September 1958 to July 1961

Scene 2 – Student Days

had actually joined the college choir - not to be confused with the college chapel choir. I am convinced that I joined because the ‘choirmaster’ was a lively beer-swilling student, studying music as his main subject. I know that we performed in the Town Hall in Chester, at some music festival. We also did a couple of numbers for the ‘graduation’ ceremony of those newly qualified; to me this was very much shades of the school choir.

We were also coerced to help out with a combined choir at the nearby George Street congregational church, who were doing Handel’s Messiah!. Gordon and I went along, rehearsing once a week for quite a long time, or so it seemed to us. The performance, dressed in our best suits, took place one Sunday evening. Being part of a massed choir is quite an uplifting experience.

Membership of the college choir also qualified me to become a one-day steward at the Town Hall, Chester, for the appearance of pop-idol Frankie Vaughan. We students had armbands, denoting our authority, and we were supposed to keep off the screaming hordes of schoolgirls. We arrived at the town hall early, not a schoolgirl in sight. The police had set up barriers, but I just could not see the point of it. There had been no publicity, as far as I was aware, and nobody seemed to know about this ‘appearance.’

We had our briefing inside the town hall, and then sat around waiting. After ages, we heard one or two officials saying things like ‘They’ve started to arrive.’ Nothing could have prepared me for the sight I was shortly to see. Frankie Vaughan appeared from the mayor’s parlour, and we escorted him to the main doors of the town hall. The doors were opened, and for the first time, we could hear the noise of thousands upon thousands of girls. They went wild when Frankie appeared and stood on the balcony. The lucky girls were right up the steps, and our job was to stand in front of them and make sure they behaved themselves. However, there were no worries, it was all good-natured, and the police and first aid people were in full control. We stewards did very little. Frankie himself sang a song, responded with waves and kisses in the air, and it was all over. We formed a protective ring around him as he returned to the inner sanctum. Where the hell all those girls came from is something I will never fully comprehend.

owever, I must be honest and say that the big event of the year was our bona fide attendance, as competitors, at the International Eisteddeford at Llangollen in N Wales. This was in July 1959. We did not go beyond the first round, but that gave us the rest of the day with our entrance passes, to visit all the tents, and see the various classes of competition. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and the many competitors in their traditional costumes – this is where the Welsh maidens come into their own - made a lasting impression. I was pleased, and proud to have taken part.

he first year at college seems to be the one when you embark upon all sorts of trips and excursions. Thus, I went to many events arranged just for us ‘freshies.’ Some were serious, like meetings of the two main teaching unions at that time – the NUT and the NAS. This latter, for schoolmasters, seemed to be more popular in our all-male college, and I joined as a student member for half-a-crown. This would give us educational advice and legal cover, the latter being necessary during our teaching practices.

I myself went to hear the curator of the museum at Chester. He was giving a lecture on Roman Britain – a subject about which I thought I knew something. I think I still held a fascination for the museum, which I had visited quite a lot over the years. It is as well to do all these things whilst you are in the mood. I was never to set foot in the place again for the rest of my life. So, I am glad that I found the time then.

Still on an educational note, but much lighter, were trips to Birkenhead shipyard, the Wedgewood potteries at Stoke-on-Trent, the Lever soap factory at Port Sunlight, and the Mersey Tunnel control centre. Our visit to the Chester Northgate brewery was oversubscribed for some reason, but I managed to be on the list.

The one evening lecture I attended, that I would love to hear repeated today, was ‘The Making of the Oxford Atlas.’ Even then it was fascinating, and I am sure that today it would be a completely different subject.

ll first year students are given a talk by the second year Rag Committee. They are the organisers for this annual event, and we are the dogsbodies who go out and rattle the collecting cans. The leader of the committee was a chap called Jim Whittaker, and he certainly had us newcomers rolling in the aisles with his comic banter. He was later to give up teaching and became a TV personality under the name Jim Bowen. One of his main jobs, with the committee, was to discuss our Rag Day plans and tactics with the chief constable for Chester, so that the latter could ‘give advice.’

