Childhood through to military service
Christmas Baby born in September
I was born on the 23rd of September, 1937. I used to joke that I was a Christmas baby but most people didn't seem to understand human biology to know what I was getting at.
I should state, before I start writing this, that it's MY story. If other family members disagree, then that's their opinion. In a youth programme, in which I participated, I learned that there's "History" and then there's "His Story" - so this is mine.
My grandparents, Walter and Edith Anne Saynor, lived at 71 Park Avenue and, when my parents married, they moved into 36 Elm Road which happened to be right next door to my grandparents. I don't remember much about my Grandmother as she suffered from cancer and was in bed a lot of the time. When I visited her I always noticed the strong smell of vinegar. She believed firmly in the old remedy of vinegar and brown paper. Those of you with a good memory of nursery rhymes will remember Jack using vinegar and brown paper to mend his broken head. It didn't work - Grandma Saynor died at the age of 48. Granddad was a coal miner and my biggest memory of him was coming to our house once a week to clean our shoes. He'd polish them and then line them up on the staircase; one pair per step.
Granddad Saynor liked his pint. I remember him sitting on a dustbin that had been filled with water to drown a cat. He'd tied a rope around the cat and dumped it into the dustbin. The rope was too long and so the cat kept bouncing up and bashing the dustbin lid, causing Granddad to bounce a bit too.
15 children over 20 years
We saw less of Dad's parents as they lived in St. Helens. At that time it was a route march going over the Pennines so we generally only saw them once a year. They lived in a tiny house with an outside toilet; a bath was had in the kitchen in a zinc bath. The house was lit with gas light. Grandma Heyes made a wicked pot of tea. When she added the water to the tea leaves she put the pot in the oven, by the coal fire, to brew a bit. Milk was the thick condensed variety. Dad always liked his in a pint mug laced with a few spoons full of sugar; Mother took her's without milk. I ended up following Mother. If the tea was too hot he'd tip it into a saucer and drink it from the saucer. Later, when I went to India, I discovered that this was the normal way of drinking tea.
Dad didn't marry until he was 36 so I think he was making up for lost time when he decided to have 15 children. Poor Mother must have had a devil of a time being pregnant so often; my youngest sister is 20 odd years younger than I am. As the family got bigger, Mother spent a lot of time either washing clothes or ironing them. Monday, Wednesday and Friday were washing days and the other days were for ironing. She started when we went to school, using tubs and a hand wringer, and in the evening, when we came home, she would be mopping up the kitchen floor. Ironing was done on the kitchen table using irons that were stood by the coal fire to get hot. Dad was a coal miner and he spent a lot of time with his work mates at the local working men's clubs or in the betting shop. On a Saturday evening he brought Mother her weekly treat; a bottle of beer and a bottle of lemonade so she could make a shandy.
In the early days the coal miners went to a convalescent home for a week to clear out their lungs and have a break. Pit ponies used to come up from underground for a few days holiday romping around a village field. Mothers got nothing. Our biggest treat was going to the seaside, usually Cleethorpes, with all the other families from the village. It was a day trip by bus. We wore labels in case we got lost and were given some pocket money for rides. Dad was a member of three clubs so we had three one-day holidays a year. Mother made egg and tomato sandwiches the day before and they were always soggy, but delicious, on the day of the trip. Dad didn't always go; I think he enjoyed finding an excuse to stay home to take care of things, plus getting away from the kids for the day.
He loved his motorbike and there's a story that he was going to Nottingham Goose Fair, with my mother on the back. He skidded on the wet road and Mother fell off. He didn't notice so he carried on to the top of the hill and skidded again. This time he went through a shop window. For years he had a 3 cms lump in the middle of his forehead; he finally had it removed when his hair started to recede and show the lump. He came home from hospital with it in a jar - it was a large sac full of fluid that was rock solid.
When I came along he had to have a sidecar. He had a practice run in it and managed to wrap it around a lamp post; that was the end of his motorbiking life. It's ironic that my youngest brother died in a motorbike accident when he was in his 30s. He too came off his bike when he skidded, but he was killed by an oncoming car.
The war years
The war years must have been difficult but for us they were just normal days. In school, if we wanted to go to the toilet, we had to tell the teacher if we wanted a number 1 or number 2. We lost 1 point for our team if we had a number 1 and 2 points for a number 2. We couldn't lie because the teacher handed out the toilet paper; two squares per person. Bullies in the team would beat us up if we lost points and so many times I held it and, after leaving school, I'd jump over a wall and perform my duty.
