Flying Sparks

Dedicated to my wife Daphne and my family.

EARLY DAYS

Start of Apprenticeship

On leaving school at fourteen years of age in March 1942 a vacancy occurred for a provisional electrical apprentice at Bostel Bros. This was a large firm consisting of the usual building trades and also plumbers, hot water fitters and electricians. The workshops and yard are buried under Churchill Square and the car parks. A building known as Bostel House still exists in West Street and was let out as offices. The showroom, with the firm’s offices over, in Cranbourne Street, also still exists, but not as Bostel Bros.

The ‘provisional’ part of the electrical apprentice meant being a general dogsbody in the showroom. My first task in the mornings was to bring the heavy ledgers from the basement and distribute them over the two upper floors. My next job, it being wartime, was a patriotic duty. The senior Bostel lived in what was then a rural part of Hassocks. The house had a great deal of land attached and use was made of this to keep pigs. It was my job to tour the various restaurants and cafes in Brighton to collect swill and bring it back to the yard. Presumably it was taken by the firm’s van to Hassocks. This was the early part of the war, of which more later.

Other duties would include delivering letters, keeping the showroom tidy, running errands and, if the manager was busy, attending to customers. On one occasion a big man came into the shop asking for Mr Bostel senior. Looking up to his 6’6″ from my 4’6″ I said, “What name, sir?” “Tommy Farr,” he replied. I fled to the office to announce the well-known boxer. “Show him up,” said the guv. No trumpets sounded as I ‘led him in’, but I still remember the awe I felt at the time.

At first our jobs revolved around the Brighton and Hove area; being wartime, very little new work took place. In the main, this would be maintenance and small wiring installations or an occasional house to be converted into flats.

A job which I hated was to sit on top of the lift in Bostel House. My mate would operate it from the safety of the cage taking me up three or four feet at a time in stages.

Armed with a great pot of grease, I had to spread it on the runners each side. All was well until I was getting near to the top and the ceiling was getting closer. Auto cutouts would stop the lift cage on the top floor but I always worried these would not operate and a very flat apprentice emerge. Even worse was having to climb into the pit with the cage suspended above. A safety officer would have a lot to say about the procedure nowadays, without a doubt.

Not A Good Start

While delivering letters near to St Peter’s Church I felt stabbing pains in the lower regions. Rumblings had been experienced for some time, so I sat on a seat opposite the church and it seemed better. By stopping at intervals I got back to the show-room. The pain became constant, so home I went. Mum did not like this at all and the doctor was called. “Hospital at once,” he said. The ambulance was called and I was taken into Brighton General, E2 Ward, then into the operating theatre quick sharp. My appendix had burst, causing peritonitis. All went well and I made a good recovery. Then, a few months later, all burst out again and a hernia repair was called for.

During the time I spent at the hospital there was an air raid. In war time, the gasometer at Black Rock was the target of hit and run raids. I am sure this must have been a practice run for newly-trained German pilots – it was hit so often.

The ward had huge windows, and beds, of which mine was one, were spaced in between. Some wounded servicemen were being treated at the hospital, and I had great fun learning card games, amongst other things. Sister was not at all keen on the men gathering around my bed, instructing me in the mysteries of pontoon, and sent them packing.

The drone of a bomber could be heard, then the familiar whistle of bombs. Sister sprinted across the floor (nurses, especially sisters, never run) and threw herself across me. The bed, the heavy iron type on casters, shot across to the centre of the ward. There was a crash of the bombs landing, and the whole place shook, but no damage was done to us. Sister, of course, had done her bed-moving act with the best of intentions. Even so, the stitches and staples across my lower regions took rather a strain!

Not a good start to my working life. In time, all healed and shortly after a return to work the opportunity arose to become a full apprentice and ‘go out on the tools’, as the saying goes.

Tea-Shops

Our day started at 7.30am; one of the most pleasant times was the morning break. As we were ‘in the field’, travelling around, the morning break was taken at one of the many tea-shops scattered around the town. My favourite was Ma Egan’s, the rooms situated in Stone Street off Preston Street. It was little more than a long hut with tables each side and a kitchen at one end. My dad was manager of Jefferies, a butcher’s shop in Preston Street, and we as a family lived over the premises in what was grandly called a maisonette. Whilst at school, working for dad on Saturday mornings, one job was to deliver meat to ‘Ma’. She would present me with a greasy sixpence for this errand. ‘Ma’, a large lady, would sit in majesty at one end of the room, cutting up meat, making puddings and generally preparing food, hence the greasy sixpence. This would be followed by a great blob of dripping and thick gravy delivered on a carving knife, popped into my mouth, no protest allowed. “Do you good, boy,” she would say. She employed a group of girls who did the fetching and carrying for her.

I never remember her leaving that chair, I never saw her outside the premises, and can only assume she had a room behind the kitchen. Only once did I stop for a dinner; it was a huge roast, great slices of beef, cabbage and Yorkshire pudding, followed by a soup plate of treacle tart and custard.

Our visits at breaktime were an experience not to be missed. The tables, fixed to the outer walls, with benches each side, left a narrow walkway. Many people came in at this time so that the first sat just inside and then it filled up as far as the kitchen. It was a case of first in, first out, for it was virtually impossible to move otherwise. On entering, you would call out, “Mug (or cup) of tea and one and one,” followed by the number of your party and then the table number. Tea was two old pence for a mug or one and a half pence for a cup. ‘One and one’ was a slice of bread and butter and a slice of bread and dripping with thick brown gravy on top.

Everything was served to you in turn by the girls. With little room to move once seated, as the girls moved up and down the confined space, a slap would be heard, followed by hysterical giggles. Great fun was had by one and all, ‘Ma’ at times calling for order if things got ‘out of hand’.

Many and varied were the tea-shops around the Brighton and Hove area. One large chain was run by the Divall family, the principal one being opposite the Hippodrome in Middle Street. I can still recall the hiss and gurgle from the steam geysers as the taps were turned on and the huge teapots filled. The shop was in the charge of a small lady who would stand no nonsense. I remember her turning out a tramp who was making a nuisance of himself while we all watched open-mouthed. The speciality of the house, rock cakes, were as light as a feather, shot through with sultanas; the name ‘rock’ was not applicable. The chain of Divall’s stretched from Fiveways through to Brighton Station, Palmeira Square and Preston Circus.

Another group of these well-loved watering places was in Brunswick Streets East and West. This area was mainly devoted to the motor trade. This accounted for the many tea-shops, which were never called cafes. This term was reserved for the venues of the evening outings, like Fortes in West Street or Caira’s on the sea front, sometimes known as ice-cream parlours. The Brunswick Street East and West establishments again consisted of long buildings, which were perhaps more spacious. No time for slap and tickle here; it was a very fast trade.

