Chapter 96

Mum had the kettle boiling for a welcome cup of tea as Julie and I came in through the back door. We told her all about our (second) farewell from the factory, assuring her that we had indeed said ‘goodbye’ to Mavis and Mr Johnston again, and then she produced a letter that had arrived for me.

ICI had kept their promise of sending me a short up-to-date list of available recommended digs. There was a handwritten note from Jim at the bottom, with an arrow against the third one on the list, a Mrs Loftus:

“Give the Loftus’s a call as soon as you get this; they looked after a friend of mine really well last year, but he’s just transferred over to Cheshire so they’ve got a vacancy. If I were you I’d snap it up!”

I trusted Jim’s advice, so I got straight on the phone. Mrs Loftus sounded very pleasant, clearly knew what she was talking about, and we quickly came to an agreement. She had two spare rooms where she took lodgers; I’d have to share a bathroom with another bloke from ICI, but that wasn’t ever likely to be a problem, given my past experience sharing with four un-house-trained and distinctly unhygienic lads my first couple of terms in Cardiff...

I knew that Mum had been more than a little worried about my leaving the finding of accommodation so late; I’d phoned ICI to ask about the availability, and got a pretty firm steer that I’d probably have to pay for a room I wasn’t using if I took digs before I moved up there, and that there was enough movement on their books for me to be able to move again if I didn’t like the first place. Jim’s recommendation had taken a lot of the guesswork and gamble out of my choice, and even Mum agreed that I could always find somewhere else and move if I really had to. I could see the relief in her eyes when she finally knew I definitely had a bed for the night on Sunday, though!

Friday was spent running around town doing errands; Mum and Julie were going to the cash & carry and Peatling & Cawdron; we arranged to meet back at home for lunch. I did offer to buy them both lunch at the George, but as it was market day, Mum reckoned it would be too busy with all the farmers and their wives coming in to meet friends before the next phase of harvesting kept them frantically busy at home for a while.

I had a dentist appointment at half past nine, then got my hair tidied up at the barbers in Ironmonger Street, went in to see my bank manager to tell him that I was about to be gainfully employed (which pleased him no end, just on principle; so much so that he promised to write to the manager at Middlesbrough to introduce me as a ‘customer in good standing’), and then bought some new black socks and a couple of pairs of Y-fronts from Woolies. While I was there I filled a little white paper bag from the Pick’n’mix selection of wrapped sweets; okay, so when I put it on the scales, it was 11 ounces rather than the half pound I had planned on, but the odd extra Nuttall’s ‘Mintoe’ never did anyone any harm, did it?

Lastly, I popped in to Johnsons the butcher to pick up Mum’s order – she wasn’t going to let me leave home without a last celebratory roast dinner (and I most certainly wasn’t going to refuse one of Mum’s specials). Mrs Johnson chatted away as she loaded me up with a parcel of sausages, three pork pies, and then the joint. It was a rather big piece of beef even for seven (Mum had recently got into the habit of plating up extra meals for my grandparents), and that made me suspicious about exactly what Mum was plotting.

One of the pork pies I’d just collected served as our lunch, together with a bowl of tomatoes freshly picked from the garden and an Iceberg lettuce which hadn’t yet bolted, and then Mum and Julie ran through my wardrobe. Luckily I had continued to use the housewife Mum had given me for minor repairs, so I only got picked up on a couple of missing buttons. She had bought me a couple of ‘St Michael’ white shirts the last time she’d been over to Marks & Sparks at Peterborough, and refused to let me pay her for them. She did dip her hand into my bag of Pick’n’mix several times, so I reckoned it was some way towards fair exchange and no robbery.

Having thus put me into her debt, Mum got me spud bashing for dinner; there was a huge pile suitable only for her biggest saucepan. She parboiled one batch for roast potatoes, but it was clear that she was catering for more than the four of us – heck, you only had to look at the half-cow sitting in the big roasting dish to know that something was up. I had a definite feeling that I knew the answer to the puzzle, but if Mum had indeed planned a surprise going-away party for me, I didn’t want to spoil it for her by not acting surprised.

