School.

 

Douglas Parry was a shy child. He did not make friends easily. The truth was he was something of a loner.

Sports were a constant challenge to young Douglas. His secondary modern school played soccer in winter and cricket in summer. It could have been worse; some other schools inflicted rugby on their unfortunate charges. Douglas wasn’t any good at football; even getting dressed in the school change-room before going to soccer practice was something of an ordeal. Most of the other boys were loud and rough spoken. Douglas was faced with the choice of either joining-in their raucous savagery, or remaining detached and allowing himself to become a target. He tried to be coarse but he wasn’t very good at that, either.

 

After putting on their sports shorts and soccer boots, the boys had to run about a mile and a half to the sport ground. It always seemed to be raining. A cold wind usually blew over the railway tracks as they crossed the iron bridge that led to the ground; their cleated boots clattering in unison to produce a percussion melody.

 

The tough games teacher, Mr. Haywood, was a former military PT Instructor and amateur boxer. He had hollow cheeks, deep-set eyes and a mis‑shaped nose which was, he proudly let it be known, a legacy from his boxing career. Douglas recalled boys’ stories about evil German aristocrats who, with idiot pride, sported dueling scars on their faces. Mr. Heywood would not appreciate the comparison had he known about it.  Mr. Haywood delighted in humiliating the fat boys and Douglas was eternally grateful that he did not fall into that category. Mr. Heywood always wore a green track suit with his Royal Marines badge on the chest. He used to run everywhere. Even when he was standing still, he would run on the spot. The worst of it was that he expected everyone else to join in. 

 

Cricket was a waste of time! Douglas could not bowl to save his life. At least, he could not hurl the ball in the approved fashion by swinging his stiff right arm high above his head while trying to aim the missile at the wicket twenty-two yards away. Neither did his talents lie in batting. The ball was about the size of a small brick and was just as hard. Douglas wore glasses and had been told to remove them before playing. This meant that he could detect the imminent arrival of the ball only when it was too late to avoid a painful collision.

 

If the weather was too inclement even for Mr. Haywood, the sport period would be held in the school hall. It had to do double duty as a gymnasium, and as an auditorium. The boys were sorted into two teams, ‘the blues’ and ‘the reds’. The only uniform was a narrow plastic sash in either red or blue. It was supposed to be worn on one shoulder and with the loose end dangling on the opposite hip. Geoff Widdecomb was one of the fat boys. He struggled to don his coloured hoop and succeeded in getting it twisted so as to threaten strangulation. He could neither pull it down, under one arm, nor bring it up over his head to get it off. Mr. Heywood jeered and shouted, “You there, Widdecomb. You look like a little fat girl trying to put on a brassiere”. The athletic lads thought this very droll, but Geoff wept in seclusion that night.

 

The mathematics teacher, Mr. Whitaker, was a sensitive and caring person. At least he was to any student who showed an aptitude for numeracy. To others, like Douglas, who was poor at even the simplest arithmetic, he was an ogre. Behind his back, the boys called him ‘Ticker’; not just an allusion to his family name, but also because, without any warning, he could go off like a time-bomb. He frequently hurled the chalkboard eraser toward the back of the head of any inattentive boy. It was a sort of lottery; the eraser could miss its mark entirely, it could land on the soft side exhaling a small cloud of chalk dust, or it could strike with the hard edged top.

 

School was not a happy place. Douglas found a haven in the library where he could be alone with his thoughts. He became an avid reader of boys’ adventure stories. His fascination with Biggles led him to read about the story locations and, unintentionally, he became the school’s top performer in Geography. He could draw maps in great detail, and he knew the capitals of most countries. Stamp collecting became his main hobby. Once, he bought some South American stamps from the local post-office which had a small stock of foreign stamps. He needed to complete a group of triangular commemoratives from Chile. The Postmaster gave him a good price and then gently corrected the boy’s pronunciation, ‘I believe its “Chilly”, not “Chile” (to rhyme with mile)’. Such is the price of learning from books without a human mentor.

 

 

Family.

 

Douglas’s mother, Eleanor, had to go out to work in a ladies shoe-shop. She was around thirty-five years of age and still had the remains of a girlish manner. She had separated from Jack Parry after only two years of marriage. If there had been a romance, it was a brief, wartime affair that peaked with a rushed honeymoon in Scotland on one of Jack’s forty-eight hour leaves from the Air Force. Douglas was conceived during this Scottish tryst and was given a Scottish name as a memento.  Now, Douglas was ten and he guessed that there was some mischief behind the name he bore, and he hated it.  His few friends began to call him Andy.
 

Jack Parry had never been accepted as a son-in-law by Lizzie Crozier. As Eleanor’s mother and Douglas’s grandmother, she was the matriarch of the clan. She hated Jack for briefly liberating Eleanor. She had missed no opportunity to sow the seeds of discord between her daughter and her new husband. The separate, but concordant demands of the Royal Air Force, a hostile mother-in-law, an unhappy wife, and a crying baby, were too much for Jack. He found his own liberation. 

 

When Douglas was five years old there had been a severe winter storm. Snow brought every form of transport to a halt. Even pedestrian traffic was difficult. The kids on the street had snowball fights against the adjoining street. The prize was possession of the now disused air-raid shelter that had not yet been dismantled. German prisoners-of-war who were awaiting repatriation were enlisted to clear away the snow. As they did so, they chipped their initials and a few crude swastikas onto the cobblestones of the side streets. Douglas kicked an empty corned-beef tin down the street. The Germans cheered him on as if he were a star footballer. Then a policeman who was there to guard them caught hold of Douglas by the arm. “Does your father know you are out here kicking rubbish about?” Doug replied “I ‘avn’t got a dad”. The policeman assumed that he was dealing with a war-orphan and, embarrassed, turned and walked away.
 

Eleanor’s father was Jim Crozier, a sad, unassuming man who supported a wife, a grown daughter and a grandson all on the modest income of a machine fitter. Eleanor’s earnings from the shoe shop were barely adequate for a single teenaged girl who was still living at home with her parents. She certainly could not afford to keep herself and Douglas on her own.  If things had been different she would now have a home of her own complete with a husband to love and nurture her and their beautiful little son. As it was, near-poverty forced a dependency that festered in her heart. Jack got away; why couldn’t she? 
 

Lizzie was equally dependent, but in a different way. As she became older and more infirm she needed help to move around. Jim was unable to boil an egg and needed to have a wife and a daughter to look after him. The mutual dependence was resented by all parties.
 

Jim worked in a machine shop. He never rose to become a manager, nor even a foreman, though he was very good at his job, and wholly reliable. He had never missed a day’s work in the last twenty-five years. His small stature, his hunched bearing and his habit of biting his fingernails confirmed him to be unsuitable for any sort of management role. Like many men who are confident that they will never have leadership thrust upon them, Jim was vocal in his political views. He was a loyal member of the Conservative Party and spent every Saturday evening at the local Conservative Club bar‑room. He read a right-wing newspaper and condemned even the most tepid Liberal as a ‘Common‑ist’. 

 

The small family was not religious, but if pressed, they would admit to having leanings toward the Methodists. Eleanor had one or two women friends who held their weddings at the local chapel. Once, she brought young Douglas along, she said, to broaden his interests. In truth, she was afraid to leave him at home with his grandmother. She knew the tensions were building and wanted to avoid an argument.

 

After the simple ceremony there was a tea-party in the chapel hall.  It was at the cream cake stand that Douglas saw Geoff Widdecomb stuffing his face behind a large slice of jam roll.

 

“Hello, Geoff.  What are you doing here?”

 

“Oh, Hello Andy, my cousin’s getting married”, he replied, using his friend’s preferred name. He removed some excess jam from his left cheek using a pocket handkerchief. “Very posh” thought Andy; most lads would have used their shirtsleeve.