So Rag Week, Rag Day, and the Rag Ball occupied us full time, so it seemed. I was in the early morning ‘pyjama parade,’ and even had responsibility for the cymbals in the band. On the day itself the City of Chester seemed to accept the mayhem caused by the students. All local businesses give generously, even the flour factory which gives small one-pound packets of flour – for the students to drop on the heads of the Rag Band as they pass under the Northgate Bridge. The resultant mess, particularly as it was a wet day, can be imagined.

The following year, we had a more senior role in the Rag events. I know we went on a midnight prowl around the city, adorning various statues with toilet rolls, and harmless pranks like that. The Rag Magazine was always a ‘must’ for all students to buy, as there were many hidden innuendoes in it. For instance, it took some of us quite a long time to fully understand the sadistic exploits of a certain Jay Ell Bee – until the initials, JLB leaped from the pages. Only then could we fully enjoy the humour of the story, with our renowned Vice Principal, John L Bradbury MA as the arch villain. Such were the little things that made student life enjoyable.

hester College boasted many events when ‘old boys’ could turn up. In January each year there was ‘Foundation Day,’ and then in March there was ‘Past and Present Day.’ This supposedly gave all Past members of the college a chance to mingle with, and speak to all Present members. I was not involved with too much fraternisation, but did stand in place for a huge panoramic photograph of the whole lot of us.

Then in June comes the annual ‘Presentation Day,’ – just like a school speech day. The Bishop of Chester acts as the chair of the board of governors, as this is after all the Diocesan Training College. Then the principal gives his report, and finally all the students who have ended their courses go and receive their scrolls. A fine parchment bound with wide red tape and a wax seal. Students are previously requested not to make a noise by opening these scrolls. However, once the pantomime is over, and when they are outside, they open the scroll to read a small piece of paper, which says “This is not, of course the real thing, but we do hope you are successful. In the meantime, would you kindly return this scroll to the art room. Thank you.”

y social life was extended somewhat by attendance at many dances. There were several female colleges in the area, and so visits to Crewe (that dreaded place again), Wrexham and Liverpool were regular places. They, and we, would have dances on one occasion, and debates on another. This latter was the thing to do in those days; it’s the equivalent today of ‘pub quiz nights.’ One thing these events all had in common was the number of ‘mistresses’ or female lecturers in attendance. It seemed as though they were not only chaperoning their charges, but were waiting for the anticipated gang rape. One place we went to for a debate, the bus driver had lost his way and we were late. On arrival in their hall, all the girls and lecturers were seated on one side of the hall. Whilst the other side of the central aisle was absolutely empty. That was our place, and one felt ‘woe betide anyone who dares cross the divide.’

Conversely, when the females visited us for a dance or a debate, not a ‘master’ was in sight, although I always had my suspicions that some of the mature female students were probably ‘mistresses’ keeping an eye on things.

Nevertheless, we had other events to compensate for these irritations. The local nurses home, with dances at the Infirmary were always popular. In addition, in town we had the Majestic Ballroom, Clemences Dance hall, and Quaintways Jazz Club. The college itself always held a large Christmas Dinner, when the Principal seemed to enjoy the sherry and port more than we did. The Christmas Dance was also a good, end of term thrash.

n the summer of ‘59, I managed to get a part-time job at Will R Rose - the specialist photographer in the North Wales and NW of England area. I worked at the developing and printing machines. The more complicated administrative side, ensuring that the right negatives and prints ended up together in the correct envelope, was left to the regulars.

I soon graduated to driving their van around the region, particularly in Wales. I was an added bonus for the company, when they discovered that I could drive. Whilst I enjoyed working there, I could already see the monotony of being full-time in such a job, which was rather menial and brain numbing. It was a dead-end job for the regulars – there was nowhere else for them to go; there was no ladder to climb. Some of them worked and acted like automatons.

n my early days at college, I used to go quite regularly to visit Albert and Alice Stockton. They lived in Hoole, a suburb that was a healthy walk away. They were stalwarts of Tarvin Road Methodist chapel, he as the organist. I used to go for an evening session of playing chess, this being a common interest. Alice would sit in the kitchen, knitting or sewing and waiting for the magic hour of nine o’clock, to make us a cup of chocolate. He and I would play chess, sometimes several games in the evening as he was much better than I was.

