Things Are Never Quite What They Seem

By Roy Glover

This is the autobiography of Roy Glover who has had what he believes is a very interesting and exceptionally happy life in this wonderful world. May you gain inspiration and a zest for life through reading these pages of a life well-lived and thoroughly enjoyed.

About the author

Roy believes that he was blessed with two of the finest parents one could wish for and that it’s one’s parents who provide the foundation we build our life on. In addition, he has enjoyed the wonderful and loving support from his two brothers and sister, knowing they were always there if needed. Roy was born in England. After school he spent a few years in the Royal Marines and worked in Guyana and Malawi and finally in South Africa. In the course of his travels, he acquired some wonderful friends and believes they are jewels to be collected and treasured. His book describes the wonderful life he has been so fortunate to experience and it is all true to the best of his knowledge. The most important lesson he has learnt in life is that love is the most valuable thing you will ever find or acquire and there is no truer saying than ‘you reap as you sow’.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roy Glover
• Release date: Dec 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463998687

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Copyright © 2019 Roy Glover

Published by Roy Glover for Smashwords

First edition 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Roy Glover using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Edited by Vanessa Finaughty for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.co.za

E-mail: [e-mail]

Roy Glover

[e-mail]

To my mother Kathleen Agnes Susan

INTRODUCTION

I am very fortunate to have lived and worked in four countries around the world. I have travelled extensively and had a wonderful life that I have described in this book to the best of my ability. I have written about life from my experience and not set out to please or offend anyone, but if I have done so, I sincerely apologise. I would like to make it clear at the outset that I have no time or tolerance for religious or racial prejudices. Both of these have caused and still cause untold suffering and misery in this beautiful world. I have written my autobiography from my experience and not attempted to smooth over anything. So, dear reader, if you have led a sheltered life and are easily shocked, I suggest you stop reading and give away the book.

Chapter 1

1931 -

Over the past 86 years, I have known some wonderful people of different faiths and nationalities. I have become aware that there are good and bad people, regardless of colour, race or religion. I was born in Stourbridge in the county of Staffordshire, England on 24 July 1931. My first memory of life is in East Riding of Yorkshire, in the village of Asselby. My father worked for Major Monkton at Asselby Hall. I was the firstborn to my parents, named Reginald Roy. However, I was always called Roy because my mother told me she saw a film starring the cowboy actor Roy Rodgers, who made a big impression on her. I am very lucky to have two delightful brothers and a most lovable sister and an excellent relationship with all of them. Life was tough but very interesting and enjoyable, and I have seldom met people who worked harder and more conscientiously than my parents did. We were never spoilt, such as being driven to school. We either walked or went on a cycle if we had one. We often had to assist with milking the cows before going to school and work on the farm when we returned home.

As human beings, we all have an incredible brain that records and retains everything we do. For example, I well remember a dreadful mistake I made after helping my father with the milking. I was told to wash the milk cooler and forgot there was still a milk churn underneath it. I washed it with a hosepipe, and then suddenly saw the churn overflowing. I had no idea how much milk was in the churn when I started, and rather than tell my father, as it would have been a risky business, I thought it best to put on the lid and send it away with the others. Believe me, I lived in misery for months afterwards and often regretted what I had done in not owning up. My father was a good farmer, and it was such a tragedy that he lacked the financial resources to buy his own farm and had to farm for others.

I am incredibly fortunate to have had two wonderful parents. They were never demonstrative, but we could not have wished for more loving and caring parents. Even though they had very little money, we were never short of anything we needed. We could not have had a better foundation in life. My biggest regret is that I did not appreciate them or do more for them when they were alive, but that is a problem with which I have always had to live. I rushed ahead and rarely looked back or appreciated what was around me. In many instances, I did not learn from my mistakes. The nearest town of any size from my childhood home in Yorkshire was the port city of Whitby, and I have two vivid memories of the area. Firstly, we were told that Whitby Abbey was a turning point during the Schneider Trophy air race, before the Second World War. I can vaguely remember talk of a plane crashing there during a race. The second thing that I remember was prior to the outbreak of the Second World War. My father took us to Robin Hood’s Bay, near Whitby, to see the Royal Naval Grand Fleet at anchor just off the coast; a magnificent sight. For some reason, I always loved Whitby and the surrounding area. It’s such a fascinating place with a great history and a visit to Whitby Abby is something special because of its atmosphere.