 

It turned out that Geoff was something of a regular attendee at the chapel. His parents often brought him to the Sunday morning service, and he also took part in the Boys’ Brigade meeting every Thursday evening. Geoff tried to persuade Andy to come to next week’s parade, but Andy was very suspicious. After three weeks of cajoling he agreed to go along, “But only to see what its like.  I’m not joining”.

 

The Boys’ Brigade.

 

After school, next Thursday, Andy told his mother he was going to see his pal, Geoff.  He left the tiny terraced house and walked up the street carefully avoiding any cracks in the pavement and jumping into any rain puddles with both feet held flat to see if he could make the water splash. He kept a careful lookout for black cars bearing number plates comprised of two letters followed by four numbers. He had been reading an adventure story in which the baddies used such a car. After he connected with Geoff, the two of them sauntered toward the chapel. As they approached, Geoff pulled a leather belt and a funny hat out of a paper bag. He explained to Andy that he didn’t want to wear his uniform in the street because some of the other lads would tease him.

 

The boys in the chapel hall all wore their regular clothes, as if going to school.  Some of the older boys had long trousers, but most still wore short grey flannel pants. Over their school blazers, they wore leather waist-belts and white webbing cross-belts over the right shoulder. Most of them had military style ‘cheese-cutter’ hats and one or two had small round pillboxes.  Andy recognized three of the boys from school, although only Geoff was in his class.

 

‘Ah, you must be Andy.  Geoffrey has told me all about you’. Mr. Perceval went on to explain that he was the officer of the Boys’ Brigade company and he hoped that Andy would give it a try.

‘I think you will enjoy it. We have weekend cycling trips and parades. We try to get away to the seaside for a camp week every year’.

 

Andy was quick to point out that he would not be able to go on cycling trips because ‘I ‘avnt got a bike’. Mr. Perceval replied that he might be able to lay his hands on one that had been grown out of, by one of the older boys.  And so the deal was struck. Andy got a bicycle and Mr. Perceval got a new member.

 

Ernest Perceval.

 

Ernest Perceval was a complex man. On a casual level he was courteous to everyone he met. His social skills allowed him to interact with anyone. In conversation, he was always interesting, ever ready to provide a challenging new view on the subject at hand, or to branch into another interesting topic. His charming nature attracted people who wanted to be friendly, but Perceval put up barriers whenever intimacy threatened. He was afraid of genuine friendship. Perhaps he had lost too many friends.

 

He had spent his active War service mostly in Crete. His unit was tasked for close reconnaissance work. They used their stealth and mobility to infiltrate the German positions principally to gather intelligence, but also to eliminate enemy players as opportunities arose. After a week’s fighting the Germans had suffered heavy losses and were thought to be finished but they managed to secure an airfield and brought in reinforcements. The tide turned and the Allies had to pull back.

 

Most of the British and ANZAC troops were evacuated to Egypt, but around twelve thousand soldiers were taken prisoner, including Captain Ernest Perceval. He was repatriated in 1945 and found it hard to adapt to ordinary life. He had no job and no close family. During his imprisonment, he had become interested in evangelical Christianity but he was not the sort to go about ‘saving’ people.

 

He always dressed in a dark blue suit bought ready made from Burton’s. His tie was plain black, (perhaps he only had one). By his unassuming appearance, he could have been a middle-aged insurance salesman. He had a round face with clear blue eyes and a more-or-less permanent grin that made everyone want to return his smile. He had a kind word for everyone he met and was able to remember all their names after even a brief and casual encounter. If he met someone who had received bad news; an illness in a family member, or a son who had been confirmed as a war casualty, he would do his best to provide a comforting word. He would look kindly into the person’s eyes, and gently hold their arm in shared sadness. His name, ‘Ernest’, was his eponym.

 

“Sixty-three, sixty-five. Ah’ here it is.’ Perceval walked down the street toward his destination. The street consisted of identical, four-room, row-houses; obviously, all had been built according to the same plan. Had there been any visitors from more salubrious parts they might have used the word ‘squalid’, or even ‘slummy’ to describe the tiny houses. Many of the residents, however, perhaps in rebellion against the pervasive sameness painted their front doors in bright red or yellow. Windows were regularly cleaned by a professional window cleaner equipped with a ladder, a water pail and soft leather dusters. Front door steps were regularly washed. Then, while still wet, were scoured with a soft sandstone block.

 

Perceval arrived at number sixty-seven. The door was slightly open and all the curtains drawn. He knocked on the door. After another knock the door was fully opened by an elderly man with reddened eyes and clothed entirely in black.

“Mr. Robinson?  I’m Ernest Perceval; I help out at the chapel. We heard about your sad loss and I wanted to express our very sincere condolences” The man looked into the distance but was unable to answer. “Your pain at your loss will pass, in time. But your wife’s pain is now over. Take consolation that she will find salvation”.  The man said “Aye” and gently closed the door.

 

Looks are sometimes deceptive, Andy was told by some of the boys that Mr. Perceval had once reduced a drunken ruffian to tears. The unfortunate goon was bothering a young woman outside a pub and Perceval asked him to stop. “Mind your own business” said the man, and made to punch Perceval in the face. Perceval dodged and neatly gripped the ruffian’s neck with just the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. The bully screamed in pain and when Perceval released his hold, he ran off, cursing loudly.

 

After drifting for a few months, Perceval settled in the small town where later he was to meet Andy. He started to go to the Chapel and was soon persuaded to start a Boys’ Brigade Company. He half entertained the thought that the Chapel might allow him to gain a social life. Perhaps he might even meet someone with whom he could share his lonely existence. But he was uneasy in women’s company. He flushed when any woman spoke to him and he had a remote manner that discouraged their attentions. He found male company equally tedious. The only topics that men wanted to discuss were professional sports, and their work. Ernest was interested in the arts, literature and the theatre.  It was different with the boys. With them, he could dictate the agenda. His greater age and smart appearance gave him their grudging deference. He never mentioned his army service, or his decorations. He thought this would be an easy and mildly dishonest way to gain their respect.

 

Every Thursday was ‘Parade Night’. Perceval came early to make whatever preparations were needed. His suit was always neatly pressed, his black oxford shoes polished to a mirror-like sheen. His only ‘uniform’ was a pair of leather gloves, pinned collar badges and a black Glengarry hat with two black ribbons tailing behind to his collar. The Boys’ Brigade manual said he could have completed the outfit by using a walking cane, but he thought this might be seen as an affectation.

 

At six o’clock one of the older boys (with a pillbox hat) called out “Right Marker”. A boy with Corporal’s stripes marched out and stood in the centre of the room.  Then the older boy called out “Company, Get on Parade”. He then had them right dress, told them to “Stand at Ease” and then “A‑te…n‑shun” He turned to face the approaching Mr. Perceval and saluted.

 

Then it was Mr. Perceval’s turn to have the boys stand at ease and then come to attention. He slowly walked in front of the line of boys and examined each lad’s belt for cleanliness. Points were awarded for the most highly polished belt buckle and the most blankoed white cross belt.  After the inspection the boys played games and Mr. Perceval read a story. They finished with a discussion about the forthcoming summer camp.

 

Planning for the camp took up most of Mr. Perceval’s time. Some of the more inquisitive residents remarked that he was never seen to go to work. He lived alone in a small flat but did not leave to go to an office. He never had visitors. Apart from the Boys’ Brigade, he seemed to have no interests, no friends. He had ample time to organize the camping adventure. Next parade night he told the boys that the summer camp would be on a farmer’s field in North Wales. It would be in sight of the seashore and under canvas.

 

 

Andy’s First Job.

