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Childhood

Childhood

33 Crossland Road was a small, semi detached house. It was the last house in the Street before the Medlock Mill. As a child I was woken by the sound of running feet, I was assured by my mother that it was only the mill girls in their clogs running so as not to be late for work. The day was given its routine by the Mill’s hooter announcing the changes of shift during the working day.

I lived in Crossland Road with my Mother after the war had ended. My Father was still serving in the RAF, he was not a significant presence in my life at that time. In fact my earliest memory was of falling asleep in my usual place next to my mother in her bed only to wake, cold and uncomfortable in my cot. When I looked across at the bed someone had taken my place.

If the Therapy had gone back another year or two I would no doubt have found another source of my later, adult anger.

I have a photograph of myself with my Grandmother taken in the garden at Crossland Road. This was before the garden was turned into a hen run. Like so many working people during the grey post war years of rationing and shortage of money and goods. My father kept hens. On one occasion I was attacked by the Cockerel and ran screaming back into the house to be greeted by my mother’s sympathy and my father’s impatience.

Much later he told me that after he was demobilised he returned to work at Avro in Manchester, he was a time served engineer, but within a week he had resigned.

The story he told was of a bullying foreman who had remained in his reserved occupation for the duration of the war and who, when my Father and a couple of workmates were reminiscing about their experiences, sharing a cigarette at the end of the week, the foreman challenged them.

My Father had volunteered, despite himself being in a reserved occupation, and had served in the RAF. Faced with what he perceived as an unacceptable challenge from the foreman he had reacted impetuously and walked out of his secure job.

The story he told me has all the hallmarks of truth. Standing at the Bus Stop with his first and possibly last post war pay packet in his pocket, waiting for the bus home he was wondering how he would explain himself to my mother when a Bus drew up to the stop. It was driven by my Uncles Father, Stan Cockill.

Asking how he was doing my Father explained, ‘Don’t worry said Stan, they’re looking for conductors and drivers, stay on the bus and I’ll take you to the depot and introduce you.

By the time he got home later that day, my Father had swapped his time served trade for the job of Trainee Bus Driver with Manchester Corporation.

Later he told me that he enjoyed the uniform, the camaraderie of the canteen and the fact that once out of the Garage he was his own boss. It always seemed to me that he should have never left the RAF. My Father had what was often called ‘a good war’ and enjoyed life as an Instrument Fitter, First Class.

Family life in the immediate post-war years was constrained by the exigencies of rationing, it was a grey time with not much to cheer about.

But there was school, scouting, we moved to a large house in Gorton opposite Sunny Brow park where I enjoyed enormous freedom until the disappearance of young children started to cast a shadow over the times. Later Myra Hindley and Ian Brady were arrested and tried for a number of offences involving young people from the area around where we lived.

My first school was St Mary’s, a Church of England primary school. Of this school I have only one memory. When we started we were given loose sheets of paper to practice our handwriting. As we progressed we graduated to an exercise book. I cannot now remember how long I attended the school but when my family moved from Crossland Road to Gorton in Manchester, I was still writing on loose sheets of paper, another possible source of the anger that came later?

In my new school, under the tutelage of a young, attractive and gifted teacher I made rapid progress as both a proficient writer and reader.

I joined the library and recall taking Puck of Pooks Hill as my first title, challenged by the Librarian I had to read two pages to her to satisfy her that I would be able to read and understand the book.

I read it. Understanding was possibly still some way off.

Our new house was set up from the road and faced out onto a park, The Gore Brook, so called because during a Viking raid it ran with blood, gave its name to our part of the City of Manchester, Gorton.

My mother was working by now, doubtless necessary to pay the mortgage, but also because she enjoyed the freedom it gave her. I would look after my younger sister when we got home from school and at my Mother’s insistence I learned to cook.

On one occasion this skill became necessary when, after my Grandmother died and my Grandfather had moved to live with my Aunt and Uncle, during their summer holiday I had to travel back to Droylsden by bus to prepare his tea when he came home from work.

Despite the greyness and the rationing it was an enjoyable time to be growing up in a relatively prosperous and easy City. Music at the Free Trade Hall was accessible to all via Lunch Time concerts. After school I would buy penny loaves in Lewis’s Store in Piccadilly and then wait for my father to drive past in his bus, the 210 Trolley Bus with Uncle Ronnie, his conductor and a close family friend, who would then give me a lift home.

On the 6 February 1958, I was walking home from school, I was twelve years of age. I heard the news in fits and starts as it was shouted by people as they went about their business. The black headlines outside the New Agents and the paper sellers in the Street also told the story.
As yet there was little hard news and later that evening I had to travel back to Droylsden on a 19 Bus. At each stop the conductor would get off the bus and knock on a door to ask the latest news.

