The Old Firm

By Richard F. Challis

Richard F.Challis has written 3 long books as well as many short stories and poems.
The Old Firm is mainly based the early part of the Author's life. It is considered by people who have read all three to be the author's greatest work.
Richard F. Challis's business autobiography is "Time and Chance".
His international travels in the 1960's are described in "When Angels Travel".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Challis
• Release date: Jul 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9780987158536

Richard F. Challis

Richard Frederick Challis was born on April the 7th 1924 in Stafordshire, England, the 5th child of 10. His father was a master painter, and his efforts to feed his large family during the great depression of the 1930's is the basis of the novel "The Old Firm".Richard was apprenticed at 15 and gradually rose to become the area sales manager for his company for the North of England. This is told in Richard's business autobiography "Time and Chance"Richard migrated to Australia in 1964 and was his company's regional Manager for the Far East and Oceania. His international travels are related in the novel "When Angels Travel".After leaving his company, Richard became a lecturer at the Elton Mayo School of Management (Now part of the University of South Australia) specialising in international marketing.

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Disclaimer

The Old Firm is a work of fiction. Some of the characters in it are fictitious and any resemblance between these characters and any person, living or dead is coincidence. There are also some real people in the story. Roland Charlesworth is the author, Richard Challis. Mrs. and Mr. Charlesworth are closely based on the author’s parents. Roland’s brother Frank is loosely based one of the author’s nine siblings.

Harry Genders who appears once in the story as a carpenter and champion racing cyclist is Harry Genders (W. H. Genders) the carpenter and multiple national cycling champion and Olympic cycling competitor.

Roland’s part Airedale Terrier Jock in the story is the Author’s dog, Jock.

The incidents in the story actually happened although the order and timing of some of the incidents has been changed.

The Old Firm

CHAPTER ONE The Barmy Boy.

The signboard on the front of the house read, in cream, brown and gold:

GEORGE CHARLESWORTH

DECORATOR

It was partially obscured by frost, now thawing in the early rays of the Autumn sun. George and his men were in the yard at the rear of the house, assembling materials from the Paint Shed, and tackle from a lean-to behind it.

It was 1935 but despite the Depression George always managed to find work somewhere, though the size of his team fluctuated from ten or more, down to a low point of himself and a boy. The boy was usually Norman, generally referred to as the Barmy Boy, because of his habit of ending statements with, I aren’t barmy, y'know! . He was seventeen and had a wild look, partly due to the fact that he had a glass eye.

George's two sons were watching the men during the few minutes before they left for school - Roland at ten, with the experienced eye of a fellow professional who could paint and brush-grain with the best of them. At a penny an hour, he was very good value during school holidays. When extra busy, his father had been known to make sympathetic enquires about his health and suggest a day off from school. Since George's idea of appropriate therapy was to set him to work, first-coating the ceilings and walls of a new house, Roland usually denied the charge of illness, even though the prospect of earning almost a shilling was tempting. He had just sat for a scholarship to Lichfield Grammar School and had already decided that he was not going to be a painter, so he did not intend to neglect school-work. Not that his father would have wanted him to. George had a conscience - like a docile, sleepy chameleon perhaps, but alive nevertheless. Frank, now six, was at Henley Junior Boys School, after nearly two years as a Central Mixed Infant. He was too young to help the painters yet, and an amiable vagueness which enabled him to muddle the simplest of tasks, suggested already that he would never rival Roland's competence. But Frank, also, was quite sure he wasn't going to be a painter when he grew up. For that matter, their father didn't want to be a painter, and quoting from The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, he would say, If they'd make me Archbishop of Canterbury, I'd chuck down my bloody brush this minute! In early manhood George had joined a Young Men's Bible Class, emerging from it a convinced agnostic, so he should have refused the Archbishopric on principle but fortunately the offer was never made.

