If Only They Could Talk Page 5

  Mr North was a man in his sixties with a large walrus moustache. He told me that the war was the best thing to happen to him in a long time, as under normal circum­stances he would have been forced to retire three months previously. But the shortage of men had meant that my father had asked him to stay on until the conflict was over. As a result he was still getting his full wage plus eight pints of beer a day, rather than trying to scrape by on his small pension.

  We arrived in the locker room where he presented me with a pair of overalls that were three sizes to big for me and showed me where I could hang my school uniform.

  I was a little surprised when I opened my locker and was faced by several pictures of naked ladies. Naturally I was curious. After all women hadn’t featured much in my life up to that point and certainly not naked ones. In fact, my only exposure to that sort of thing came from a small art deco statue on my father’s desk.

  “I’ll take those,” said Mr North.

  It seemed that the locker had previously belonged to one of the draymen who’d been sacked for fighting after drink­ing eight pints of Goodyear’s Pride in the brewery sample room. It wasn’t unusual for a drayman to consume eight pints, but it later transpired that he’d already drunk four­teen pints during the course of his deliveries.

  Mr North transferred the photos to his own locker where they helped to brighten up his remaining months at the brewery before he finally retired.

  He then took me into the bottling hall where the noise was deafening. To my surprise all the other people working there were women. I don’t know why I was surprised. After all, women were doing all sorts of jobs during wartime. Perhaps it was my middle class upbringing, which made me think that women’s work was in the home, looking after children, shopping, cleaning and cooking.

  However, I soon realised that these women did all these things in addition to an eight-hour shift at the brewery.

  “This is Mr Miles,” announced Mr North after switching off the bottling line. “The Major says to treat him the same as you would any other new starter.”

  With that he left, although I am sure he winked as he went through the door.

  “Who gave you them pair of overalls?” asked one of the women who I later discovered was called Marge.

  “Mr North,” I replied.

  “They’re far too big for thee, little ‘un, take them off and I’ll get thee a pair that’ll fit thee.”

  I was really pleased that she was so interested in my comfort, although I was a little bit concerned about taking my overalls off in front of a room full of women. However, I didn’t wish to appear rude in the face of Marge’s kindness and so I stripped off down to my pants and vest.

  As soon as I had done this a few of the other women grabbed hold of me whilst another one of them pulled my pants down.

  “Bloody hell, what have we here?” said Marge. “I’ve seen bigger maggots and it’s as bald as a coot. Not a pubic hair t’ be sin.”

  With that all the women started laughing. I say laughing but it was more a cackle than a laugh.

  Naturally I was embarrassed and therefore was extremely grateful when Marge said, “Come on girls, cover him up. We can’t have him wandering around with his John Thomas showing,” before she added, “mind you, given the size of it I better call it Wee Willy Winkle rather than John Thomas.”

  That caused another cackle of laughter from everyone present.

  I’d assumed that my ordeal was about to end, but unfor­tunately I’d assumed wrongly. Instead of handing me my underpants one of the women reached for a pot of glue used for sticking labels onto the bottles.

  She stuck bottle labels all over my private parts. I had never been so embarrassed in my life as I looked down and saw that they had stuck a label saying ‘Goodyear’s Pride’ on my dick, whilst my buttocks had labels saying ‘Bottom’s Up Bitter” all over them.

  By this stage most of the women in the room were posi­tively wetting themselves they were laughing so much. I just wanted the floor to open up and swallow me.

  “We pay you to work not to hang around cackling like a coven of old witches,” said Mr North who had re-entered the room much to my relief.

  “Back to work all of you and as for you,” he added whilst looking at me. “Go and clean yourself up.”

  I went to the Gents’ toilet where I pulled the labels off and got rid of as much of the glue as I could. I put my over­alls back on and returned to the bottling hall to a round of applause from the women.

  After my initiation I thoroughly enjoyed my time in the bottling hall where my main job was stacking the filled bot­tles into crates. The ladies treated me very well and I was quite sad when Father moved me to work in the warehouse a year later.

  I ended up with a new nickname after my first day at work. It was ‘Little Dick’. Fortunately though, it was a nick­name that never took off anywhere other than amongst the staff in the bottling hall. Nevertheless some of the women still called me that even after I had become Managing Director.

  On the day I moved out, Marge grabbed my arm and said, “You’ve done really well, Little Dick, so the girls and me want to give you this to remind you of us.”

  With that she presented me with a small album contain­ing all of the company’s bottle labels. I’m sure that it was no coincidence that the first two were ‘Goodyear’s Pride’ and ‘Bottoms Up Bitter’.

  Chapter 5

  Molly placed the album on the pile of items they were going to take to auction.

  “I think we’ve got enough stuff for our first trip to the recycling centre,” she announced when she returned to the kitchen

  Lying on the floor were several black bin liners and boxes full of ancient jars and cans that Molly had cleared out from the kitchen cupboards. There were loads of pots and pans that not even a charity shop would want. In addition, Nigel had brought the electric fire and the alarm clock from the upstairs bedroom as these were also destined for the recy­cling centre.