A roll call of names was announced. Next to me a a man began to weep. It was heart breaking to hear the names called out. Roger Byrne, Eddie Colman, Tommy Taylor, Billy Whelan all died.

Possibly the most iconic name Duncan Edwards, survived the crash, but died in hospital 15 days later. Other survivors included Bobby, now Sir Bobby Charlton, Bill Foulkes and Harry Gregg the Goal keeper.

My Uncle Harold, an avid Manchester United supporter, was devastated by the news and the whole City went into mourning.

Apart from the players, Matt, later Sir Matt Busby was badly injured, he had the last rites read over him on two occasions and he was in hospital for two months. Altogether twenty of the forty four people on board the aircraft died in the crash, three survivors including Duncan Edwards dying later of their injuries.
The team was returning from a European Cup match against Red Star Belgrade, they made a stop in Munich for re-fuelling. It had begun to snow in Munich and this had caused a build up of slush on the runway causing the aircraft to lose velocity and making take-off impossible.
One of the many Heroes of that tragic night was Manchester United goalkeeper Harry Gregg who remained by the aircraft, ignoring the risk of explosion and his own safety. to pull survivors from the wreckage.
At the time of the disaster, United were trying win a third English league title they were enjoying an 11 match unbeaten run, and had booked their place in the Fifth Round of the FA Cup.

I recall watching the Cup Final, against Bolton Wanderers on TV at my Uncles house that year. I remember Nat Lofthouse, the Bolton Centre Forward bundling Harry Gregg, who was holding the ball, into the back of the net and a goal being awarded. I learned some new words from my Uncle that day that have stood me in good stead whenever I need to express myself forcefully.

For a team to have experienced such a tragedy and loss of gifted players with their inspirational manager unable to manage through a critical period of recovery, yet manage a creditable ninth place in the league and to beat Fulham in a replay to earn a place in the FA Cup Final was a significant achievement.

I date my own support for Manchester United to that day in 1958 when my City became a village and we all shared in the grief and pain and experience of loss.

The other great love was Motorcycles.

For my father transport was a luxury. There were not many families with cars and those that had could barely afford the fuel to drive them. One neighbour had a large Riley, a lovely car at the time and still a very collectable car, but his main use of it was to sit outside in the street and listen to the radio.

My father ran a motorcycle. It was a transport of delight because it meant that as a family we could get out into the country side and enjoy the fresh air, a favourite family outing was to Lyme Park on the fringes of Stockport in a small village called Disley.

The first motorcycle was a Rudge Ulster. I do not know where it came from, it appeared, and my father also acquired and fitted to it a sidecar. The bike was a high revving sports bike completely unsuited to pulling a side car but because my father was mechanically inclined he was able to keep the bike maintained and sufficiently roadworthy both as a source of transport for himself and family outings for my mother, sister and myself.

On one occasion we were on a family outing into Derbyshire when the bike broke down as we were pulling up the long drag known as Long Hill outside Buxton.

There were two bikes that day, our Rudge, which had broken down and my Uncle Ronnie’s Indian. The RAC man declared the bike un-repairable. My father then tried to use a small pebble under the cam lifter, but this was shattered under the pressure when he restarted the engine.

At this point a man came down from one of the big houses opposite where my father was struggling to repair the bike on Long Hill. My father had a fairly short temper and I could see that he was ready to react if the man spoke in a way that he might interpret as offensive. My mother, also sensitive to my Fathers moods intervened and began to apologise.

The man, however, responded kindly by inviting us inside for a cup of tea. He then asked my father what the problem was. My Father mollified, described the parts he needed to repair the bike. Over tea, amiably served by the man’s wife, the man then offered the use of his car to get us home, buy the parts and return next day to repair the bike.

By any standards an extraordinary act of kindness rare even for the late fifties in England, impossible to imagine in the UK of today, the current Prime Minister’s Big Society notwithstanding.

Eventually the Rudge had to go, it was proving too unreliable.

The next motorcycle was, even in the late fifties, a classic motorcycle and an object of envy amongst some and desire amongst others. It was a Vincent. Subject not only of high praise, splendid reviews, a dedicated following but also a wonderful song by Richard Thompson.

