June 1954 to July 1956

Scene 2 – Growing Up

ith so many of us to fit into the bungalow at Talacre, Bal and I now used our tent on a semi-permanent basis. In fact, I remember we had once spent the night, in warm weather, camping on the grassy slopes of Helsby Hill. We would not do that today. However, it was safe to do so then, and we rather enjoyed it.

Dad arrived at Talacre one weekend, with a huge animal in the back of the car - it was a dog, Sammy, a foxhound. Apparently, the owners had wanted a good home for this overgrown puppy and dad, thinking of mum on her own at Thornton, decided that she needed a dog. Well, mum was not the least bit happy, and neither were our two cats that spat and hissed at the dog, which jumped around and barked. There was turmoil in the bungalow, with not a little shouting and snarling from the human occupants

The outcome was that we kept the dog, and the cats. Over the coming days, then weeks, we all got to know each other and enjoyed the newfound company. Sammy was learning all the time, was very friendly, and soon got used to the cats - and they him. Come the winter months we actually witnessed the spectacle of the cats cuddling up into the warmth of the dog. A heart-warming sight. Sammy became an indispensable member of the family.

n the summer of 1954 I sat my GCE ‘O’ Level examinations. The results came out in the middle of August and, shock, horror, I had passed only four subjects, namely English language, geography, art and woodwork. We did not get grades in those days; it was either pass or fail. Anyway, it was a bare minimum to continue into the sixth form, with the understanding that I would take re-sits as appropriate. Naturally, we were all very disappointed, as this was the first major evidence that I was not very bright. In fact, whilst I will not bother disputing that, I will defend myself and say that I think I was a slow learner. That’s my side of the story anyway.

So I was to start in the sixth form - and we were still required to wear not only our full uniform but also our school caps.

Before then, however, we had the two Pollard boys from France to stay with us. I suppose they just mucked in with the rest of us, and did what we wanted them to do, but it was always hard work just speaking to them, then repeating it slowly. None of us - of course - ever spoke one word of their language - as though it were beneath our dignity.

went to London on my own, staying in the Caterham and Farnborough areas with Aunts and Uncles. I used to love going to London, visiting the sights and particularly the National Gallery and the Museums. A favourite spot to relax was in the news theatre. There were many of these dotted all over London. They were small cinemas that showed a continuous programme of newsreels, and cartoons, the show lasting one hour before the cycle started again. Many a person must have found that hour so useful, after all the legwork outside. I was sad when I returned to London, some years later, to find that every single news cinema had closed down.

hroughout these years the lives of all of us at Thornton were dominated by the chickens we kept - hundreds of them. We had to take it in turns to feed them - twice a day - scattering grit in their pens. Our chicks had a hot evening meal, would you believe, made up of things like potato peelings, general edible kitchen garbage, all the bits of the rotting and wasted vegetables from the garden, all mixed up with their own bran flour.

In exchange, they would deliver many dozens of eggs that we officially sold. I do not think dad ever had it in mind to become a full-time smallholder - he merely enjoyed doing it, and considered it a cheap source of food. Naturally, he wanted to break even. We even had an incubator, and were able to watch baby chickens hatch out.

Moreover, yes, we did eat chicken; dad was the one who killed them, but the rest of us could pluck them quite effectively, with mum and Pill being the experts at ‘drawing’ them (pulling their insides out).

After we had been at Thornton for a year or so, we erected a couple of new chicken huts in the front woods. This had a two-fold purpose - firstly to release the ground for yet more vegetable garden, at the back, and secondly to give the chickens fresh pastures to peck away at all day. Now the only way to touch a hen, let alone pick one up, is late at night when they are huddled on their perches. So around eleven o’clock one Saturday night we all stood to - a proper military exercise this - and one-by-one we moved a couple of hundred hens from perches in their old coops, to perches in their new dwellings. There was a hell of a lot of clucking, I can tell you; and when a hen starts squirming in your hands, and you keep a firm hold, then it tends to either prematurely release an egg, or some other bowel product. It was a bit of a nightmare for us all, but the job was done. Next morning there were just a few stragglers who had rested for the night in the trees, and had not been spotted for the move.