 

If Andy was going to be able to go to camp he had to pay £5/10s (five pounds and ten shillings) for his share of the week’s expenses. His mother gave him five shillings a week for pocket money. It would take him six months to accumulate the needed amount even if he spent nothing else.

 

Geoff Widdecomb’s father kept a small tobacco shop. He also sold newspapers. Up until 1947 and before the War he had been a District Manager for the Railway in India. His area was larger than the whole of France and he was used to having a professional staff and servants to attend to his needs. Now he was back in England. He was not exactly poor but he counted his change, and certainly had no servants. If their small flat over the store needed to be cleaned Mrs. Widdecomb had to do it, or it did not get done.  Stanley Widdecomb enjoyed a regular single-malt after his evening meal. In former times, his second drink would arrive unbidden. For the third and fourth, he might have to call for the houseboy to pour. Nowadays, he had to keep the bottle beside his armchair for convenient access.

 

Ida Widdecomb felt their reduced circumstances more keenly than her husband. Life in India had been stiff and predictable, but it was an easy life. There, she had a large house with a rambling garden. The housework was supervised by an Indian housekeeper and they also employed a houseboy and a gardener/chauffeur. She kept herself fully occupied by visiting local friends for tea, and attending horse race meetings. After his forced retirement Stan was returned to England with his wife and son. Geoff had to start going to an ‘ordinary’ school instead of the private facility he would have had in India. At the start of his retirement, life looked quite rosy for Stan. His pension was, he thought, more than adequate. As time went by his fixed-income superannuation expressed in Indian currency, bought less and less with each passing month. Post war inflation and the falling rate of exchange shattered his hopes of financial independence. He located his small family in a modest tobacco shop with living area and tried to supplement his retirement with a new career.

 

Geoff asked his father if Andy could take one of the morning newspaper delivery rounds to earn some money for summer camp.

 

Camp Week.

 

The boys arrived at Llanfairfechan at two in the afternoon. The farmer had supplied a trailer full of clean straw. Sufficient bell-tents and palliasses had been borrowed. Some of the older boys had done this before. They helped Mr. Perceval to mark-out the lines where the tents were to be pitched. Palliasses were filled with clean straw and latrines were dug.  A cookhouse tent was erected and was soon dispensing hot cocoa to the Company.

 

Sleeping on an itchy, lumpy palliass was an adventure all by itself. Andy’s five tent-mates were unsettled. As one fell asleep, he was immediately roused by the noise or motion of another. Andy thought he never would fall asleep. But when he woke up to the urgent sound of a bugle at six next morning, he could not believe that he had slept so well. There would be an inspection at eight and Andy had some time to take-in his surroundings. He drew back the tent flap and crept out. He could smell the bacon frying for breakfast over by the mess-tent. He stood and looked over the field to the seashore. About six miles away, he could just make out Great Orme, a large cliff formation. It lay over to his right, a brooding mass hiding behind the early morning mist. Between him and the shore ran the railway line from England to Holyhead. The first train of the day, a ‘milk-train’ was ambling its way, slowly west. For the first time in his life he filled his lungs with clean, fresh, country air. Birds were twittering and from an adjoining field came the plaintive mutterings of a flock of Lleyn sheep. A foraging gull scurried in front of him. It spread its wings and floated upwards on an invisible draft of air. A dozen more gulls came to join it in an aerial dance. They seemed to enjoy the effortless movement; why then did they squeal so angrily? He turned back toward the camp and saw some of the older boys and Mr. Perceval trying to shave using tiny mirrors pinned to their tent poles.

 

After parade, the boys were taken on a nature walk along the sea-shore. Someone called out “Look, there’s a flight of puffins”.  Andy stood, astonished at the sight of the ridiculous small birds with oversized orange-coloured beaks. Then they fished for crabs in the pools left by the retreating tide. At the end of the week the Company went home. Andy had a feeling of self-assurance that he never knew before. He could influence events in his own life. He could precipitate matters, not just respond to them. He felt the first wave of confidence. Maybe now he could ignore cracks in the pavement and walk around rain puddles, and stop looking out for strange car registration plates.

 

Between camps the boys went on frequent cycle trips. The main road from their meeting point by the chapel was an uninterrupted upward slope for several miles until it reached the divide of the drainage areas formed by the Pennine hills. Andy noted that as the elevation increased, so did the size of the houses. Small row houses gave way to semi-detached homes with attractive front garden plots. A little further on there were larger detached villas with enough acreage keep a small horse or dogs.

 

Often, they struck out over the Saddleworth Moors stopping for ice-cream at small shops in the fieldstone villages of the Pennines. The moors were desolate, windswept tracts covered by coarse grass, and populated by hardy sheep that wandered freely. These were larger, tougher sheep than the ones in Wales. They were bred for their wool, not their meat. The boys stopped and dismounted at the top of a long rise and looked out over the unspoiled vastness. Then Andy saw something moving in the air. At first it was just a black dot travelling quickly and silently from left to right, across the sky. Then it changed direction from horizontal to vertical, and rose straight up into the air until it was so high that it could not be seen. The other boys had not seen the ‘whatever it was’. After a few minutes they started to re‑mount their bicycles when there came a tremendous roar, louder than a hundred railway engines. A huge grey machine thundered over the knoll, traveling at incredible speed and only a few feet above their heads. Andy could feel the heat and see the blazing fire at the rear of the craft as it shot over them. Within seconds, it was out of sight. After a short time it re‑appeared, this time several miles away. It seemed to change shape as it maneuvered. First, it was flat, then a dot, almost invisible. Then it became a triangle, then a dot, again. All its motions were fluid and controlled. Andy was scared!  Was this a UFO?

One of Andy’s friends said he thought it was an experimental aeroplane. His dad worked at AVRO’s and he said they were going to test-fly something this weekend.

 

The following year, Mr. Perceval took the Company to Dorset in the South of England. This time Andy was put in charge of picquets and took messages for Mr. Perceval. He felt very important doing this chore because Perceval gave him an old Army Field Message pad to use. The week flashed by.  A year later, the Company was offered a place at a hostel near London. The accommodations were wooden huts with ten bunk beds in each hut. A cafeteria was available and it had real lavatories. Andy guessed that the site had previously been a military depot that had been turned into a hostel for British and foreign students visiting the capital. Every day, for a week, Perceval took the boys into London on the tube. They visited the Tower of London and the Science Museum.

 

Perceval introduced some of the boys to a classical music concert given by a small orchestra in one of the smaller London halls. Andy had never seen a violin played. At home, the local brass band made appearances for civic events and he enjoyed them. Every November the band would play at the Cenotaph and the Boys’ Brigade would take part. After the ceremony, Mr. Perceval would unobtrusively remove his strip of medals and slip them into his coat pocket. 

 

One day they took a boat trip down the Thames to Greenwich. As impressed as he was by the grandeur he could not help but notice numerous empty spaces and ruined buildings that still had to be re-constructed, ten years after the War’s end. In his home town the reinforced air-raid shelters that he and his mates used to play ‘Capture the Flag’ were gradually being demolished by cranes that had a large iron ball swinging, to and fro. The lads fantasized about what they could do with such a machine.

 

Their visit to the Science Museum was followed by tea and cakes in a Lyon’s Corner Café. One of the boys asked for a cream cake and then told the elderly waitress that it tasted like shit. She told him if he didn’t like it he could leave. Mr. Perceval apologized for the boy’s behavior. He then got the lads together and sternly told them that they were guests here and should conduct themselves properly. “Remember that some of these ladies lost everything in the War. Their homes, their husbands, all their possessions, - everything. You must learn to have some compassion.”