Said Red Molly to James that's a fine motorbike

A girl could feel special on any such like

Said James to Red Molly, well my hat's off to you

It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952

My Fathers’ Vincent was somewhat later than a ’52 and he acquired it in something of state, the engine had been ruined by the previous owner who had used the wrong engine oil. So my Father had to rebuild the engine completely, the parts were expensive and so he swapped the Rudge for the parts he needed at a dealers on Deansgate in Manchester. After the deal was done the salesman called us back as we were leaving the shop he handed my father a black vinyl tank cover, ‘I think the Rudge was probably worth a bit more’ he shrugged as my Father took the tank cover away.

I used to sit for hours watching the painstaking work involved in stripping the old engine and re-building the new. My Father’s impatience sometimes caused him to curse beneath his breath occasionally tools were thrown in frustration but eventually the job was finished and the bike started.

Again a thoroughbred machine was backed, like a racehorse between the shafts of a coal wagon, onto the sidecar and we set off.

As a special treat that day I was allowed on the pillion. My Father and I were wearing flat caps and goggles, helmets were not then a requirement. I was thirteen years old. We drove out of Manchester to the north along the old A6 Road.

For a while I thought that we might be going to Blackpool, normally a once a year treat to see the illuminations, but it was the wrong time of the year. The bike performed impeccably, my mother grinned at me through the sidecar window, my sister squashed uncomfortably, grimaced in the back and then we arrived at the beginning of the road my father had been aiming for all along.

The newly opened Preston by Pass, he opened the throttle. The Vincent responded as though it were alive under my fathers controlling right hand as he opened the throttle the machine simply eased itself to a speed which I knew was magical.

My Father reached over and tapped my shoulder, pointing down I peered over his shoulder the wind whipping at my hat and pressing my goggles into my cheeks.

100 mph, it could have been the sound of speed I was excited, animated, bursting with pride as I shouted aloud, the wind whipping the words out of my mouth and into the cool Lancashire air.

The only other time that I had travelled at 100 mph was in our neighbour, Tony Pratico’s Ford Consul.

Tony was a Chef on the railway, an Italian prisoner of war, he had settled in Manchester with his wife and family of three girls. He couldn’t drive but asked my father if he would teach him. My Father readily agreed, only to be surprised when Tony asked if he would help him pick up his new car.

The Ford Consul was a superb, modern car, it was years before my Father could afford anything like it, but no sooner than it was sitting in the Garage we shared with the Pratico’s, next to the Viincent, than we were off on trips. There were usually six of us, it was a squash but I didn’t mind sitting in close proximity to Brenda, Tony’s oldest daughter.

On one occasion, out for a drive, Tony kept urging my Father to, ‘See what she will do’ eventually the speed crept up until a 100 mph was shown on the speedometer, Tony beamed with pride, that smile said it all, ‘My car is beautiful’.

My Father, after spending almost 25 years as a bus driver, no doubt encouraged by teaching Tony to drive, applied to be a Driving and Traffic examiner with the Ministry of Transport it was a challenging competition but eventually he was successful.

When the letter arrived it was opened with anticipation and he read that he was being offered a position in Newcastle. The letter was shredded, and the pieces scattered across the room, ‘that is the last place on earth I want live’ he declared.

Later my mother gathered the torn scraps and reassembled the letter. The offer was for Newcastle under Lyme in Staffordshire and was duly accepted. Ironically Newcastle upon Tyne became the place where Janet and I lived for nine happy years where our family grew up and our youngest was born and still lives.

Anger

Anger

The anger came later.

I think that I was angry at first simply because of what had happened to us. I was angry at the MS. Within a short period of forty eight hours, on holiday in Scotland, Janet went from being a young, attractive woman working as an Occupational Therapist in an Intensive Psychotherapy Unit in Birmingham, a busy mother of four children and a friend, lover and wife to me, to in a sense, becoming her own Grandmother. Janet’s mother had died when she was very young and Granny Haskell had stepped in as a carer and support. She was an eccentric elderly lady and I had warmed to her very quickly.

The attack struck on a Wednesday morning and the local GP in Poolewe where we were holidaying diagnosed Labrynthitis, the next day he increased the level of severity to a small stroke and on the next day sent Janet to Inverness to hospital in Raigmoor she was admitted to a stroke unit for elderly ladies. The left side of her face dropped, she drooled and lost her sight.

A CT Scan revealed plaques in both sides of the brain and the Doctors confirmed what we had been told some years earlier that it was likely that Janet’s symptoms were a strong indication that the eventual diagnosis would confirm that MS was the root cause of the problems Janet had experienced over the years.

But I was also angry because I realised what I had done. From being ordained in 1969 I had followed a conventional path as curate, senior curate, Vicar and then Bishop’s Adviser in Social Responsibility and Priest in Charge of St Andrew’s, Newcastle. In 1984 I was made an Honorary Canon of Newcastle Cathedral.

