ELSWICK HOPPER CYCLES PART 2

I soon got into the swing of things and the change made a lot of difference to my outlook on life. Now at least I had some one to talk to through the day, and it made the time go a lot quicker.

Sometimes at lunch time we would just sit on a pile of sacks and having eaten would talk about the local football team or what was on at the cinema, and as often as not the odd crude joke would pop up.

"Oh, her as work in Taddy's,?"
 Taddy was the foreman in one of the other departments and the speaker was referring to one of the buxom young wenches that worked there.

"yea, that's the one,"
"d'yu' reckon she might?"
"oi dunno, niver troid"
" well thee is married aint'chu"
"That don't make no never moind"
" well I wouldn't chuck me cap at it"
" what make thee think she would go out with thee"
" wot's wrong wi me then?" brideling.

Then the plant manager appeared and all the patter ceased.
"What's that lad doing here?", he snapped, glaring at me.
The tall bloke said, "'e's ma new 'elp"
"All right, get on with your work" he snapped, again glaring at me.
I thought, shit, we got a right one 'ere.

When the ogre had left I asked the tall bloke, "who was that then, God?" The tall bloke and Tich looked at each other for about two seconds then Tich collapsed on a pile of sacks and the tall bloke bent over and putting his hands on his knees he was bent over and both were laughing and Tich took out a rag and wiped his eyes. After that I was one of the lads.

To go to the toilet during working hours was a bit of a hazard. One of the reasons for this was the fact that it was the focal point for most blokes who were dodging work or having a sneaky smoke. The blokes would also compare football tickets and cries of, "that's it, I'm buyin' no more of these bloody things, y'nivver win owt", and the offending ticket would be thrown into the loo and the chain pulled.

Smoking was forbidden in the work place because of inflammable materials. I opened the door to this haven of comfort to those who were in peril from nature. Well this was the conclusion I came to because one day when I was sitting reading while obeying the call of nature and the door crashed open and a scuffling of feet as the bloke looked desperately for an empty cubicle.

 Having found one there was another crash as the door was slammed shut and the bolt shot home. A smaller bang as the wooden round lid was removed and dropped onto the wooden seat.. Then I heard a noise that reminded me of a cow in a paddock, who having lifted her tail clear deposited a huge green flapjack onto the grass. On the spur of the moment I said "bet you feel better now?" And a voice quavered " yea, bur ah 'aven't got me f-n' trousers down yet!" Sometimes when I went in there to 'strain me taters', I had to battle to get the door open.

 There would be so many blokes in there skiving, and the air would be so thick with tobacco smoke that it made ones eyes water. Also the smell caught one's breath sometimes. Someone suggested we open a window, while another wit added "that would be like tryin' tu crap through the eye uv a needle, what we need in 'ere is a f-n' big exhaust fan.

I was in one day, standing, washing down the lime, when who should walk in but the manager. Where just a moment before the place had been like Widdycomb Fair, it now emptied like magic. All that was left were trails of smoke from discarded cigarette butts lying on the floor and lots of skid marks where someone had been stood. I listened to the patter of feet as the escapees of the crap house retreated back to their labours, each hoping the manager would not be able to remember their faces.

I gazed at the white washed wall as I became aware the manager was now standing beside me. And he assisted me in washing down the wall. Should I leave or finish what I was doing, I felt threatened. Then he spoke while inspecting the wall in front of him, "how long have you worked here young man?" he rasped.
"About a week" I warbled.
"Sir" he glared.
"Yes sir" I said.
"Well, don't let me catch you in here skiving, got it?" he barked
"yes, I mean no sir" and I was out of there so fast I wet my leg.

Saturday was always the day everything shut down in our department and we emptied the vats. I would get into the now empty vats and with a spade I would fill a bucket with what looked like grey mud and hand it over to the tall bloke who in turn emptied it into a wheel barrow. Once the wheelbarrow was full I had to wheel it outside and dump it onto a heap the size of which indicated that a lot of lads before me had done likewise.

There must have been years and years of barrow tippings out there. And with my imagination, having seen the silent film in sepia "The Red Shadow" I saw all these heaps as the desert and imagined if I keep walking would I come to an Arab village. But I came back to earth and tipped the barrow and came back in, and then I got the brush to sweep out the ovens.

A bicycle frame has two tiny holes in the V piece that holds the back wheel. These are pegged with what look like little toothpicks, to keep out the water. Once the frames have been dipped they are stacked in a huge oven heated by steam and this dries them out. On Saturdays the steam to the ovens is turned off and the ovens cleaned.

This particular Saturday as I was about to go and sweep out the ovens the tall bloke stopped me and said, "the doors to no 2 oven are closed, leave 'em closed and whatever you do don't turn on the steam".
I said "O.K." and was puzzled.
So armed with my brush I began sweeping out no1 oven, and I could hear someone giggling.
I listened and it sounded like there was some one in the oven next door. I pretended not to notice but I knew something was afoot, well if she was lucky it might be. I was nearly right because about half an hour later as the tall bloke and I were sitting on the sacks having a snack.