School was always scary. We got beaten for such small things. I giggled when a lad farted and ended up with welts on my hand after being whacked by Miss Griffiths with her bamboo cane. The worst class was religion when we had to memorise verses. She'd go around the room in different directions so we could never figure out which verse we had to learn. Again, we were caned if we didn't know.
Every evening I went to the shop for Granddad Saynor's cigarettes - 20 Goldflake, Capstan or Players - never Woodbines. On a Saturday, from when I was about 10, it was my job to go to Doncaster to buy horse meat which we used for our hens. Dad would cook it and grind it up with potatoes and grain. We also had lots of rabbits but we didn't always enjoy eating them as we tended to make pets of them. Often, we'd come home from school, on a dark evening in winter, and enter the short alley that led to the kitchen door. We'd walk slap bang into a dead, hanging bird. Dad would wring the victim's neck and poke a hole to let the blood drain out, and then hang it up for the day.
One Saturday I visited the market before I bought the meat and I ended up buying a little toy I thought my younger siblings would like. On the way home I felt guilty so I hid it under the hedge in Mrs Dawes's garden. A couple of weeks later I thought it was safe to "find" the toy. When I showed it to Mother she said, "So that's what you bought with the meat money". Mothers are clever.
Simple meals - still some of my favourites
The war years meant that meals were very simple; one day a week it was just fried onions with some cheese and bread and butter. I still like it. Dad always made pots of hash, or as we Yorkshire people called it - 'ash. Mother had two recipes we enjoyed; cheese, egg and tomatoes in a pan and cheese, egg and tomatoes on a plate. The first one was a kind of scrambled meal while the other had layers of cheese on a plate, a ring of sliced tomatoes around the edge and an egg dropped into the centre; it was then baked in the oven.
I hated Grammar School. We couldn't afford a uniform so I had the school badge sewn onto my jacket. Other kids had leather satchels but mine was canvas; a pen leaked one day and for five years I had to put up with a nasty black blob on my satchel. I didn't like being laughed at by the girls when we did a cross country race so I swore I'd never do physical education again - and I didn't for five whole years. Mother got so sick of writing notes - "Peter has diarrhea", her problem was always spelling the word.
I managed to get one GCE 'O' level - English language! I didn't think I was stupid but exams terrified me. I used to spend all the time on the toilet, before an exam, with my stomach grumbling and with the trots. It was the time to start work.
Finishing school and getting a job
After I got my dismal GCE exam results I looked through the paper for a job. I found one at a hotel in Doncaster so I went to see the manager. The job was operating the lift. I’m eternally grateful for the fact that the manager was out having lunch and I was told not to wait. Instead of going home I visited an uncle who happened to be in his back garden, talking over the fence with Mr. Booth who was the staff manager at the British Railways’ offices in Doncaster. The result of my time in the garden was an interview and exam at the railway offices and a job in the office controlling the repair of what they called “Rolling Stock”. I felt quite posh doing the paper work for the Pullman trains and the Royal train.
My boss was Grosvenor Wildman who arrived daily wearing a bowler hat. He seemed to spend most of his time nodding off with his feet in the waste paper basket. Apart from dealing with the paper work I had the job of disinfecting the telephone each day. I wonder if anyone does that nowadays? I’m not that good at making wise decisions but in that office I made the monumental decision to take typing lessons and to continue learning German, which I’d done at school.
I felt a bit daft, being the only male in the class of ladies, and even dafter when I had to wear a bib. It looked like a large baby’s bib with two additional strings at the bottom. These went around the typewriter and tied at the back. For one hour our hands remained underneath the bib and we had to feel our way over the keys. We typed to music, which was lovely; the machine had a way of altering the speed so we started off with slow music and gradually worked our way up to faster speeds. I’ve been eternally grateful for those lessons. In my hay day I used to type at 145 words per minute, astounding everyone. I’ve helped countless numbers of young people with their English and have typed their papers. I have one Indian friend who has a BA, master’s degree, PhD, done post graduate work and has been to universities all over the place. I keep telling him that half of each degree is mine because of the work I’ve done for him.