These damn chickens, ducks and turkeys, seemed to rule our lives.

n June ’55 I took two more ‘O’ Levels, passing history and maths. So now my score of six GCE’s was looking like a good national average (for grammar school pupils) and, in fact, was quite respectable. Although we did not get grades, I did learn later that I had 70% for my history exam. However, I wasn’t really doing anything with my academic life, and apart from studying ‘A’ Level art and geography I was unsure what to do next; my contemporaries were all taking three ‘A’ levels - it now being deemed too late for me to take history.

n other areas, I seemed busy enough. I entered The Dee Mile for the first time - this was an annual race in the river Dee, finishing underneath the suspension bridge in The Groves at Chester. I had trained a couple of times, which meant hiring a rowing boat on the Saturday, with some friends, then rowing all the way to the White House - a well known local landmark and Public House, then jumping into the river Dee and swimming all the way back again. I had little difficulty with this, although it was very tiring, and I completed the race itself somewhere in the middle of the field. It is interesting to recall the ‘experts’ (not all of whom beat me - but most did) who covered themselves with some kind of tar to keep out the cold. In an effort to be one of the boys, I attempted it just once with a small jar of Vaseline, spreading it over my torso, arms and legs, but the stuff got everywhere - even though it was in sparse quantities - that I gave up the idea. I am sure it did not help keep out the cold for anyone.

eading something of a what I then regarded to be a full life, I started collecting autographs of famous people, namely Peter Haigh who was then a TV personality, (he was visiting Chester Theatre for some obscure reason); Trevor Bailey, the England cricketer, (who came to the Grammar school), and Sir Mortimer Wheeler, an eminent archaeologist (and TV personality), who gave a lecture in the Town Hall (and I was encouraged to attend). Unfortunately, that was the end of my autograph collection, perhaps because no more celebrities came my way.

next wrote an article for the school magazine (called The Inkwell) ‘How not to pass a driving test.’ Not a good style of writing, yet again, but it recalled my failed first attempt (wearing school blazer and cap), and my successful second attempt. As the ‘school artist’- but of limited skill, I can assure you - I produced a few cartoons for the school magazine.

ooking at a future career, perhaps something to do with art, the necessary qualifications for any University course was five ‘O’ Levels, which included English language, maths and French and two ‘A’ Levels - usually of acceptable subjects for the course being undertaken. So with my increasing confidence in the two ‘A’ Levels I was taking (art and geography), and the fact that I had already got most of the required ‘O’ Levels (I just couldn’t pass that damned French exam) it looked as though a university sojourn would come my way; naturally I couldn’t help thinking this way, along with all the other sixth formers.

Nevertheless, would you believe it, for any course in Fine Art it was necessary to have ‘O’ Level Latin. (This is where the ‘A’-stream swots came into their own). So I started taking lunchtime lessons in an attempt to get ‘O’ level Latin. My teacher had said it was possible ‘with determination and application,’ but after a term or so, I caved in; it was hard work, and I had no motivation in a dead subject, and with my limited intelligence I had to be realistic. I was a non-starter for such an enterprise.

However, for reasons that escape me there were possibilities in other types of art course, and I had interviews at both Reading and Newcastle Universities. As ever, the outcome was dependent on a successful result in my ‘A’ Level.

he Pollards now wrote from Paris, inviting themselves to stay with us at Thornton Green House! Therefore, we had Monsieur et Madame and the two boys. Madame Pollard and Jean were the bright ones in that family, whilst Jacques was a bit dim - like his father, who spoke not one word of English. Obviously, Madame Pollard had given up trying to coerce Monsieur into learning our lingo. I can always remember the fear of us all as Monsieur Pollard took us to Chester in his Citroen, and the way he beat up the narrow country lanes, driving on the wrong side of the road, and without ‘due care and consideration.’

Brian pretty well managed to vanish for the duration of their visit, and it was carefully planned that I was able to disappear after a discreet couple of days, to visit ‘an ailing uncle’ a long way away. My room was being given up to an old friend of Madame Pollards, her English teacher from before the war. We had been looking forward to the arrival of this teacher, thinking she’d be full of vitality, but an old crow arrived who chain-smoked throughout her stay, and added little to the conversation.

Madame Pollard was full of her invites for us all to go to Paris, including father, but I do not know what excuses mum gave this time. I was away and thankfully out of it.

n fact, I now had a holiday, staying with relatives, firstly in the Braunton and Barnstaple area, then moving on to Exeter, and finally making my way to Farnborough. All my travelling, between places, was by railway, except for travel to London when I used the Green Line coaches.