Another institution was the London Dining Rooms, opposite New Road in Church Street. One could obtain an individual meat pudding for one penny. This building, along with the printer’s and my old school, Central School, was demolished soon after I started work, so I did not have much experience of its delights.

Many other small independent premises served the working man around the town. Sadly, few if any of the type described survive, for they were an institution in themselves. At some of the shops you stirred your tea with a spoon chained to the counter – fancy not trusting us!

EARLY WAR YEARS

The Brighton Pudding Factory

As the war progressed so our work became more and more concentrated towards the war effort. A job came in; we were told to report to the Hollingdean Council Depot in Ditchling Road, the site of which is now a block of flats. House waste was brought here and burnt, the waste unloaded from the dustcarts, as they were known. The rubbish was pushed through to the furnaces below, and a huge chimney carried the smoke and fumes away. At a lower level men with long rakes turned the burning rubbish over, then dragged the clinker out, which fell to an even lower level. It was like a scene from hell; the men stripped to the waist, sweat streaming from their blackened bodies, the light of the fires flickering against their faces, the whites of their eyes shining.

One day a horse which had been washed up on the beach dead was brought in; presumably this was the best way to get rid of it, it being a health hazard, for it was fed to the flames. I left at this this stage, not wanting to disgrace myself, as it was too much for my delicate stomach.

The site included the abattoir and what was known as the ‘Brighton Pudding Factory’. Animals for slaughter arrived by lorry or by cattle-trains to the railway sidings alongside. The bellowing of the cattle, the squealing of the pigs and the bleating of the sheep was deafening in the enclosed holdings when the trucks were unloaded. They were usually dispatched quickly but, if arriving late in the day, had to be held overnight. The animal noises went on all night, which must have been quite disturbing for the people in the surrounding houses.

To get back to the ‘Brighton Pudding’. As mentioned before, many health regulations had come into force, one of which was that all pig swill had to be boiled to a certain temperature. Any swill collected had to go to Hollingdean and be processed in a huge boiler. When ready, a hatch was opened on top, another below and the revolting mixture poured into dustbins. The ‘Pudding’ was then distributed to various farms.

This was done by a cooperative system. You supplied the swill and took a proportion of the proceeds by mutual arrangement. Our job on this occasion was to wire and install a series of lights over the boiler. The previous wiring used had been installed in what was known as TRS (Tough Rubber Sheathed). This had been eaten by rats, of which many thrived.

My mate was George Curd with whom I served the whole of my five-year apprenticeship. He lived with his wife and daughter at Whitehawk. George was a stern disciplinarian; no nonsense allowed and very strict, but he did teach me the trade and we shared many experiences.

George was on a ladder close to the top trap of the pudding boiler; the trap could be raised by a chain after the pressure had been allowed to drop. I was at the bottom footing of the ladder, the smell at this time was bearable. The boiler could not be allowed to stop otherwise the swill would build up.

At this point the man operating the top hatch gave me a wink, and lowered the boiler pressure by opening the valve. This was bad enough, but worse was to follow as he pulled on the chain and the hatch opened. George was enveloped in a cloud of evil-smelling steam, he descended from the ladder quickly, coughing and spluttering. Yours truly curled up with laughter, for which I received a dirty look and brooding silence all day.

Air Raid Shelters

With the advent of the air raids, shelters had been built around the town. It was our job to go around and wire in a simple form of lighting. This was usually using the TRS cable on which lampholders could be fixed, all controlled by a main switch.

The only transport was our trusty bikes; any material we could not carry was transported by the firm’s lorry. With petrol restrictions this was not always available, so our bikes had to be loaded with cable, cleats, switches and all that could be managed.

There was an air raid shelter by the reservoir at the top of Dyke Road, close to Tivoli Crescent. Arriving there it was a more than usually smelly one. Elsan toilets had been installed. They were primitive, a bucket with the disinfectant poured in. With the labour shortage they were rarely emptied.

It was decided to get out of this one as quick as possible; no visit to the tea-shop this time. The job proceeded so quickly that we ran out of cable, so I was ordered back to base for replacement. Having first thing that morning pushed the loaded bike from the Clock Tower, up Dyke Road, across Seven Dials to Tivoli Crescent then worked until midday, I was not very happy.

Still, needs must, so off I set, very easy, downhill all the way. I collected the cable from the stores and tied it onto the carrier at the rear of the bicycle. Fifty yards of cable is quite heavy. A leisurely walk pushing the bike was called for, up the steep lower part of Dyke Road. Suddenly the bike felt lighter. Looking back, the drum of cable had fallen off! A loose end had caught in the carrier and the reel had unrolled down the hill, unwinding the cable. I ran after it, much to the amusement of passers-by, before too much cable was laid to the Clock Tower.

Setting off again with the reel firmly tied to the carrier, I saw a posh cafe ahead at the Seven Dials. Thinking ‘What the heck?’ I collapsed inside for a cup of tea. This was served by an aloof waitress, who looked at me in my overalls in disdain, and with my loaded bike propped up under the window. On arrival at the air raid shelter I got a good telling off for being so long.

The Royal Pavilion

The Royal Pavilion had been taken over by the Ministry of Food as offices. A call came to wire for extra heaters, the vast rooms being very cold in the winter of 1942. Installations were temporary, and the cables were single. These are stretched between china cleats screwed to the wall. Nearing the end of the job, a Pavilion official appeared. He let out a shriek and went deathly white. “What have you done?” he said. My mate explained whilst I took a back seat. The official then said that underneath the wood covering were the tapestries for which the Pavilion was famous. The wood covering had been put up to protect them for the duration of the war.

Frantically we tore off the cables, cleats and wood. All was well. The screws holding the cleats, although going through the protection, had missed the tapestries by an inch or two. Now we had to put it all back, with black looks from the foreman on reporting back to the yard.

Our work at the Pavilion enabled us to get to places that the general public, and I suspect some of the staff, did not reach. One of these occasions was to enter the minarets. It was with surprise that we found that they were constructed of a wooden frame, covered with lathes and plaster. The exteriors had then been treated with a thick paint.

Another area we visited was a tunnel carrying the electrical cables which we were told came from the DC generating station in North Road. DC current was in use in Brighton up to the late fifties.