We lived in Asselby for about three years, and then my father’s employer and his family decided to move south, and we went with them. One Sunday morning, I remember listening to the radio with my father. Our prime minister, Neville Chamberlain, announced that given Germany’s invasion of Poland, Great Britain had no choice but to declare war on Germany. I can also remember my father, who had served in the trenches during the First World War, being distraught by this announcement and saying, ‘Not again!’ For many evenings afterwards, he kept us boys enthralled by telling us of the dreadful conditions in the trenches. One could just imagine the courage required for a young man, only 17, to climb out of the dugouts and walk directly into barbed wire and machine-gun fire to attack the enemy. He said they were often given a hefty shot of rum straight from the bottle to encourage them. He also mentioned a time when one afternoon, British soldiers played football with the German soldiers. They were warned by their officers that should it happen again; they would be shot! War is so dreadful that I firmly believe any politicians who create conflict should be the ones who fight it, and the rest of the population left alone. It’s all very well for them to rant and rave about what they are going to do, but in reality, they send others to do their dirty work, such as dropping bombs on innocent women and children. When it’s over, one side claims a victory, and honours and medals are handed out, forgetting the suffering and misery caused, and to compound matters, they call themselves Christians. At the outbreak of the war, my father’s employer was convinced the war would last longer than everyone expected. He told my father to bury a few 45-gallon drums of petrol; my father did so but omitted to mark exactly where he had hidden them. A few years afterwards, he became very frustrated digging all over the area, unable to find them. The Monktons, for whom my father worked, had a son about my age named Peter, with whom my brothers and I were great friends. One day, he went out on his cycle and was killed by a car. It was a sorrowful time.

Later in the war, Major Monkton left their huge house and rejoined his regiment. The house was converted into a recuperation centre for badly burnt airmen who needed to convalesce after plastic surgery. Later in life, I met a man in the Republic of Guyana (previously British Guiana and referred to in this book as ‘Guyana’) who became my best friend. His mother, Agnes Chitty was a theatre sister for Dr Mclindoe, the New Zealand surgeon who specialised in plastic surgery during the Second World War; but more of that later. My father had four brothers and two sisters. One sister married my Uncle Norrie, who was a tough character and a sergeant in a British cavalry regiment during the First World War and then went farming. I so enjoyed being with my uncle and aunt and visited them often and normally, uninvited. One morning, I was with my uncle in the fields, and he happened to see one of his workers wearing tattered trousers that barely covered him decently. Uncle Norrie said, ‘You look like a bloody horse.’ The man said, ‘You make me work like a bloody horse, so why shouldn’t I look like one?’

One of his daughters was courted by a man who was a fighter pilot during the war and was a crazy fellow. For example, he once arrived at the farm on foot and asked my uncle, ‘Can I please have your grease gun? I have turned my car over just down the road, and it’s a wonderful opportunity to grease it.’ Also, we once stayed with him, and each night he would take us to a different pub. I happened to ask why we always went to different pubs.

He said, ‘The police have an arrangement with all the pubs as to which pub can stay open as long as it likes without being bothered and I have a copy of the list.’

My father’s other sister, Ruth, was married to a truly remarkable man, an officer on the Queen Mary, which transported troops and war material from the USA to England. Very early one morning, they woke us up to say he was on leave in Coventry and took my aunt to see the film Gone with the Wind. Returning home after an air raid, all that remained of their house was a pile of rubble; they only had the clothes they were wearing. My aunt stayed with us for a long time after that. After the war, the best job Uncle Frank could get was what was called a gentleman’s gentleman; in other words, a better type of butler. We always knew when the boss was away because Uncle Frank would visit us in his employers’ Rolls Royce.