He was a brisk, sturdy man, in his mid-fortes, with greying hair and very blue eyes. He was not given to introspection, but when disillusioned or disappointed - perhaps a horse carrying his money had failed to exert itself - he would speak feelingly of the rustic life and quote from Kipling's Glory of the Garden. After which, he would spend a convivial evening with the Buffs or at one or more of the twenty or thirty clubs and pubs from which he obtained work occasionally, but companionship always.

ii

The Barmy Boy came racing into the yard, crouched over the handlebars of his bike. He heeled over in a tight turn and braked dramatically to a halt.

I’m late, ‘Uncle’, he announced. ‘ad to get me own grub an’ pack for meself as well. Me Dad’s bin up all night, ill, an’ me mum slept in late, after

"Nothing serious?’ asked George.

Just ‘is guts upset, said the Barmy Boy. ’E reckoned it was some tinned salmon Mum give ‘im for ‘is tea but she went mad wen ‘e said that, an’ after a bit ‘e said as it was probably somethink ‘e’d picked up at work an’ then she carried on about that, an’ says ‘e can sleep downstairs on the sofa for a week until she’s sure ‘e’s got rid of it.

The Barmy Boy’s father had died many years ago but he gave his step-father the courtesy title ‘Dad’.

If it had been the salmon, you’d all have been ill?" suggested George.

Mum doesn’t like salmon, said the Barmy Boy, An’ I wasn’t going to eat any. I’d seen it hanging around in the pantry for a week. I aren’t barmy y’know! Even the cat ‘ad more sense than to touch it!

I’ve put the enamel and stuff we need for today in the car, said George. I’ll just have a word with the others and then we’ll go.

Six of the men had already gone direct to the main job at Wednesbury – twenty pairs of houses being built on a reclaimed slag-heap. The whole team should have been there, but George had exhausted the painter's repertoire of delaying tactics and had to clear up three small jobs or lose them.

He and the Barmy Boy set off for 'The Shrubbery,' in the newly-acquired car - a battered old Overland Whippet. (It goes if you whip it, said George.) The Shrubbery, the residence of Dr. and Mrs. Shaw, was in a quiet street in the select part of Walsall, safely distant from the stink of tanneries or the clatter of commerce. The house, already large, had been extended by the addition of an extra bedroom and a second bathroom, over the garage. Three weeks earlier, George and one of his men had worked on the bedroom and bathroom for a couple of days and then rejoined the main gang at Wednesbury. After making and breaking several promises, George was back, following a request from Dr. Shaw to provide him with the name of a painter who would be willing to take over from where George had left off.

I'm going to leave you for a couple of hours, said George, after they had transferred the enamel and other supplies from the Whippet to the bedroom. I must get round the, other jobs and see they're all right, but I'll be back by dinnertime or just after.

Right you are, 'Uncle', said the Barmy Boy. A long time ago someone had started calling George 'Uncle George' and now he was always 'Uncle' or ‘Nuncle’ to the men. Similarly, his business was referred to as 'The Old Firm', after a bookmaker at the local racecourse.

Make a start on the bathroom while I'm none, continued George. Take your time with the enamelling. You know what they say - treat it as if it was a guinea a drop. Brush it out well or it'll run and that's a bloody terrible sight. And make sure it's solid, so don't add any more thinners unless it seems to be brushing out ropey.

Don't yer worrit yerself, 'Uncle'. I've used white enamel before. Don't yer remember?

Well I have - plenty of times, returned George, and I'm still capable of making a mess of it.

Any road, what the 'ell do they want two bathrooms for? asked the Barmy Boy. There's bags of time to ‘ave baths, even if they wants one every week - unless they all wants it Saturday night. 'Tisn't as if they was miners. Anyway, I knowed a family of miners once, an' all they'd got was a tin bath - an' that leaked, so they 'ad to be bloody quick in and out. But they allus looked clean to me.

It doesn't work like that, said George, leaving. "The cleaner your job, the more baths you need. Don't ask me why - but that's the way it is.'

ii

After his circuit of the jobs where his men were working, George called in at his home.

Im not stopping - just picking up something and then I'm on my way, back to the 'Shrubbery', shouted George, when his wife appeared at the door.