 

Next Thursday, the boys had a recap of the Camp events. For most of them it was their first experience in a big city. They had many stories to tell, and re-tell. At the end of the meeting Perceval got Andy and Geoff as well as three other boys together, and reminded them that they were approaching their fifteenth birthdays. He asked them what they were going to do after leaving school. None of the five had any real plans. University was out of the question for working-class boys unless they had near perfect marks and could get grants. One of them said he might try for the Merchant Navy as an engineer apprentice but even that required formidable examinations and tests. Unless you got a hundred percent in Maths you could forget it. Sadly, they understood that they would likely drift into low-skilled industrial jobs.

 

Selected.

 

George Smithson was hanging about in a shop doorway, across the street from the chapel. It was five o’clock on a Thursday afternoon and, as he expected, he soon saw Ernest Perceval walking briskly toward the hall entrance. He waited until Perceval was inside then he crossed the street and approached the door. Then, he quietly let himself in. “Good afternoon, Captain Perceval” he said. Perceval turned and his face reddened to show that he did not welcome the visit. 
“Mister Perceval will do. What are you doing here?” 
The visitor replied “Well now, that’s a nice way to greet an old comrade”. Perceval repeated his question “What do you want?”

Smithson had been his de-briefing Officer in Crete and Perceval was not keen to re-live those days.

“We can come to that in a bit. I’m not going to try to re-activate you if that’s what’s worrying you”, Smithson continued, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Perceval relaxed a little and pressed on, “Well, what are you interested in? You surely don’t want to join the Boys’ Brigade. Do you?”

Smithson said “Not quite” but that he would like to hear about Perceval’s current activities. “Tell me about the Troop you have here”

 

Perceval said “It’s not a ‘Troop’. It’s a Company. The Boy Scouts have Troops. We have Companies”. He went on to explain that the Boys’ Brigade was set up more to meet the needs of urban boys. “We don’t teach them to light fires by rubbing two sticks together. We stress citizenship, interpersonal skills and self-assurance. Boys in our industrial towns need to learn how to keep themselves clean and tidy. They are given leadership training and learn social skills. Most of them, when they come to us, can’t even use a knife and fork, properly”.

 

Smithson asked if he could take Perceval out for a drink later that evening. Perceval replied that he was now a teetotaler but they could meet in the morning for a cup of tea at a nearby café.

 

Perceval spent a restless night going over, in his mind, whatever could have brought this visitor from his turbulent past into his dull, but safe and comfortable, present.

 

When Perceval arrived at the squalid workman’s café, Smithson was already finishing the crossword in his ‘Times’ newspaper.  “So. Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?”

Smithson opened a small document case. He took out a newspaper clipping from the business section of a city newspaper. “Did you see this?” he asked.  It was the announcement of a very large contract that had been won by a local maker of textile machinery. The buyer was a large carpet maker in the Soviet Union. The contract was for several hundred carpet looms and it would keep the local firm occupied for six years.

“What does that have to do with me? Perceval asked, irritably.

Smithson continued “The Soviets are hell-bent on infiltrating all of our institutions. Political Parties, Educational Facilities, Trade Unions, Banks, even the Military. We are quite sure that they will send people to try to subvert some of our workers to communism. The Sales Agreement says the Russians can send upto four Quality Assurance Inspectors and then there will be their legal and finance people visiting from time–to-time.

 

Again, Perceval asked “Yes, but what has that to do with me?”

 

Smithson said “We want to get someone inside to watch whoever they send”. He described his ideal candidate. Once more, Perceval asked “What the deuce has that to do with me? I’m not interested in that sort of thing these days”.

Smithson continued, “I need you to help me recruit a reliable young worker who would not be suspected by the Russians. Many of the older workers have socialist leanings and some have even served with the Poles and the Russians during the War. I’m not sure if we could trust them not to play on both sides. Anyway, if the Russians were up to anything they would clock a regular plant and clam up as soon as someone took an interest in them”.
 

Perceval gave a forced yawn and said, “Look, old boy, you’ve been reading too many spy novels. There is absolutely nothing of strategic value in the plant where these looms are to be made”. Smithson replied, “I agree, but the workers, especially the younger ones, move around. They have friends in other factories. Just half a mile away is the A.V.Roe plant and Ferranti has a research works close by. Anyway the Russians want to de‑stabilize our society just as much as they want to take a peek at our defence plans”.
 

Perceval asked for some time to consider his recommendation. His obvious choice was Andy Parry but could he be responsible for putting him in the sights of the tortuous Smithson? On the other hand, Smithson could provide a much needed leg-up for the lad.

 

Two days later Perceval met Smithson again and gave him Andy’s details as well as Geoff’s as a backup.
 

“Parry is a bright lad. He writes well and has keen observation skills. He’s not much of a scholar but you’re not looking for a boffin. He comes from a broken home – just a mother and grandparents but they are supposed to be as blue Tory as you can get outside of Windsor. The other chap, Widdecomb, is a tad more academic but he strikes me as being a bit lazy. Maybe it’s just that he is a little over-weight. The family is quite close-knit. His dad used to be something of a mover in the Colonial Service”.

 

“I will have to do some checking and think about my next move. By the way, we never had this conversation”. And without a word of thanks, Smithson stuffed today’s newspaper (with another half-completed crossword) into his case, stood up and left.

 

Itchy Feet.

 

Smithson was not the only one doing some heavy thinking. Andy confided to his best pal, Geoff.

“I’m determined to get away from this place. It’s stifling” he said.

Geoff was ever practical.
“To get away you need money. To get money you need a job, and you can’t do that without your school certificate. So, you need to stick it out for a few more months”

 

Lizzie Crozier, Andy’s grandmother, had died six months ago. For almost a year she had been confined to her bed which had been brought downstairs, into the living room so that she could continue to exercise her authority. There had been a small funeral gathering. Andy noticed that no mourners came from her extended family. Lizzie often spoke about being the youngest of fourteen children. Andy had never seen any of them before the funeral and he was not expecting to see them afterwards. With so large a family, there had to be some siblings still alive, and there would surely have been cousins, nephews and nieces. Where were they?

 

Lizzie’s death opened a new page for Andy’s mother. She suddenly became an adult at forty. She socialized more but Andy did not notice any change in his mother’s routine, although he could see that she seemed more assured and had stopped her daily weeping.

 

Last weekend she told Andy that she had started ‘seeing’ someone. A man; a regular patron at the Conservative Club, and a good friend of her father. Evidently, the liaison had been going on for some time, likely well before Lizzie’s departure. Eleanor told her son that they had arranged to be married in two weeks. Andy stormed out of the house and cycled over to Geoff’s place over the shop. Geoff had repeated his advice to grin and bear it until he could be independent.

 

The two weeks passed quickly and a civil marriage ceremony was to take place. Andy sat, uncomfortably, in the Town Hall meeting room. He had asked to bring his pal, Geoff and was thankful for the support.

The magistrate asked Eleanor and her fiancé their names and marital status. A routine question on the licence-form was the ages of the parties. Eleanor answered ‘Forty’ and her fiancé said ‘Sixty-eight’. 

Andy was embarrassed and aghast that his mother would marry a man twenty-eight years her senior.

 

Andy would have been unable to put his feelings into words. He was angry, he felt betrayed. At the same time he knew that he wanted independence for himself so why should he want to deny it for his mother? It amused him, and at the same time angered him further, when he noted that the age difference between him and his mother was less than between her and her new husband.

 

Geoff thought it all extremely amusing.   

 

“Don’t be such a pill”, said Andy.  “You don’t know what it’s like, living in a tiny house with my Mum and Grandfather. It will be impossible when she brings her husband home”.

 

Recruited.

 

Smithson watched Andy for ten days. He was discreet and unobserved. He got hold of Andy’s school reports without anyone knowing, and he made confidential inquiries at the Police Station to see if ‘anything was known’ about the unsuspecting Andy. He had a local operative ask around at the Conservative Club to see if Jim Crozier checked out.