Some years later, he became secretary to a senior official in the Union Castle Line. We were made aware of this when, as we returned from Malawi (called Nyasaland until 1966) on one of our long leaves, Uncle Frank came out to meet the ship with the pilot, specially to see us. One of my favourite items was the most beautiful miniature Staffordshire terrier given to me by my father that I took to school in my jacket pocket. I would lift the lid of my desk and put my dog inside, and neither of us got into trouble for it. The next phase of our lives was rather vague in my memory, as my father seemed to fall out with various people where he worked, and we moved a lot. We once lived in Shropshire near a huge derelict castle and had great fun playing in the dungeons and ruins. I gather health and safety officials have now pulled it down. I suppose it is considered much safer for children to play with computer games in shopping malls than out in the dangerous, unfiltered air. Near the castle was a lake where a female pilot who ferried planes from America to England during the war had recently crashed a plane. During the war, it was illegal to slaughter any of your farm animals without permission to conserve the nation’s food reserves. My father, who was never fond of rules and regulations, had killed and skinned a bull calf when he noticed a police car driving down the farm road. He hurriedly buried the skin in a nearby manure heap and had just completed this when the local police inspector walked into the yard. At that moment, our Alsatian suddenly got the scent of the calfskin and began to dig it out. My father, seeing this happening behind the police inspector, kept moving around, so the inspector’s back was towards the dog. He then cleverly invited the police officer into the house for a cup of tea, and we boys managed to get rid of the skin, but it was a close shave.

At one stage, I remember my father working for an elderly, eccentric and wealthy Indian Army colonel, who cared greatly for his rifles. In fact, he used to prune huge trees with a cumbersome calibre rifle, with his butler loading for him. This was during the war years, and our electricity was produced by a turbine, powered by a small waterfall charging a sufficient number of connected two-volt batteries to create the required voltage. These batteries were open and thirsty, so my father was always topping them up. Although it was more than 70 years ago, the system worked, and we were never without electricity; possibly our South African Eskom should try that. We lived near Litchfield, where we went to school, and where there was a vast depot, built for American soldiers awaiting the invasion of France.

On one occasion, my parents were warned to look out for a soldier who had committed murder and was dangerous. Late one night shortly after the warning, there was a loud knock on our door. My father grabbed his shotgun and opened the door, and was confronted by a large black man in uniform. My mother, who was always convinced we were going to be killed by lightning or in our beds, or by burglars, was behind the door saying, ‘Shoot him, Joe, shoot him!’

However, he was given some food and sent on his way, and my father then telephoned the police. My father was an efficient man who believed in being realistic, and we as boys were expected to help out with farm work. I am absolutely convinced this is the reason my two brothers, both a little younger than I am, are still self-motivated and reasonably healthy. We were always encouraged to get on with the job and not waste time thinking. On one occasion, when we had an idea, he said that if there were any thinking to be done, he would do it. Sometime later, we lived near Morton in the Marsh where my father managed an arable farm for the owners of the company, Bolton and Paul Limited, which built night fighter aircraft during the war.

At about this time, I finished school and worked for my father and drove a small Allis Chalmers caterpillar tractor. I loved that tractor and the work, and it was one of the happiest periods of my life. To cap it all, my father bought me a new motorcycle, a single-cylinder 250cc BSA. In those days, the ‘in thing’ with vehicles was to be a member of the AA (Automobile Association) because the assistance you received was considerable, unlike today. Whenever you met an AA patrolman, as soon as he saw your AA badge, he saluted. There were two reasons for this. One, to acknowledge you were a member, and two, if he did not, it was a warning that there could be police out to catch you for speeding. One day, I was riding my motorcycle through Stratford-on-Avon and in the main square there was a huge gathering of AA officials for a conference. When I happened to ride past, they all saluted, so I went around the block, and they saluted again, but the third time they all turned their backs.