For background music, we would hear religious records like the Messiah! His records were played on a beautifully polished, walnut record cabinet, which required a handle to wind it up – once every twenty minutes or so. It was a fantastic piece of equipment, and even then, one realised that it was an antique.

I enjoyed these evenings with Albert, by then long since retired. I often wish I had gone with paper and pencil to take down his memoirs of the two world wars, and the period in between. He had fought in the first, had survived the second, and was a classical Victorian relic.

he year 1959 saw me fall in love three times. The first occasion was with a pupil - but let me quickly explain this was no unprofessional teacher-pupil affair. The school leaving age was then fifteen and this girl from Bebington was about to leave, the school being a secondary modern. I was just twenty-one, so the age gap was of no importance. Anyway, as a result of a lunchtime chat, but not a chat up, she (I have forgotten her name!) said she often went to Chester on a Saturday morning, and reckoned she had seen me. Therefore, I said I would buy her a coffee next time she was in town, and we arranged the end of that week, when I would have formally finished my TP at her school. Indeed, on my last day, I received from her – and from other pupils – a card of good wishes; this was not uncommon in those days. In her case though, I felt we had a special bond, and her card and message included the words ‘Be seeing you.’

She never turned up, neither then nor on any other Saturday. I was very sad. I cannot help but think something had happened to prevent us from meeting. I will never know.

The second love affair lasted slightly longer – a full day in fact. It was with Jessie who worked at the photographers Will R Rose. The problem was that she had a boy friend, so it was something of a coup that I managed to take her out from work for a full day. I drove her to Liverpool, then on to Southport. We got on well enough, but the shadow of her boy friend put paid to any question of impertinent advance, or follow-up date. Indeed, I had to get her back early as she was going out with her boy friend that very night! Just my bleedin’ luck. Trouble is, in those days, we were all too damned chivalrous, and there was no question of double-crossing, jilting or doing the dirty on any one. I am sure Jessie and I would have been a perfect partnership.

My third love was with a little girl, a sixteen year-old called Sandra. She was really petite, looking much younger than her age. She worked in a nearby sweet and tobacconist shop, and saw many students as they popped in to buy one Woodbine cigarette. I coaxed her into coming to our college Christmas Dance. She needed to ask her parents first, and there were questions like how I would get her there, and how I would get her home. This is where the family car came into its own. So she said yes, and was my partner for the evening.

I cannot remember why, but we never started anything permanent. Perhaps it was a mutual feeling.

n my Second Year at college I managed to design and make the afore-mentioned dinner trolley, including its brass ‘ankles’ into which the castors fitted. The trolley was made of teak and looked pretty good, I thought. I passed it on to my mother who dutifully put it to good use when I was at home, both then and for the next twenty-odd years.

s the warmer weather approached, Gordon asked me if I was fit enough to do the Dee mile – swimming version. When I asked why, he said he fancied going on a rowing boat and he offered to row for me. So started the first of many sessions, in and on the River Dee. We would hire a rowing boat and, sometimes just the two of us, sometimes with one or two extras, would set off for the White House Pub. This was at a bend in the River Dee, and was acknowledged as the start of the course. No one ever questioned my authority on this. I even did what could be called ‘training’ for the race, and swam on several occasions, my fastest time being forty-nine minutes. This is at least twice as long as it should be for any competitive event. However, Gordon had plans to make it an event for the college, particularly for all those on the PE course, and I – having completed the course easily, many times - would be the secret weapon. However, the idea never caught on. Probably there were too few swimmers; we dropped all thoughts of making it a college function.