 

He needed to get Andy alone for an hour, and in a way that he would not be missed. Next Thursday, Mr. Perceval greeted Andy at the door to the hall.  “Andy, I want you to meet someone. This is Mr. Dobson and he would like to speak to you”.  As a matter of principle, Smithson could not bear to use his real name, (if, indeed, it was Smithson).

 

Dobson smiled at Andy and said, in a smooth, almost oily tone: “Andy.  May I call you Andy?  Mr. Perceval and I are old friends, we used to work together. He tells me you will be leaving school in a few weeks and you don’t have a job lined up, yet”.

Andy confirmed the information with a nod.

“Andy, here’s the thing. I work for the Government and we want to have you do something for us. You will probably get a job at the factory without our help. We would like to make sure you do get that job, and then come to see me once a week to tell me what’s happening”.

Andy listened and realized that his search for employment – a task that was giving him a lot of concern – could soon be over. He would be able to keep his pay from the factory and Mr. Dobson said he would also give him money if he did well.

 

After they had shaken hands, Mr. Dobson gave him, what he thought was the bad news. “You will need to get away for a few weeks so we can give you some training. Nobody must know what you are doing. As you know, the National Service programme is gradually being phased-out. Most current school leavers will not be called-up but it is discretionary. In a couple of weeks we will get you your call-up papers and you will join the Army”.

To Andy, this was not bad news, but rather the icing on the cake. He could leave home without recriminations, and have money of his own.

 

 

When he arrived at the Army training depot he was given some overalls and a beret (without a badge). Over the next week he was shown how to make up his bunk and he was given an introduction to Army etiquette. “You don’t salute NCO’s and you keep your hands out of your pockets”. Two Staff-Sergeants instructed his squad in ‘all-arms drill’ which was easy for him as it was just the same as in the Boys’ Brigade. He was shown how to load, aim and fire a .303 rifle and then, each afternoon, he was separated from his squad and given some training in what they referred to as ‘watching’.  This was the art of seeing without being seen. Being on a special assignment did not relieve Andy from the recruits’ normal routine. He had to get up at five-thirty, press his uniform, blanco his webbing and polish his boots. He was given a Post-Office savings book into which was deposited thirty-eight shillings every week. Since his living expenses were largely looked after, this seemed a very satisfactory arrangement to Andy. After all, he had never before had any income other than the newspaper round, and the bit of spending money his mother could provide. Most of the other recruits complained bitterly about the poor pay.

 

Mr. Dobson came round after four weeks. One of the Staff-Sergeants showed him into a small classroom where Andy was waiting. “Thank-you Staff” said Dobson. “That will be all”. “Very good, sir” said the drill instructor, still carrying his pace-stick. Dobson said he was pleased with Andy’s progress. In spite of his fooling him into joining the Army, Andy rather liked Mr. Dobson. His manner was one of complete confidence. Andy thought he must always be in a position of knowing exactly what he should do, and what he should say. He was slim, well over six feet tall and wore stylish, pin-striped suits. The jackets flared more than Mr. Perceval’s off the peg stuff, and the trousers were cut quite narrow – almost like those of the “Teddy-Boys” in current fashion. Andy guessed that he spent more money on one suit than ten of Mr. Perceval’s. His ties were usually bright red or yellow, but today he wore one with a striped pattern that Andy guessed was regimental. In cold weather, he wore a camel hair overcoat with blank shoulder epaulettes. His blond hair was longish – certainly not the regulation haircut that Andy was currently enduring and his fingernails were professionally manicured. He spoke in a clipped, no-nonsense manner. His accent was indefinable; or rather it was the absence of any regional or class accent that struck Andy. It was educated, but not glaringly ‘upper-class’.

 

He said “When you get back home, I want you to apply for an apprenticeship at the factory. Don’t worry, you will get the job.  In a few weeks they will start work on a very big order for a carpet manufacturer in Russia. The Russians will send two or possibly three Quality Control Inspectors. I want you to get close to them and tell me who they talk to and if they seem interested in anything that strikes you as unusual. We will meet regularly, but if you need to contact me here is what you have to do”.

 

Dodson gave Andy a business card for something called ‘Phoenix Insurance’.

“The phone number looks like a regular number and it has a three-digit extension number.  If you are calling from a public pay-phone just dial all the numbers including the extension. Don’t put any money in the slot. When the duty operator answers you give her your password.  Let’s make it ‘Firebird’, shall we?  If you call from a private line you omit the first three numbers. The card has been treated with a plastic coat so it won’t go squishy if you get it wet. Any question?  No?  All right?”

 

Andy’s training in surveillance continued. His mornings were spent with the rest of his squad and in the afternoon he was taken out for specialist training. After ten weeks Andy was judged ready for his mission and was supposedly released because he had flat feet. But he still kept his pay‑book!

 

Andy’s First Real Job.

 

Andy’s first day on the job started at eight. He was put in the Training School at the factory along with an intake of eight other new apprentices. His first task was to create a four inch cube from a piece of six-inch diameter steel. This had to be done using a metal-worker’s chisel and a pound-and-a-half, ball pein hammer. After an hour, he felt as if his arm would drop off. It ached from wielding the hammer, The space between his thumb and index finger was tender. He had made almost no impression on the steel, and the chisel had become dull. He found that he could get a break from the exhausting work by taking the chisel to a grinding wheel to restore the sharp edge. It took him three days to form the cube by chiseling away the round surface of the steel. The other apprentices all had similar cubes. Some were badly formed with no two sides being remotely close to the required four inches. His was fairly close but when the foreman measured it he was told that it was still an eighth of an inch oversize. So he went back to his task. His right arm ached badly from swinging the hammer, and his hand had developed blisters. He carried on.

 

Then he was shown how to use a metal-worker’s lathe. “Don’t wear a tie when you’re doing this, my lad” said the foreman. The training lasted for six weeks. By the end of this time Andy could use a drill press, an engineer’s plane and several other machine tools. He was now ready for the real work.

 

He must have performed satisfactorily in the Training School. His first assignment was in the tool-room. Only the best apprentices are allowed to work in this area. This is where various jigs, templates and measuring devices are created, individually. The precision standards have to be exacting. The assembly fitters then use these devices to ensure that their production work is according to specification. Quality Inspectors use the measuring gauges to validate their approval. Before the large contract came on line about twenty employees were re-deployed to that area. Andy was one of them.

 

Carpet looms were very similar to ordinary hand looms that had been around for centuries. The main difference being the electric motor that drove the warp frames up and down, and shot the shuttle back and forth. Iron castings formed the basis of the machine. These had to be fitted into position and bolted in place. The iron castings were never precise and had to be manually adjusted by chiseling or filing until they matched perfectly with the mating piece. The older men did most of this work. It was tedious but required a skilled hand and a critical eye. Andy’s job was to fetch and carry for the skilled fitters.

 

Andy adapted well to his new job. For the first time in his life he started to form real friendships, first with the other apprentices and then with some of the fitters. His self-confidence had developed during his Army training and he found that he was becoming popular. Andy never found out Wilf’s last name until months later, when he saw it in a theatre programme. He was a general labourer who had lost his left hand in an accident several years earlier. Andy had finished with his newspaper and asked Wilf if he wanted to read it. Wilf seemed pleased to have been given some attention. The men said that the firm kept him on as part of a compensation deal, or maybe it was just simple charity. In either case, Wilf was not much use as a worker and spent most of his time pushing a broom around with his good hand. Andy started to eat his sandwich lunches sitting beside Wilf and learned that  he was a very capable operatic baritone. Wilf was playing Hunding in the local Music Society’s production of Die Walküre. He gave Andy a pair of comp. tickets. Andy could not think of anyone who would likely take the spare ticket so he went to the hall, alone. Wilf had told him the outlines of the story. Andy thought it a bit too ridiculous to take seriously, but Wilf cautioned him to focus on the music – “You won’t understand the story anyway. It’s all in German”.