The Police Station

Now came my first experience with the law- not in any criminal sense, I hasten to add. The Town Hall, with cells at that time, situated at Bartholomew’s, was one of our standing contracts. Apart from general installations, periodically the cells would be wrecked by a violent prisoner. It was our job to put things right electrically.

Opposite the police station was the inevitable tea-shop, of which full advantage was taken. Seated here quite comfortably one day, tea just obtained, a chap enters wearing a light belted raincoat and trilby hat. Spotting me, over he comes and pointing he says, “I want you, come with me.” Gulping, I say, “What for? I’ve just got my tea.” “Can’t help that, I want you for an identity parade.” George says, “You will have to go,” having verified he was a detective from the police force. As I was familiar with the building, I knew what to expect. I went into a low underground room, which was darkly lit. Some people were already lined up and I was told to join them. The accused was brought in and told to stand wherever he liked in the line-up. Strong lights, which to add insult to injury, I had helped to install, were switched on. It was a handbag snatch offence.

Two ladies were led in. These were the victims. I recognised them as the proprietors of a tea-shop in George Street, Brighton – naturally an establishment well visited by myself. This was a delightful retreat, with tablecloths and vases of flowers – one would be on one’s best behaviour – but I digress. The ladies looked hard at me without any sign of recognition, then went on to point out the culprit. The officers told us beforehand not to worry if we personally had the misfortune to be picked out, as this had been allowed for. I believe these days volunteers are asked for and are paid for appearing in these parades. I received nothing, but initially a bad fright!

THE POW CAMPS

Out In The Country

Our firm had obtained many contracts from the Ministry of Works, which involved moving further away from the town, and all the materials were now delivered by the Ministry of Works. We had to make our own way to the sites, which included prisoner of war camps, fire stations and land army hostels, to name but a few. To reach our destinations we had special identity passes and railway warrants and, waving our passes, we sailed out through check points which made us feel very important. I am sure that in our way we contributed to the war effort.

Gone were the beloved tea-shops. Most of the government locations had canteens or mess halls, of which we took full advantage. This was most useful, for although school had been left behind, my education had to continue. This took the form of three nights at the Technical College opposite the Level in Lewes Road. This new phase of working at some distance from Brighton meant leaving home to catch a 6am train at Brighton Central Station.

If the buses were used before 8am, the fare to the station was one old penny from Preston Street. Invariably arriving home around 6pm it meant a quick wash and change and a snatched meal, for classes started at seven o’clock and finished at nine. There was still time to be a keen member of the Boys’ Brigade.

The principal POW camp was at Billingshurst. After so many years the exact location of this camp has been forgotten. A letter to the editor of the West Sussex Gazette asking for information from readers resulted in phone calls and letters with details of the site and reminiscences.

To reach the camp meant an early start; our route was either via Three Bridges or Shoreham, depending on which line was bombed. It was then a walk over the fields to reach the camp; lovely in the summer but cruel cold in the depths of winter.

A Diversion

One morning, arriving at the station probably half asleep, I saw my train standing at its usual platform. When I opened the carriage door a great cloud of cigarette smoke engulfed me. There was no heat and no lights. A voice from the void said “Get in, sit down, and shut up.” I could not sit down as all the seats were taken. The floor being the only space, I sat down and later found it to be spattered with squashed fag ends, antique sandwiches and dregs of tea. The train started immediately, which I thought strange as I had been in plenty of time. It gathered speed quickly, again this was strange. On we went, stations flashing by. I wanted Three Bridges. I whispered to the chap next to me, “What’s the next stop?” “Croydon,” he said. Panic! I had the wrong train – nothing for it but to stay put.

When I got off at Croydon, a train was waiting at the down platform. I tore down the stairs, under the subway and up the stairs again. Someone shouted, “Stopping train to Brighton.” I fell into the first available compartment, the only occupant. At this time of the morning all passengers would be travelling north.

The train crawled along, and I was terrified a ticket inspector would get on as my ticket was for Billingshurst via Three Bridges from Brighton. Three Bridges loomed into sight at last, then I waited for what seemed an eternity for the connection to my final destination. Arriving at the camp, breakfast was finished, breaktime had just ended and I was greeted with “Where the devil have you been? No time for tea, get out on those overheads,” and this on a cold and frosty morning.

I found out afterwards that the train I had caught was laid on to take workers to the London and Croydon area. The object of this was to repair bomb damage to keep people housed, and to maintain vital services which had been more than heavily bombed that week. I checked my trains very carefully after this escapade.

Almost A Disaster

George and I made our separate ways. For one thing platforms were so crowded in the winter mornings and dark, with very little light, so it was better to travel independently instead of searching for each other. In any case, he was usually ensconced in a corner seat with his Woodbines and newspaper by the time I got to the station.

Normally all went well. It was lovely to get out into the deep countryside, for most of these government places had been sited away from the bombing. On arrival at the POW camp, after the inevitable cup of tea, work would start. On one occasion it meant shutting down the entire camp electrically. George said, “Go to the guard, tell them what we want to do and arrange any security arrangements the sergeant needs to make.” He disappeared in the direction of the cookhouse. On reporting all this to the sergeant he says, “Yes, all will be ready by 11.00 hours. Report back, I’ll turn out the guard and will personally turn off all the electrics.” I too disappeared in the direction of the cookhouse.

To turn out the guard was an event in itself, for this was rarely done apart from a weekly inspection. George and I returned to watch this. The guard were not very happy about this interruption to their morning routine. The sergeant says, “Yes, carry on, the camp is completely dead electrically.” Good. Ladders are raised up the pole, George ascends with his trusty hacksaw. He places the saw on the lower cable. A look of frozen horror crosses his face, the hacksaw is thrown away, George descends shaking. Expecting verbal abuse, he says, “The bloody thing’s alive. Why didn’t you get it turned off?”

Protesting my innocence we stalked over to the guardroom to see the sergeant. He too protested innocence; he had turned off the switch marked ‘Main Switch’. On investigation we found that this was true, but also marked was a switch ‘Sick Bay’. All became clear. The sick bay had been fed separately because of its status.

Of course, I as a junior should never have been trusted with the job, the sergeant was not qualified to judge the situation and George should have checked. It could have been serious. It was a sunny day, the poles and ladder were made of wood, and George was not holding the hacksaw tightly. All of this taught me a lesson: to always check personally before working on any installation.

An Escape Attempt

One day, arriving at the camp at around 8am as usual, the compound was ringed by armed guards and we were told we could not enter. At first the camp was occupied by Italians, who were later transferred to large country houses and worked on the land until they were repatriated. At this time, however, Germans were in occupation. It transpired that a hardcore of Nazis had planned a breakout. Pickaxe handles, knives and axes had been found in a snap search. Those who had been caught were then transferred to another camp. Soon all was restored to its calm status.

