it out till the last minute”. Then from force of habit I was about to duck as his hand came up, but he held out his hand, and he smiled and said, “good luck anyway Tommy” Then he was gone, and suddenly it was like I had lost a good friend, I also had forgotten what my mother had told me to do, “ now Thomas, before you leave you thank the Headmaster, it is only good manners” she warbled. So at three o’ clock I got up from my desk and approached the Headmasters desk. And trying to remember Mum’s prompting I spouted, “Mr Aubry sir, I would like to thank you for your patience and time and I will not let the school down.” Mr Aubry beamed patted my head and walked me to the door. The door closed and to me it was a bit final, I no longer had any business in that schoolroom. When I got home Dad said, “If ah wus that big mester ah would ‘ave a good stock o’ big canes tu wup yu backside wi’” Mum said tartly, “ then it’s just as well you’re not”. I realized I was about to enter a new phase in my life where I would have to work to keep me.
The penny dropped so to speak as I realised that on Monday instead of coming to school I would be out looking for a job of work to do so I could pay my mother for bed and food. I was a bit apprehensive and thought how bloody silly I was going to look going to work in a muddy brickyard wearing pinstripe trousers. I thought I am going to miss sitting in the comfort of a warm classroom while out there one has to work, come rain or shine. I was suddenly swimming for dear life as the rushing waters of the flooded river swept me toward the waterfall where there was a sudden drop of a thousand feet. Well give or take a few hundred, and hanging on to the log, I don’t know how a log got into this but I clung on to it and we were being swept toward the foaming chasm. I was suddenly aware too that I was going to miss these Friday afternoons when the Head Master who was an ex Indian army soldier would sit behind his desk and transport us to the Kyber Pass and tell us tales of The British Army in India.

I was behind a huge boulder and creeping up behind me were hundreds of bearded wild hill men from the Kyber Pass waving huge swords and knives and I thought now how do I get out of this. Pet dogs and cats have a use, dogs catch rats and cats catch mice, pet budgies sing. So they get fed and looked after. The vision of me sitting on a sofa surrounded by silk hanging drapes and being fanned by a black slave while a buxom wench dropped grapes into my mouth suddenly evaporated.

I began to ponder what I was going to do for a crust, if I was not to become a victim to slow starvation.  I had read in books of the Tibetan monks garbed in their orange robes who would only have to walk down the streets of a village and their tin plates would be over flowing with food by the time they reached the exit. Having asked my Dad what was involved in becoming a monk he queried, “wot’chu wan’ tu becum’ a bloody munk fer?” “Well, they git grub fer nowt” said I. Dad said, “well, ah tell yu wat, m’lad yu go an’ git ter be a monk an’ ah’l lend thee me barrer, then yu can ger enough grub fer us all an’ visit at weekends, an’ ah weern’t need tu wurk no moor”. I knew my Dad was pulling my leg because he had that same look on his face as when he was trying to get the dog to fetch the morning paper. Dad would be sitting noshing on home cured bacon and fresh fried eggs for breakfast. I heard Dad talking to the chickens’ one day, “Any o’ you buggers lay an egg that’s not fresh an’ ah’ll stuff it back up” So with lashings of H.P. sauce and a plate of crusty fresh baked white bread which was sagging from the weight of fresh farm butter on top and a big mug full of hot sweet tea Dad would get stuck in. Now and then he would offer the dog a tit bit, in the shape of a bit of grissle that could not be chewed or something Dad did not like the look of, from his breakfast plate. The dog, which had been sitting there patiently watching every bite Dad took, was drooling all down the front of his paws and the surrounding mat was wet also. Sometimes Dad would glance at the dog and on seeing what looked like the raw white of an egg hanging from the dogs mouth he would growl at the dog, “ girrunder, just dun’t bloody sit theer droolin”.
Then it occurred to Dad the morning paper might be stuck through the front door letterbox. So Dad would say, “Fetch” and the dog’s ears would come up but he would stay looking at Dad with his head slightly on one side. Dad would sigh and his face would take on that pained look, “ stupid bloody dog” he muttered. Since I was an observer it occurred to me the dog was not as stupid as my dad made him out to be. The dog glanced at me with an inquiring look, and I could almost hear the dog thinking, “Fetch what, dummy?’ The dog was ready for off should my Dad make a move to get up out of his chair because the first time Dad said “ fetch” and the dog just sat there.