The potatoes prepared and the bowl full of peelings taken down the garden to the compost heap, I took the Mini down to the garage to top it up with petrol. I reckoned that as Mum had been kind enough to let us borrow it to commute I should pay for the fuel, and I got away with £1.27; extremely cheap at the price for the couple of passion-filled hayfield sessions that it had enabled!

Mum continued to behave a little furtively; Dad too when he got back from work – he had a quick wash and got changed before he had a cuppa, which normally he only does when he’s in a rush to go out again.

Sure enough, just before seven that evening, Mr Johnston drove up with four rather scruffy and familiar-looking passengers in his car; he told us that he’d be back at seven-thirty the next morning to return them to the workhouse. I hadn’t remotely expected to see our friends again before I left for Middlesbrough, and was really chuffed that they’d bothered to arrange this. Julie had (of course) been in on the secret, and she gave me a huge grin when they arrived, and we finally started setting the table. We had a great “Last Supper”; with eight of us sitting round the table there was lots of chat and laughter, and four empty wine bottles lined up on the kitchen windowsill as we washed up afterwards. We didn’t stay up too late; it was back to the dormitories and an early start in the morning. I did go into Jen’s room for a goodnight kiss from all three girls, which was most enjoyable as they competed to see who could make me most breathless. They were all a little flushed as well when we’d finished, so it wasn’t totally one-sided.

On Saturday morning, Dad knocked on our doors and woke us at six, and after two waves (ladies first) through the bathroom, we all sat down at seven for a breakfast of boiled sausage on toast; Mr Johnston was (of course) punctual to the minute, but did come in for another cuppa, and then the house was suddenly much quieter without them. Once the dew was off the grass, Dad and I mowed our lawn, and then went round to the grandparents and did theirs; Mum and Julie were also pottering around the houses and gardens together, sorting them out. The afternoon was spent packing two suitcases and my rucksack; I slipped in a couple of my old paperbacks, but mostly it was clothes.

We were of course finished with my packing in good time to all be sitting in front of the TV with a cup of tea and piece of cake, ready and waiting for the first episode of the brand new series of “Doctor Who“. The consensus afterwards was that “Terror of the Zygons“ suggested we were in for another good year of The Doctor. I just hoped that I would get to see most of the rest of the series; I’d completely forgotten to ask Mrs Loftus if they had a television. If not, I could see myself of a Saturday evening standing outside a closed TV shop in the rain, watching the Doctor on their display telly through the plate glass!

Julie and I laid the table while Dad went to fetch my three grandparents for a high tea of cold beef, fried potatoes and home-grown salad; before we sat down to eat, they very generously presented me with a smart brown leather briefcase with my initials stamped in gold on the front. It came as a complete surprise, and I stammered my thanks to them. It was sure to prove extremely useful in keeping my books and papers together – my old school satchel had faithfully performed that task in Cardiff, but was now so tatty with years of use that I couldn’t see it continuing very much longer.

Late that night, after making slow and gentle love, Julie and I talked more seriously about our impending separation. Although we were both joking when she told me to steer clear of busty young filing clerks in miniskirts who wore too much makeup, and I warned her of the dangers of succumbing to the Common Room Casanova in a leather-patched tweed jacket with chalk stains, we knew that we were both facing a test. Yes, we’d been apart most of that first summer when I’d been working in the factory and she had been at home in Exeter or staying with Sian and the twins, but this time was going to be different. It would be at least ten months of pretty constant separation, and we’d been almost inseparable for the last two-and-a-half years.