The complex was lightly guarded. Few prisoners wanted to escape; the Italians were quite happy to sit the war out. France was soon to be liberated. By D-Day the Germans had nowhere to go, even if they had crossed the Channel. For a few weeks, however, we were accompanied by an armed guard if working in the compound.

The Cookhouse

If working outside the compound, we ate in the English cookhouse. The food was, amongst other disasters, brown stew, vegetables cooked to non-existence and tapioca pudding like jelly-fish. Someone suggested potatoes in jackets. These turned out like hand grenades. The originator of this idea was almost killed by a barrage hurled at him. An officer did duty rounds with the usual cry, “Any complaints?”, but to no avail.

The Italian cookhouse was quite different, of course. We always made a point of trying to be in the inner compound at meal times. Great cauldrons of coffee would simmer continually on the long stoves. Only to pass the door would bring an invitation to enter. The exotic smells which wafted out of that door made us yearn for dinner time. Rarely were we disappointed.

The Italians never gave any trouble. Some of them had not been home since the Abyssinian campaign and of course, missed their families. They would show me photographs of their wives and children. I played in a Boys’ Brigade band at the time and, although we had trouble conversing, we could communicate with each other through using musical terms. One chap was always in trouble and in the glasshouse. I think he made his own raw spirit. He would march up and down the prison compound in a blanket cloak he had made himself, singing arias from Italian opera in a beautiful tenor voice.

Many of the Italians came from the south of Italy. They did suffer from the cold, with very little heat in the huts. The pot-bellied stoves gave reasonable warmth in the centre, but it was chilly at each end. There had been an exceptional frost with crawling mist. The maintenance corporal reported fuses blowing for a line of huts. We investigated, tested the wiring, looked for water entry, replaced the fuses and all was well. Next morning, we had the same report. “Right,” says the corporal, “Can you get here early in the morning? We shall have a snap search.” It was agreed.

It was a beautiful morning, very cold and frosty, with brilliant sunshine. I walked across the fields, ice crunching underfoot. The corporal was waiting. There was not a sound in the camp. He said, “This hut is very quiet. Let’s have a look inside.” Silently opening the door, we went inside.

The end of the hut was bathed in a soft orange light. Along the length of the hut twin cables had been fixed to the roof to feed the lighting points. Into these cables two large pins had been forced. From these pins the spiral element of an electric fire had been suspended over a bunk. The spiral glowed and produced the soft orange light. Laid out fast asleep on the bunk, and sweating profusely, was a tubby Italian. All of this was completely illegal. He was rudely awakened and put on a charge. Looking back, he was probably the opera singer who was always in trouble. I could not help sympathising with the poor chap.

The Chapel

The Italians are of course great artisans. Amongst them were the musicians already mentioned and also painters and sculptors. Strangely, in view of their post-war record, little football or games were played. The commandant, an elderly colonel, always wore jodphurs. He must have been ex-cavalry. He would attempt to organise a little PT as the prisoners worked on the farms all day. They were not enthusiastic. It was a very relaxed camp.

But back to the artisans. The majority of the inmates being Catholic, naturally their religion was very important to them. One of the huts had been designated the Chapel. On first entering this hut I could not believe my eyes. The far end was a blaze of gold. Lanterns hung from the roof, there were framed pictures of the stations of the cross on each side. The altar and reredos were all gold.

On closer inspection it became clear. The gold was the inside of bully beef tins which had been coated with a preservative, cleaned and burnished. They had then been beaten into the required shape.

Memories Of The Camps

My letter to the West Sussex Gazette, as mentioned, brought much information relating to the camp. In one letter a lady wrote that she had lived in a house opposite the camp and how she could hear the beautiful singing from the Chapel. There were also telephone callers. One such caller told of a knock on his door one day; there stood a chap who announced himself as an ex Italian POW who wanted to see his old camp. He was taken to the site and took photographs of his old hut still standing after all those years.

Another caller told me of the originality of the German prisoners. In a field close to the camp, Bertram Mills’ Circus horses and ponies grazed. The Germans would cut hair from the animals’ tails and use the hair to make brushes, which they then sold to the villagers. He also said that although they were great workers, they did not sing.

Another caller said that after the war, the camp was used by the army and then to house the homeless. Finally, the site was built over and a few remaining huts were used by farmers for stock and animal shelters. I should mention that two camps existed during the war years but I was only involved with the southerly one.

It was then fifty years since those events had taken place and I had completely forgotten the exact site of the camp. Fortunately, the lady who wrote to me also enclosed a detailed sketch of its location. For those interested, it is south of Billingshurst railway station on the east side of Marringdean Road. A visit I made recently proved futile; nothing remains of what was quite a big complex. A local resident told me that the last of the huts were pulled down a few years ago and that plans are afoot for a by-pass on the line of the old camp.

Our train journey sometimes took us by Faygate. The goods yard and adjoining fields were used as a dump for damaged aircraft. Hurricanes, Spitfires, bombers, even German aircraft were lined up in various states of damage. It can only be assumed that the planes were stored for spare parts or repair when time allowed. It was a little demoralising for passengers in passing to see so many damaged aircraft.

FIRE!

The National Fire Service

I do believe I enjoyed the camp jobs the best of all, but other projects became urgent. Fire stations became a priority. We had to work on the underground operations room at Preston Circus. This was the nerve centre for the Brighton district and girls operated the telephone links to the various stations. I was working there at the time of a raid. Calls came in thick and fast, and some of the girls started to cry. We learned later that the Odeon cinema in Kemp Town had been hit and many had been killed, including children.

Many buildings had been taken over by the National Fire Service (NFS). One of these was Fairways Flats in the Dyke Road. The days of self-contained fluorescent fittings had yet to come; independent chokes and condensers had to be fitted to the walls and then wiring run to the tubes. All these were fixed by rawlplug tool and hammer. There were no electrical tools in those days. This did not make us popular with the office staff and was time-consuming.

The Fireman’s Badge

Many small stations around town served as extra fire points. One of these was the Southdown bus station in Manchester Street. Our Boys’ Brigade company was a strong and enthusiastic bunch. Many badges could be won for various activities; one of these was the Fireman’s Badge. Our skipper, Ted Slater, was always a source of encouragement. Many of us joined the classes at Manchester Street depot.

The exercise on one occasion was to lay a series of hoses from the depot, along the street, then up St James’ Street. This had to be done as a team, two to a reel, with a bar between, the furthest boy being the strongest.

