Chapter 88

I was pleasantly surprised by the ease of the train journey up to Middlesbrough; today I was travelling almost a hundred miles further north in England than I had ever been before, and in some ways it was an adventure comparable to my first visit to Cardiff – although this time there was no need to worry about not having a passport or being able to speak Welsh!

I’d had a good look at Dad’s AA Road Atlas the evening we got back from Bristol to remind myself of the geography of the North of England – there were a lot of world-famous manufacturing towns spread over a relatively small area, and only Darlington, Durham and Newcastle-upon-Tyne were actually on the Edinburgh line. It wouldn’t have done to end up at Hartlepool or Sunderland; and I had to work out where Stockton-on-Tees ended and Middlesbrough started – actually, it was easy enough on the larger scale map – Middlesbrough is south of the River Tees, Stockton to the north and west.

I had to change trains at York, but that too was all very straightforward. Mind you, come to think of it, with the Stephensons and the Stockton and Darlington Railway, that area had been pretty much right there at the very beginning of railways, so maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised at all!

George Stephenson had always maintained that, like the canals, the railways would end up being interconnected and working together. Not that the canal owners and investors of the time liked the idea at all, but the march of Progress was unstoppable despite their concerted campaign of dirty tricks. The train took me in two hours a distance that would in those early Victorian days have taken at least two days by sea (with favourable winds) and probably two weeks by one-horse-power canal longboat, had there had been a vaguely direct route...

The countryside we passed through was most attractive in the summer sunshine, with views across the Vale of York to ranges of rugged hills all around; the train stopped at Thirsk and Northallerton, both in sight of what I later learned were the North York Moors, and then again at Eaglescliff before taking me to Middlesbrough, where I alighted.

I knew from the AA town plan that the railway station was to the north of the Town Centre; after studying the much larger map on the tourist information board near the exit, I turned left outside the station building, went down the steps at the end of the car park, and found myself at a busy road junction. Getting my bearings again – I knew I needed to move south and away from the railway line – I headed off to the right down Albert Street, admiring the many grand Victorian buildings, including an imposing but rather dilapidated structure named the Royal Exchange.

(By the way, that area of Middlesbrough changed dramatically over the next ten years – the through traffic now speeds across the town centre of Middlesbrough on a dual carriageway flyover thirty feet up in the air, carrying the A66. Its construction sadly meant the demolition of many Victorian buildings, including the Royal Exchange, which had regrettably become a real eyesore due to lack of maintenance. The less said about the chaos the inhabitants had to endure while it was built, the better!)

I kept going on Albert Street, soon spotting the distinctive clock tower of the Town Hall ahead of me. Looking around me, I realised that there were many lovely old buildings and facades, punctuated by some ghastly 1950s and 1960s infill – I later discovered that some of this infill was unavoidable, due to wartime bombing of the strategically-important steel industry – the poor quality of the ‘architecture’ was unforgiveable. There was a gleaming newly-built skyscraper office block opposite the Town Hall, completely dominating and over-powering the Middlesbrough skyline, and I really wondered why it was necessary.

(Yes, I freely admit that in the 1950’s, 1960’s and 1970’s, there were some bloody dreadful property developments all over England – just Google ‘Centre Point’ or ‘John Poulson’. Leicester too had some really out-of-place speculative buildings, like the god-awful “New Walk Centre” which Mum had told me was now in the process of being constructed opposite Fenwick’s, but why the heck had Middlesbrough allowed this uncompromising clash of architectural styles so close to the Town Hall?)

Shaking my head in sorrow, I looked at the street names as I passed, saw the one I was looking for, turned right before the Town Hall, and after a couple more minutes slow walking, found my hotel.

It was the first time I’d ever stayed in a hotel on my own, and it was certainly a new experience for me.

I rang the bell at reception and a smiling middle-aged woman came out and greeted me. The North-East accent was a little strange after three years of being used to Vee and the South Wales dialect, but pleasant to listen to. She instantly recognised my name, told me that I was expected and most welcome, they knew that ICI were paying the bill, and I was quickly shown up to my room. I was impressed – she was both friendly and efficient. She’d even insisted on carrying my suit bag up the stairs to make it easier for me.

This was in the days before every hotel room had ensuite bathrooms, tea making facilities and a television. The bedroom I was ushered into was comfortable but impersonal, and once I’d hung my suit up, put my overnight bag on the double bed, washed my face using the vast Victorian sink in the corner of the room, and read (twice) the fire evacuation instructions and mealtimes list which were pinned to the back of the door, I’d pretty much exhausted its entertainment potential.

I decided to go out for a stroll to get a better idea of the place. I firstly checked where the hotel’s dining room and lounge were, and then dropped my room key at the reception desk and headed out the door for a look around.

