The Road At My Door

By Robert Nelson

Bob Nelson tells a fascinating story of his life, from his early days as a professional footballer with Burnely FC through to his career in motor engineering, culminating in high-level director posts in the Ministry of Transport and an MBE. With many entertaining personal stories and anecdotes, Bob's memoir is both an enjoyable read and a fascinating insight into a working life in a post-war world. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writing on the Wall
• Release date: Nov 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519940896

Book preview

Memoir by

Robert Nelson

For Shirley

Acknowledgements and Introduction

I wish to acknowledge the advice given to me by my youngest daughter Lucy in 2003. She had this mad idea that going to university would bring me out of the deep depression that surrounded me following the death of my wife in 2000. She was right. This must count as a major building block in enabling me to write this book. The help and assistance offered to me while completing my degree is, of course, contained in the book.

As the document started to grow the interest from others in my progress varied between zero and daily enquiries. Family and friends can be relied on to keep you at it. At last I’ve finished it and wish to say thank you to one and all, particularly my family for whom I have written this story.

This is from my very first memory, a true and honest account of the events and situations between 1937 and 2008 that shaped my life.  I have also included some observations on social history, which we ignore at our peril. Today’s world of button-pushing and image-watching does worry me. Communication speeding up, as conversation declines – not a healthy formula.

The majority of people who played a leading role in my journey are of course in the book. This story does, however, give me the opportunity to acknowledge those who in various important ways helped me at pivotal times in my life with their enthusiastic support. Steve Cave, Jeff Green, Phil Lloyd, John McDonald, Tom McQueen, and Hugh Rimmer all played crucial roles in setting up the Liverpool District Office from scratch in 1989. They were young men, new to the job, and I did push them to the limit. Also the office staff, all local people, ably led by Thelma Green and of course Pauline Jackson, inventor of the ‘Barclay Card Shuffle’.  We argued passionately and disingenuously at times; it was all a bit over the top (the charter mark springs to mind). But out of this came an excellent group of people who have, with few exceptions, gone on to fill important jobs within the organisation.

I also wish to thank various people who helped me throughout my life and career: John Low and Brigadier Ridley from my time in the Yorkshire Traffic Area, as I struggled to settle into a new job; Ken Horner, from my Stanmore days, who made me think; Fred Whalley and Eric Dunn from my time in the North West Traffic Area. Then on to Bob Tatchel, Tony Thompson and Julian David who kept me in check in Bristol. John Mervyn Pugh in Birmingham and last, but not least, Ron Oliver, our leader, who kept me on the right track. Just! All of them were hard working people who knew how to manage; I tried to follow their example.

After my wife’s Illness and untimely death in 2000 I was once again supported by family and friends. I found myself very depressed with no more to give, at the lowest point of my life after five years of nursing her at home. A phone call from Gordon Herd, who had worked for me in Liverpool and Wrexham, inviting me to join a walking group, run through the Chester University of the Third Age (U3A) completely changed my life. It was a turning point and I began to find a new social life with the help of Beryl Osbourne to whom I owe a great deal.

My final vote of thanks, and it’s a big one, goes to Mike McClellan at Techknack, who got me on to one of his excellent computer courses. This enabled me to seize the moment and attack the laptop. Putting the first words in via the keyboard was a great moment for me. Mike has been with me every step of the way and I’m mindful of his help.

My greatest debt is recognised and recorded in the book’s dedication.

Chapter 1

War and Grandparents

My life began in 1937, July to be accurate, on the 14th day. I entered this world at five minutes past eight in the morning, to the great relief of my mother and delight of my dad, tipping the scales at 10 pounds 10 ounces. I was born at home, 16 Brimstage Street, just behind the children’s hospital in Birkenhead. The world I was born into was one in which Britain still held some sway, though the Great War, 1914-18, had seen us lose our position as the most powerful nation in the world to the United States. We did, however, still have the Commonwealth. But this of course was going on well above my small head, though these events were to change the world I grew up in and made an impact upon me as I made my way through life.