All went well. We had grabbed the reels and decided who should lay the hoses, and in what order. A beautiful line of hoses streaked out, perfectly flat, end to end. Now came the reckoning. “Right, join them up,” said the instructor. Horror! Each hose had a male connection on one end and a female on the other. For some reason, the hoses had been rolled one with the male connection on the outside, the next with the female connection also on the outside. When the reels were unrolled and the time came to connect up, the unions were of the same type and, of course, would not fit. “Roll them up and start again,” yells the instructor. Off we set, making sure this time that all was correct. All of us were of the opinion we had been tested to see if we would inspect the hoses first. This time, when all was connected and ready, the last order was ‘Water on’. Although the order was allowed to be given by the boy in charge, we were never allowed the water. I wonder why?

The final exam was taken at the Preston Circus station. Little did I know that my future father-in-law was on the staff of the station. He later became a sub-officer in charge of a watch, and was awarded the Coronation Medal in 1953. He lived with his family in Campbell Road. In the early days of his career he would be ‘on call’. At night the duty watch slept at home and, if required for an emergency, were called. The method used was a large bell installed in the house. My wife recalls the whole street being awakened by the shrill bells and the clumping of the heavy boots, for many of the watch lived in Campbell Road.

If a watch received a fire call, it was known as a ‘shout’, and still is. After the fire-fighting course at Preston Circus we were all most enthusiastic about fire terms. So, if we needed to call our friends for a meeting, the call would go out “We have a shout,” which would then bring us all together. Most of us passed the final exam and received our badges at a special parade at the Preston Circus Fire Station.

One of the tests to be carried out was to make a fireman’s chair from a length of rope. We practised with a piece of string at every opportunity. When it came to the test, lovely fireman’s chairs (which were to lower people from buildings) were presented to the examiner. “Very good,” he said, “but we need to lower people a little larger than dolls!” Practising with the string had produced small loops for the arms and legs.

Tandridge Training Camp

A large workshop and training centre had been set up at Tandridge near Redhill, and was another of our contracts. This was just outside the range of the Vls or ‘doodlebugs’, as they were known, the target being London. The area was ringed with barrage balloons and ack-ack guns. An occasional V1 would not have enough fuel to reach its destination. The engine would cut out and it would come down near to the training centre.

The turntable ladder had just been run out to its full height and a trainee had climbed to the top as part of his training. At this point a doodlebug flew over. The engine cut out and we all dived for cover, leaving the poor chap above. On landing, the blast from the rocket reached the escape, which did not exactly touch the ground, but did sway some distance. On reaching the ground, the victim’s face was a greenish hue. He left in a great hurry to inspect his trousers. I should love to have climbed that escape, being used to heights in my job. On enquiring whether I could, I was told to “clear off’. Pity.

Whilst working at Tandridge, we had our first sighting of a Vl. Our journey took us by bus from Redhill station. It was while waiting at one of the bus stops on top of a double-decker that the then unfamiliar sound of a rocket could be heard. It approached low across our front. On the side could be seen the German cross, and flames were coming from the rear. Thinking it was a fighter of unknown class, maybe attacked by one of our fighters, we stood up to watch it disappear towards open country. Hearing the engine cut out, we thought that was the end of things. Then came an almighty bang and the bus swayed from the blast wave that followed. For ever afterwards, on hearing the engine cut, I would dive for cover. In fact, one could become quite careless about the situation, listening for the drone and taking action only when the engine stopped. V2s were a later model, and quite different. You did not hear these, only the bang, by which time it was too late to do anything. Both of these rockets became the basis of the space programme that we know today.

THE HOME GUARD

As the war progressed, labour became increasingly short. George was beyond call-up age but was a member of ‘Dad’s Army’, the Home Guard. A parade was held of the whole Brighton and Hove contingent. As mentioned before, I lived in Preston Street, opposite the Chequers Inn. The Home Guard were marching down when they were called to a halt. Just below was George. The landlord and some of his customers came out to see what was happening, clutching their pint mugs. Great groans went up from the Home Guard, not being able to satisfy their thirst. From behind the lace curtains, I could see my mate sucking his lips and I chuckled at his predicament. Next day I didn’t let on I had seen him or chuckled, remembering his dirty looks and brooding silences.

With the threat of invasion, it became necessary to set up a force to fight on if the enemy was successful and occupied our island. Patrols were made up of what were known as the ‘Home Guard Auxiliary Units’ drawn from the existing Home Guard. Control units situated in isolated parts of the country were to direct these forces. The operation was said to be so secret that even their nearest and dearest knew nothing of the activities.

The control units were Nissen huts buried below ground, then encased in concrete. Some women radio operators were used to link the five hundred sites throughout Britain. The exercise was suicidal, it was surely inevitable that they would be discovered. Entry would have been by concealed trap doors let into the soil and two exits were constructed for quick evacuation.

Most of the ‘Zero Stations’, as they were known, were destroyed after the war but one site remains: Wakehurst Place, near Haywards Heath – an extension of Kew Gardens. Very little remains; a ranger will point it out to you. One of the escape tunnels can be seen and, at one time, the remains of the transmitting aerial.

Many times, walking in our local wood and passing a heavy metal structure, I have thought of it being some agricultural enclosure. The hurricane of ’87 brought down many trees and exposed the whole of the metalwork. It was made of half-inch steelplate in which, on one side, was a steel door. This, I am sure, must have been one of the unit’s lookouts. Any local Home Guard are long gone so a check cannot be made.

D-DAY

As mentioned before, we lived in Preston Street during the war years. With the approach of D-Day, southern England became one vast army camp. Along Western Road, down our street, came tanks, troop carriers, jeeps, all manner of military equipment and marching troops, all heading for Shoreham harbour.

The tanks, as they turned the sharp corners, churned up the tarmac. Great ruts and ridges were formed and had to be quickly filled in to allow soft tyre vehicles to pass.

It was about this time that I was called to the office; an urgent packet had to be delivered. I was handed an electric fire and told to deliver it to the lighthouse at Southwick. I thought at the time this was a strange errand but on my trusty bike I went. The sea front had been sealed off, barriers erected and guards were in place. Presenting my Ministry pass, to my amazement, I was allowed through. Passing along the front, tanks and the army vehicles which had come down Preston Street were parked nose to tail all the way to Southwick. On arrival, I presented the fire, which was accepted in a matter-of-fact way.

My imagination ran riot. Was I delivering a secret message, which was being delivered by a boy to distract attention? However, on returning to the first check point I was rudely turned away to Southwick village by the local bobby and returned via the Old Shoreham Road.