Dad gave him a swift kick in the nuts and the dog limped out into the yard like a hermit crab in heat. Dad remarked, “see it works every time, just let ‘em know who’s boss an’ they learn real quick”. Only trouble was we did not see the dog for the next three days, he kept well out of the way, probably because my Mother was feeding him on the quiet, also the dog wasn’t taking any more chances with his swollen nuts. Being alert I raced through to the front door and was back with the paper just as Dad finished addressing my now empty chair, and he now had a puzzled look on his face as I handed him the paper.

Dad would look at the paper then we would get an ear bashing about what the government ought to do about unemployment. Listening to my Dad convinced me no one else could milk a cow, mend a fence, or drink a pint of beer like he could. And one day I observed Dad in the farmer’s field, spreading manure and gasping at the rich aroma. I mistook the meaning and thought Dad must have swallowed some, because I heard one of the other workers say, “who Barker , tek no notice, he’s full o’shit.”

I also began to worry about not finding a job, I began to image what kind of a bruise would adorn my backside after my Dad booted me out of the house. I had visions of a big tattoo on one bum cheek that resembled a long double horseshoe of nails with three rows in the middle.  On reflection I am pleased my dad wore heavy blunt toed farm boots and not winkle pickers.

 Winkle pickers have a very long thin toe. If some one decides to give you a swift kick up the arse with a winkle picker, six lace holes of said boot could disappear into the orifice and the toe could dislodge any wisdom teeth that might be forming at the back of ones gums. But it was not guaranteed, so my Father rejected the idea of making money in his spare time as a dentist.

“Yu can cum back when yuv’ gor a job.” he would mutter, and stop chewing on his tobacco wad long enough to drown an earwig, SPLAT! that had been scuttling to safety and was now expiring upside down and with all legs going flat out like the needles of a Granny in a knitting marathon. Then he would continue muttering as he made for the back door of the house.

 Yea, salt of the earth, my Dad. And just as crusty. I need not have worried though, because my Mother was level headed and she was always three, no better make those five steps, ahead of me all the time. Good business woman my Mum, “Get off to bottom Hoppers and see if they want anybody”. She ordered. Dad came in “yu gor a job yit”? he growled “Dad, I on’y just gor in from school” I snivelled, “ I should be there yet till four o’ clock but Teacher said I could leave early.”  Dad said “well seein’ as ‘ow yu’ ‘as left school na’ yu can ‘elp me, yu kin start by choppin’ that wood up wot’s in’t back yard, an’ stack it in’t wesh’oose, an’ wen yu hev done thar ah’ll find thee summat else tu be goin’ on wi’. I thought to myself “my Dad is not as half asleep as he looks either”.I was used to coming home and reading my favorite comics until tea time, but now it looked like a whole new ball game. I was going to have to keep my wits about me if I was out think my Dad. Saturday and Sunday were like they had always been, but Monday morning was different in that my mother got me up earlier than usual and sort of casually steered the conversation toward working for a living and making good use of what one had learned at school. So while eating breakfast I mumbled it would be nice to walk in the park today. Mum was about to open the oven door, but stopped. I re-run in my mind what I had just said and was grateful I had not used a swear word.

 I could tell by the look on her face she had rewound the last two seconds of time in her mind and was replaying it.
Having digested my last remark her voice took on an edge as she put one hand on the back of my chair and one on the table, so I was more or less hemmed in, as it were. Like someone at a tennis match I was busy watching which hand was going to move first so I would know which way to duck. “You can forget walks in the park for a while my lad, you will get sick of walking by the time you have landed yourself a job” Mum warbled, eyes glaring.

Even then I learned something. Mum had been eating half moon shaped violet cashews, scented like violets. Totally different to my Dad when he got close, but it wasn’t my Dad’s breath that bothered me, although it was bad enough. My Dad chewed tobacco, my mother thought it a filthy habit. I reckoned that if my Dad had been around in the olden days he could have unhorsed the best knights in armor.

