I enjoyed working for W. H. Smith and Son, the newsagents and booksellers, but lost the job as soon as they found I was under age. Then for a day I was a glass-blower. I had read about glass-blowing at school and thought it romantic, but the heat overcame me and I was carried out unconscious and laid on a sand pile. That was enough; I never went back even to collect my day’s salary. Then I worked at Straker’s, the printers and stationers. I tried to bluff them that I could run a Wharfedale printing machine – an enormous thing, over twenty feet long. I had seen it in action, looking into the cellar from the street, and the task looked easy and simple to do. A card read: ‘Boy wanted as layer-on for a Wharfedale printing machine.’ When the foreman brought me to it, it loomed up monstrously. To operate it, I had to stand upon a platform five feet high. I felt I was at the top of the Eiffel Tower.
‘Strike her!’ said the foreman.
‘Strike her?’
Seeing me hesitate, he laughed. ‘You’ve never worked on a Wharfedale.’
‘Just give me the chance, I’ll pick it up quite easily,’ I said.
‘strike her’ meant pull the lever to start the brute. He showed me the lever, then put the beast at half-speed. It started to roll, grind and grunt; I thought it was going to devour me. The sheets were enormous; you could have wrapped me in one. With an ivory scraper I fanned the paper sheets, picking them up by the corners and placing them meticulously against the teeth in time for the monster to clutch them, devour them and regurgitate until they rolled out at the rear end. The first day I was a nervous wreck from the hungry brute wanting to get ahead of me. Nevertheless, I was given the job at twelve shillings per week.
There was romance and adventure about getting out on those cold mornings, before daylight, and going to work, the streets silent and deserted except for one or two shadowy figures making their way to the beacon light of Lockhart’s tea-room for breakfast. One had a feeling of well-being with one’s fellow men, sipping hot tea in the glow and warmth of that momentary respite before a day’s work. And the printing job was not unpleasant; but for the heavy work at the end of the week, having to wash the ink off those tall, heavy, gelatine rollers weighing more than a hundred pounds each, the work was tolerable. However, after three weeks there, I came down with influenza, and Mother insisted that I return to school.
Sydney was now sixteen, and came home excited because he had obtained a job as a bugler on a Donovan and Castle Line passenger boat sailing to Africa. His duties were to blow the calls for lunch etc. He had learnt to play the bugle on the Exmouth training ship; now it was paying off. He was to receive two pounds ten a month, and tips from waiting at three tables in the second class. Thirty-five shillings he was to get in advance before sailing, which, of course, he would give to Mother. With such happy prospect, we moved into two rooms over a barber’s shop in Chester Street.
Sydney’s return from his first trip was the occasion for celebration, for he came back with over three pounds in tips and all in silver. I remember him pouring the money out of his pockets on to the bed. It seemed more money than I had ever seen in my life and I could not keep my hands off it. I scooped it up, dropped it, stacked it and played with it until both Mother and Sydney declared that I was a miser.
What luxury! What indulgence! It was summer and this was our cake and ice-cream period – we had many other luxuries besides. It was also our period of bloaters, kippers, haddocks and toasted tea-cakes for breakfast, and muffins and crumpets on Sunday morning.
Sydney caught cold and languished in bed for several days, and Mother and I waited on him. It was then that we indulged ourselves in ice-cream, a pennyworth in a large tumbler which I presented at the Italian ice-cream shop, much to the irritation of the owner. On my second visit he suggested I bring a bath-tub. A favourite summer drink of ours was sherbet and milk – the sherbet fizzing up through the over-skimmed milk was indeed delectable.
Sydney told us many amusing stories about his voyage. Before sailing he almost lost the job when he blew the first bugle call for lunch. He was out of practice and the soldiers aboard let up a chorus of howls. The chief steward came in a fury. ‘What the hell do you call that?’ ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Sydney, ‘I haven’t got my lip in yet.’ ‘Well, you’d better get your bloody lip in before the boat sails, otherwise you’ll be put ashore.’
During meals there would be a long line of stewards in the kitchen filling their orders. But by the time Sydney’s turn came he had forgotten his order, so he would have to go to the end of the line again. Sydney said that for the first few days while everyone was finishing their dessert he was serving soup.
Sydney stayed home until his money was spent. However, he was booked for a second trip and again they advanced him thirty-five shillings, which he gave to Mother. But this did not last long. After three weeks we were scraping the bottom of the barrel, and there was