Incidentally, the tanks had to be watertight for the Normandy landings. When the solution had been applied they were tested in a great water tank which had been built at Preston Park.

THE SLAUGHTER HOUSE

Unusual jobs, some of which in normal times I am sure we would not have been called to do, became quite usual. One of these was at an animal slaughterhouse in the centre of Redhill. Presumably, being near to the railway station, it was convenient to unload the beasts for slaughter. Our job was to fix up an electric hoist to move the carcasses. The slaughtering went on around us, it was a busy yard. This did not worry George; he had served in the trenches in the 14-18 war. As for myself, Dad, as I have mentioned, was a butcher. He was the manager of Bramptons, the premises of which stood in Kemp Town. His slaughterhouse was situated in Vine Street. (Butchers selected their animals in those days and in some cases assisted at the slaughter and dressing of the carcass.) I can just remember sheep being driven from Brighton Station, down Trafalgar Street, and so to Vine Street. Often Dad would take me to the yard and so I knew what to expect at Redhill.

Not so some visitors who called whilst we were working there. A commando unit was stationed close by. They were in their training stage. The instructor had the bright idea of getting them used to the sight and smell of blood. A gallery ran around the killing area at first floor level. The ‘students’ marched in and were told to stand around the gallery. A bullock was led in, shot, and the normal messy dressing process began. We watched with interest. The stench of the hot blood rose to the soldiers. A good twenty per cent fainted, much to the derision of their mates, especially as a fourteen-year-old was standing nonchalantly by!

The slaughterhouse staff told us this was quite normal, but they did not know what happened to those who failed the test. Probably sent on cookhouse duties!

AIR RAIDS

Bombs Dropped On Brighton

My father’s butcher’s shop had a large cellar. It was here that we sheltered from the air raids at the height of the London blitz. Although not a great number of bombs dropped on Brighton, there was always the risk of a damaged German plane releasing its load to gain height. Each night we could hear the loaded bombers going over to the target of London. One favourite target was the gasometer at Black Rock. We lost count of the number of times this was hit. These were mainly ‘hit and run’ raids and a series of ‘ack-ack’ guns were spaced along the sea front to counteract this nuisance. The gun teams consisted of soldiers in training. They let fly at anything, and almost shot down a plane trailing a practice target. As I was passing by one day they opened up and I was blown off my bike. I considered myself lucky, for soon after this a shell jammed in the breach and exploded, killing the crew. It demolished one of those ornamental street lanterns close to the Palace Pier, which was not renewed until well after the war.

It was during a raid on London that a string of bombs were dropped, possibly by a plane off course, for there were no military installations in Brighton. These straddled the centre of the town, landing on houses, shops and other buildings, including churches.

One of these was the Gloucester Place Baptist Church, the HQ of our Boys’ Brigade company. Arriving for our normal evening meeting, we found the area was sealed off. The fire brigade and other services were working on the damaged building. The northern tower had been demolished along with some of the houses next door. The tower housed quite a bit of our equipment. We were later able to salvage some of this in good condition, considering it had been buried under rubble.

The Burns Unit

Reverting back to the Ministry contracts, an emergency call came through for a hospital at East Grinstead. All power had been lost due to some fault that could not be put right by the resident handyman. It must be remembered that, being wartime, many trained engineers had been called up, and only boy apprentices, such as myself, and men too old to be called up, were available. Catching our train, which even in wartime ran to time and could be relied on, we arrived at the hospital. This became the famous burns unit, the head of which was Dr Archibald Mcindoe.

Our job involved checking through the wards to find the cause of the power failure. This was a harrowing experience, but we could see the fine work the unit’s team was doing. There was a ward with recently admitted patients in bad shape, some completely covered in bandages. Not only were they in pain, but when we spoke to them we found them to be deeply disturbed as to what disfigurement they would have to face.

Moving through the wards, we came to men in the final stages of their treatment. These were young, men, mostly airmen who had suffered terrible burns in aircraft crashes and in air battles. The results of the final operations were amazing. Faces had been rebuilt and limbs reshaped. The atmosphere was quite different. The men’s confidence had been restored and they were ready to face the world.

The ‘Heavies’

It was about this time that the 1,000 bomber raids were being carried out on Germany. As I was waiting for a bus at a crossroads deep in the country, the hum of an aircraft could be heard. It appeared as a dot on the horizon. As it drew nearer, it could be made out as a Hurricane fighter. This was the marshal which would fly to and fro, keeping the formations in order. In my imagination, it was like a medieval herald who went in front of the mounted knights as they went to battle.

Behind came a long line of fighter bombers. These would lay marker flares to guide the heavy bombers. A lull, and then they came, line upon line, formation after formation, the ‘heavies’. It was a long time ago. I imagine they would have been Lancasters or Wellingtons, or even American ‘Flying Fortresses’.

I was standing completely alone; the sky was black with aircraft, the noise deafening. Eventually, the squadrons passed over and all was quiet again. My bus arrived, and I started my long journey home.

Did it really happen, or was it my vivid imagination again? Whatever, it stood out as one of the memorable events of the war.

THE WEST PIER

Curfew

The south side of Brighton sea front was sealed off with barbed wire and tank traps during the Second World War. The beach was strewn with land mines. Western Road on the south side was also sealed off after dark, with an armed guard at each street running down to the sea. Residents such as our family were under curfew and had to remain indoors except under extreme circumstances. I considered my Boys’ Brigade activities ‘extreme circumstances’ and came to an arrangement with the platoon on guard duty to let me through, as our activities took place most week nights, invariably after dark.

Challenged one dark night, I replied, “It’s only me.” The guard answered, “And who’s ‘me’?” The platoon had been changed. Under no circumstances would he let me through. Little Preston Street runs parallel to Preston Street. For some reason a guard did not stand sentry here, perhaps they thought it was a dead end. At the time, half-way down the street a passage, which is now sealed off, linked the two streets. It was pitch black, but the route was well-known to me as it became, when ‘needs must’, my illegal entry. Mum and dad never knew of this. I suspect they would have been most annoyed, thinking I would be shot!

Churchill

The West Pier, which had been cut in two to prevent the enemy using it as a landing stage, had become part of the coast defences. Dad and I had just finished putting up the shutters at the shop windows. Although these proved useful to protect the windows during air raids, they were in fact a pre-war innovation. The idea was to leave the windows open to allow air to circulate around the shop via the louvres let into the shutters. Suddenly, a neighbour called out, “He’s here.” Looking around we asked, “Who is?” His reply was, “Churchill, down by the Pier.” Off Dad and I went just in time to see the great man at the entrance to the Pier. There was only a small group of people about. We gave him a cheer and he replied with his well-known ‘V’ sign. His visit was to inspect the coastal defences, but at the same time it gave our morale a lift. Not that we children needed it, for we never doubted we would win and in our innocence treated the whole thing as a great adventure.