We spent nine happy years in Newcastle, our children grew up there, our son was born there and we thought that we might stay in the North East permanently, but after a Sabbatical in the USA in 1985, I realised that it was time for a change and we moved as a family to Birmingham where I was appointed as The Director of the Centre for Applied Christian Studies at Selly Oak College.

In Newcastle I had written the Diocesan Submission to the Commission on Faith in the City a document which was well received by the commission and for which I was complimented.

I remember on one occasion as a member of the Bishops Staff sitting in on a disciplinary meeting regarding a clergyman who had embarked on an affair with a young parishioner, causing great distress to her family and his wife. After due deliberation by the Bishop and his advisers the decision was made to move him to a small rural parish in the North of the Diocese where he could spend time under the tutelage of a wiser older priest and reflect on his actions.

I suddenly realised that my own removal to Castle Carrock was of a similar order. Suddenly I found myself in the countryside miles away from family and friends, the church had been signally unable to offer me any support or assistance, I had been told by the Bishop of Carlisle that I was too big for the job I had applied for but he had nothing else to offer, I had not been unfaithful to my wife, I hadn’t brought the Church into disrepute or caused distress, but I had been exiled.

In time I was asked if I would take on a role as the Diocese Faith in the City officer and started to attend meetings of officers from other Diocese’ in the North West, it was at this point that my anger finally welled up and I began to rage against what I saw as the major injustice of what had happened.

Matters came to a head, first at a conference in Birmingham to discuss and debate the progress of the Faith in the City report, then I was asked to stop attending the regional meetings of the Faith in the City Officers, because I was disruptive and offensive, and finally when Gill Moody, who was then the National Bishop’s Officer, came to Carlisle, I took her on a high speed tour of the West Coast in my red convertible sports coupe, a rather high profile and dangerous expression of road rage.

It was at this point that I decided that I needed help.

Fortunately there was a Diocesan Counselling Scheme in operation in the three Diocese of Blackburn, Manchester and Carlisle and I made contact with the Counsellor for Carlisle.

We met and talked over my counselling needs and the nature of my anger.

I was amused and relieved when the counsellor advised me that it was OK to be angry about some things, the MS but also the Church and began to share with me some of his own anger at the Church and sheer incompetence of the Bishops and other senior figures he had encountered in his own ministry. He was by now retired and free to speak his mind. I of course was not retired but I was speaking my mind and as a friend commented at the meeting in Birmingham, ‘You certainly know how to pick your enemies’.

So the counselling began.

The process owed much to the work of Frank Lake and the process of recovering childhood memories.

Over a matter of six months or so, meeting about once a week, with me lying in a defenceless position on the floor with my head on a cushion and the counsellor seated, I began to work my way backwards to my childhood.

Progress at first was fairly rapid. I unpacked the feelings generated by becoming a young parent and the immense pride I had in my Children, the MS took less time than I expected, my ordination and the support I received at the hands of my first incumbent, Ted Greathead who had been a lifelong friend. I spent time over meeting Janet and the early years of our marriage with its ups and downs. Former girl friends didn’t take long as there hadn’t been many of those.

Until I came to a more difficult time, when I first realised a sense of what later came to recognise as vocation. It was then that I first encountered the prejudice and snobbery that was, and is, so prevalent in the Church. As a young man I experienced a degree of prejudice which was firmly based on class. I remember being described in extremely crude terms on one occasion by a girl friends head teacher when she met us together in the Parish Church. Advising the girl friend to bring the friendship to an end, because, she pronounced I was destined to be nothing more than a labourer, whilst she had a promising career ahead of her from which I would only hold her back.

That summary of my destiny was revised somewhat surprisingly when I had two poems published in Staffordshire Life, whilst amazement was declared that I could actually write never mind get what I had written into print, nevertheless, well done.

But the therapeutic monologue, guided by gentle prompting from the counsellor still moved me backward through time until I found myself standing in the kitchen of my parents’ first house in Crossland Road, Droylsden, Manchester.

It was a familiar scene and one that my mother had told me about some time after it had occurred and again shortly before her death.

She was pregnant with my sister or possibly with her second pregnancy when she lost the child she was carrying. During her pregnancy she had from time to time suddenly fainted. During these fainting attacks she told me, I would, at four or possibly two, years old, drag a chair across the kitchen to the sink, stand on the chair, fill a glass with water from the tap and stand next to her waiting for her to awaken, when I would offer her the water.