I think we both had plans in our minds that the local population, and press, would flock in their thousands to see this annual race. The Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race would pale in comparison. Gordon would receive acclaim as the founder of the competition for the college, and I would go down in the record books as being the first winner – a sort of Captain Webb.

Don’t we delude ourselves, when young? We had an even more grandiose event in our brains, a death-defying stunt that had me jumping off the suspension bridge. I recall having seen this done at some gala function after the war. A chap dressed in a newspaper suit, even to the paper hat and paper walking stick, had stood on a step ladder on the bridge, and on a given signal from the commentator his accomplice had set fire to him. As the flames started to lick upwards, seemingly covering the whole of his body, the man jumped and within a couple of seconds was in the water.

Well, Gordon nearly convinced me that this was within my capabilities. We even went to assess how deep the water actually was under the centre of the suspension bridge. The trouble was, we did not really have an event when we could do this. Gordon felt that this did not really matter. A letter to the press the week before, he said, and a word with our fellow students, would bring a tumultuous crowd. In addition, we could collect for the next Rag Week. What a hero you would become.

We really took this seriously, at the time, but as we were planning it on our own it did not gather momentum. The distance from the suspension bridge to the surface of the water was not a great obstacle. It would have been no more than jumping off the second diving board at a normal pool; at least, that is how it seemed to us. However, I am sure that it would have ended in disaster, if only because of the damage from the flames. What plonkers we were.

On a sad note, we were all stunned at the death of the Principal’s son. He was away at university, and had come home to train in the river Dee for his rowing cap. His canoe capsized and he was not rescued in time, as the current is so strong. We felt guilty that it needed this to bring home to us the power of this particular river, which has claimed many lives over the years.

t was not easy for teachers to be seconded, on full pay, by their Local Education Authorities, and so colleges were surreptitiously canvassing appropriate students about their interest in the third-year course, as they needed the students to keep their jobs. This certainly happened to me, during my second year, and my mind was made up when I realised from talking to others - particularly old salts, when I was at their schools on teaching practice - who told me that I would never get another chance. LEA’s were strapped for cash, and were just not releasing teachers “To go on a jolly for a year.”

Therefore, at some stage during my second year, I had given my intention to apply for the third-year course at Chester “Subject to my being accepted, and passing my exams.” I would say to the senior tutor, more than once. He would boost my self-confidence by saying that he didn’t think I would have any problem, on either score, and that he was delighted that I had made my mind up. Of course, it was a bit of a joke amongst other students, and required little common-sense to realise that one’s final papers would be marked by the very same tutors who wanted you on the course, and approved by the Principal who wanted the numbers at his college. So it was also a bit of an insurance policy as well - but the extra qualification would reap a good dividend in later years for everyone who had it.

s well as handicrafts, my other main subject required a thesis on some appropriate aspect. For my geography paper, I elected to study the geology and crop rotation of a part of Cheshire I knew fairly well, namely Thornton-le-Moors and area. This necessitated talking to the Lanceleys at length, particularly Mr Lanceley who was Dots’ father-in-law. I received lots of useful information from him, particularly about that part of his estate taken over during the war by the War office, who wanted it for a transmitter, plus some kind of an underground bunker. That made for a useful chapter in my thesis, the overall quality of which must at least have contributed to my pass at the ‘advanced’ level at the end of my two years.

I also passed my ‘advanced’ Handicrafts. On the final list of Examination results, one’s success with the main subject was shown as ‘p’ for an ordinary pass, or ’P’ for the advanced level pass. Therefore, everyone knew how you had fared. The English and the education (‘the principles and practice of education’) examinations were shown as ‘p’ for everyone who passed, except for those who had done particularly well who received a ‘c’ for a credit. This is where the members of the Student Guild came into their own, the creeps, wiping the field.