It was immediately clear that Middlesbrough had really thrived in the past – the grand civic buildings showed evidence of a local pride and prosperity that had however diminished since Victorian times – the pavement slabs were now uneven and broken in places, and there was an air of neglect on some of the buildings, almost as if the current generation didn’t know what to do with the spaces they had inherited.

I had a closer look at the monstrosity; it called itself ‘Corporation House’ and claimed to be the offices of Tyne-Tees TV. I craned my neck and counted 15 storeys of offices above the ground floor. Well, it looked like the developer’s speculation had paid off, sadly, and I hoped that a perfectly decent Victorian building hadn’t bitten the dust just to assemble the site. I mused that there is Progress and progress, and that I was only in favour of the former variety!

Mind you, I did find a well-maintained town centre park, and the people I passed were generally cheery and enjoying the summer weather. The population seemed older than in Cardiff, but of course there wasn’t a University here, and it was now after working and shopping hours, so perhaps I was seeing an unrepresentative sample. Having got that first impression of Middlesbrough, and liking most of what I saw, I headed back to the hotel. Yeah, I could stand having this as my new home town, and I reckoned that Julie wouldn’t mind it either.

When I asked for my room key at reception, the friendly woman passed me a note of a telephone message that had come in while I was out – a couple of people from ICI would be joining me for dinner, and they hoped that 7.30 would be convenient?

I hadn’t expected that; in a way it was a pest because I’d only brought one shirt for the suit and I’d have to wear it both for dinner and the next day, but it also meant that I’d have company, and not have to sit in my room all evening getting bored. Yes, there was a residents’ lounge, but I’d briefly poked my nose in there earlier and didn’t fancy enduring all that stale cigarette smoke.

I decided that I didn’t need to have a bath, but I had a good wash and changed into my suit. I didn’t require another shave, but I combed my hair to look as neat as I could. First impressions count!

I was downstairs at 7.20, having quickly used the payphone in the hall to let Mum know I was safely there. I was sitting on an over-stuffed sofa near reception, glancing over the local evening paper, when two men in suits came in and asked for me; the receptionist pointed me out, I stood up, and they came over and introduced themselves. I remembered Dad’s advice and looked them in the eyes as I gave them a firm handshake and smiled. I was pleased to note that they did the same.

“I’m Tom Stephens and this is Jim Clark; we’ll be looking after you tomorrow. We were looking at the notes of your interview this morning, and spotted that you were very keen to look round the plant before you made your final decision. We thought that we could get a lot of the chatting out of the way over dinner tonight, and that would then give us a couple more hours tomorrow to walk round? There’s a heck of a lot to show you with both Billingham and Wilton!”

I nodded my approval.

“Thank you, that’s really very kind of you. I hope it’s not causing you too much trouble at home?”

“Not at all, Jim’s not married, and my wife is going to nip over to her mother’s with the kids for a natter, so we’re fine. Are you ready to eat? The hotel’s restaurant isn’t at all bad, and it’s quiet so we can talk business over the meal.”

The food was indeed very acceptable; we all had a glass of beer with our meal and discussed my interest in ICI. I realised that I was actually being skilfully probed as to where my interests lay, but they were also playing fair with me and answering all my questions.

ICI’s two Teesside plants were at Billingham, part of Stockton-on-Tees on the north bank of the river, and at Wilton, south of Redcar and nearer the coast. Neither was actually in Middlesbrough proper. Billingham housed the Heavy Organic Chemicals and Agricultural Divisions, they even had a small nuclear reactor to make radio-isotopes for small instruments. Wilton had originally been set up to support the Plastics Division; it housed most of the Research & Development (R&D) work and had some good chemical engineering facilities. It would be where I was officially based, “assuming you do decide to come and work with us”, although I would be also sent around the country to gain experience in and knowledge of ICI’s other activities.

Tom had been with ICI for seventeen years and had three children just finishing primary school or starting secondary school, they were of course on holiday at the moment. He’d transferred up from Runcorn after four years working on the chlorine-based side of the business, married a local girl, and expected to finish his career at Billingham. Jim had been at Wilton for three years, and was currently working on his Ph.D. at the University of Newcastle two days a week. I told him that the opportunity to get a Doctorate was one of the things that attracted me to ICI over other firms.

“Luckily we’ve still got senior managers who were once chemical engineers, so they understand the importance of keeping current. Some of the younger accountants are a bit too keen on work studies and time and motion, not realising that some of the best ideas for improving processes come from bouncing new ideas off more experienced minds!”

They were amused when I told them that I was going to be working in a vegetable processing plant for much of the summer holiday; when I revealed that we’d each made more than £500 after deductions the previous year, they were more impressed. They did laugh when I revealed that we were sharing a caravan; they’d both had experience of having to sleep in temporary accommodation while on site, and couldn’t see themselves doing it for ten weeks at a stretch!