But what I did not know and what I now recalled was a dramatic finale to the events and to my therapy. Suddenly the back door opened and a figure came into the house, lifted me bodily into the tiny, best room, in the front of the house, shut the door firmly and then, presumably attended to my mother.

I was furious, not just at the time, but then and there in the counselling session, I cried out with anger, ‘How dare you?’

Later recalling the incident I remarked on what a small event it seemed so long ago in the childhood of a man now fifty years older than he had been at the time. But like so much of what happens to us the experience grows and what was a relatively small anger at four, although I recall it as a pretty big anger for a four year old, later it becomes not just a bigger anger but in my case, redacted through the experience of Janet’s illness and my having put out of the room by the church, it became a huge rage.

I was asked if I wanted to continue to work on the experience, to identify who the person had been, what had happened subsequently? But I didn’t see what there was to be gained from this. I didn’t need to blame any one individual. It could only have been one of three or four people, it was probably my Father and I didn’t need to know. It was enough to experience again the strong sense of rejection and the refusal to allow me to perform the service I knew I was perfectly capable of, bringing a glass of water to my mother.

Since that experience I have been much better at controlling my anger, directing it more usefully and using it constructively.

MS

MS

After Janet’s major MS attack had left her wheelchair bound and both of us somewhat afraid of the future, we moved to Cumbria.

That night we had talked about what the future may hold for us. We had stayed awake until late and after we had finally fallen asleep I had dreamt.

There was a house, double fronted stone with Clematis or climbing rose covering the front of the house. The location was not declared in the dream. I entered the dream house through the open front door and ignoring the doors to the left and right, leading off the hall I climbed the stairs. Half way up on the right hand side before the stairs turned there was a doorway and in the dream I knew that this was a room over the garage.

Next morning when we awoke I turned to Janet and said, everything is going to be OK I have seen our next home in a dream and we will be happy there and you will get better.

This promise was not altogether true.

First, Janet was rushed into the Selly Oak hospital in Birmingham. She had developed a DVT (Deep Vein Thrombosis) this was a story in itself and comes later but as a result of this she was back in hospital being pumped with bags of Heparin and the specialist warned me that she might not make a full recovery or might die if the clots didn’t break up and entered her lungs or brain.

But she did recover, at least from the DVT and was released. To celebrate we took a drive in the car and she was feeling so much better we stopped for a pub lunch in The Boot, by the canal near Warwick.

Leaving her with our young son William I went to order drinks and food and then decided to telephone the girls to say that we were OK but would be late.

It was then that I heard a terrible screaming coming form the Bar area of the Pub. The terrified voice of a child crying, ‘She’s dead, she’s dead’. It was William, outside I discovered Janet lying where she had fallen from the bench she was sitting on, a young off duty medic was attending her, although he soon gave way when a more experienced, older nurse intervened.

An ambulance was called and Janet was rushed into Warwick Hospital, this first Grand Mal seizure, was followed by two or three Petit Mal seizures in rapid succession.

That night I left her in hospital and drove William home, his sisters gathered round and after he had cried a few more tears and finally gone off to bed and sleep I again shared the distressing news with my daughters.

I went into the kitchen for a drink, maybe a glass of wine I don’t recall, returning to the dining room I bumped against a chair, it was a single, rather fine, carver chair we had bought in a local antique shop and one of which we were rather fond.

In a fit of rage, against the injustice of it all, against the apparent absence of God in all these events and particularly against the chair that had bumped into me, giving me a sharp dig in the ribs, I picked the chair up and smashed it on the table.

I kept smashing and smashing until the chair was reduced to a bundle of kindling, the table top was somewhat battered and dented and I was exhausted.

My daughters stood, opened mouthed and watched in silence. After I had finished I commented, ‘There! A mature and adult response to the days events!’

Over a glass of wine I looked over the post which had arrived, the newspapers and that week’s copy of The Church Times.

I take The Church Times partly out of loyalty, partly out of interest, partly to see what is being said in the Faith section on the lectionary for the week ahead, partly to keep up with names and faces and church gossip and from time to time, the Jobs section. Usually my reading of the paper ends with it being rolled into a ball and tossed into the waste paper basket with an expression of fury or disgust at some particularly inept comment or news of a particular promotion.

On this particular night, in the Jobs section I saw an advert for a colleague, to share pastoral oversight of a small group of four parishes in Cumbria.

At this point in my career, I had been a curate twice, a Vicar, a Cathedral Canon, a Bishop’s Officer and was then Team Leader of the Birmingham Drugs Prevention Initiative ( a Grade Seven Post) so the though of becoming a curate again was to say the least, an anti-career move.