We talked about how we’d keep in touch, when we’d try to meet up, and reassured each other that the year would soon be over – even though we both knew that at our age the time would seem to drag. At least we had meeting places at both Reading and Bristol; and of course it wasn’t out of the question for her to meet me at home in Stamford, as she got on so well with my folks – though our sexual activities would be rather more limited there than they would be elsewhere. We told each other how much we’d miss them, and then we made love again, desperately trying to hold on to our togetherness. I really really didn’t want to let go of my love and get out of bed on Sunday morning. Neither of us cried, but we both felt like having a good howl at being split up.

My parents, however, appeared overly cheerful about me leaving home and striking out on my own. Dad joked about getting a lodger or packing a dozen illegal immigrants into my bedroom, which didn’t get a laugh from Mum. Breakfast seemed to me a little bit like “the condemned man ate a hearty meal”; I didn’t really feel like eating but I knew that I had to. Then it was a matter of checking once again that I’d got everything I needed, loading the car as soon as Dad had done his ‘First Parade Inspection’ including being sure that the spare tyre under the boot was fully inflated, and setting off. At least I was sitting in the back with Julie, and we would be able to hold hands all the way.

Dad did make me physically check that I had the directions to my new lodgings and what he called my ‘joining instructions’ before he started the car; he grinned as he said that it was a long enough journey without having to turn round after thirty miles because I’d forgotten something vital!

While I had my branny spanker new briefcase open, Mum slipped me a little plastic pouch of 10p coins.

“You do still remember our phone number, don’t you?”

“Yes, and the STD code for Stamford is 0780?”

(Author’s note – when the British General Post Office introduced automatic dialling, they called it Subscriber Trunk Dialling or STD – the initials didn’t then have the more usual meaning they do now... )

“Good lad! You know I’ll worry, so please phone me at least once a week!”

I happily promised to do just that. I had a pretty good idea that if I didn’t, Mum would be phoning Mrs Loftus and asking her if I was still alive!

The A1 wasn’t too busy at all, just the odd tractor and trailer bringing in the straw bales to watch out for. Dad always kept a close eye for other vehicles whenever we came to a junction with a side road; some of the locals tended to turn onto the major road assuming that the faster traffic would get out of their way, and as I’ve already told you, his favourite maxim was “Always assume that all the other people on the road are idiots, and drive accordingly”. But no-one tested his reaction time, and we proceeded without any sudden braking.

We stopped for petrol at the Markham Moor filling station in Nottinghamshire, mainly so that we could show Julie the hyperbolic parabaloid concrete roof over the filling station. Okay, so she wasn’t in to higher mathematics – none of us were – but she too could see the point of building something different and graceful, just to prove that it could be done. I like it very much; it strikes me as optimistic and forward-looking, very different to some of the more Brutal concrete structures of the period. There was very little traffic so Dad had no problem finding a gap in the traffic to cross the south-bound carriageway and get us back headed north.

(We passed Markham Moor again while driving down to Stamford a while back; the filling station is now long gone, and there is a grotty half-derelict disused ‘Little Chef’ building underneath, where the petrol pumps used to be. Apparently English Heritage has Listed it as a building of special interest, so it is protected from demolition, but sadly it doesn’t have a use, so its future is still uncertain. I’d hate to see it rot, but realistically that’s the most likely outcome, although the concrete still looks structurally sound.)

We made pretty good time to Middlesbrough, Dad telling us the odd horror story from his National Service days of having to drive through the centres of Newark, Doncaster and Wetherby on the old Great North Road route. Thankfully all these had been bypassed in the last fifteen or so years – I hated to think what Stamford would have been like if the A1 still ran through it! We did stop to use the loos at the Scotch Corner Hotel and to eat our ham sandwiches and a packet of Smith’s Crisps each. The cup of tea from Mum’s flask was also welcome.

The directions that Mrs Loftus had dictated on the phone were accurate, and three and a half hours after we had left home, Dad pulled up outside her house. It was a semi-detached brick building with a small and neatly kept front garden, and it appeared well-cared-for.

“Here we are, Jon. Looks good!”