Who should stroll through from the oven area but Tich with a grin like a Cheshire cat on his face

The tall bloke had a smile on his face as he asked "did thee fix it then" and Tich replied, "yea, but it will need another course of lookin' at next week, and they both exchanged meaning glances.

Then a girl with a mop of ginger hair came in and she was pre-occupied combing her hair and painting her mouth with lipstick, having done that she wriggled a bit as she pulled down on her dress. I thought how stupid could you get, sitting in an oven with the door locked, it was obvious to me that they had got in and the tall bloke had put the catch on outside.

It could have happened, someone could have turned on the steam and they both would have been cooked like turkeys, the oven doors were so thick no one would have heard cries for help. A tragic accident could have been the outcome of a sex prank. Even more tragic was the fact the girl was married and lived in ++++ While Tich was married and lived with his wife in ****

Anyone arriving late for work at six a.m. prompt were locked out till eight a.m. and of course if one was late too many times then that one was the first to be laid off if orders became scarce and the work force cut back.

One day we were busy as usual dipping and drying when I saw the big workshop near ours was being perused by a couple of well dressed blokes with tape measures and notebooks. They went away and a couple of days later some workmen came in and began tearing up the floor. Speculation was rife, it was going to be an indoor dog track, and no, it was going to be a small cinema for the blokes who had caught up on their work so they could go in and relax.
Soon some more blokes came in and laid a new concrete floor, but there were metal angles sticking up out of the concrete so obviously some thing big was going to be built. About a month later it was all finished and we watched with awe as old Bill was shown how to work this new monster. Old Bill was an ex ww1 vet and he had white hair and a huge white moustache, he looked like a left over from Napoleon's Old Guard.

Bill had been pouring enamel over bicycle frames by hand, a slow and laborious job. Then they would be put into a stove and when the stove was full the big double doors would be closed and a bar put across. Then the steam would be turned on and the frames would be baked until the enamel was so hard it became brittle like a porcelain skin.

But now we watched with open mouths as a noise not unlike a jet engine starting up and the hooks in rows began to move forward toward the front of the machine. If you have ever seen the tracks on a tank as it goes into action in wartime, well this machine was a bit like that. It was a huge oblong shape and it had a track that stretched right across with hooks hanging down to hang bicycle frames on. So Old Bill would stand at the far end of it, and as a row of hooks slowly advanced toward him he would grab frames, dip them into a huge bin full of enamel and fill up the hooks. By the time he had filled that row of hooks the next lot would present itself to be filled. Meanwhile all the filled hooks would convey all the now enamelled frames up into the top of the huge Oblong where they were baked in the very hot air generated by gas jets.

A frame would be dipped at one end. At the other end a bloke would remove the now fully baked, enameled frame and stack it on a trolley ready to be transported to the next stage. The time taken by the frame from being dipped to being removed at the other end was approx forty minutes.

If old Bill got a call of nature he would have to call some one to take over his job because the machine could not be stopped and started indiscriminately. When started in the morning a wait of about half an hour was needed so the temperature in the top ensured the frames got baked properly. The tall bloke said "they can keep that bloody job, who wants to be a slave to a soddin' machine?"

Then one day a bloke came into the workshop and we were having lunch, sitting on the sacks and chatting.
"Any body wan' a ticket?" he warbled.
"Wot's 'e floggin'?" I asked the tall bloke.
"Aw, yu don' wan' any o' they things" he said, "waste o' money".
They were little pink or some times lime green tickets folded over and crimped on three edges. Having bought one or some, one would tear off the crimped bits and open the ticket and if you had the name of the horse that won the next race at some meeting then you could win as much as fifty pounds. Or a small amount and with a bit of luck you could break even. Fortunately I never got into the habit, my philosophy was "why work all week to give it to someone else. One day I was busy checking a frame for dents due to clumsy handling by some of the workers, when I saw a girl pushing a trolley with frames on it. She pushed it to where old Bill could snap up the frames to dip.

 Then took hold of an empty trolley and pushed it through the door and the door closed. Then I found myself watching the door hoping to catch sight of her again. When it was time to go home every one would congregate at the roll up door waiting for it to open. And who should be about three feet away but the girl of the trolley, she was gorgeous. Then I remembered the girls of Top Hoppers and my ardour was cooled, no I was not about to make a fool of myself. But for the next couple of months I was on cloud nine, thinking one day we will bump into each other.
But it never happened, I did not even know her name, all I could find out was she had moved here with her family from some where near Sheffield. I was moved from that shed a few months later and was deposited in the frame lining dept. If you were to look at an Elswick Hopper bicycle you will find the more expensive ones had transfers stuck on them, they were also lined with gold paint, usually on all the tube work one could find double fine gold lines running up the tube to decorate it. A bicycle finished thus was a joy to the eye indeed. I was instructed in this art and while I was practicing to get perfection whilst doing other things I got bored with the whole thing. I missed the happy atmosphere of the dipping shed and perhaps the chance to meet the girl. I thought I would put myself out of my misery and go away from Hoppers altogether. I gave a week's notice and left, I was fifteen.
 

       T.O.B.1997© Tam