I thoroughly enjoyed that holiday, for some reason. Perhaps it was the first time that I was ‘on my own’ without other members of the family. Perhaps this was my first experience of being a ‘young adult’ and being treated as such - going on my own round Exeter Cathedral, for example, not to mention two or three trips to London. In addition, it gave me the opportunity to see again places like Clovelly, Teignmouth, Lynton and Lynmouth, Ilfracombe, Saunton - and many others besides.

Sundays were always days of rest - and church, or chapel. I was one of those, like mum, who could fit in easily with the Sunday requirements of our hosts; if they were members of the Methodist chapel (and most of them were), then that was fine by us, but we could have fitted equally well into Congregational or Church of England services.

The only shops open on Sundays were bakeries and newsagents - for the morning only. Therefore, the day of rest was set, Sunday suits were the order of the day, with Chapel in the morning and a massive Sunday lunch afterwards. Then a bit of shut-eye or reading of the papers. Perhaps a walk, then sandwiches and cake and tinned fruit for tea, before the evening service.

Sunday half-hour on the wireless was a must, with a cup of tea and meat sandwiches, and then one started to think about turning in. The one big clanger I dropped, and I cannot be blamed for this, was asking an uncle in Braunton which Sunday papers they read. We always had the Sunday Express, and I thought that if they had it as well then perhaps I might indulge and get something different (not the naughty Screws of the World, of course).

“We don’t have Sunday papers in our house, David. This is the day of the Lord, and we give our time and thoughts to him.” I was suitably chastened.

ow it all happened I cannot quite recall, but mum and Dots finally said that they would go to France instead of Brian and me. No doubt, it was an effort to save the family name, and I am sure that yet again some suitable reason was found for my not being able to go. So off they went, and faced a bit of raw French life as it could have only been experienced in the early fifties.

Madame Pollard was a strict teacher of English, and was ensuring that her sons would be able to speak it perfectly. She also did her best to make mum and Dots speak French too - demanding that they learn a few words every day! At least they saw a bit of Paris, and went with their hosts to a chalet in the Alps (where the toilet pot was emptied on the cabbages, according to Mum). So this put them off the raw food, and the raw, unwashed – so they alleged - vegetables.

They were so glad to get back to England, and civilisation; and I was so glad that I had not gone to France. Because of their ‘horrifying’ experience (all largely a matter of gross distortion, fantasy and exaggeration, but I did not realise that at the time), my interest in everything French ceased at that moment.

he revised National Service Registrations Act meant that in three years time you did not have to register - or join up - until you were nineteen years old. That did not help me now, and shortly after my eighteenth birthday, I had to go to Chester and register. As I was in full-time education, I would not be called up - until it ceased.

Things did not bode well for those joining up at this time, as a state of emergency was now declared in Cyprus - a likely trouble spot for the future.

n December 1955, the grammar school put on Shakespeare’s King Henry IV Part I - for which I was the Prompt. I don’t recall how I obtained that role, but the experience allowed me to boast many years later that I had done every back-stage and amateur production job going, even wardrobe, if you count designing costumes.

t would be timely to mention that I did a lot of dancing in these fifth and sixth-form years. One good thing that came out of our move to Thornton, was that we - Dots and I, with encouragement from Pill and Pete – became involved with the local, and nearby parishes - Thornton, Elton, Alvanley and Ince - and their dance evenings. These sometimes consisted of evenings of square dancing, which I actually enjoyed. We then graduated from this to Helsby Rec, the Mersey View Hotel (Frodsham), Ellesmere Port Civic Hall, Quaintways of Chester, Clemences (Chester), The Assembly Rooms at Chester - and so on.

The highlight for all of us would be to see Blackpool Illuminations - which we did just about annually - and finish in the Tower Ballroom for a dance. We were always in awe of the grandeur of this venue, and loved doing the quickstep all the way around its considerable perimeter.

Consequently, I was quite a nifty little dancer at the quickstep, and the waltz, and various native dances like the Gay Gordons, the Velita or the barn dance. I particularly liked it when the latter was a progressive dance. However, I shrank away from such dances as the foxtrot and the samba - as I was lacking in the necessary rhythm. New Year’s Eve’s were therefore spent at a dance, somewhere or other - with the ritual National Anthem after the last dance.