Getting the call for military service
I worked in the office and when I had my 18th birthday I started to fret. Her Majesty needed all the help she could get and my name was down for military service. I waited 6 months, hoping against hope that she’d forgotten about me, but she hadn’t; I got the call to report to Catterick Camp outside Richmond in Yorkshire. Thus started five weeks of hell. Corporal Blinkhorn was not a nice man and he was made even nastier when the authorities reduced him from Sergeant. It was his own fault as he’d feigned illness at Christmas, when he should have been on duty; instead he went romping off to a dance with a lady who wasn’t his wife. Poor man was recognised, reported and demoted; he took it out on us. One week we got two shillings and sixpence and the next week a little bit more. In our first week he took a shilling from each of us to buy an iron and we never did see the iron.
The army loved making life difficult for the recruits. There were two kinds of boots; we were given either a pair of brown boots that had smooth leather or a pair of black boots that had a dimpled surface. Lovely boots, but the regulation boot was black with smooth leather, so what to do? Those with brown boots sat for days, adding layer upon layer of black dye, while the black boot people had to heat a spoon and then rub the dimples to get rid of them. Learning how to shoot and march was a daily ordeal. I’m one of those who decides I can’t do anything and then I surprise myself when I can. I was flabbergasted that I could even hit the target. I’m left handed and I had to operate the rifle with my right hand, which was not the easiest thing to do. When we marked time on the spot, Blinkhorn would yell, “Bring your knees up six inches and slam them down nine!”
I must have slammed them down too hard and I ended up with an abcess on my ankle bone. We couldn’t just report sick; we had to bundle up our mattress, kitbag, cutlery, mug etc., and carry them to the clinic. I ended up needing surgery and I woke up wearing a cast up to my knee. The operation was on the day of our passing out parade and, unknown to me, my poor pregnant Mother and Dad had decided to watch me marching by. I woke up to find them at my bedside. They’d sat with an officer who kept saying, “Maybe that’s him!”
I was kicked out of hospital and told to find my way back to my barracks. Unfortunately, everyone had moved and I had no idea where they were. It was a weekend and I ended up sleeping alone in the room, with no bedding and nowhere to eat. It was freezing and I covered myself with another mattress to keep warm. I was glad I’d brought a knitting needle with me as everything itched inside the cast. One morning the door blew open and I found sheep in the room. On the Monday I did manage to find my mates. Mother always said, “You are an accident looking for somewhere to happen.” It did, I ended up having the cast on for too long. When the medical people took it off they saw that extra flesh had grown over the wound and that had to be burnt off.
While I was incapacitated I stayed in the barracks. I watched Blinkhorn going along inspecting the way we’d made our beds and folded our clothes. We kept a set of clothing folded so we didn’t have to refold things each day. Our army issue underwear was so big it could be folded into a 9” x 9” square! Our army tea was super strong and very dark so it stained the mugs. If we didn’t clean our mugs properly, Blinkhorn would turn the mug upside down and gently tap on the bottom with the silver end of his riding whip. Gradually, a small hole would appear. He put the mug back in its place and the next time it was used the poor soldier ended up making a mess on the canteen floor which got him into more trouble.
Royal Armoured Corps’ Gunnery School
I’d put on my application form that I’d like to go to Germany because of knowing some German. Naturally, the Army refused to allow me to have anything I actually wanted and so I was posted to the Royal Armoured Corps’ Gunnery School at Lulworth Cove in Dorset. They’d seen that I could type. It was a lovely place to be. We could go out at the weekend for a pint of scrumpy (rough cider) for a shilling; two pints put you flat on your back. On the days when the tanks weren’t firing into the English Channel we could go onto the beach. We tried to avoid Wednesdays as that was the day the rotting bait was put into the lobster pots. Because the place was crawling with foreign military we didn’t have to wear our berets as it would have meant too much saluting. Instead, because of going around bare headed, we just had to turn our heads sharply to the left or right whenever an officer went by. It was during the time of IRA activities and often they’d try to enter the barracks to steal weapons. If we were on guard duty we were given long, heaven sticks with which to defend ourselves; it was all totally whacky.
I was promoted to Lance Corporal, unpaid, and put in charge of a barracks with about 40 soldiers. Each day we waxed and polished the floor, removing any excess wax with a knife. We paid to have our uniforms tailored so we could look smart on parade; one soldier was always chosen as the best dressed and he was excused duty for the day. We spat on our boots and polished them until they shone and rubbed soap inside our trousers before ironing them with brown paper and a shaving brush dipped in water. What a lark! Our barber was someone to be dreaded. It was supposed to be free but, if we wanted a decent hair cut, we tipped the man before he started working on us. I never did see Germany.
I think I’ll end there!
