UK Alone
Part Two of my lonely wandering in the UK
Vale of Evesham
Between the age of twelve and twenty-three, I held two dozen or more different jobs. The last one, before headed overseas, I thought would be the worst. But it turned out to be the best. It was picking up potatoes.
My work-mate, Archie, had a twisted mouth, with moisture perpetually at the corners, and he spoke with a slur.
Each morning the boss would arrive with his tractor mounted potato digger, and turn out a days-worth of potatoes. Archie and I would then set to transferring them into burlap bags, stitch up the bags, and cart them to edge of the paddock, where they stood, waiting to be collected.
Archie was from Warwickshire, as was William Shakespeare. On our hilltop potato patch near Kerikeri, Arch entertained us both, by intoning Shakespearian passages.
He also had some memorable passages of his own, like: “Isn’t it grand, Pete? Other men have to play golf, but I can come up here and pick up spuds”, or “My wife boils a spud, and thinks she’s done something grand”, or “It’s great to get out of the house”.
At seventy something, Arch was joyful that he could still put in full-days picking up potatoes. He could work circles around me. We became best mates, and he was keen that, when in the UK, I should visit his son in Coventry.
Six months later, in mid-June 1979, I was cycling east having just crossed the Welsh border, bound for Coventry, where I presented myself on the doorstep of Archie’s son. He was a carpet layer, and like his father, rejoiced in the physicality of his work.
He and his wife took me on a twilight tour of the city.
We drove past the rebuilt cathedral, a juxta-positioning of what remained of the old cathedral, and a modern (a la 1950s) rebuild.
In 1940 the Luftwaffe flattened much of Coventry. Goering was Intent on neutralising that centre for engine, aircraft and munitions production. On a clear moon-lit night on the 14th of November, they damaged or destroyed about a third of Coventry’s factories, and left most of the medieval city centre in ruins.
Coventry had been under assault since August and the cathedral’s Provost (read ‘priest’) set up a nightly ‘roof watch’ to douse fires on the cathedral’s wooden roof. He and three others worked valiantly on the night of the 14th, but their efforts were ineffectual in the face of raining incendiary bombs.
Coventry Cathedral
Post-Bombing
The day after, he was said to have written in chalk on charred remains ‘Father Forgive’. After the war, he pressed for a cathedral reconstruction that would be a tribute to reconciliation and peace. Also, he was instrumental in forming a sister city relationship with Kiel, a Germany city that had been devastated by British and American bombs.
Coventry Cathedral
Rebuilt
The next attraction, on our tour, was a statue of Lady Godiva, a scantily clad lady on a horse.
In the year 1000, most Coventry’s citizens lived in grinding poverty. They were ruled by an earl who burdened them with excessive taxation. Most of the money was sent to the King, who had expenses defending the realm against invading Danes.
Godiva (the Earl’s wife) had a heart for the people, and in the privacy of their home argued incessantly against his excessive taxation.
The earl, seeking to silence her, promised to reduce his taxation, if, in broad daylight, she would ride naked through the busy market place. This, he thought, she would be unlikely to do.
Godiva went to the towns people; explained the ultimatum, and secured their agreement to stay behind closed doors and not look out, when she rode.
The earl kept his word, and removed all taxes except those on horses. History record that only one person viewed Godiva; a man called Tom who peeked through a hole bored in a door. Hence the expression Peeking Tom. History also records that Tom went blind but not whether that occurred naturally or otherwise. Given the brutality of the times, I fear the latter.
The other lingering memory of Coventry, was a Jaguar show room. It was a shining star still glittering in an otherwise faded constellation of British marques. Alvis, Hillman, Humber, and Lancaster to name a few.
The British motor industry was on its knees. Lack of innovation, and quality issues were driving customers into the arms of the Japanese. British engineering was at its lowest ebb. Though the car I beheld had seductive beauty, unreliability was likely to disappoint its eventual owner.
I rode on to Stratford, the home of Shakespeare, and rested on the banks of the Avon. By and by a well-spoken and well-dressed man in his thirties struck up a conversation. He was as interested in my story, and a pleasant conversationalist.
Ed invited me for a drink at a pub. I was yet to galvanise my aversion to pubs, and this was opportunity to broaden myself, so, of course, I said yes. It was enjoyable, with Ed ever complementary, as he introduced me to friends. I had no idea that it was a gay bar, until Ed told me later.
Ed was a good friend to me, but remembering my mother’s words of caution, once again I cut myself adrift, and refused to even open a birthday present that Ed brought me, bringing our friendship to an end.
“How sad” he said.
Yes, it was.
I was fortunate to get a job on a market garden about twenty kilometres from Stratford, in the Vale of Evesham. My initial accommodation was an unused roadside stall. My bed was a camp cot. After a few days I was upgraded to an unused smoko room, with closer proximity to a basin and toilet.
The only other workers on the property were two very old men. One of whom spoke. When our paths crossed, he would say “Sall right?”. After a couple of weeks, he said “The evenings must be long”.
So true.
The loneliness I experienced on that farm ranks first equal with the desperation I felt as a non-French speaker, travelling by bike, through Quebec. I was so lonely, that I became unable to look anyone in the eye, for fear that they would see my lack.
I presented myself at the local cricket club. Apparently, I bore a striking resemblance to Richard Hadlee, and was warmly received. On the pitch, however, my ineptitude was soon apparent, and I wasn’t invited back.
Work ran out on the farm, and the owner organised, for me, a job at a much larger property up the road.
When being shown to my shed, I was told that the copper was fired on a Wednesday. That is, Wednesday was bath night.
During work hours, life was no longer solitary. This property grew a huge range of crops, and there was a fleet of Massey Ferguson tractors. Men drove the tractors, and women did the work. It was loads of fun screaming around on the tractors, pulling over for a chat, when you encountered a work mate at a crossing, and then tearing off to your next errand.
I got on extraordinary well with one of my work mates. He lived in the nearby village, and was heading off the medical school at the end of summer. While Britain may have been failing as a maker of goods, it excelled in humour and turn-of-phrase. My friend, Stacy, was endlessly entertaining with his take on Britain’s stratified society. In this beautiful country-side, we were in the thick of it.
While Stacey was of a working class family, and lived in a row house, the farm also employed sons and daughters of the entitled class. Jane was one of those, and Stacey was well impressed when I told him that I had invited her to dinner at my shed.
Jane was not without visual appeal, but a funny thing happened over the course of my evening with her. Again and again, she referred to my workmates as ‘Them’. Every time she did so, she became less attractive in my eyes. I guess she didn’t view me as one of ‘them’. The conversation dried up, and she left. I don’t recall speaking to her again.
I am saddened by the social stratification in England. Sad because of the wasted talent. The UK would perform so much better if the best people were selected for jobs, rather than those from the right families. What I found most annoying, however, was not how the upper class conducted themselves, but how those from lower down the ladder, accepted their lot.
So it’s a good thing I wasn’t born in England. Me thinks, I would be perpetually annoyed.