There was the occasional dance organised by the sixth form of both the boys’ and the girls’ schools. Invariably these were based on excuses like the ‘Inter-Schools Dance’, or with lovely titles like ‘Sir Jasper’s Re-union Ball’, and they were held in Chester itself. I don’t think the school approved of these do’s, but ignored them - in fact, part of their popularity stemmed from the fact that you obtained your tickets surreptitiously, and spoke in hushed tones about the forthcoming function. Therefore, just about every sixth former went to them - if not to dance, then just for the sake of being seen there. Things have not changed much over the years.

t school, my art teacher took to an illness, which kept him away for a couple of terms. I have thought about this single event, on and off, over the past forty years and I cannot avoid coming to the conclusion that it affected the course of the rest of my life. I even have some sort of evidence to prove it. However, I must state outright that I cannot imagine anything more satisfactory than my present situation - in life, and in the world - and therefore I have no axe to grind. Indeed, the absence of the art teacher was a part of my destiny being pre-ordained, before my very eyes.

The first thing to happen was that he advised me not to take ‘A’ Level art, but to take ‘A’ Level ‘History & Appreciation of Art.’ This was the last year that the Northern University Joint Matriculation Board were offering this examination, and he felt that I had not only covered a lot of the ground, but would find it easier working on my own. He also suggested that it would be an even better offering - at ‘A’ level - than art, as I would stand out as being some-one different from the run-of-the-mill art students - in an examination which had proved to be unpopular, as it was so difficult. Therefore, I embarked on two terms of private study, working on this subject for ‘A’ level.

o 1956 dawned, and with it, my hopes and fears for what lay ahead. By the middle of August I would know whether or not I was going to university, or waiting to be called up for national service.

The first thing I did in the new year was to send samples of my art work to Reading university; at the same time I wrote to all the Northern Universities, and their schools of architecture, for forms and further details - without Latin it was possible to consider this as a subject and career, particularly as I had been studying ecclesiastical architecture as part of my new history of art course.

I now went to Reading University for an examination and interview; I heard two months later that I had been unsuccessful. Next I was in Newcastle-on-Tyne, at King’s College, for an interview and examination. Durham University had told me it would be two or three months before they could reach a decision.

he nineteenth soldier was killed in Cyprus. Sad events like this always hit the headlines. I was conscious of the world situation, and often wondered where I would fit in.

n May, I had three of my paintings on display in the Town Hall - in an army arts & crafts exhibition. No doubt I was thrilled to bits and could see the Royal Academy beckoning. At the same time, however, I had a form to complete for the Army Recruiting Centre in Liverpool, and shortly after that, I received my National Insurance Card.

must have been quite set in my ideas for the future, for I see in one of my old diaries that in April I heard from the School of Architecture in Nottingham. They wanted to know if my application for a place still stood. I wrote back saying “No!” So what that was all about, I just do not recall.

When the time finally came to sit the ‘A’ level papers in history & appreciation of art, I thought I had acquitted myself reasonably well - but had to sweat out the months of July and August before I knew. It would either be university or national service.

Funnily enough, the second year sixth form were required to take an additional ‘O’ Level examination called ‘General Paper.’ This was because they were deemed to be worldlier wise, and could answer the range of questions from a generous supply of options. Anyway, the first question I saw was on ‘The place in art history of The Pre-Raphaelite Movement’ - an absolute gift for me. Another question concerned Chippendale the furniture maker of the eighteenth century - another present for me. Then a couple of general ones that everyone could answer. I felt I had performed satisfactorily.

n July 1956 I completed the Dee Mile again, and received another certificate. I came something like ninth out of something like twenty-five competitors, so for a non-sporting person (who had spent the last seven years at grammar school devising every means of avoiding any form of physical exertion or recreation) I felt it was quite an achievement.

However, I felt quite ‘empty’ on my last day at school. We all received a copy of The Holy Bible, and I inscribed mine with the date of leaving. We all knew that some sixth formers would be going to university, some were going to do their national service, some had deferred to go into industry or agriculture, and some would be without a job or any prospects - and so would have to do their national service anyway. I honestly was not sure where I would fit, but really wanted to go to university - to study art.

We had left school. The first act, a tradition of the school, was for all leavers to assemble on the suspension bridge and throw their school caps into the river Dee. We would never have to wear them again - but we were still in our full uniform (sixth formers, all about eighteen years old, and still wearing school uniform!), until we got home and changed; only then could we say that we had finally left school.

he results of the exams came through. I had passed the ‘O’ level general paper, so was quite chuffed at that, as some better candidates than me failed – I also passed ‘O’ level French (at last), and ‘A’ level geography.