 All he had to do was step aside when Sir Dicko came charging at him with a lance. When he was in range, SPLAT right into his visor, my Dad could nail a cockroach with the juice from chewing ter’baccy at twenty feet, and the screaming with pain Sir Knight would be blinded for life. Not only that but the helmet would also corrode, so one could not sell it to a second hand dealer. I could just imagine it in a second hand shop window with a card stating, ‘One slightly used Knight’s helmet, going cheap”.

It would be gone by the weekend, eaten away by the acid in the chewing baccy, and the assistant looking at the pile of red dust would ponder, “I swear there was a shiny helmet there two days ago” And later on in the piece the horses would recognize Dad from a long way off and refuse to go near him. Sir Dicko would suddenly use his spurs and the horse would break wind and gallop away On spotting Dad the tail would come up and for the next twenty yards there would be enough horse manure to keep the local mushroom growers supplied for the next six months. Not only that but the horse with wind  as he galloped caused a bagpipe effect. Bagpipes make the noise they do because air is forced past a reed that under the right conditions vibrates and makes a noise. So it is with horses, if one has a horse that happens to be a bit tight in the disposal department and happens to have a turbulent tummy, the effects can be quite startling if not down right humorous. A mate and I were at a gymkhana in the local park one day. A young lady on a magnificent horse approached a jump near us and the young lady touched the spurs to the horse and the horse put effort in getting up speed for the jump. At each push for speed there was a rasping noise issued from the rear of the horse.

 As the horse went by there was a distinct waark, waark, waark, then as it bunched it’s muscles for the take off there was a long rasping waaaaaaaaark and the horse sailed over the obstacle. My friend turned to me and said, “ah reckon that bugger ‘as a jet up ‘is arse However I digress, let’s get back to doing what you want to do.

 Keep your gob shut and do it, because then you have achieved what you wanted to do. But if you advertise your intensions, then someone could say no, and if it is Mum or Dad who chuck the proverbial spanner into your works, you are juggling with your health if you persist in your venture. So I began to learn lots of little vices that were not taught at school and most of these kept me out of harms way so to speak. The town I lived in was called Barton-upon-Humber in Lincolnshire. U.K. In or near this tidy little market town were numerous industries. There were some farms on the outskirts of Barton. There was a whitening mill, there was also Hall’s Barton Rope Works. Brick and Tyle yards,( there were a few of these.) The Maltings. Clapson’s Shipyard.

The main one in town was Elswick Hopper Cycle & Motor co. Apparently they used to make motor bikes but not any more. Then there was Bottom Hoppers.

That was not an occupation. It was in fact the main factory where all the parts of the bicycle were made. Various sizes of steel tubing would be transported to Bottom Hoppers and would re-emerge as a bicycle once imported rubber pedals, handle bar grips, tyres, reflectors and transfers had been added. In those days a new bike would cost anywhere between 10 to 30 pounds sterling and a youth starting work could acquire one from the local dealer for about half a crown a week, with ten bob as a down payment.

There was also a Top Hoppers which was about a mile away at the other end of the town. Here most of the brighter people, brighter in that they could type or write letters better than most. When I heard my mother say “they won’t even look at him at Top Hoppers, he’s not bright enough” At first I was hurt, not because I was a dummy, but because my Mother thought I was a dummy. I consoled myself with the fact that if they were so smart why did I always know when it was going to rain and they didn’t. Also I knew how to build a straw stack, milk cows, kill and dress a pig, shoe a horse, when to set seed and in which field. I figured that if the world came to an end tomorrow I would be able to feed myself, but all these so called clever buggers would starve with no shops to buy food at. I also knew that babies were not found under the rhubarb leaves at the bottom of the garden.

 The stalk was responsible. I never once got wet, while they huddled into doorways waiting for the rain to cease so they could go to the market place and wait for a bus to take them home wet through. I always had oilskins rolled up in my saddlebag, well I was bright enough to know when it rained I would also get wet when every one else did. I knew God would not point a finger at me and thunder “just don’t wet him, O.K., stuff the others” Can you imagine everyone walking through the pouring rain while I am walking in a sunny patch all the time. Like the lead dancer on stage with the spotlight shining on him/her all the time following him/her around. If only I could get that lucky, but with my luck even if that did happen I would finish up with sunstroke anyway. Or in the olden days I would have been burnt at the stake.