Once I had this motorcycle, I acquired a girlfriend, whose mother was a big, powerful woman and the owner of a hairdressing business. After a few weeks, I was invited for a meal one evening and was somewhat surprised to see a very mild man serve at the table, who didn’t join us. After the meal, and when her mother went out of the room, I asked the girl who the man was, thinking they must be wealthy to employ a servant.

The girl said, ‘That was Daddy.’ I immediately thought, good gracious, they are looking for an assistant for him. Needless to say, I never went near the girl again. On the farm, we had some German prisoners of war working for us. Some lived with us on the third floor of the old farmhouse and were always delightful people and never gave any problems. I shall always remember lying in bed at night listening to one of them playing the most beautiful violin music; I have loved violin music ever since that time. He appeared to be quite elderly and a soldier and had apparently been a professor of music before the war; I consider this as one of the tragedies of war. Another prisoner who had been a German paratrooper in Russia said that Russia was so huge and communications so poor, that in one instance, on entering a village in Russia, a farmer told them the Czar would lock them up when he caught them. These people had no knowledge of the revolution and the fact the Czar had been overthrown!

We then moved to Putternham near Guildford, and I will always remember seeing a beautiful dark green nine-litre open-top Bentley. I think this was when my love of cars started. Again, I worked for my father, who managed a farm for Sir Edward Hulton, owner of the Hulton Press. This was just before the invasion of Europe, and as we were not far from the coast, we could see the huge build-up of American troops and equipment. Sir Edward had a beautiful Russian wife, and he drove an eight-cylinder Buick and had one of the first TV sets then available. We were once invited to see it, and I can remember it was black and white and had a small screen that was not very clear. After Putternham, we moved to Trafalgar House near Salisbury, and my father managed the farm. It was around the time Land Rovers and Ferguson tractors and related systems were manufactured and promoted. The owners of Trafalgar bought a new Land Rover and Ferguson tractor. I was fortunate enough to be sent to attend a course on maintaining and operating Ferguson tractors and accommodated in a hotel in Leamington Spa. It was held in Coventry at one of the Standard Motor Company establishments that manufactured Ferguson tractors. We were paired off and given a tractor and told to take it apart; nothing was to be attached to any other part. This, we did, putting every piece into a very tidy pile so it would be easy to locate and assemble. The instructor then came around and mixed everything together with a stick, making reassembly as difficult as possible. However, revenge is sweet. We discovered that on a Friday evening, the staff would all gather after work for a drink in one of the offices before going home. Finding our instructor’s car, we turned his engine timing 180°; needless to say, his car was still there on Monday morning.

The next incident occurred when Harry Ferguson held a party for all of us. As this was some way from the hotel, I went by motorcycle. It was a most enjoyable party; large quantities of alcohol were consumed, and I was certainly drunk when I set off back to the hotel. I remember waking up in the morning with a dreadful headache and finding my motorcycle parked outside my hotel bedroom – on the first floor! Thank goodness that was the last day of the course because I can assure you that getting that motorcycle down the stairs, across the lounge and down the outside steps to the street was not easy and most embarrassing. The management made it clear they were not that sorry to see me go and charged me five pounds to have the carpets cleaned. Anyway, it was a wonderful course, and Harry Ferguson was a brilliant engineer who did some fantastic work for the development of world agriculture. Trafalgar house was built and given to the Nelson family by the nation after the Battle of Trafalgar. Not far from the large and beautiful main home, a much smaller house had been built for Lady Hamilton, who, we were told, resided there for a time. When we lived there, the property was owned jointly by the Duke of Leeds and Oliver Littleton, then the British Colonial Secretary. I worked with my father for a while, and there, I acquired a girlfriend, who worked at Trafalgar House. She was a friendly girl and introduced me to the pleasures of the female form; one of life’s greatest pleasures. It was at Trafalgar that my brother, John, decided to leave and arranged to go to Canada; one can imagine the consternation when he announced this at lunch one Sunday. The reason was that John was only about 16 at the time, but he had managed to organise an assisted passage because the Canadian Government was encouraging young people to immigrate to Canada. I believe he worked on a farm at one stage and the owner kept a shotgun near his bed because he said several Catholics lived nearby. However, I have now become a Catholic and think his fears were needless; nevertheless, it’s always best to be aware of any threat.

