The Irresponsible Socialist - a memoir

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 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 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 a sidecar to it. 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.