Mr & Mrs Loftus must have been keeping an eye out for us; before we had even started to get out of the car, the front door of the house opened and they came out to welcome us. No sooner had introductions been made than we were escorted inside to their cosy front parlour and the kettle was boiling. While her husband mashed the tea, Mrs Loftus led the way upstairs. Dad and Julie pretended to be helping by carrying my bags, Mum breezily admitting that she was just being nosy and wanted to see my room, which made Mrs Loftus laugh.

The bedroom was smaller than my one at home, but had a single bed, a deal wardrobe and chest of drawers, a small handbasin with a mirror on the wall, and a writing table and chair facing the window. It would certainly do me very well; it was clean and bright. Mrs Loftus showed us the shared bathroom just down the landing; again it was clean and more than adequate. We sat in the parlour to drink our tea; I was pleased to see a television in pride of place. It was likely that my Doctor Who habit would continue.

Julie and I had five minutes of privacy to say our goodbyes; we just held each other tight and murmured tender words of love and commitment. Yes, I’d have loved her to be wearing our engagement ring, but we’d already agreed that it would be fatal for her career chances to be known as somebody likely to get married very soon. One final loving kiss, and we left my new bedroom and went downstairs together. I hugged my parents, got another bonus hug and kiss from Julie, and then they got in the car and drove away. I watched them until they got to the end of the street and turned on to the main road; I’d been tempted to run along the pavement after them, but it was better not to do that, because I might well shed a few tears – and I certainly didn’t want to set Julie off too!

After thanking Mrs Loftus again for the pot of tea, I went back upstairs and started unpacking, hanging my ironed clothes in the wardrobe and piling my smalls in the drawers. To my delight I discovered that Julie had snuck a love letter in with my grundies; well, I hoped that it was a love letter rather than a ‘Dear John’ letter! Naturally, I instantly stopped what I was doing and sat on my bed to open the envelope. She’d written S.W.A.L.K. on the back, so that was a good start, and there seemed to be several sheets of paper inside.

Blimey! There were letters in Jen’s and Sheila’s handwriting as well! Of course, I read the one from Julie first. She said again how much she was going to hate us being separated, but that it was the price of her getting qualified, and in the long term it would be worth it. There was a lot of other stuff in there, all of which I eagerly devoured with my eyes, and I resolved to write back (once she was at teacher training college) so that she too could enjoy receiving such a lovely letter. Jen and Sheila said similar things in their epistles; both were careful not to be too specific in their promises about exactly what was going to happen when we met up again (in case the letters fell into the wrong hands) but I most certainly got the gist of being reassured that they were keen that our physical relationships continued as before, and that I’d need to keep my strength up before spending weekends with them.

I couldn’t risk writing back saying exactly how I felt to any of the three – yet – but I put the letters safely in my brand new briefcase, and while I was at it, I looked at the instructions for setting the combination locks, and changed them from 111-111 to Julie’s birthday, now that I had some secrets to keep. I was pretty sure that no-one was going to go through my things, but better safe than sorry.

Then I finished my unpacking and punted the closed suitcases up on top of the wardrobe where they wouldn’t be in the way. I checked that I was happy where things were, and sat on my bed to read some of Isaac Asimov’s “Pirates of the Asteroids“ to while away a few minutes and try to forget that I wouldn’t be seeing Julie again for at least a month.

Gareth, my fellow lodger at the Loftus’s, got back from his weekend away at six o’clock, and knocked on my door to introduce himself and tell me that Mrs Loftus was serving up at half past. He was a friendly and chatty bloke and, after quickly washing our hands and heading downstairs, we got to know each other over the fishcakes, peas and fried potatoes that was our tea. He currently worked at the Billingham site, but he’d done a few months at Wilton, so was able to tell me which bus I needed to catch in the morning.