 

Andy found the first twenty minutes, or so, to be quite tedious. He would have left but he was in a middle seat and would have had to disturb others. As the performance progressed, Andy started to understand the rhythm. The music from the ad hoc orchestra put together from the best players in the town symphony and the local brass band was so powerful that Andy found himself sweating! At the end, he stood with the rest of the audience to show appreciation and tried to conceal his damp forehead and watery eyes. He was enthralled by the music, but decided to keep his enthusiasm to himself. To be a football supporter was acceptable, but an opera-goer would invite the same sort of rude attention as he had encountered in the school change-room.

 

One of the fitters told Andy he should not get overly friendly with Wilf. He explained that Andy was learning to become a skilled journeyman and that it was ‘not right’ for him to associate with a general labourer who was also a queer. Andy kept up his friendship with Wilf but became more discreet.

 

Andy had a pre-arranged schedule to meet Mr. Dobson. Usually, these meetings took place at the Boys’ Brigade. Andy was still under age for going into pubs. Dobson asked about the training he was receiving. Had he formed any friendships? Were any of the fitters radical?  Andy asked about the big contract. Dobson said the first part of the order would come into production in about three weeks. “The Russian inspectors should arrive in a month and they will probably keep a low profile at first”.

 

Just as Dobson had said, the first of the Russian order came onto the floor. At first there was nothing to distinguish these looms from any of the domestic orders. When the looms had been painted, the various warning labels were riveted into place. The labels were written in Cyrillic characters which no-one could understand. “Bloody hell” said one of the fitters. “I hope we’ve got them in the right place. Otherwise they’ll be going for a pee when they should be changing the spool”.

 

 

The Russians are Coming!

 

A surly-looking individual of about forty years appeared. He was introduced by Harry Beasly, the Works Manager. “This is Mr. Oleksy, he is from the customer’s mill and he is their lead Quality Control Inspector. Please give him every courtesy”. His name badge read ‘Олексій’ followed by the name of his firm ‘Rustex’. His English was passable. He said how pleased he was to be here among the brave English Allies that ‘he and his brothers had helped to save from the ravages of a barbaric enemy’. His colleague was to join him in a few days. He said they should call him ‘Boris’ and the other inspector was ‘Dmitry’. Boris had bad teeth, bad breath and greasy black hair. His clothes were ill-fitting and his shoes appeared to be made of cardboard. Most people convey some sort of message by their facial expression. One might have an eye-sparkle or a faint smile to indicate a willingness to be friendly. Others might avoid eye contact to indicate a wish to remain unconnected.  Boris had no facial message at all. He could look directly at a person with a bland, expressionless gaze that was neither attractive nor repulsive. He was enigmatic without being interesting.

 

As instructed, Andy made no immediate effort to get close to Boris. He made mental notes of Boris’ comings and goings. When Dmitry arrived, Andy wondered how he would be able to keep tabs on the two of them. He need not have worried. They did everything together – as an inseparable pair. They even went to the toilet at the same time. He kept up his reports to Mr. Dobson.

 

“Well, I met Boris and Dmitry” He reported. “Boris is the boss but he doesn’t seem to know much about engineering.  He had trouble figuring out how to use a micrometer the other day. The other one, Dmitry, seems to know what he’s doing but he doesn’t say too much, and what he does say I can’t understand. And he’s always looking at Boris to make sure it’s OK”. Dobson listened carefully and told Andy to start to be cordial.  “Try to build some trust. Oh!, and by the way, Andy. Better stay away from the opera, my lad. We’re trying to present a radical legend for you, not some sort of artsey fartsey dilettante.” 

 

“How did you…?  Oh. Never mind.”

 

Andy found an excuse to get Dmitry a special measuring jig and showed him how to use it. “What’s it like in Russia?” he asked. “Oh, Is beautiful” was Dmitry’s reply. “I bet it gets cold” Andy pressed on. “Yes, Is cold in Winter but sometime is very hot in Summer” Then he became silent and would not respond to any of Andy’s queries. Boris was behind them. Listening. 

 

After a few weeks a routine was set in. Boris often seemed sleepy and un‑coordinated. Dmitry was silent. Andy watched and took mental notes. Boris kept his work bag under a bench. Andy resisted the temptation to look inside but found a hiding place from where he could see the contents when Boris opened the flap. Andy had studied Boris’s timetable. He knew that he would tell Dmitry to take a break just before three in the afternoon. Boris would go to his work bag, open it and take something out. Then he would hide the article inside a folded newspaper and proceed with Dmitry to the toilets.  This time, Andy had positioned himself to get a closer view. Right on cue, Boris opened the bag, removed the newspaper and then fished around for something else. When he moved his hand to re-fasten the bag, Andy could see that the mysterious article was a large bottle of vodka.

 

His next report to Dobson changed everything. “Look, Andy. You need to gain their confidence. Here’s what I want you to do”.

 

The Strike.
 

Andy fretted about his new task. The apprentices had a sort of Youth Club supported by the factory. Andy started to take a keen interest in the club and quickly became the Secretary. The nature of apprenticeships meant a regular turnover, and anyway, no-one else wanted the job. At one of the get-togethers he asked the others if they thought they were getting fair pay. What about working conditions?  He kept up this theme for several weeks. Eventually, he judged that he had created enough dissatisfaction to go on to the next phase.  He went to see the factory’s union shop steward and told him the apprentices wanted a decent wage – even if they were just learners. The shop steward was a weasel of a man, ever willing to encourage any ferment. He quickly promised his support.

 

Andy called a formal meeting of his fellow apprentices, He laid out several ‘grievances’ and got approval to take their demands to management. The shop steward was most helpful.

 

Harry Beasly was worried. The electric motors used to drive the new looms were held up in Europe. They were part of a sub-contract with a manufacturer in Italy.  He got the in-house legal manager into his office. “You advised us on this Russian contract. The bloody Eyties have let us down with the motors. Are you sure we have to pay penalties if we are slow to deliver?” The young lawyer agreed that penalty clauses had, indeed, been agreed to.

 

Andy had a very frosty meeting with Harry Beasly. He presented the demands and Harry almost choked. Then he threw him out of the office.

 

Next day, Andy called another meeting and got approval for a strike.

 

Boris heard about the strike vote. He came over to Andy’s workbench. “You are Douglas Parry”? he asked. Andy said “Yes, can I help you?”  It looked as if Dobson had got it right. If Andy could pass himself off as a subversive malcontent, maybe Boris would become more revealing. Andy smiled and made a seat for Boris.  “Why you vant to hurt my country?” asked Boris.  “These machines are needed for my collective to meet our five-year plan.  Why you vant destroy us?” demanded Boris, now screaming in a cardiac inducing falsetto.

 

Harry Beasly called Andy to his office.  “Come in, lad!” he motioned Andy to sit down. “We got off to a rocky start yesterday”, he said. After their last encounter, the lawyer had told Harry that he had reviewed the contract again. There was a provision that late delivery penalty payments were not to apply if any delivery delay was due to an official labour dispute.

 

“Now, let’s look at those requests of yours”. Beasley was now very agreeable. From beneath his bushy white eyebrows there was just a hint of a sparkle in his eye and the merest suggestion of a grin on his red-veined cheeks. He told Andy that what he was asking for could be negotiated, but that Andy had to make sure to get the Union headquarters on side. “That way we know we’re dealing with an official industrial work­-stoppage and not just a set of local gripes”. The negotiations would probably take four or five weeks to settle but he was sure his directors would give their approval if it was clear that tough bargaining had occurred. He winked at Andy. Or had he got some dust in his eye?