Mum and Dad were very happy in their small terraced house. My dad was coming to the end of his career as a professional boxer; just prior to my birth he had put his very hard-earned money into a butchers’ shop. Whilst being a very good boxer, he was unfortunately a very bad business man and it all ended in tears. He lost everything except the house, which was rented. The future looked rather grim; however the events referred to above came to our rescue. Britain was once again preparing for war, albeit against a background of appeasement. Shipbuilding was very much on the national agenda and Birkenhead had an excellent shipbuilding facility in Cammell Lairds, who were taking men on. Furthermore my grandfather, who was a skilled cabinet-maker, worked there and was able to help Dad get a job. The bad news was, Dad, being the man he was, insisted on living as close to his job as possible and placed his nearest and dearest directly under Hitler’s flight path to Lairds’ shipyard. This astute move on Dad’s part, which gave him perhaps an extra half hour in bed each day, resulted in the small, happy Nelson family being bombed out three times in eighteen months. The third time did it for Mum. On the other hand I was having the time of my life; all I remember is the excitement and noise.

My first memory I can recall captures this period vividly. I remember being lifted out of the Anderson Shelter behind our house; suddenly a bright light appeared as we were dug out of the rubble, which had been the house; it had taken a direct hit and collapsed onto the shelter. Then a man appeared and I was lifted up into his outstretched arms. He placed me down on the remains of the house and I looked around in amazement. ‘Mam the house has gone!’ I yelled. And so it had. Mum was helped out and looking around, burst into tears. Once she had composed herself we began looking through the rubble for possessions. Dad was not there, he was fire watching at the shipyard. This was a stroke of luck in that if he had not been at work he would have been killed. He never got out of bed when the air raid warning sounded, and this caused all kinds of trouble between him and Mum. Needless to say, this incident cured him. How people dealt with all of this was quite remarkable as I look back on it; they simply just got on with it. We ended up going to stay with Mum’s sister in Hoylake as a temporary measure.

Having now lost everything they possessed, Mum and Dad made a brave decision. They took me to North Wales where Mum came from, and left me with my grandparents. They then returned to Merseyside and waited until it was safe enough to bring me back. It was much easier to move about without having to think about a three year old all the time. Dad continued to work in the shipyard, doing his bit in keeping Hitler at bay, along with his fire-watching exploits which at times tended to get out of hand.

One incident in particular worth recording is when he took two Russian seamen into captivity, having mistaken them for Germans, one foreign language being as good as the next to him. The fact that they happened to be the captain and his first mate did not help the situation. Indeed, it may well be that the Cold War could be traced back to this incident. But that’s another story. Mum also continued to work as a cook, an occupation she had filled at Mostyn Hall, where she had worked and learnt how to cook before the war, for Lord Mostyn no less: ‘in service’ sounded more like servitude.

Meanwhile I began to adjust to my new surroundings. The biggest change I was faced with was the move from an urban to a rural environment. It was such a different way of life and to begin with I did miss the noise and nightly firework display. I soon adjusted with the help and love I found in this small, but warm in every sense of the word, home. My grandparents who were in their sixties had raised a large family of nine, four girls and five boys. They now lived with just two of the girls. Three of the boys had been called up; two were in what was known as reserved occupations.

My mum had of course left home with a younger sister, my aunt Ruth, and so I now joined my grandparents and two aunties. This was the beginning of a new life for me and as I look back, it becomes clear to me that this was the point at which I began to grow into the person I eventually became. I was still only five years old but, due to circumstances beyond my control, here I was in a new situation in which I had to establish myself. It soon became abundantly clear that whilst I was loved and cared for, I would have to pull my weight. Granddad introduced me to the garden, his domain! It came as quite a surprise to me that vegetables actually grew in the ground. It now became one of my jobs to gather them and weed the beds, all under his direction. I then followed whatever had been gathered into the house where my task here was to peel what I had picked, this time, under the eagle eye of Grandmother. I sat opposite her in front of the big open range on which every meal was cooked. Nothing was missed or wasted. She then took over, explaining to me where to place various items in the oven or into pans of water, which she then swung out over the big fire that never appeared to go out.