  The two of them started to load up the car and once it was full, they headed to the council recycling centre on Sheffield Road. This was the first of many such journeys they would make over the next few days.

  By the time they had finished it was mid-afternoon and the two of them decided they would finish clearing out the main bedroom and then call it a day.

  There were lots of clothes to sort out, most of which they decided to take to the charity shop. Some though were only fit for the recycling centre. It was the same for all the bed­ding that was stored in the room.

  “You know, given the fact that your uncle appears to have never thrown anything away I’m really surprised that there isn’t anything of your aunt’s still here. No clothes and no jewellery.”

  “You have to remember that she died a very long time ago,” replied Nigel. “Perhaps he didn’t want to be reminded of the happy times they had together. Maybe his sense of loss was too great.”

  It was at this point that Nigel discovered an old beret in a drawer.

  “There you go,” he said holding up the beret. “This is the first thing we’ve found that belonged to my aunt. Perhaps we’ll discover more of her things when we clear out the loft. I wonder why he kept this though? It must be her old school beret as it has a St Helena’s school badge on the front.”

  *******

  Sprout, Herman and I were sitting on the roof of the school bike shed. It was October 1941 and it was two weeks since I’d turned fourteen.

  The Grammar School was located next door to St Helena’s girls’ high school. We were never permitted to mix with the girls who went there, well not until we were in the sixth form when limited supervised fraternisation was allowed.

  It was the school’s way of introducing us to members of the opposite sex in a responsible way. Once we’d passed the age of sixteen it was felt that, if we had to show an interest in girls, it was far better if we were interested in those who came from a similar background to our own, rather than those who worked in one
of Chesterfield’s many factories.

  However, at fourteen we were considered too young for that sort of thing. There was a massive wall that separated the two schools, which stopped us from even glimpsing the St Helena’s girls next door. We could hear them playing in the playground but, much to the frustration of the testos­terone fuelled boys at the Grammar School, we could never get a glimpse of them. Well not until Sprout, Herman and I discovered that the only place where you could see over the wall was from the roof of the bike shed. It was our lunch break and we knew that in ten minutes’ time some of the girls would be out to play netball. At that point the three of us would be rewarded with a glimpse of them in their navy blue knickers, the biggest treat that any teenage boy could wish for.

  “What are you going to do when you leave school?” Sprout asked me whilst we were waiting.

  “That’s easy,” I replied. “I’m going to go to university and then I’m going to work at the brewery. I will start off as Free Trade Director with my brother Rupert as Tied Trade Director, Father as Managing Director and my grandfather as Chairman. Then my grandfather will retire and Father will become Chairman. Rupert will take over from him as Managing Director and I will be promoted to Tied Trade Director. By that time our sons will have joined the firm ready to take our places when we retire.”

  “So your entire life is planned out for you in advance,” said Herman.

  “It’s my destiny,” I replied, “and has been ever since I was born.”

  “What’s the difference between tied trade and free trade?” asked Sprout.

  “Tied trade is the name given to everything that’s sold through the pubs we own, whereas free trade is everything else. Tied trade is the most important part of the business, because it accounts for over three quarters of all our sales.”

  “How do you know that you and Rupert will have sons?” Herman interrupted. “Both of you might only have daughters or the two of you may never get married. After all, who’d want to marry an ugly bugger like you?”

  “Oh we’ll both get married. In fact I know who I’m going to marry. I’m going to marry that girl there.”

  With that I pointed down to one of the girls who’d just appeared in the courtyard below.

  She had long blonde hair and a slightly upturned nose. Like all the other girls she was wearing her PT kit. Her white polo shirt was tucked into her navy blue knickers, knickers that revealed the full length of her perfect legs. She was Venus in a pair of pumps.

  “She’s a cracker,” said Sprout, “and I’m going to pull her.”

  “No you’re not,” I replied. “I baggsied her first.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Herman. “You don’t baggsy girls, you have to woo them instead.”

  “What does woo them mean?” I replied.

  “It means you have to buy them diamond rings and such like, so that when they get them they say, ‘Woo that’s nice.’”

  Herman told us that he was an expert on the matter of wooing. After all, his family did own a jewellery shop.

  “Which one are you going to marry then?” I asked Herman.

  “I think I’ll marry that one over there,” he replied point­ing to a large Amazonian girl with black hair.

  Sprout and I were both shocked.

  “Why on earth would you want to marry her?” I asked him.

  “She’s got the biggest pair of tits,” was his reply.

  We couldn’t help but laugh, even though it put us at risk of being discovered by one of the masters. Fortunately though we got away with it on this occasion.

  The three of us continued to watch the girls playing net­ball. We were obviously not interested in the score. In fact, we didn’t have the faintest idea about the rules of the game. We just watched the bouncing breasts, long legs and, of course, the navy blue knickers.

  “So what are you two going to do when you leave school?” I asked them.