 

Andy’s meetings with Dobson became monthly, not weekly. Dobson was losing interest in this operation.

 

As an unacknowledged bonus for his unwitting help in avoiding penalty payments, Andy was assigned to the plum job of working with the outside installers.

 

In the Field.
 

Andy’s new job was to assist Jack Shaughnessy. He was currently working at a customer’s woollen mill in Yorkshire.  It meant a pay raise, and just as important, the opportunity to save some of the liberal travel and expense allowances. No one really cared how much the installers billed because the charge got passed to the customer. Jack was a master at padding his expense claims and he insisted that Andy charge similar amounts so as to avoid unhealthy comparisons.

 

After Andy’s new job had been made public, several colleagues congratulated him. Some said it was well-deserved, others suggested the company wanted to get him out of the way. Wilf came over to wish Andy the best of luck on his new job. “Watch out for Shaughnessy” he said in a sincere, but enigmatic way. Andy did not reply, but his eyes showed he had not understood Wilf.

“Look. Andy, I don’t know Jack very well. He sometimes comes into a club where I go. It’s a kind of club for men who like men… rather than women. I’ve seen him when he’s had a few drinks and he can get rather pushy. I know you are not inclined that way, so don’t let him come onto you.

 

You should also watch out for his temper. He has a handicap, you know. It’s not like mine. He has a severe stammer and if he thinks someone is making fun of him he can be very aggressive.”

 

Andy did not push for clarification but he filed the information in his mental Rolodex.

 

The actual job involved a new type of spinning machine. It had a complicated variable speed gearbox which required delicate and precise assembly. Jack kept the blueprint locked in his toolbox. He realized that knowledge was strength. If he alone knew how to complete the assembly he would be secure. They were staying in a pub that had a few rooms to let out. Their evenings were mostly spent in the bar. Andy was now able to drink legally.  After a few pints, Jack often spoke about all the crimes the English had perpetrated against the Irish. Andy asked how long Jack had been away from Ireland and Jack, sheepishly, admitted that he had never actually lived there. He had an Irish name and he wore it as a badge of honour. They became fast friends. Andy found Jack’s Irish humour irresistible. Jack was greatly impressed by Andy’s reputation as an up-coming radical. After a few drinks, Jack lost his stammer and was able to carry on a proper conversation. After a few more drinks he would start to ramble, and slur his words. Andy certainly didn’t understand Jack’s handicap but he assumed it to be psychological rather than physical.  “Like it’s all in his head”.

 

When their assignment was coming close to an end Jack started to ask the home office about his next job. He learned that a large order was due for assembly in Louisiana. He had completed several assignments in France, Italy and Australia, but he had never worked in America. Sometimes he spoke vaguely to Andy about certain friends he had in the Boston area. He desperately wanted that job and given his special experience with the gearbox, was pretty well assured that he would get it. He would like Andy to go with him. He gave excellent reports to his manager about Andy’s work and recommended him as the apprentice to go on the America job.

 

Jack and Andy were packed up, ready to leave the Yorkshire job early next day. In the evening they settled their account at the pub and pocketed the expense claim overcharge. Jack got stuck into Irish whisky and beer chasers. By nine o’clock he was comfortably drunk. He told Andy that he had recommended him for the American job. He was anxious to get to America because of the friends in Boston that he wanted to meet up with. They had money that they were willing to use for ‘people like you and me’ who want to get rid of the corruption. “There is no..no.. no s.. s.. sense in trying to imp.. imp.. improve things. That’s f..f..futile. The only way to do it is to d.. d.. destroy what is there and then start afresh”.  Andy had heard this sort of boozy, empty bragging before. He knew the best course was to just allow him to rant, and not to contradict anything.

 

Shaughnessy tipped back another two whiskies and was now slurring his words, and beginning to feel sorry for himself. “What do they say about me back at the plant?” he asked. “What do you mean” replied Andy. “Oh, I know they all talk about me. What did they tell you?” Andy didn’t want to upset a drunken quasi-Irishman, but he judged that a direct response would be best. Jack obviously knew that he was the subject of rumour. “Well”, started Andy, steeling himself for a violent reaction, “Some of them say you’re queer”. Jack’s face darkened. His eyes started to water and soon he was crying like a baby. Andy tried to hide his embarrassment; he had been ready to deflect a furious assault, but not this. He had never seen a grown man weeping.

 

“My sainted mother died when I was seven” Jack said. “My Dad used to smack her about a bit and I think it was that that killed her. My Dad couldn’t look after me, so he put me in the church school and I had to look after Father Albert. He used to beat me up and he made me do things that no kid should ever be asked to do. If I’m queer it’s because he made me that way, or more likely he just spotted something in me that I didn’t know was there. As I grew up he couldn’t beat me anymore and we became more like equals. I hated him – still do. But, at the same time, I loved him – still do. When I was a teenager, he was sent to America to be the secretary for a Bishop and he started to write to me. I always answered his letters. I missed him every day, and prayed that I could find a way to join him”.

 

Andy tried to end this unpleasant monologue, but Jack continued without a hint of stammer.

 

“Father Albert was running several charities and fund-raising efforts in Massachusetts. At first he said it was to help widows and orphans – victims of the British occupation, he said. But later, he hinted that most of the money went to buy guns and stuff. The problem was that the rich Americans who were sending money by the bucket-load, they wanted to be part of the action. They knew they were funding the boys, but they were never told what precisely was being done with the cash. That’s when he asked me to do a job that the Americans had already planned. They don’t really want to set up a new organization. They just want the boys in Belfast to let them do some of the planning, and they figure that this will show they’re determined to be more than just the banker”.   

 

The Plot.

 

The official name for the Mersey Tunnel was The Queensway Tunnel. The name itself, seemed to bother Jack. He probably never knew that the queen referred to was George the Fifth’s wife.

 

A few days later, Jack surprised Andy when he said he was serious about doing a job on the tunnel. “I’ve got it all worked out. I’ve planned it down to the minute and my pals in America have sent me enough money and told me what to buy. Will you help me pull it off?” Now that Jack was sober, his scheme sounded even more bizarre, but he was even more plausible in the way he presented it.  Andy replied that he had no particular feelings about ‘some bloody hole in the ground’ but he pressed for more information on Jack’s plan. “Listen, Andy. I’m not going to spell it all out for you, but I want you to buy a motor-bike. Get a big one and get it from a youngster. Give him cash. Tell him you are taking it to Ireland, or something, and you don’t want to be bothered changing the registration. Here’s some money. This should be enough. Don’t let him have your name.”

 

Andy did as he was instructed. He found a BSA Super-Rocket and convinced the young owner that a cash deal would not have to involve a paper trail which the hire-purchase company might use. “Just say it’s been stolen. The bank has insurance and then you won’t have to keep making loan payments”.

 

Over the next week, Jack divulged more of his plan and Andy’s role.

“You know that white van I have?  It’s a Ford Transit. They are very common.  Now we’re going to pinch another one. Same model, same year”

 

Andy asked “Why do you want two vans? You can only drive one at a time”

 

“You’ll see” was the only reply he got.

 

The Operation.
 

Next day, Andy went round to Shaughnessy’s flat to report that he had obtained the motor-cycle.  Jack opened up a street map showing the approaches to the tunnel.

He said,“We’ll do the job late Sunday night, or early Monday. That way, traffic will be light. On Saturday we take the van I pinched to pick up a load of fertilizer. Before we move, we change the number plates with the ones on my own van. That way, the coppers won’t stop us. Even if they do, when they call-in the number plate and the van description, it will all check out”.