We had a great conversation, they told me a lot, and we got on very well. Time flew and it was a quarter to ten before I was waving them off at the kerb. It was still light, and there were quite a few people still about, so I took a turn around the block to stretch my legs before retrieving my room key and heading for bed. It made me smile – the key itself was just an ordinary brass Yale key, but it was attached to a bloody great bit of plastic with the hotel name and the room number engraved in it, so there was no excuse for putting it in your pocket and walking off with it – which is why I’d handed it in rather than lug it around town!

I slept surprisingly well in a strange room; I’d wished my friends a ‘good night’ out loud, and then thought about what Julie and I could have got up to in the double bed. Then I thought about what she, Jen and Hamish would probably be up to at the moment, hoped they’d enjoy it, resolved to enjoy Jen the next night, and went to sleep.

My first attempt at having a bath the next morning was thwarted; there was another guest already occupying that bathroom, but I found another one a few doors down and nipped in there smartish before anyone else emerged from their bedroom. I was pretty swiftly in and out, deciding to leave the more delicate operation of shaving to the peace of my bedroom, where there wouldn’t be someone trying the door handle every few minutes!

Breakfast was served downstairs in the dining room; there was very little choice. The waitress didn’t ask what I wanted; apparently the default menu was that you got a cooked breakfast with a small rack of white toast and a teapot with two decent cups in it. There was a sugar bowl, ashtray, and the usual collection of salt, pepper, Heinz tomato ketchup and HP Sauce on the table.

Not that I minded receiving the cooked breakfast, it was what I probably would have ordered anyway. It was a good hearty plateful with two eggs, bacon, sausage, black pudding, a grilled tomato, mushrooms and fried bread – and the plate was hot, a sign of a cook who knew what he was doing. (I’ve had many hotel breakfasts since then that were a darn sight worse, and some better, mainly because they did offer more choice.)

There was a large bowl of tinned grapefruit slices on a side table, together with two Tupperware cereal containers with what looked like Cornflakes and Rice Krispies for those who wanted something different. I did overhear one of the other guests asking for, and getting, a small pot of coffee – he’d obviously stayed here before and was getting preferential treatment!

I had checked out and was standing on the hotel steps by five to eight; just as well because Jim pulled up in his car a minute later. He nodded in satisfaction that I was on time, and he described a few of the sights of Middlesbrough as we drove to Billingham.

The main feature was the Tees Transporter Bridge, which was (and remains) the furthest downstream crossing of the River Tees. It was fascinating – in order to allow big ships to pass, traffic is carried on a gondola suspended from the steel superstructure. It was an impressive structure of blue-painted criss-crossed steel girders, even if the river doesn’t actually look very wide at that point – which is presumably why it was built there, rather than where the river widens out more.

“I don’t normally use this, but it’s an experience everybody should have! It’s quicker for me to drive round on the A19, but as you see, it’s great for cyclists and pedestrians to cut across the river. You know Terry Scott, the comedian?”

“Yes?”

“The plonker drove his car off the end of the road last year, didn’t realise that there wasn’t a permanent bridge, had to be hoisted out of the safety netting!”

“Does that happen very often?”

“Not too much, most of the locals are well aware that you have to wait for the gondola. He was pretty unlucky that there was no-one else queuing, so he just drove round the booth assuming that the toll part was on the other bank. At least it proved that the safety netting worked!”

There was only space for nine cars on the gondola, and we had to queue for ten minutes before getting on it.

Jim passed the time by telling me other fascinating facts about Middlesbrough – like did I know that Middlesbrough Football Club paid a £1,000 transfer fee to Sunderland FC in 1905 to acquire the professional services of a player named Alf Common, and questions were asked about the matter in Parliament because of the outrage that such a sum of money was being used to try to gain an advantage over other teams?

It was a slightly weird feeling on the Transporter Bridge, being pulled over a river in something suspended from way above – but I could see why this solution had been found to making a downstream crossing without impeding the navigation of ocean-going vessels. There were plenty of ships tied up along the quays, and it seemed a bustling port. Over to the right, or east, there were the flares of oil refineries and other industrial plants.

It only took a few minutes to cross the river; we let the pedestrians and cyclists get out of the way and then, after three right-angled bends, we were on the main road towards Billingham.

He stopped the car on the side of the road before we got to the plant, pointing out features such as the modern “Billingham House” office block which we were going to quickly tour, mainly because of the vantage point over the site afforded by the top floor of the nine-storey building!

Lord, the plant we entered was HUGE! Okay, I’d also toured the Port Talbot Steel Works, and the modern Abernant ‘super-pit’ coal mine, but this was on an even larger scale.

“How many people work here?”

“I think it’s about 5,000, give or take everybody and the three shifts for 24-hour working. It’s impressive, isn’t it? I’ve heard that we use over one percent of all the North Sea Gas that comes in to the country. We’ve even got our own power station now, we bought North Tees ‘C’ from the CEGB a few years ago.”