Nevertheless, I had failed the ‘A’ level history & appreciation of art; instead - and this happened in those days, if your performance was of such a creditable standard as to deserve recognition - I was awarded it at ‘O’ Level.

Bloody marvellous - I now had nine different ‘O’ levels, and one ‘A’ level, which were of no use to me whatsoever. Of little consequence is that I was only one grade below ‘A’ level in this ‘difficult, specialist examination.’ Moreover, it was a most commendable performance to pass it at ‘O’ level after two terms of private study. But sod it; I had failed.

This sealed my fate - no university for me.

he ‘evidence’ I have that I would have passed ‘A’ level art is because I did just that, two years later, as a national serviceman in Singapore. Whilst there I had no tuition, just the same ability, and I did it in my full tropical military uniform, in a basha hut, under a whirling fan, with many distractions, as the only candidate in the corner of a classroom. I had even brought my own supply of army paints, brushes, and artistic equipment as the education centre where I took the exam had nothing. In other words, the conditions were not necessarily favourable - and yet I passed ‘A’ level. I am convinced I would have passed it at school. No doubt, theorists could drive a tank through my argument, but I think there is enough food for thought there.

herefore, I now had hardly any time to reflect on my next move. It must have been very worrying for my father. In August, Colonel Nasser of Egypt took control of the Suez Canal, and back here a Royal Proclamation was signed for the call-up of extra troops. They would soon want me, I thought, although my call-up was deferred pending my continuing education (or not).

y September I had been talked into considering joining the army as a three-year regular; dad was anxious that I shouldn’t be used in derogatory and demeaning tasks, and felt that as a regular - just the one extra year - I would receive many more perks, let alone a significant increase in pay. He knew that as a national serviceman, you were the lowest of the low, but as a regular, you had some respect. However, we were only considering the education corps in all our discussions, and not the rest of the British army in general.

Therefore, it was in York, where dad was posted, that I applied and had my medical. I then had an interview by a Board, with a view to joining the educational corps, the RAEC. However, I failed this interview; “He looks very young, doesn’t he?” they said to dad. In addition, they were looking for two ‘A’ levels as the qualification for entry - as one of their sergeant instructors - so I had no chance in their corps. That was it; I gave up the idea of doing an extra year in the army, as a regular, and it was agreed that I would just make the best of my national service.

he national bread subsidy now ended, which meant that bread was now more freely available, but at a price. This was just a part of that hectic autumn for me. I now wrote to the National Service Bureau in Liverpool - as I was required to do by law - telling them that I was available for call-up as of this moment.

It says a lot for the postal services in those days; I posted my letter on the Sunday evening, and on the Tuesday morning I had their reply, calling me for my medical examination on the Thursday. So I went to Liverpool, and passed the medical with a Grade A1. Although not what we would call a physically fit specimen, I had all the bits there. It amazed me later when I discovered the number of big strapping blokes who had lesser categories of fitness for service. I do not know what the qualification was to be rejected as unfit for service in the British Army, but it was always regarded as pretty low. Even stretcher cases - according to current jokes - were enlisted.

Two days later I received my enlistment notice; there was no turning back. As of this moment, I was under direct orders, which would have to be obeyed. If I did not turn up, I would be a wanted man.

n the last week of October there were riots and massacres going on in Hungary, Israeli troops moved in on Suez, followed by British troops a day later. Do you know something - I wasn’t the least bit worried about these events; perhaps I thought that they were too remote for me to ever be involved with.

wo days before my call up, sister Pill had a baby boy. I went to see my nephew, Robin, on my last day of civilian life.

Moreover, on my last night of ‘freedom’ I went to Tarvin Road Methodist Chapel to hear the Cestrian male Voice Choir give a concert. I was even publicly wished well by the minister, and many of the congregation. “Do not volunteer for anything!’ was the most popular piece of advice, from veterans of both world wars.

I even slept soundly that night, the eve of what was to be the greatest happening of my life; it shows how innocent my brain was. I’m sure that today I would not have slept so well, on the eve of a sentence which many regarded as being worse than gaol, but would have stayed awake considering my options if I overslept, or if the trains let me down.

Not to mention the odd thought about the developing world crisis…….