My brother, John, was always an exceptional shot. This was useful during the last war because my mother would give us a 4.10 shotgun and we would shoot rabbits; there were plenty available as this was before the introduction of myxomatosis during the early 1950s by the Labour government – a dreadful, highly infectious disease that killed off almost all the rabbits in England. I still cannot see the justification for killing off what was an excellent source of food, apart from being such an inhumane act. John had a superb way with dogs and horses. For example, his horse would be grazing in a field and on hearing his motorcycle in the passing traffic, it would rush to the gate to be there when he arrived and then follow him to the house and wait outside. Also, he has the distinction of possibly being the only man in England who has been chased by a police car in reverse. Shortly after he left our parents’ small farm in Kent, a police car overtaking him did not like the look of his car, so decided to stop and check it over. John thought that, as he was not far from home if he could reverse into the farmyard, he would be off the public roads, and therefore, safe from the police. The road was rather narrow and with little time to spare, he set off as fast as he could go in reverse, with the police doing the same. When they caught up to him at the farm gate, they said he could still be charged with numerous faults. However, in view of the unusual attempt to evade justice, they just gave him a warning; humour is a splendid thing.

My other brother, Jeffery, did not marry until later on in life, so, he with my younger sister looked after our parents as they grew older. Later, he married a very competent woman and bought a small farm in Wales, where they both worked very hard. They have both always been very fond of dogs, and at one stage, they had six dogs. On one visit, we found a dog on every comfortable chair; if you tried to move a dog, they would show you their teeth. I have nothing against dogs, but I do think that was a bit over the top. Jeffery had a reliable stream on his farm, and it was fascinating to see salmon struggling upstream to get to where they hatched so they could spawn and produce their young. We live in an incredible world, and any brief study of nature proves this. In fact, Jeffery and his wife, Janet, lived in an interesting area. For example, not far from them, the brilliant Welsh poet Dylan Thomas had lived. Two of his poems that I think are excellent are Don’t go Quietly into that Dark Night, and Death has no Dominion. His small outside room overlooking a beautiful estuary is just as he left it. One can look through a window and see the scraps of paper that Dylan screwed up and threw down and an empty whisky bottle, as the poet was very fond of the stuff. One of the important lessons I have learnt in life is that distance does most certainly make the heart grow fonder. I have always had a delightful relationship with my two brothers and sister because I never lived with or near them for long after the age of 17. In fact, it was George Bernard Shaw, who very wisely said, ‘Guests are like fish; they go off after three days’.

Chapter 2

1948 –

My life changed one day when shopping in Salisbury when I passed a Royal Marine recruiting office. I went in and signed up for 12 years, and went home and told my parents, who both thought I was crazy. Not long after that, I was sent to the Royal Marine barracks at Deal, and there I learnt the meaning of discipline and active life. We, as new recruits, made ourselves as smart as possible when we first reported. I can well remember Sergeant Killenback walking in front of us saying, ‘Good lord, just look at the rubbish I have been sent now.’ One of the first things that happened to us at Deal was to be given a very short haircut. I can well remember a recruit named Night, who had a beautiful head of black hair. As he sat in the barber’s chair, he was asked how he would like his hair cut. After some discussion with the barber, who was obviously making a fool him, the barber took his clippers and ran them through his hair as close to the scalp as possible – and that meant having it all off.