There were two other compulsory examinations that one took, assessing ones fitness to teach that subject at a lowly school level; one was religious education and the other was physical education. The former examination - and the tales are legion of those who entered the examination room, wrote their names on the paper, confessed ignorance and departed - was failed by most, and passed by the aforementioned guild members. The other, since this was a P.E. College was passed by a good many more; the examination was just a general paper on P.E. and was nothing to do with their main subject examinations. Anyway, I had received special tuition from Gordon on the sorts of questions that were likely, including graphic details of something that he called ‘the Manchester apparatus.’ He assured me that he was not pulling my leg, and told me that it consisted of wall bars, beams, ropes and mats. So I was able to make a sketch of this supposed equipment, and he told me that I had it spot on. “Whatever you say,” he said, “if ever you’re stuck with an answer, just start talking about the Manchester apparatus and how it stimulates thought and physical reaction, and all that sort of thing.”

Well, that is just what I did, adding numerous sketches with stick figures climbing ropes and bouncing around. But it did the trick, and to the amazement of all those who knew my physical limitations and complete lack of sporting aspirations, my pass at this examination was the talk of the pub that night. The citation on the certificate says ”He has proved himself to be competent to teach physical education to a junior standard of attainment.” What baloney!

So, my two years at Chester College drew to a close. We had the usual Presentation Ceremony, what a bore, followed by the traditional booze up in the evening, great stuff.

Early in July, 1960, I heard that I had qualified as a teacher.

he tentacles of Madame Pollard reached out yet again from Paris, and during the summer holiday we now had Alain - all on his own - to stay at Thornton for a couple of weeks. I cannot remember whether he was yet a third son of the family, or a close relative, but he was sent here to improve his English. Naturally I became involved taking him on various day excursions to places like Talacre and Rhyl.

However, I also managed a week or so at Farnborough and Frimley Green. I had not bothered with a summer job this year.

ith the arrival of September, and now as a qualified teacher, I started my Third Year Supplementary Course in Handicraft. This would lead to the Supplementary Certificate, and also the College Diploma in Handicraft. There were just a handful of us on our third year handicraft course, and there were about twenty chaps on the third year PE course. So, there were a few old faces around – mostly the drinking and social types, so that helped. For some inexplicable reason, all PE teachers were great boozers and smokers.

I was in digs yet again, but very close to the college. This year I had a room on my own, which was a great blessing.

he college course started with wood carving, boat-building, pottery, bookbinding, lectures at the school of art, and woodwork itself. I now made and designed, over the year, a small gent’s wardrobe. It was made of teak, and had secret-mitre dovetail joints in the corners. It was a pretty good effort, I thought, and was a good example of what one would call ‘cabinet making.’ Sadly, it is not the sort of thing that one would even contemplate making today. Cheaper, laminated boards look just as nice, are lighter, cheaper, and are more easily assembled. That is progress for you.

My teaching practices, as a third-year student, would now be on a regular basis – one day per week, throughout the term. My first term was at the King’s School, now located just outside Chester. This was an ancient independent school, which outshone the grammar school in academic excellence. Only a few eleven-plus candidates were creamed off to attend King’s School; the rest went to the grammar school. It was a great privilege to be on the staff – even temporarily - of such an institution, but teaching is the same wherever you are. The only difference is in the pupil. Politeness reigned supreme; no more backchat, and no more excuses for incomplete work. I enjoyed that term.

By contrast, my second term was at a Hoole secondary modern. I had a good timetable, and the school was pleasant enough, even the pupils, but the difference in attitude and expectation was obvious.

My third term was at my old school, the City Grammar at Chester. I was quite nervous about going there, I must confess. It was just under five years since I had left. Anyway, I was stationed in the technical wing, over the road from the main building, and consequently I was never caught up in the mainstream of school life, as I had been in the other schools. My mentor was a teacher whom I had remembered, called Harry Hulme. He was not an inspiration to me and seemed to assume that I would do my own thing, whereas I was expecting direction from him. Also, I was in his metalwork room, and this was not my field of interest, with a class of technical students – the dropouts from second languages and second sciences. Consequently, in this – their last term at school – there was a lot of horse play and little work. I did not enjoy my time there.