My middle girl Sophie was sharing a glass of wine with me and I asked her what she thought, she immediately focused on the Georgian Rectory standing in the centre of the picture post-card Cumbrian Village, ‘You and Mum deserve some time to get over the last few months’ she said. With that, I picked up the ‘phone and called the number.

It was only after the phone was answered in a soft Northern Irish brogue that I realised that it was 11 30 at night.

Nevertheless I pressed on with the call and to his everlasting credit, and probably now, eternal reward, Neil listened.

Of course I should have been calling the Samaritan’s, but as I talked, Neil kept listening and when finally I finished he simply asked my address and offered to send the details and an application form in the post.

By the time it arrived I had been back to the hospital, Janet had been transferred back to Selly Oak and the Neurologist whom we called ‘Red Braces’ had responded to my anger in a spectacularly defensive manner, and I had been told that he wouldn’t talk to me again, partly we later thought, because of the incompetent manner in which Janet’s spinal tap had been managed, although his boss the professor assured us that the procedure had been undertaken in a perfectly standard manner.

Also by then I had returned to work, visiting Janet in hospital at lunch times on my own and in the evening with William, the girls, by now all back at University.

Work was interesting and satisfying and I enjoyed the challenge and the chance to turn my mind away from personal matters and onto matters of public policy and in particular UK drugs policy and the approach to the ‘war on drugs’ being waged by the then Conservative Government.

I was part of an interesting team lead by Alan Norwood in the Home Office I enjoyed the support and challenge of my colleagues from around the country and in particular enjoyed working with the small team that I had assembled in Birmingham.

My secretary Claire called my early in the afternoon to say that there was a call for me from a Revd Neil Steadman from Cumbria.

By then I only had a distant memory of the events of a few weeks before and wasn’t at all sure why someone should be ringing me from Cumbria, however as soon as I heard his voice I recalled that late night conversation.

Neil was ringing to ask if I was going to complete and return the application form he had sent me because the closing date was a couple of days away.

I had to admit that I hadn’t really had time but I would look at it again that night. Neil offered me a Fax number, there was no email in those days, at the local school in Brampton and encouraged me to send him something, preferably by the next day.

Even though I was busy that afternoon and I had to collect William from school and we had hospital visiting and he would have homework to finish before bed I looked in my bag and found the application form. I quickly re-read the details of the job which confirmed that it was a relatively junior job, titled as curate and licensed to Neil as Rector designate of the new Benefice, based on Brampton with Castle Carrock, where the house was, Cumrew and Farlam.

I quickly hand wrote the application and faxed it to the number I had been given by Neil little realising the long term implications that this casual application would have for Janet, myself and especially Sophie and Charlotte, our two younger girls.

Janet was discharged, Red Braces still not speaking to me directly, she returned home and for the next months remained dependant on a wheelchair for her mobility and on me for her care as I became Chief Cook and Bottle Washer.

We re-arranged the house so that our sitting room became a bed-sitting room and Janet received her visitors in State sitting in her big brass-bed propped up by cushions.

Then I received a letter post-marked Cumbria inviting me to an interview.

We talked long into the night and eventually decided that there was nothing final about it, after all I might not be offered the job. Janet had been horrified when I described the telephone conversation I had with Neil with its outpouring of personal need laced with anger at what had occurred.

So we planned a trip North using the opportunity to visit Sophie in Newcastle before travelling on to Cumbria where we had been invited to stay with a Mr and Mrs Milburne, in their fell-side farmhouse called Tottergill, just outside Castle Carrock.

As we drove along the A69 from Newcastle we were struck by the sweet smell of just cut pine from the forestry near to Hexham, it was a scent which felt both rural and distant from the Cities where we had lived for past twenty three years and Castle Carrock when we arrived seemed to justify its picture post-card reputation. It was dark as we drove through the village and it was impossible to see the house although its four-squareness and age seemed to identify it as we passed.

Tottergill was simply superb with marvellous views to Carlisle and away across the Solway to the Galloway Hills and the Milburne’s, as might  be expected from a couple who had been farmers and who had offered Bed and Breakfast for years were superb hosts and ensured that we were made welcome and comfortable in our accommodation.

The interview process was well managed, One of the Church Wardens, John Smith was County Librarian and his influence showed in the professionalism with which matters were conducted.

An evening supper party for all the candidates was held in The Vicarage and I was impressed when Neils’ wife, Myrtle asked if I was the same Geoffrey Smith whose poem had been anthologised in A Touch of Flame.

I was.