 

As they set off, Andy worried about what he had let himself in for. He had made a routine report to the contact number Dobson had given him, but this was beginning to get serious, and he had no instructions from Dobson.

 

Jack had supplied paper overalls, latex gloves and paper overshoes which they put on before stepping into the van. Andy was almost six feet tall but still the overall was loose and baggy. Jack told him to pull the drawstring around the built-in hood so as to keep his hair inside the garment. When they had satisfied themselves that their preparations were complete Jack got into the driver’s seat. He drove to a warehouse beside a little used railway spur line. Jack got out telling Andy to stay in the van “and don’t take those bloody gloves off”.  He went over to a small office and Andy assumed that he had some dealings with someone inside, but he never saw the other person. When his business was completed, Jack came back to the van and told Andy to help him load the ‘stuff’.

 

Jack may have had a twisted sense of morality, or even a deranged mind, but he was a highly skilled engineer. He showed Andy the detonator trigger device that he had constructed. It was basically, a household mechanical timer with a ‘0 to 60 minute’ clock-face. Andy knew there were new digital timers available but this was sturdy and did not have to rely on batteries.

 

Jack finally revealed the details of his plan. “At around two-o-clock in the morning, I will drive the Transit I pinched, still with my plates on it. I will change them back just before I get to the tunnel. That way, when they look at the pictures they take of every vehicle, they will tie it in to the one reported stolen. You follow me on the motor-bike. I will wait until I see the patrol car go into the tunnel, then, after a couple of minutes, I’ll follow it. They only send a patrol in every half hour, so that should give us enough time. When I stop, you stop just in front of the van”. Andy knew that high-value buildings and places now had closed-circuit television, but he decided not to burden Jack with that particular concern.

 

 The middle of Liverpool on a dark, wet Sunday night was everything Jack had hoped for. The streets were deserted except for a few cars and an all-night bus with no passengers.

 

Jack stopped the van as close as he could judge, about half way through the tunnel. Andy rode a few yards past. Then he stopped and lifted the bike onto its centre stand, keeping the engine idling.  Jack opened the back doors of the van and brought out some fluorescent traffic cones. Before entering the tunnel he had removed his ‘good’ plates and now he gave them to Andy. “You see, they have cameras all over the place. They will get pictures of the plate number of the stolen van.  Look, I’ve also made up a sign” He showed Andy the notice stenciled onto a piece of thick cardboard. It read

 

DANGER !

Hazardous Cargo.

Do not enter vehicle.

 

 

“What’s the point of that?” asked Andy. “Well, if the police find the abandoned van before it goes bang, they will look inside. They might even see the detonator and try to disarm it. When they see this sign they will just block the road and send for the bomb squad”. He walked to the back of the van, picked up the cones and started to place them at intervals, behind his ‘disabled’ van. “We don’t want some idiot crashing into the back of it, do we?”

 

While Jack was placing the traffic cones, Andy had been able to check the detonator, unseen by Jack.  The connections were all tightly fixed and would not be moved without proper tools. In desperation, Andy could think of nothing to block the timer. Then his hand felt into an inside pocket and he remembered the plastic contact card Dobson had given him. He placed the card between the contacts and held it in place with a wad of chewing gum.

 

“Let’s get out of here – fast” cried Jack who could see flashing lights behind them. “When we get to my van we re-attach the plates, and burn the gloves and overalls”.

Andy took off with his passenger, on the monster BSA. They sped out through to the other end of the tunnel. They cruised along the still empty streets. The rain had stopped but there were occasional pools of still rainwater. Andy thought about how he used to make it splash when he was a kid.  Andy rolled the throttle with his right hand and the machine quickly accelerated. Before he knew it they were doing almost sixty. Andy loved the sense of power that came with the 650cc engine. Then he remembered that they had agreed to get back to Jack’s flat without drawing attention to themselves. He throttled back to a legal forty miles per hour. Then Andy thought about the van and its lethal cargo. He gave a silent prayer, hoping that there was no backup detonator. Then he saw a police car coming the other way toward them. It passed them quickly without taking an interest in them. He knew enough to see that this was not an ordinary police patrol car because the flashing blue lights were inside the radiator grille and could only be seen when they were turned on. Jack was troubled that the five minute detonator timer had run its course. “We should have heard the bang before now”. Andy said maybe it was muffled by being underground.

 

They found a roundabout way back to Jack’s flat and got rid of the overalls and gloves. Jack was sweating and said he needed a drink.  “While I’m getting it can you turn on the radio? See if you can find the local news or a traffic report.”

 

Eventually, they found a local news report. There was nothing about any explosion but the newsreader told motorists to expect delays around the tunnel exits “due to police activity”. Jack wanted to know what that meant. Had he been successful, or not?  At five thirty they saw through Jack’s streaky unwashed window, the first hint of dawn. Soon there was daylight, but no sun. The cold drizzle had started again; it seemed to go right through even the heaviest of coats. People were beginning to trudge toward their places of business.  “Get the motor-bike. Let’s go back and see what’s what”.

They left the flat and started to walk over to where Andy had parked the bike.

“Stop!  Armed Police!  Get down on the ground!”

 

Loose Ends.

 

Andy felt badly about telling Mr. Dobson about Jack. Dobson told him that, as he was still technically, a serving member of HM Forces he could have been in serious trouble if he had not reported his information.  Andy was also sure that it had to be done. Jack was a dangerous lunatic.

 

Dobson reported to his superiors that his operation had been meticulously planned, and well executed. He lied that he and his colleagues had had their eyes on Jack all along. They just wanted to give him free rein for a bit to see if he led them to other terrorists. When they searched his flat they found a number of restricted weapons, and a small cache of Semtex. Foolishly, Jack had kept files of correspondence from people in Boston and Dublin, and notes that proved he was trying to get money to buy explosive nitrates.

Dobson said, “We’ll give the Irish Garda, and the FBI the details, but they won’t touch it.  None of the American politicians want to risk losing the Irish vote. Maybe one day they’ll have their own terrorists and need our help, but for now, we’re on our own.”

 

“Will I have to give evidence?” asked Andy.  “Not very likely” replied Dobson. “It looks as if we are going to throw him back. The lawyers say they might not be able to get a conviction because no-one was ever going to get hurt. Did I tell you that we had switched the nitrate with something inert? It looks like budgie seed! Anyway the lawyers think it sounds like a sting operation, you know – entrapment - and the Court might toss it. We are examining the possibility of persuading Jack to infiltrate the Boston organization. The Americans send all sorts of money to Ireland but have no control over what it’s used for, and some of them are getting a bit impatient. Anything we can do to stir things up can only help”. 

 

“What will you do, now?” Dobson asked Andy. “I don’t really know. I suppose there is nothing to stop me from keeping my job at the factory”, Andy replied.

 

Dobson scowled and said, “Oh, I don’t know about that. Some of the people there won’t be too fond of you. In any case, the manufacturing industries are all on the ropes in England. The Americans are pouring millions into Japan and Germany and we have to make do with fifty year-old plants. As so-called victors, we are expected to kick-in with reconstruction money and we pay for an occupation army in Europe. You should set out in a new direction while you can”. Then he looked up from his crossword. As if he had just had a brilliant idea, he declared, “Well, you might come to work with my mob. There’s lots of travel and the hours are okay”, Andy was quick to reply “No thanks, I’m through with this cloak-and-dagger stuff” He was tired of lying and pretending to be someone he really wasn’t.

 

Dobson thought for a few minutes and said “You see, Andy, if it were the Russians I wouldn’t worry about you. They are professionals, whatever else they are. The Irish are a different kettle of fish. Shaughnessy may have friends who would like to get even with you.”

 

“Have you thought about emigrating?”