When I filled in my application form for the Royal Marines, I claimed to be a Druid because I thought this would save me from church parades. It is always wise to think ahead; however, shortly after reporting in Deal, we were told attend church parade on a Sunday morning. I pointed out that because I was a Druid, I did not have to, but was quickly told they also catered for Druids and I would be on church parade. Fortunately, I did come to my senses, as I will explain later. I had often thought life had been tough in the past, but this was really daunting. For the first three months, we were not allowed out of the barracks, as we were told we were not fit to be seen by the public in uniform and drilled constantly. None of us enjoyed it at the time, but now I realise the system instilled discipline in us, and I have been grateful ever since. We had to be out of bed by 6am every morning, and if we weren’t, the bed was tipped over, and we fell on the floor, mattress, blankets and all. From then on, it was scrubbing floors, drilling on the parade ground or other forms of training until we fell asleep at night, dead beat. After three months, those who passed inspection were allowed out into Deal, (see photo no) but were warned not to stand looking into shop windows, as we would be charged with loitering and not allowed out again. It was in Deal one Sunday afternoon when I suggested to two friends, Gordon Gill and Wally Preston, that we hire a boat and row out to sea. This, we did, and fog came down, and we became horribly lost. Fortunately, a few hours later, the fog lifted, but after that, my friends paid little attention to any of my suggestions.

One friend in the Royal Marines was one of the first car hijackers, who was sent to join up because it broke his mother’s heart when she discovered what he had done. In those days, just after the war, it was very easy to steal cars, and they were much sought after. My friend said he stole cars at cinema car parks because he knew that after the film started, he had plenty of time. He would drive them to a place where there would be a large furniture van, flash his lights, a rear ramp would be lowered, and he would drive in and be paid. That was it, as far as he was concerned. It appears that these cars were taken to a large chicken farm where some of the sheds were used to dismantle or respray the various vehicles. This man turned out to be a first-class Royal Marine and much later became a King’s Badgeman and the best recruit of the year. I regret to say he beat me, as I was the runner-up. The experience at Deal was fantastic, and we were fortunate to have a superb drill instructor, Sergeant Killenback, who was a great disciplinarian – very firm, but fair. Sergeant Killenback had some amusing sayings, and we all walked in fear and dread of being made the subject of one of them. For example, he once ordered a recruit out in front and said, ‘Just look at him; he has only one good fuck in him, and that is holding him together’. He also had an effective way of ensuring that we washed ourselves and our clothes thoroughly. Regardless of the weather, summer or winter, we would be made to strip and stand completely naked on the parade ground and spread out our clothes in front of us. Sergeant Killenback would walk along, inspecting the various items of clothing by turning them over his pay stick. If anything was slightly dirty, declare that we were a filthy bunch and needed to be taught a lesson, that was hours of extra drill. Afterwards, we would grab the one who had brought this about and take him into the shower and scrub him with a hard-scrubbing brush until his skin was raw. This method worked extremely well as a deterrent. I am so sorry that all this is not happening now and wish we still had Sergeant Killenback with us.

Today, we have no sexual discrimination, and would all stand on the parade ground together with the girls, looking forward to being told to take off our clothes. Also, how we would have enjoyed giving the girls a good, but gentle scrub. Next to our barracks was the Royal Naval School of Music. To hear 300 bandsmen on parade was a great experience, and we often marched to their music. I began to understand why music is so popular with the military because when marching to it, one feels undefeatable, and I was not the only one to feel so. I can also remember that one night, a sentry, who was on duty climbed into the back of an ambulance for a few hours’ sleep. While he was sleeping and unbeknown to him, a driver started up the ambulance and drove to Oxford. Can you imagine the sentry’s emotions when he found himself in Oxford! On his return to Deal, he was charged with serious dereliction of duty and sentenced to a long time in a military prison, and that was the last we ever saw of him. We all worried about the possibility of being sent to Colchester, a military prison. We gathered that one punishment was to be employed in a huge coal yard. All the coal had to be moved to the other side of the yard, the area whitewashed, and the coal put back again.

I was taught to swim at Deal by a very simple and most effective method. We were all told that those who could swim