I loved every minute of the wonderful time I spent with both of them. They made me feel so important, referring to my skills when we all sat around the table at meal times, saying what a great help I had become. This was such a valuable lesson to me on how to treat people; they were of course spoiling me, but educating me at the same time. I still love to cook, always with these memories in the back of my mind.

Living in this idyllic rural principality made me aware of the seasons to a far greater extent, surrounded as we were by wonderful countryside. My granddad used to walk me for what seemed to me miles and miles. He walked the legs off me, pointing out the various trees, shrubs, mountains and hills with such great pride as only a true Welshman can. It was as if he owned it all and indeed at that tender age I began to believe he did. I now of course believe he should have. He was a giant to me in every way, well over six feet tall and with an intellect to match, which he never had the chance to display. Opportunity was indeed a privilege in those days, afforded to the few. 

He had in 1934 been most fortunate to survive the night shift at Gresford Colliery. This was the fateful night of 22nd September, when an explosion, recorded at 2.08 am, took the life of 266 men and boys working in the Dennis Main shaft. Only eleven bodies were recovered, the rest being sealed in and remain there to this day. A small group of men did make it through the fire and poisoned gas. A far larger group, working in the adjacent shaft, were brought out via another route, avoiding being trapped behind the fire which quickly spread. They too made it to the surface. This group contained my granddad. He never went down the mine again.

When I arrived in Wales to avoid the Liverpool Blitz, at its height in May/June 1941, he was still out of any regular work, which is why he was able to spend so much time with me. Grandma always said my arrival had a very positive effect on his mental health and wellbeing. The community we lived in was very close-knit; miners looked after each other, it’s a very important element of their culture and a feature I was aware of even at my tender age of four.

Their hobbies took the form of music, poetry, walking or looking after racing pigeons. These cost nothing and tended to be artistic, in direct contrast to their work which was brutal. My granddad played the euphonium in the pit brass-band, continuing to play after he had turned his back on the pit. It was this he filled with vegetables as he made his way home after the band had been playing in the surrounding villages. Vegetable soup was always on the menu.

As I now look back I’m amazed at how quickly I adjusted to my new surroundings, and whilst I did miss my mum, my new responsibilities, together with the opportunities that went with them, kept me occupied, mentally and physically. Also I was in a safe place and knew it.

When Mum had left me, she was very upset and had told me that she had to go back to Liverpool to work in a factory making tanks for the war. She told me to listen in to the wireless each day, to a programme called Workers’ Playtime. This was a well-known programme that was broadcast from various factories at midday, playing popular songs. The workers also took part, sending messages to loved ones from whom they had been parted due to the war. Each day without fail my granddad would tune in, telling me that Mum would come on and give me a message letting me know that she missed me, etc, etc. It never happened. When Mum did eventually return to take me back I ran down the path to greet her, shouting out that she had not been on the wireless to me and that I had listened to all the messages given out. She clearly did not know what I was talking about. Another valuable lesson for me; everybody tells lies. Granddad was nowhere to be found. So here we have my grandparents, Irish and Welsh. This, I believe, makes me a Celt, which is just as well since I feel like one and think like one. I’m very much at home either in Ireland or in Wales. I can relate and converse with the people with ease. An important point that comes out of this to me is how very fortunate it is to have known, had the opportunity to live with and talk with your grandparents. My view on this is that it gives you a far better understanding of who you are. Many people lack this knowledge and I feel most fortunate to have had this experience.

My one deep regret is of course that I was never encouraged to speak the language. In fact during my time in Wales, the Welsh language was not spoken in schools, and even though my grandparents spoke Welsh they believed that they were helping me by not teaching me their native tongue. I would return to my grandma’s house in Wales many times, over the years. I always felt at home there and belonged. It was indeed a special place to me and illustrates the importance and good fortune I had in spending this time with them. I’m convinced that this is a big help to any young child, giving them a real understanding of who they are as well as the structure and personality of the family to whom they belong. Knowing your grandparents is a big help as you start to develop as a child.

Welsh Grandparents

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Irish Grandparents

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