A Visit To The Theatre

At spring tides you can almost wade out to the end of the Pier, the last few yards have to be swum. This some of us did after the war, clambering up onto the landing stage. It must be remembered that the gap still remained separating the sea end from the shore. All was in a sorry state with great holes in the deck and stairways missing. Making our way to the former theatre, a most strange sight met us. Someone had been before us. The centre pendant lighting fittings still were in position and festooned from them in long streamers were rolls of tickets. They had been thrown from the balcony to create this festive scene. A further look around was disturbed by a shout from the other side of the gap, “Get off, it could be mined.” A quick dive over the side, and a rush to the shore got us out of the way before trouble reared its ugly head.

THE CANADIAN

The fields in the countryside surrounding the invasion ports were used by the army as assembly camps for many wartime activities. One such field was next to the railway line near Clayton, close to the railway bridge.

The year was 1942 and the Canadians were using the fields for an exercise. One can imagine the scene; lines of tents, tanks, army vehicles and the materials for a military build up. The bridge was probably used as a guard point, for carved into the soft sandstone is to this day the following inscription: BILL BRUNTON, PPCLI, 1942 SIOUX LOOKOUT, ONTARIO, CANADA.

1942 was the year of the Dieppe raid. Did Bill Brunton take part in this disastrous exercise?

A member of our local Historical Society wrote to the Records Office of the National Archives of Canada. Incidentally, PPCLI stands for Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry.

The following reply was received: ‘William Brunton enlisted with the Canadian Army (active) on 13th September and was discharged in Canada on 15th June 1945.’

From other sources it was found he did not go to Dieppe but did go through the Italian Campaign. This was all we learned about Bill Brunton, for after discharge he would have returned to civilian life or the army would have some record of him. One could imagine Bill on guard, perhaps under a dark Sussex sky carving the inscription. Was he a Sioux Indian pining for his homeland?

On a day visit to Dieppe a few years ago, the Dieppe raid was remembered in a dramatic way. Standing by the church wall and close under it could be seen two stark white headstones. These were of the familiar War Graves Commission pattern. The inscriptions read that they marked the graves of two Canadian soldiers killed in the Dieppe raid. A sad reminder of the 19th August 1942, the day on which 492 officers and 3,890 men were killed, wounded or missing.

A further reminder of that momentous day was the death recently of Lord Lovat. It is said he led No. 4 commando at the raid wearing a sweater under his battledress with his name emblazoned on it and carrying his favourite Winchester sporting rifle!

VE DAY

Finally came VE Day. We crowded into the streets and walked up and down the Prom. The VE Day celebrations continued into the evening and bonfires were lit on bomb sites. One huge fire was lit in the road at the bottom of West Street. My lasting memory is of an American Indian stripped to the waist, dancing around the fire, his body glistening with sweat.

BELOVED BEACHES

The beaches were still strewn with landmines and even though some brave souls did stray onto the pebbles, they were turned off by the police. In heavy storms these mines would be set off by the crashing waves and we got used to the loud bangs. Some still remained, so a mine clearance programme was undertaken. However, in the fullness of time all was declared safe and we could swim from our beloved beaches. Even today a block house remains as part of the original defences. It can be seen on the east side under the toll house of the West Pier, close-by the steps of the beach.

And so, a soldier’s simple carving whilst on a boring guard duty has left a reminder of those dramatic days.

PEACE

With the end of the war came the end of the Ministry contracts. The men returning from the forces claimed their old jobs back, as was their right. In fact, employers were compelled to take them back. The returning men were even given a grant to buy the tools of their trade. For a while all was well, many of our contracts were with the then Brighton Corporation.

One such job I well remember was to rewire the stalls of the Open Market off the London Road. Working with us was a recently demobbed navy man. He would tell the tales of his wartime activities. George would respond with his, and many a time was spent in the excellent tea-shop situated conveniently in the market complex.

My apprenticeship was at an end. No vacancies existed for another full electrician, so it was the ‘sack’. It was with a heavy heart that I left the firm; it was my first job and I had enjoyed the wartime experiences, even if they had been a little uncomfortable at times.

A few years were spent with small firms in the Brighton area and none of these were of a very interesting nature. Then came an opportunity, too good to miss, which proved interesting and again exciting.

During the war, of course, all lighting, including advertising signs were banned. Come the end of hostilities, a great renovation of these installations was called for.

A firm known as Neon Services was formed in Castle Street, their field being the installation and renovation of advertising signs. This included cinemas, theatres, garages and shops, to name a few.

My brother (who had spent the war in the navy) and myself applied for the jobs, and were duly appointed to the team.

In the early days there was not a great call for exterior signs, being costly to install. A system was developed to adapt neon tubes as a form of interior lighting. These were installed in shops requiring a good, almost daylight, form of illumination. These included Etam’s, The Fifty Shilling Tailor’s (one of the longest signs, requiring a lot of maintenance) and Mansfield’s, the shoe shop, and many others now long gone.

One of the places visited was a theatrical costume warehouse in Jew Street, for some time housing the headquarters of QueenSpark Books. From this building the clothes for stage plays would be made up for the various actors and actresses. A great stock was held here; the man in charge would be given the script of a play, and from this select the appropriate garments. He would then allocate them to each scene and pack them into baskets. Huge removal vans were loaded up and driven to the required destination. The lighting for this building was very important, as the correct colouring was required.

Soon places of entertainment came into their own, and the exterior signs became a priority. These included the Odeon Cinemas, the smaller independent houses such as the Duke of York’s, and cafes.

The Palace Pier

The Palace Pier was our biggest contract. The installation had to be designed from scratch, as the original had been destroyed during the war years. When completed, it still represented an ongoing maintenance job.

After a gale, small stones would be thrown up by the waves and smash the tubes. Also, the salt spray containing sand would act like a glass cutter, scouring the tubes and allowing the neon gas to escape. The tubes had then to be renewed by the glass blower and be installed by the rigger.

Some of the minarets, or ‘Spanish onions’, as we called them, had tubes installed to outline their shape at night. The only way to work on these was to lasso the spike which formed the top of the dome. One could then hold on to the rope and walk around the sloping side of the ‘onion’. This we had done for quite a long time, full of confidence.