 “Mam”
“What now?”
“I want a ‘at”
“Aye, I want a lot of things”
“ What if I get sunstroke?”
“ You are not likely to get sunstroke sitting there reading that comic”
“But I need a ‘at to go look fer a job”
“Get a job then we’ll think about a hat”
I might just as well have saved my breath, once Mum made her mind up that was it. My elder sister Betsy worked at Top Hoppers as a packer. My other three sisters were still at school.
Then I thought some one must have shot the stork or perhaps a fox got it.

Hoppers made the cycles at Bottom Hoppers and transported them to Top Hoppers for packing and shipping to places all over the world. They achieved this by having two sets of horses and carts specially made for transporting bicycles. Every day the shoppers could hear the horses clip clopping down King St and George St then Finkle Lane. Well almost anyone who was not deaf could hear them. At Top Hoppers there was a yard where all the wooden crates were made. There were saw noises, hammers hammering in nails presumably, and lots of other noises that led one to believe that someone was indeed bent on earning his wage packet at the end of the week. Then there were the packing buildings, and adjoining these were the offices. The offices of Hoppers employed a multitude of young ladies as typists, and I think most of these thought the next stop was Hollywood. I walked past one day as they were leaving and it looked just like M.G.M had just opened it’s big gates and all the talent came streaming out. I said “hello” as I was passing two young ladies, it was a polite thing to do because I had made eye contact. Well, what I mean is, I noticed how nice and polished the shoes were.

 And as my eyes travelled up the legs and took in the strait seams of the stockings and pretty dresses, my gaze wandered up until I saw two pairs of eyes gazing at me as though I was from another planet.

I always thought those girls wore too much eye shadow make up. I was informed that some did not use it, so I deduced it was bruising caused by the heavy lashes whipping up and down like the shutters of a signal lamp on a battleship spelling out Morse code.

Eyelashes like the blinkers on a horse flicked up and down and I thought it’s a wonder they don’t get brain damage or cause the ears to crack and drop off.

They looked at me as though I was something unpleasant they had just stepped in on a hot day. Mind you as a youth I admit I was no Robert Taylor. But then I did not resemble Frankenstein’s monster either. The two girls decided not to scream and run off, they just glanced at each other and decided I was harmless, and with a little sniff, stuck two noses in the air and sailed away, like two toy boats on a pond in a stiff breeze.

So it had to happen. Having got up earlier than usual I walked down to Bottom Hoppers. I walked past all the little windows which in summer time were open onto the street, allowing me to look in and see all the men and some times a woman working at a lathe turning metal into various shapes, spindles for wheels and pedals. There was the constant hum of high activity as wheels spun and canvas belts with metal clasps joining the ends together raced toward a pulley wheel, clacked, spun round it and raced back to the other wheel to clack again, and so on all day. As I watched, a youth pulling a trolley arrived at one of these lathes and with a nod to the operator proceeded to unload the bars of round steel, each about a foot long onto the bench next to the lathe. Having emptied his trolley the youth now loaded some finished spindles onto the trolley and moved away picking his nose and eventually moved out of sight. For a while I watched fascinated as wisps of steel curled like a spring being made from the round bar spinning in the jaws of the chuck on the lathe, and wisps of pale blue smoke arose as the cooling milk (thin white oil) poured in a thin stream from a small pipe that was directed onto the hard steel bit to cool it. The cooling oil would collect in a tray just below the lathe and be returned into the milk tank where it would be pumped through again having cooled from its journey round the system.
There was also a smell of hot oil coming out of those little windows. I arrived at the big roll up door and on entering I observed an office window sparkling clean to my right. The man sitting at the desk got up on seeing me and walked to the office door.

He opened it stuck his head out and queried “waddyowant” I asked him “oo do ah see fer a job” He said “ come in here young un” He turned sideways with his back to the door as if fearing I would pick his hip pocket or subject him to an offence.

 Then holding the door open and with a sweep of his arm like a matador teasing a bull, invited me into the office.
His manner reminded me of the bloke in front of the posh hotels, uniform, peaked cap with scrambled egg on the tip, long row of medals. Except this bloke had on a white shirt, collar and tie, navy blue trousers which were struggling to contain his beer gut and a pair of highly polished black down at the heel shoes. Hell, this bloke was only a timekeeper, yet he acted as if he owned Hoppers.