uring the year, I helped out with the scenery for the college play, to be performed on the stage of the new assembly hall. However, I did not get too involved – I can’t remember whether I just wasn’t asked, or whether I didn’t want to tie myself down – and consequently I have no programme for my collection of dramatical involvement over the years.

ag Day was very much left to the younger students, with me taking a sophisticated back seat. However, I did get involved with a request from the Round Table for students to help with collecting tins. I was suitably disguised in a gorilla outfit, and on the appropriate day, I duly terrorised the unsuspecting shoppers of the city. Children are always a good bet when you are thus disguised, and their mothers happily give them coins to place in the tins.

he most unusual feature about my third year at college, and for me the most mind-blowing, was the fact that we had some half-dozen mature students, doing a one-year course to qualify as certificated teachers. The last time this had happened was just after the war, when there was a national shortage.

Now, to my chagrin, we had sergeants and warrant officers from the RAEC who were on a one-year’s secondment, in civvies, doing the same as our second-year students. This involved English essays, lectures on the history of education, and two one-month teaching practices. What a doddle!

I just couldn’t bring myself to think that this could have been me, had I taken the plunge less than three years earlier. If only anyone had told me that the corps was going to be ‘officerised.’ If only I had known that all senior NCO’s and WO’s would be seconded for one year as mature students – on full pay plus ‘educational’ expenses. I would have signed on immediately, back in the Nee Soon days. Of course, no one knew then what the future held.

I had long chats with these blokes and, as is common in the services, there were many names known to us all. I told them of my one-time dilemma about wanting to stay in the corps, and they encouraged me to apply, now that I was qualified. However, I knew that my chances had gone; never again would I have such a strong team supporting my application as I had then.

So I lived, and continued with my life, in some envy of what might have been - as a regular soldier in the army.

n interesting deviation to my normal routine came just before Christmas 1960. My brother Brian, who was working in town as a salesman, came home to Thornton and told me there was a job for me, behind the scenes at the Chester Royalty Theatre. Apparently, he had been talking to someone who worked there, and they were desperate for extra stagehands.

Now Chester Theatre, in those days, was quite a well-known theatre on the circuit for lesser known actors and performers. You will remember from my younger years that I was always enthralled with the professional pantomime. This, traditionally, always started on Boxing Day and ran for six weeks. This was then followed by the Chester Amateur Operatic Society, for one week. The only other traditional slot, that I can remember, was Chester Race Week in May, when the theatre put on a kind of variety show for the racing world. I went during my last year in college, in fact, when I wasn’t needed as a stagehand. The smutty jokes and daring innuendos were quite revealing to me. By today’s standards, of course, they would be classed as little more than Christmas cracker jokes.

Anyway, the outcome of Bal’s information was that I went along to the theatre, saw the stage manager, and was assigned my duties on the spot. Consequently, I worked behind the scenes for Aladdin without a break, for its full run, and that included quite a few matinees. I was in my element of course, and loved seeing the technical aspects of the production – lighting board, flies, green room, and so on.

I have to say it myself; I got on really well with the stage manager, quite an old boy called Sid. He said more than once how impressed he was with the way I had learned the ‘ropes,’ particularly the literal one of lashing two large eighteen-foot tall flats together. There was a permanent job available for me if I wanted it, so he said. For me it was a non-starter, being lowly paid and only seasonal.

When college started in the New Year, I was able to get a job for one of the students who was interested. The measly pay was useful pub money. We also had one or two invites to house parties – from the young ladies in the dancing troupe; they were local girls. So all-in-all my introduction to the ‘professional’ theatre was great. I even arranged, by courtesy of the theatre manager, for my third year intake of students to have a look behind the scenes.

I was asked to help out with the Operatic Society’s production of Brigadoon. I thoroughly enjoyed that, and can now list some of the haunting songs from that show as amongst my all-time favourites. I did not get to know any of the company to tell them that my mother had once been a member. Shortly after this production ended I had a break for a few weeks and then returned, by arrangement, to help out with a week of the Ballet Rambert. This was not a particularly stimulating show for the average stagehand, and there were certainly no opportunities for voyeurism as the Madame herself objected to seeing stagehands in the wings. So, we were banned to a side room until required for the next change. Conversely, the touring Bristol Vic with their production of Salad Days was a delight, and I still recall some of the humour and the singing.