One bright day, we decided to test the strength of the fixture we were putting our trust in. Standing on firm ground, we gave the rope a great tug. The spike flew off and landed at our feet. The wooden base was completely rotten, having stood the ravages of the war years. If the tide had been in when the inevitable had happened, whilst working on this particular section, a fall may have been just a soaking. Otherwise, with the tide full out, a nasty mess would have been spread out on the extremely hard pebbles below!

A sign reading ‘Come Dancing’ projected over the sea at the theatre end. To reach this and to work on it meant climbing along the back of the toilet block. The overflows from the cisterns were spaced evenly along the catwalk at chest height. My brother clambered along: this meant holding on to a support, as the gap between the boards was big enough to slip through. There were girders in the way here, so no soft landing!

In those days, we wore the bib and brace overalls, with the chest pocket at an angle. As my brother came level to the overflows, one caught in this pocket. Being in this difficult position, it was not easy to extricate himself. At this point, the chain was pulled inside and, due to some malfunction in the cistern, it overflowed. The resulting flood poured into his chest pocket and inside the overalls, to exit from the bottom of his trouser leg. My brother did not find this amusing. To top it all, on getting back onto the solid deck, he dropped a screwdriver, which fell through the only hole into the sea below.

The Maintenance Run

In the early days of the firm, our only means of transport was a 10cwt Ford van. This had a 6 volt electrical system. One of our trips out was along the coast, visiting the maintenance sites of our contracts. The furthest of the towns was Folkestone, the last call of the day. In the wintertime, it was of course dark when we started the return journey. The east/west route would be to cross the Pevensey Marshes, Eastbourne, then follow the coast all the way to Brighton. On this occasion, thick fog persisted all the way. The marshes were bad enough, but when we got to the river valleys the fog was even thicker. There was no distinction between the edge of the road and the ditches at the side; the 6 volt headlights were more like glow worms. The apprentice boy with us was made to sit on the van wing and direct the driver on a straight course. On arrival at Brighton sea front, it was clear as a bell. The rest of the staff wondered what all the fuss was about and why we were so late.

On another occasion using the same route on the return, a full gale was blowing and it was pouring with rain, again pitch black. It must be remembered that by-passes of towns and villages were very much in the future. If using the coast road, the only way was through Seaford, then down on the Newhaven road, passing the Buckle Inn. The Inn was within a few yards of the beach; in rough weather waves would carry over the road and batter against the doors of the pub.

Approaching this well-known danger spot our worst fears were realised. Great waves crashed across the road, bringing with them shingle, seaweed and general rubbish. Now and again a lull would bring some respite, a break would give a clear way.

Our chance came, all was clear. We revved up the old van and it shot forward. But it was not to be. A rogue wave came over and thundering down on the roof came water, shingle, the lot. The 6 volt lights dimmed and went out. Luckily the engine kept going, so by revving hard and slipping the clutch, we shot out away from the torrents. On reaching base the gale had subsided. Again, everyone wanted to know what all the fuss was about.
Once again, crossing Pevensey marshes, there was another incident. The van was loaded with glass to continue the maintenance trip. Two girls were walking with large suitcases, thumbs raised. What could we do but stop? They must have been the remnants of the wartime Land Army, for they were on their way to work on a farm a few miles further on. “It means riding in the back,” they were told. Before they could be stopped, the back doors had been thrown open and they laid their cases on top of the straw which covered the glass, and there was the inevitable smash of breaking glass.

I forget the excuse offered on getting back to the glass-blower’s shop. It probably went something like having to take sudden action to avoid a serious accident.

Cinemas and Shops

As only one van was available it would mean, on the larger jobs, material being delivered to the site and the rigging team making their own way to the job. One such job was at a cinema in Eastbourne, long closed down. My brother and I were keen members of the ‘Bar None’ motor cycle club, of which there are many tales to be told, but not here.

My bike was a Rudge Special 500cc hand change model. On this velocipede we would make the daily journey to Eastbourne. The sign was a pre-war installation, covering the entire face of the cinema. The only way to work on it was by means of cradles. These were hired out and installed by a well-known firm of that time, Austin Cradles. The method was to lay poles across the outside walls, with the front ends extending out to take the ropes which lowered and raised the cradle. The cradles were thus operated by a pulley system. When the cradle was at the correct working height the rope was secured to the holding hooks by means of two half hitches. All was counter-balanced by the upper poles laid across the flat roof. Then a bucket of sand was fixed to the far end of the pole.

The first job was to remove the heavy transformers from the sign, put them in the cradle and lower them to the ground. We put a lot of these ‘trannies’ into the cradle. When the time came to lower, we found it so heavy that we could not pull on the ropes enough to release the half hitches. A break was called for, to discuss the situation. Climbing onto the flat roof, a look of horror came onto our faces. The weight of the trannies had overcome the cantilever of the poles, and buckets of sand were suspended in mid-air. A little more weight and the whole contraption would have collapsed onto the street below. It was with great speed that we unloaded the cradle!

Another job of much the same type was at the Duke of York’s at Preston Circus. The complete installation had been stored in the cinema during the war. It was our job to refix it. This reminded us of a giant jigsaw puzzle. The ‘Dukes’, of course was still a going concern. This time we made sure the cradles were still lightly loaded.

IN CONCLUSION

In time, most of the signs had been renovated. There were very few new signs to be erected and the job became, in the main, maintenance. Time to move on.

Television became the in-thing and TV aerial rigging became big business. I joined a small firm and spent a year in this interesting job and thereby gained more experience.

My wife noticed an advertisement for an electrician with a small firm at Hurstpierpoint. So began 21 years at the firm of Boxell and Bryant. We covered all types of electrical installations: house wiring, small factories and television installations. It being a rural area, farming played an important part in our working life. A great upsurge in the farming industry was underway and our work included installation of corn dryers, pigsties, stables and milking parlours, to name but a few. By Milk Marketing Board rulings, the age of the milk churn was over. All farms were compelled to install stainless steel bulk tanks, with accompanying refrigeration plant. This made us very busy.

My family and I had bought a house and moved to live in this lovely part of Sussex, becoming very much involved in the village life of Hurstpierpoint.

The time had come to move on again, but not so far this time. The partners of the firm retired and the business was sold to a new firm, whose work involved travelling long distances. The years were catching up and a quieter life was called for.

A position as chief electrician at the local public school became vacant (which proved not to be that quiet, as a renovation and rebuilding scheme had started). Spending seventeen happy years here, I finally retired after fifty years of a very interesting and satisfying working life.