I've been trying to get you, said Mrs. Charlesworth. I rang two of the jobs, but you'd left, so I guessed you were either coming here or going straight back to the 'Shrubbery'.

Why, what's up? I left Norman hard at it.

I don't know, said his wife, but an hour ago I had Mrs. Shaw on the 'phone after you. She said you're to go there immediately, because Norman's drunk.

Drunk? exclaimed George. He can't be. There's no drink on the place and he doesn't have enough money to go to a pub with his sandwiches. Wait a minute — she isn't suggesting he's stolen their drink is she?

I don't know, but I think you'd better get there as quick as you can, because she was talking about getting the police. She said he'd been singing rowdy songs.

He often does that, said George. It means he's happy, I believe. It's a bloody horrible noise, I'll admit and I've told him not to, in private houses. Maybe that's all it is. Anyway, I'm off. Give her a ring, will you, and say I'm on my way.

George kept his foot down on the accelerator and the Whippet responded valiantly, even touching fifty on the downhill stretch from Rushall, and delivering George at The Shrubbery in a record twelve minutes.

I'm sorry if my man's been annoying you with his singing, he began, when Mrs. Shaw let him in.

It's not just singing, she said. He's drunk. He came out once and he was reeling all over the place. I was terrified. I phoned my husband and he's coming back as soon as he's finished his calls.

Well, where's Norman now? asked George. It seems quiet enough to me.

He's sleeping it off, said Mrs. Shaw. When he went back in the bathroom, I managed to turn the key in the lock. Luckily it was on the outside as the bathroom's not yet in use.

There's something wrong, said George. We never take drink on to jobs - and anyway he doesn't have that sort of money.

He ran up the carpeted staircase, followed more slowly by Mrs. Shaw. Unlocking the door of the new bathroom, George opened it and was assailed by an overpowering reek of enamel. The Barmy Boy was lying on the floor, snoring loudly.

You see: said Mrs. Shaw.

He's not drunk, he's unconscious, said George, angrily.

Unceremoniously he dragged the Barmy Boy by the ankles into the new bedroom and flung open the windows.

Open all the windows and doors you can, he ordered. Get some fresh air moving through the place. The fumes from the enamel have knocked him out.

George loosened the Barmy Boy's clothing, turned his head to one side and inserted under it a pillow he had grabbed from the bed in an adjacent bedroom.

You'd better ring for a doctor, he said, when Mrs. Shaw returned."

Dr. Shaw should be back any minute, she said. He'd only two more calls when I spoke to him."

Yes, of course, said George, I was forgetting about him.

The Barmy Boy's stertorous breathing had subsided.

He muttered disconnected words, then added clearly, I aren't barmy, y'know!

I think he's coming round, said George. A drink of cold milk might help, if you've got some.

Meekly she left to do George's bidding. The drink was brought upstairs by Dr. Shaw who had just arrived back.

Let me have a look at him a moment, will you, Mr. Charlesworth, said Dr. Shaw.

Kneeling beside the recumbent Barmy Boy, the doctor held his wrist loosely to check his pulse, touched his forehead, raised the eyelid covering the Barmy Boy's glass eye, lowered it hastily and tried the other.

Yes, he announced, "he'll be all right in a few minutes.

The milk you asked for is probably as good as anything. Later on, perhaps, a couple of aspirin tablets - he could well have a headache. He may want to stay at home for a day, but that's about all. Nothing serious."

I'd like you to confirm that there's no smell of drink on his breath, said George, formally.

No, no, it's nothing of that sort, answered the doctor.

"Just the effects of paint fumes as you guessed, Mr. Charlesworth.

One of the hazards of your trade, I suppose, like Painter's Colic, which as you know, is often chronic lead-poisoning."

Your wife said he was drunk, pointed out George, refusing to be sidetracked.

An understandable mistake, said Dr. Shaw. Very alarming for a lady, alone in a house with a strange workman, I'm sure you'll agree.