 I walked into the office and he beckoned me to a seat.
“Where do you live?” he asked suddenly, pencil poised over a pad.
“’Ere” I said
“Wadduyu mean, ere?” he asked
“Barton” I said.
“So do I” he said.
“Lucky you , yu don’t ev tu catch a bus tu get tu werk”, I said
“Where abouts in Barton?” he asked, his voice rising.
“Market Place” I replied.
“Oh, where abouts in Market Place?” he asked, the pencil waiting to stab the paper.
“Corner Café,” I replied. “number eleven”
“I know where that is”, he wrote some thing down.
“So do I, ah live theer”  I quipped.
What’s yuh name?” he queried.
“ No, ahm no relation tu Whatt” I said
“So your name is?”said he, ignoring my feeble attempt at wit.
“Same as folk as live theer, said I.
“So what is their name?” he whispered, dropping the pencil on the table.
“Same as mine, well it would be app’n.” said I.
He paused and looked a bit trapped.

 Then brightened up and grabbing a piece of paper from his desk and retrieving the pencil he came back and said, “write your name, age, and address on theer then go up theer and report to Mr Wood”, and he indicated a door not too far away. Because I hesitated he asked, “you can write?”
“yis, an’ draw” I replied.
“Aw a clever bugger, well seein’ as ‘ow us meks bikes an’ not pittures, we can’t use yer talents, but if yer can manage tu learn somethin’ new we can use yer, now gi’ us yu name and address, ah ‘avn’t gor’ all dae, ger on wiv’ it.
Having being brought up on a farm I taught myself to watch the body language of animals and it not only kept me out of trouble on the farm but I was to find out later in life it was a handy tool to have. So I noticed the change from the King’s English to the not unpleasant Lincolnshire dialect with its  thine, thou, and thee, and dropped letters when some one got uptight and spoke as a native instead of a Dux of the school from Oxford University. Having written my name and address on the paper I departed the office and sauntered to the door the office bloke had indicated and on looking back, the bloke in the office was wiping his neck with his handkerchief and looked like he was about to cry. I knocked but got no answer so after a long enough wait I opened the door and noise met me. There was no wonder my knock went unanswered, there was so much noise in this place it was like bedlam.

Then a grey haired bloke was asking me to step outside so we could talk. Having parleyed for five minutes about this and that he led me to a big building and upon entering, it was a lot quieter than the one we had just left. We walked up some steps and I found myself looking down at people working on the ground floor. We were in fact on a kind of balcony that went all round the inside of this huge building. The people on the floor were assembling bicycles from parts that were placed at points around them.

The grey haired bloke was talking to me. “So yu git this bit of stick an’ yu grab a rubber grip ah’ta that theer car’boord box an’ yu whack sum o’ this sticky gunk inta it from aht o’ that tin ‘eer, an’ wi’ yu stick yu wiggle it abaht so yu gits enough in tu mek a good job. An’ wen yu’v put two grips on one handle bar yu put finished job ower theer and it’ll dry aht an’ somebody ull cum an’ git um when they is ready-----for um—ap’n. After a bit of thought, he continued with, “an when it’s lunch time don’t fergit tu put t’lid on’t tin o’ sticky, ‘cos it’l go ‘ard , ap’n. So at lunchtime I put the lid on the bike solution and joined the other bloke about same age as me, and we sat and had a sandwich and a drink. He also had been at the same school as me but he had left the year earlier. But what a boring job, and getting up at five every morning. Summer time came round and as the weather warmed I was almost asleep by ten in the morning. I was startled one day by the bloke who worked near me, “ never seen a bloke asleep stood up before, how do you do that without falling over?” he asked grinning. I was embarrassed and we both laughed as I discovered the glue stick was firmly held by glue inside the rubber handle bar grip. Friday night was pay night, and for my labors, from six in the morning till six at night, I got the princely sum of eight shillings and six pence. When I got home I got another shock, my mother had her hand out before I got through the door. Having handed over my meagre earnings I cheered up as my mother handed me a ten bob note. I was thinking, ‘if I put half of it away I can soon save up’ But Mum was in front as usual.