The process involved a guided tour of the four churches, for much of which we used our own car and Janet had to sit and wait for me to be shown inside churches I had to apologise and reassure our various hosts that she was not being discourteous but walking was still a challenge.

Finally, we arrived at Castle Carrock, the Church was lovely and appeared to be very well cared for, as I made this observation the smile on Winnie Milburn’s face made it clear who did the caring.

As I stood on the grass of the Village Green in Castle Carrock I could feel the roots shooting down from the soles of my shoes and I remember thinking, ‘If Janet could get better anywhere, she could get better here’.

And so to the house, double fronted, stone built as a Rectory in 1726.  The Clematis ran up the north facing wall and along the telephone wire to the boundary hedge. The door was open and we were invited inside by the Church Wardens.

A large living room with a wood burning fire-place to the right, a study to the left, a dining room after that a cellar-head with steps leading down and a staircase leading up.

‘and said Joan Moore, half-way …’

‘up the stairs’, I continued, there is a another room on the right’.

This was the house of the dream and suddenly I wanted to move here, to live here and for Janet to enjoy the peace and quiet that living in rural Cumbria would offer.

Bolton

Bolton

I don’t believe anything I have ever done has been straightforward. My time in Hatfield had been rewarding. I had learned that I had none of the skills, competencies or the aptitude to be a teacher. I had enjoyed working in the Borstal and indeed out-with the Borstal with the young lads who were allowed out to undertake community service. But I had no wish to be a prison chaplain, although I changed my mind about that later. I had enjoyed visiting RAF Lindholme but again, had no wish to be a services chaplain.

Talking to Ted and to Bill I came to the conclusion that I needed to become better qualified and so I began to explore the possibility of returning to University to study for a degree. I applied, and was offered a place at Manchester. That was the easy part.

I applied for a grant but my application was refused because, even though the University would not accept my three years at Salisbury as a degree equivalent, the funding authority rejection letter stated that I was repeating a degree level course in the same subject.

I had found a part-time curacy offering a flat, expenses and a small stipend but without the grant I could not accept the offer. I then wrote to the Bishop of Manchester, Patrick Rogers and explained my predicament. His response was to write back with the offer of a job in Bolton. I accepted and we moved across the M62 to Lancashire.

Two of our daughters were born in Bolton at Townley’s Hospital, Sophie on the 23rd May 1972 and Charlotte on the 19th March 1974, two Lancashire lasses as my Mother would say and indeed, sing and play.

The job was a cross between a second curacy and a Team Vicar. I was paid accordingly, almost £900 a year, but during the four years we were in Bolton my pay remained the same, whilst its value was eroded by inflation.

My job was to prepare the congregation of St Georges Church in the town centre for closure and amalgamation with St Peter’s the Parish Church. I guess my colleague appointed to Holy Trinity, Ian Corbett didn’t quite understand the job description so he tried to build Holy Trinity up, whilst I actively worked towards closure. By comparison I was a disappointment to the congregation of St Georges whilst Ian was successful and popular at Holy Trinity.

One evening, at a social at the Vicarage, a house newly built in the graveyard of the Parish Church, the Vicar Harold Fielding, by then Archdeacon of Bolton, told a wonderful story of returning home, with visitors, from a local restaurant and his wife throwing open the French Windows to the sight of a couple having sex on the lawn. She screamed, the couple fled, Harold arrived breathless in response to the scream and she described what she had seen.

‘She was a slut’, she declared, ‘but he was a gentleman’. Harold frowned, ‘how could you know this?’, ‘Well’, his wife replied, ‘His clothes were neatly folded, but hers were scattered everywhere!

In Bolton I started or became involved with five projects, a counselling service called Concern, a day centre called Work Piece, an open and topical discussion group for young people called Mouth Piece, a hostel called Nightcap and an anonymous squatting project.

This last project resulted in a letter from the Local Authority to the Bishop complaining about my activities, officially I was reprimanded but unofficially encouraged to carry on with the good work!

All this was in response to a concern that unemployment and homelessness amongst young people was increasing dramatically.

But there were other activities. My typical working day was from seven a.m. until two or three a.m. the following morning. I firmly believed that if I worked tirelessly and for the good of people, albeit at the expense of my family; that my efforts would be recognised and my ambitions rewarded. I was too young and naïve to realise that the Church simply doesn’t work like that. The church is predicated on the concept of patronage and without a patron preferment is almost impossible.

But I gave my time and energy selflessly even though Janet with three young children under three years of age saw my selflessness as selfishness. I recall on one occasion when after much hinting on her part I took a day off.

We set off to travel to Grange over Sands for a day at the sea-side with the children.