The strange workman now attempted to sit up and was transferred to a chair, where he sat sipping milk and cursing vaguely as he tried to collect his wits. Meanwhile, George put the brushes in water, poured the unused enamel back into the gallon can, added a dash of sub-turps and resealed it with the lid. George and Dr. Shaw then assisted the Barmy Boy down the stairs and into the Whippet.

Mr. Charlesworth, said Dr. Shaw as George started the engine, we've been very patient, waiting for you to complete the Job here. I trust there's going to be no further delay.

I really couldn't say, replied George. I'm more concerned at present about my man. I'd like to point out, Doctor, that your wife's action in locking the door on Norman, was about the worst thing she could possibly have done. He could have died in there if I hadn't got back when I did. I'll give you a ring in a day or two and let you know how he is!

George drove away and Dr. Shaw returned thoughtfully to his home.

I'm O.K. y'know, 'Uncle', said the Barmy Boy, somewhat faintly. Got a bit of a skullache, that's all. But I'll be back finishing that bloody bathroom tomorrow, you see!

You won't, returned George. You'll be at home with your feet up, taking it easy. If you're better the next day, you can join the rest of us at Wednesbury.

Well what about the Shaws' ‘ouse?

The Shrubbery can wait, said George. Just for a bit longer, they'll all have to go on sharing the same bath.

CHAPTER TWO Bink at the Wakes.

A raw November morning. Bink Allen and Bert Perry were already at the Railway Hotel, setting up tressels and planks which had been taken there during the weekend. It was only a hundred yards from George's home, so he and the Barmy Boy were walking there, carrying buckets of whitewash and distemper brushes. Because it was a Monday morning, George's overalls were clean, white and freshly ironed. They were the traditional attire of a painter; bib-and-brace overalls with wide front pouch for holding a papering brush - and a matching white jacket. The Barmy Boys blue overalls were more suitable for an inexperienced and messy worker. The four men were needed today, so that the main bar would be available for opening time in the evening, then Bink and Bert could be left to complete the job by the end of the week.

Smoke from countless cigarettes and pipes had mellowed the ceiling of the bar from the original white, to restful shades of yellow, mahogany and dark brown, in a mysterious pattern, suggesting that a great work of art might lie concealed beneath the nicotine and tar. The top half of the walls in the bar had been papered with a heavy, embossed paper which needed sticking back, where it had started to peel, and then distempering. The lower half was panelled in oak and merely required varnishing.

Opening off the bar were various rooms - Snugs, Ladies-Rooms, the Saloon-Bar and so on. While George, Bink and Bert were at work in the bar, the Barmy Boy was painting the Snug. Loud conversation was necessary, over the smack of seven-inch distemper brushes, energetically wielded, which suited them, as they were all noisy men.

Bink, nearing forty, was a swarthy man with a torso like a gorilla's and a face to match. He had a bad limp because one leg was three inches shorter than the other, but he was swift and nimble. At each step with the longer leg he gave a sort of curtsey, which kept his spine and body straight. A local boot maker had once supplied him with a boot on a three-inch base, but after a week Bink had thrown it away. Every muscle in his body, from ankle to neck, had ached.

"Cripple me - that damn thing.' he said in disgust. Bert Perry was, in his own estimate, a wag. He was a spidery fellow in his late twenties, with a perpetual grin on his face.

Shall you be taking us to the Wakes, ‘Nuncle’? he shouted.

I expect I'll be taking the boys, Saturday, said George.

"The missus won't go; the weather's always wrong for her.

Either you can't see a hand in front of you for the fog, or it's chucking it down with rain."

You want to take the lads to the boxing-booth, 'Uncle, said Bink, who, despite his leg, claimed to have been a fighter in his younger days. It's the one Tommy Farr used to fight in.

They all are, as far as I can gather, said George. He must have been a busy bloke.

George had already planned to go. He was keen on boxing and often, with his two sons, went to the boxing at the Butts Inn Walsall on Sunday mornings. George sat at