“Right I have had words with Mr Franklin and you can go get a new bike, that ten shillings is the deposit needed, and you will go pay him two shillings and six pence every week till its paid for. Mum had spoken.

“MUM”!
“WHAT?’
“What about me pocket money?”
“ You are paying for your new bike with it”
“Shit, I don’t believe this”
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?’
“Kit, I need to clean me bike Mum.
Mum cruised away like one of the dreadnoughts of ww1 steaming out to sea. Skirts and pinny fluttering in the breeze just like some one was hoisting bunting with a message “prepare for battle, action stations, ding ding ding. I got the message and I got lost till Mum cooled off a bit. I got so I could quote my Mum to a ‘T’ “I spend all my life slaving over a hot stove so you can make pigs of your selves. What thanks do I get, I wash all the floors, make all the beds, sweep the yard, look after the shop,” and one of Mum’s favourites was “ and if I get a policeman calling here it had better not be on account of you Thomas my lad. My four sisters could do no wrong, but if Thomas blinked out of turn woe betide him. I did the poke the stick bit into the glue tin then poke it into the rubber grip and twirl it all around and push the grip onto the handle bar until I was so bored.

 And when the foreman came and reprimanded me once “shit, you’ve bin’ ‘ere for two ‘ours and that’s all yu’ hev got dun. At first I was upset, I was used to it from my Dad, but I had never been spoken to like this from anyone except perhaps Constable Cook. So perhaps I could be forgiven for day dreaming as I worked. I put the stick in the glue tin and turned the stick so it collected more glue then I offered it into the rubber grip.

 In my mind it was somewhere else and I hoped it would set too-oo-ooo quickly to be removed, and the foreman would not be able to use the toilet and he would blow up with a bang and the walls would turn to a sickly beige colour. And following boys just left school coming up here to do this boring job would casually be informed that the present décor was gratis a la former foreman. So one day I just walked to the foreman and said “I would like to move to another job, and I was mildly surprised when he grinned and said O.K. and did he mumble “thank f—k for that?” I was taken to another building where bicycle frames were being pickled in a hot solution which put a kind of frost on them enabling the enamel which they were to be covered with to stick better with out chipping off at the slightest knock. I was introduced to a tall skinny bloke who was about six feet in height who was wearing a flat cap faded blue shirt and thigh boots, covering most of his front was a orange coloured rubber apron.

‘God, what was I getting into here’? I thought.
The tall bloke took me over to a huge wooden vat full of steaming liquid and I saw bicycle frames suspended from wire hooks hanging from cross members across the top of the vat. I also saw that the wooden vats were lined with lead and at one point an electric cable was connected to the lead and another was connected to the cross members the frames were hanging from.
From my observations I deduced that an electric current was flowing through the cable into the lead and on into the liquid through the steel bicycle frames.

 Then it carried on through the wire hooks and passing along the metal cross members which were insulated from the lead bath they were resting on and finally down the other wire thus making a complete circuit. In like manner I believe chrome and other types of décors can be deposited onto metal to enhance or protect it. Near us was another set of vats being looked after by a shorter more thickset man. I learned later he responded to the name of Tich. The tall bloke said “I will show you how to do this”.
Taking a bicycle frame from a trolley nearby he took a wire hook from a collection of hooks on a nail on the wall and hooked it on to the frame.

 Then offering the frame into the hot liquid of a vat he hung the frame from one of the crossbars.
“D’y’reckon yu can du that” he asked.
“Er, ah think so” I replied, and took hold of a frame.

But the bloke said “ hang on, we need tu get yu into some gear afore yu gits wet through”. I looked a right Charlie dressed in thigh boots, an orange apron and flat cap. The boots were two sizes too big because I had to walk two paces before the boots would move. They had to cut a bit off the apron because when the boots did finally move I kept tripping over my surplus, apron that is. So to begin with it was a right comedy of errors, and Tich said he was going home early because he had gut ache through laughing so much. When the tall bloke asked him if he would be in to work tomorrow, Tich replied “of course, this is gittin’ better than the bloody circus.” I didn’t know it at the time but these two blokes sort of took me under their wing and I did as I was told and kept my mouth shut and we got on well as a team.