Almost as soon as we left Bolton the arguing started and we literally screamed at each other as we drove North. The children cowered in the back of the car. Looking back I am ashamed of my behaviour, but at the time I simply thought that it was my job, as Harold Wilson had described ministry in his valedictory address to the class of sixty nine, to ‘burn myself out in the service of the Lord’.

In Bolton I made a pretty good job of it.

Apart from being neglected for the three years we were in Bolton, for most of which she was pregnant, Janet offered Bed and Breakfast to overnight guests.

I would frequently offer a bed to a homeless youngster, some of whom were drug addicts. On one occasion she found our youngest rifling through a bag in the spare bedroom left behind by an overnight guest. It contained ‘smarties’ as our daughter cried with glee, there were many colours, indicating  uppers and downers, Dexedrine  and   Benzedrine to Valium and Nembutal.

What good came from any of this?

At the end before I left I was offered a job by Elizabeth (later Dame Elizabeth) Hoodless of CSV. I discussed this with my Vicar Harold Fielding the Archdeacon, his advice was take the job with CSV because you will never be understood or appreciated or offered preferment in the Church, you are too radical and creative.

This advice was later made public in his sermon when I was licensed as Vicar of St John the Baptist, Little Hulton. ‘Your new vicar’ he said, ‘is a radical in the truest sense of that word, he will get to the roots of the matter and begin rebuilding from there’. Later when I left Little Hulton for Newcastle the bishop rather confirmed the Archdeacons advice when he said, you would never have got a job like that in this Diocese.

Bolton was hard work for both Janet and I. The town is set in a bowl surrounded by hills and there is often even in summer a layer of low lying damp cloud in the bottom of the bowl. There were sunny days but they were few and far between and the grey skies were overpoweringly depressing. The house in which we lived in was a large Lancashire semi-detached and our neighbours, a lovely African Caribbean family were friendly and especially kind when Janet was in hospital having first Sophie and then Charlotte. Their offer of help allowed me to visit the hospital and then my mother would come from her job in Manchester to take over baby-sitting duties whilst I continued to work. My mother was uncomfortable with people of colour, something that Mrs Green noticed and commented on and with which I could only agree.

The work in Bolton had been defined originally as working with the Council of Churches in the town centre, but despite the Vicar’s offer of my time as an ecumenical officer paid for by the Diocese the ecumenical committee were nervous of an Anglican take-over so I began to concentrate instead on working with young people.

I started by hanging out in the shopping centre in the town centre and on one occasion after some weeks of sitting around, being noticed, scrutinised and largely avoided, I saw a group of lads being accosted by one of the security guards, I intervened to say that the boys were not doing anything wrong their behaviour was perfectly acceptable and questioning why the officer had intervened so aggressively. My reward was to be thrown out of the centre with the young people.

From this opportunity I was able to invite a group to the old St George’s school where, together with a local councillor, Peter Swain and a college lecturer, Bill Mckinnie, we started a youth training and employment scheme that we named Work-Piece.

Like all such initiatives the project suffered from a lack of funding, lack of adequate support and a lack of full-time professional staff. On one occasion I was awakened at three or four in the morning having only just returned home and joined Janet in bed, by the telephone. It was the police saying that they had found a group on the premises who said that they had my permission to be there. I agreed that this was the case and went back to sleep only to wake up a few moments later to wonder what had been happening? Had drugs been involved? Would my giving permission make me responsible?

From this uncertain and decidedly shaky venture I went on to acquire a lease on the old Deaf Mission building and open a hostel for homeless young people which I named Nightcap.

I took as my text lines form a Bob Dylan song The Ballad of Frankie Lee and Judas Priest:

What is this house said Frankie Lee, where we have come to roam     It’s not a house said Judas Priest, it’s not a house, it’s a home

Nightcap provided accommodation for twenty young people who were, for one reason or another homeless, some were supported by social services and we had the tacit support of the Director of Social Services for the venture, but the local council were not supportive and there was opposition. Again a lack of money and professional staff was a handicap, the manager was a volunteer and the ‘staff’ were community service volunteers. At least one volunteer, Stuart Weiss, a young American, has remained a friend and some years after I last saw him disappearing down the departures track at Manchester Airport he was waiting with his family to welcome us at Logan Airport when we arrived for our sabbatical at the Episcopal Divinity School, Cambridge, Massachusetts.

I can only reflect that when Night cap was handed over to the South East Lancashire Probation Service the building was burned down by the residents, fortunately without loss of life or injury.

So maybe the volunteers brought different skills than the professional’s skills which were valued more highly by the young residents.