However, because of pressing academic studies together with other pursuits, my association with the Royalty Theatre ended at this point.

n the Spring, I had seen a small slip of paper on the vice-principal’s notice board, regarding a Handicraft job at Ellesmere Port Grammar School. I telephoned the school, as directed on the notice, and spoke directly to the head. He told me to write my letter of application that day and put it in the post without delay. My CV was very brief at that time. The outcome was that I was called for interview, by return of post, and on Friday 10^th February I was appointed – for the following September.

Things were looking good for me. The appointment was not even dependent upon the satisfactory completion of my third year course. I was already qualified. No doubt being on the course itself helped. The only other candidate was a chap from Runcorn who had been teaching for a few years. He obviously liked the look of this grammar school vacancy, as opposed to his current post in a secondary modern. Naturally, I assumed the job was his, an experienced applicant. How wrong I was.

must just mention a simple experience in March 1961. It was nothing more than that I drove with Bal down to London on the new M1 Motorway. For a long time, we had all been aware of this state-of-the-art highway, which had just been officially opened. It was then only about sixty miles long, but was the last word in carefree motoring. I had a session behind the wheel and reached the amazing speed of nearly ninety miles an hour, in the hired car. We even stopped on the verge, so that I could take a photograph of the road – and there was not another car in sight. How times change.

n April 1961, I went up to Accrington to Roy Watmough’s wedding. I was staying in a small hotel, sharing a room with Dave Airey. We had a good college re-union as part of Roy’s stag night. The wedding went off well, and a good time was had by all. It was then that I first noticed Roy’s sister, Valerie, who made a charming bridesmaid. We got to know each other during the rest of the day.

The outcome was that, when it was time for me to leave the next day, Valerie took me to the bus station, so that I didn’t get lost. That was a nice touch, and very useful as it meant that we were alone, and away from prying ears. Consequently, we started up a correspondence, and within just a couple of weeks we met up for the day in Manchester. Shortly afterwards I went up to Accrington, on a Friday night, and stayed at the Watmough household in their spare room – in Roy’s old room in fact. So started a three-year long courtship, with regular weekend and holiday jaunts at either Accrington or Thornton.

he end of my student days loomed. It was quite traumatic, really, to think that the friendships of youth were now to be replaced with the seriousness of adulthood. A few more college functions to attend, the swopping of addresses, and it was all over. Finally, a formal chat with the tutor, and in my case with the Assessor – who comes and looks at your finished craftwork. I was confident that I had passed, and with my appointment confirmed in my first teaching post, I was set up for life.

uch of what Valerie and I did in our courting days is now only a distant memory, because with the end of that year I gave up keeping a diary. I had first started one in 1954. My entries were very simple, usually a comment on the weather or what I saw at the cinema. In no way did I ever make any comments on my innermost thoughts, my hopes or my fears. Possibly, that was just too sophisticated for my brain. However, my diaries were very useful for domestic facts, like who visited us for tea and where I went for a holiday.

I can only imagine that I stopped my diary because, firstly, I didn’t receive one that year and also – with my first teaching appointment – I probably felt I didn’t have time to keep it up-to-date. It was not really the thing to do, in those days. No one ever spoke of keeping a diary. It was never a topic of conversation. My interest in keeping a diary therefore ended.

However, I do know that in the summer of ’61 I spent a lot of my time in Accrington, because Val’s father had fixed me up with a job at a food distributor’s warehouse. I therefore spent a lot of my time stacking shelves, or making deliveries. In addition, when they found out that I could drive and that I was over twenty-one, then I was on the road driving one of their large diesel wagons. I even drove through the centre of Manchester, as well as places like Preston and Blackpool. They seemed to be carefree days, and I was happy with my lot.