I went through my papers after tea to check (yet again) that I had all my letters from ICI and my degree certificate, during which time Mrs Loftus knocked on my door to let me know that Mum had rung through to tell me that they were safely home. That was good to know, and I thanked her for her trouble.

I tapped on Gareth’s door to ask him about the bathroom arrangements; he was easy about it as he wasn’t going to bother with a bath either that evening. He mentioned that quite often he used the showers and changing rooms at work or at the sports and social club – there was always plenty of hot water and no feeling of guilt about increasing the Loftus’ electricity bill. Remembering how much I’d enjoyed being able to have a shower rather than a bath whenever we stayed at Clifton or Reading, I made a mental note to investigate.

I had a quick bath and cleaned it when I’d finished, and then checked my towel was safely secured around my waist before unlocking the door and going back to my bedroom to put on my pyjamas.

I re-read my letters before checking my alarm clock, turning out my bedside light and settling down in my lonely single bed. I thought of Julie alone in my bed at home, and slowly drifted off to sleep. It’s strange, thinking back on it, that I wasn’t at all excited or nervous about starting my new life – I was missing my girl too much to even think about that!

I actually arrived at work far too early; I’d had a cooked breakfast with Gareth at a quarter to seven and had got to the Wilton site by eight o’clock, only to find that although I was on the list of expected visitors at the gatehouse, there would be nobody at the reception desk to meet me until nine o’clock when the office staff started. I did get pointed towards the security desk in the main office block, where an old boy in Corps of Commissionaires uniform and an impressive set of Second World War medal ribbons gave me a mug of tea and a chair. I used the time to look around the reception area; it was sensibly laid out and business-like, with a steady stream of people coming in to work. I stood and looked at the notice board for a while, there was clearly plenty going on, with thriving social and sports activities. It looked as if people enjoyed working here.

Nine o’clock came round, and a neatly dressed woman sat down behind the reception desk. I thanked the Commissionaire for the mug of tea, picked up my shiny new briefcase, and presented myself at the desk.

To my amazement, I didn’t get to see my new place of work until after lunch! The receptionist consulted her list, phoned personnel for ‘Alan’, and five minutes later I was following a man into his office where we sat at a table and I filled in form after form. Firstly we went through my contract of employment, which seemed straightforward enough even if there were a couple of bits that went over my head. He carefully explained in more detail exactly what they meant by being ‘on probation’ for my first year – it gave the firm a chance to terminate my contract if we both agreed that it wasn’t working out. He also explained the appraisal process; all employees had a formal annual appraisal, but I’d also have them quarterly for the first year. Then I signed up for the ICI Pension Scheme, filled in the next of kin form, gave details of my bank account so that I could get paid, handed over my birth and degree certificates and driving licence so one of his assistants could copy them on the new Xerox machine, and completed the application form to join the ICI Sports and Social Club.

“You said you’d been working over the summer; have you got the P45 with your National Insurance Number?”

I ferreted it out from my file of paper and handed it over.

“Thanks! That makes it a lot easier to work out your tax; without it we’d have to deduct too much until we heard back from the tax office. You’ll get a payslip around the 26^th of the month, and the money normally goes into your bank account on the last Friday of the month.”

I nodded. It was a relief that I had a decent reserve in my bank account, so that I could survive the first month without needing to ask for an advance of pay. Mum and Dad had talked about the perils of having too much month left at the end of the money, and although I was used to budgeting my student grant until the next cheque arrived at the beginning of the next term, I knew that I’d have to not go mad with my new income. It was a decent starting whack, but I certainly wasn’t going to be rolling in lolly.

My certificates and copy of the contract safely stowed away in my briefcase, Alan next checked that I had brought some passport photographs and took me along to the office where the photographic identity cards were issued. This was of course in the days before laminating machines were commonplace, and I watched with interest as my card was enclosed in an acetate wallet and the whole thing was placed in a press to be sealed. It looked a lot more weather proof than either my Student Railcard or NUS membership card had ever been!