  Herman said that he was going to continue into the sixth form before going to work in the family business. Sprout though was vague. He told us that the original plan had been for him to leave school at sixteen after completing his school certificate. He was then going to work in his father’s shop. However, his father had recently suggested that he might be allowed to stay on and take his higher school certificate.

  This was a reflection of how well Sprout’s father was doing and how forward thinking he was. At that time, most pupils left school with no qualifications aged fourteen. However, parents who sent their children to a grammar school under­took to keep them in education until they were sixteen so that they could take their school certificate. Most then allowed their sons and to a lesser extent their daughters to stay on until they were eighteen in order to pass their higher school certificate.

  Mr Russell was keen that his son should be able to enjoy the opportunities that he’d never had as a boy. Therefore after opening his second shop in April 1941, he was now considering the possibility of letting Sprout stay on into the sixth form. Both Herman and I hoped that he would be able to continue at school. After all, if he left it would be like splitting up the Three Musketeers.

  Soon the bell was ringing to signal the start of afternoon lessons and the three of us had to climb down from the roof of the bike shed. We had to be careful not to be spotted by Froggy Philips, the master on duty that day.

  Later that afternoon I was walking home when I spot­ted a couple of girls in front of me. They were wearing the uniform of St Helena’s school and even though they had their backs turned to me I could tell from the blonde hair and long legs that one of them was the vision of loveliness. It was the girl I was destined to marry. I knew I had to get her attention. But how should I do it?

  Then I had an idea. I ran up to her and grabbed her beret and ran off with it. Looking back it was a stupid thing to do and I don’t know what possessed me.

  All I know was that after about ten yards I stopped and looked back at her. She was sobbing and I felt really bad about what I’d just done. What on earth had I been thinking?

  I slowly walked back to her with my arm outstretched, her beret in my hand. She stopped crying and took it back from me. I was just about to apologise to her when all of a sudden I was doubled up in pain.

  She’d kneed me in the nuts and as a result I was in com­plete agony.

  “Serves you right you stupid little prat,” she said to me as I writhed on the floor holding my balls.

  “Hey Sarah, I didn’t know he was a ballet dancer,” said the friend. “What’s he performing down there? Is it the dying swan?

  “More like the Nutcracker Suite,” she replied.

  They both started laughing and with that the two of them walked off leaving me to reconsider my technique for gaining her attention in future.

  Still at least I’d learnt what her name was.

  Chapter 6

  “Which pile do you think it should go on?” asked Molly.

  “Well, I doubt if the charity shop would have any use for it,” Nigel replied. “After all St Helena’s school is now the Chesterfield Campus of Derby University. So it’s either the recycling centre or the auction house.”

  “Perhaps the auction house can put it into a job lot with the Grammar School uniform,” Molly suggested.

  Nigel was grateful for her idea, as he really didn’t want to throw the beret into one of the black bags destined for the recycling centre. Instead he took it into the living room and placed it on top of his uncle’s school blazer.

  The first bedroom was now completely cleared out except for the furniture. So the two of them decided to stop for the day.

  It occurred to them that they hadn’t chosen which char­ity they were going to give all the stuff to. But after a brief discussion they plumped for the local hospice, which had a collection point on the other side of town. With that decided they loaded the car up with boxes of crockery and cutlery and black bags full of clothes and bedding.

  When they arrived at the industrial estate where the h
os­pice store was located, they were pleased to discover that they also took bigger items and would even collect them from people’s houses. They made a mental note to contact them regarding the larger items of furniture.

  That done, they set off back to Ashbourne for a well-de­served meal and a glass of wine.

  The next day they were back at their uncle’s house by 9.30 in the morning, vowing to complete clearing out the house that day. That would then leave the following day to arrange for the collection of the furniture and to tackle the attic, shed and garage.

  First they started in the second bedroom. It hadn’t been used for years but that didn’t mean that it was less of a task. In fact, there was far more rubbish in this room than there had been in the first bedroom as it seemed that Uncle Miles had used it as storage. The wardrobe and the two chests of drawers in the room were packed full of things from his past, things that hadn’t seen the light of day for years.

  There were yet more coins as well as postcards, thank you letters written by Nigel and Emma when they were children, and birthday cards dating back to the 1950s. In addition, there were newspaper cuttings, certificates, photo­graphs and much more.

  “Did he ever throw anything away?” asked Molly. “Or did he merely put it all in this room?”

  Most of the stuff was pure junk destined for the recycling centre, but shortly after they started sorting it out, Nigel discovered some old medals and a silver hipflask in a drawer.

  *******

  In June 1943, Rupert left school after completing his higher school certificate. The plan had always been for him to go to university and then into the family business. The war changed all that and instead he went straight to Sandhurst and six months later he was a lieutenant commanding a unit of 46 men in Italy. I was so proud of him, he looked so grownup in his uniform.

  I will always remember the day he left. Father was more worried about him than Mother was. I guess that was because of what he had experienced during the Great War. He gave Rupert a silver hipflask that his father had given to him when he’d first gone to the front in 1916. It was a battered old thing, but Father insisted that it was his lucky charm and he believed it had kept him safe during the var­ious battles he’d fought in.