Middlesbrough Man: Part Two: The Middle Years

By Denis Lawrence

This is the second book in a trilogy and traces the life of Denis Lawrence from leaving school at 16 years of age.It begins with Denis describing, with humour and insight, his experiences in the RAF during his National Service, followed by accounts of his career first as a teacher and then as an educational psychologist. Eventually, as a family man with three daughters, Denis describes the difficulties he encountered in having to balance his developing career with his hobby as a yachtsman. He gives a humorous account of his yachting days cruising mainly around the coast in the South West of England. The book concludes by outlining the events that led up to his emigrating to Australia and so achieving his childhood ambition of living in Australia. In the conclusion to the book Denis shares with the reader his emotions when during his boyhood he would sit beneath the Captain Cook Monument on the Cleveland Hills and wonder where Australia could be and what it would be like to live there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326387273

Book preview

Middlesbrough Man: Part Two: The Middle Years

MIDDLESBROUGH MAN

PART TWO

THE MIDDLE YEARS

Denis Lawrence

Copyright. 2015 Denis Lawrence

All rights reserved

Lulu Publishing

USA

No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations in the case of critical articles or reviews.

Library Congress Control Number:

ISBN: 978-1-326-370-99-2

Printed and bound by Lulu USA 

NB. Some people's names in the text have been changed to preserve their anonymity.

Acknowledgments

This book would never have appeared had it not been for the foresight and wisdom of my dear wife, Anne.  It was during one of the many conversations that she suddenly turned to me and said, 'These events should be recorded permanently in a book'.  As a result of that comment I decided to write a trilogy of my life and career to date.

Having been persuaded to write this trilogy it would still not have reached the public without Anne's expert editing of the manuscript.  I cannot thank her enough for the time she willingly spent reading and also, her skill in amending the manuscript.       

Grateful thanks also to Mary Anne Kenny for sharing her invaluable computer skills.

Introduction

The year was 1980 and it was late Autumn.  It had been one of those idyllic summer days, rare in the North East of England, when the sun shone every.  This is often a beautiful time of the year in that part of the world, with late Autumn sunshine and the heather on the hills in full bloom.  I was on leave from my job in Somerset and staying for a few days with my brother, Gordon and his wife, Jackie, in their house in Marton.  Twenty years had elapsed since I had moved from Stokesley to live in Sheffield.  Two years after that I had moved again to live in Cornwall.  I was now living in Somerset, but despite all those moves I still felt day that this part of the world was still home.

Today was a Monday when Gordon and Jackie had business to attend to in the town.  I had been invited to join them but as the weather was so beautiful I thought I would visit Great Ayton, one of my favourite spots in the Cleveland Hills.  We arranged to meet later for lunch in the pub at the foot of the Hills.

I had driven up from Somerset so I did not need to rely on public transport.  I packed a rucksack with the drinks and biscuits that Jackie had assembled for me and climbed into my car.  My intention was to drive to Great Ayton, park the car and then climb up to the summit where proudly stands Captain Cook’s Monument.  This monument, a tribute to the great man, born in these parts, had been a favorite picnic spot for my family for as long as I could remember.

After twenty minutes drive I had the Monument in sight.  Five minutes later I was at the foot of the Hills.  In the height of summer, this place would be thronged with cars and people, but at this time of the year it was deserted and my car was the only one there.  I parked the car, opened a window and savoured the sweet air.  After a further couple of minutes, during which I just sat there enjoying the silence, I left the car and began the climb to the summit.  Tradition had it that we always stopped every few minutes to admire the view, so I took a full half an hour to reach the top.

After arriving at the Monument I stood there for a few minutes looking down towards the village of Ayton.  The houses in the village below looked like toy houses from up there.  I turned my back on this familiar scene and stretched out amongst the purple heather, with Captain Cook’s Monument standing tall above me.  I was beginning to feel a bit tired after the climb. Soon the effects of the sun began to take me over and, with feeling tired, I began to feel sleepy. Encouraged by the soporific sounds of the bees in the bracken I soon began to drift in an out of sleep. This is the life, I said to myself, and thoughts of returning to live in the North East once again crept into my head.  The sound of whirring wings interrupted my reverie.  A solitary bird swooped over my head.  For a moment, the bird, a hawk, remained stationary, suspended in the warm air and as I turned to view it more easily it abruptly descended.  After briefly alighting on a bush, it suddenly disappeared into the bracken.

The bird's squawk had thoroughly woken me up from my slumber and looking around at the tranquil scene before me, I began once more to think that perhaps I should consider returning to live in this part of the world.  The sight of the hawk reminded me of a similar experience I had had, on this very hill, when a boy, thirty-five years ago,

My best friend, Billy, and I had lay there at the foot of the Monument also staring up at the sky, panting after the climb.  After a brief rest we began to explore our surroundings and it was then that we discovered a bird's nest amongst the bracken.  What fun we had in those carefree boyhood days!  Life appeared to have no end and there was nothing to worry about except whether we would be allowed to stay out late on our bikes or whether we would have enough pocket money left to buy an ice cream. 

I remembered how Billy and I regularly rode our bikes some 10 miles from the Council estate where we both lived, to roam these Cleveland Hills.  On arrival at the foot of the hills, the first thing we did was go through the routine of padlocking the bikes together against robbers.  This was done with the firm conviction that no thief would now be able to steal them, ignoring the fact that this was most unlikely anyway, with a police station only 300 yards away down the road.  But it was an ideal excuse for us to use our newly acquired bike locks.

Feeling content after the ride and with a quiet anticipation of the climb to come we would slowly make our way up the hills with sandwiches on our backs containing prepared that morning by our mothers who no doubt were relieved to be rid of us for awhile.  We always avoided the recognized path and went straight up.  This meant a more strenuous climb up the winding track, through the thick bracken, and along a sheep track that led to the summit.  We slowly made our way upwards, panting as we neared the summit.  We would stop only once to admire the distant view of industrial Tees-side sprawled out below and to congratulate ourselves on having escaped its noxious smells.  The smoke from the ICI chimneys and from the steel works was an ever-present sight as it lingered ominously over the town of Middlesbrough.

It was a different world up there on the Hills.  The wind blew gently, always perfumed and made sweet by the surrounding heather.  The surrounding hills contributed to this air of enchantment and wonder.  The wind seemed to bring scents of faraway places.  The scene was disturbed only by an occasional hum from the traffic in the village below.

The views are spectacular.  To the East lies the heart of industrial Tees-side.  On the other three sides, as far as the eye can see, there is an expanse of rolling hills and moorland, broken only by the sight of an occasional rambling farmhouse.  This scene had not changed for centuries.  Over the hills, towards the sea, the holiday resort and fishing village of Whitby would be teaming with its annual influx of holiday makers.  Many times Billy and I had considered the possibility of walking the thirty miles or so over the moors to Whitby.  We never did attempt this hike, although on one momentous occasion we did tackle the journey on our bikes.

Whitby has always been a special place for me. During the many times I had spent in Whitby I was always fascinated to hear stories of Captain Cook who, on leaving school, had been apprenticed to a firm of shipwrights in Whitby.  As well as the statue built on the summit of the Cleveland Hills, there is also a statue of him overlooking the harbour in Whitby.  I would pause to read the inscription on it whenever I passed the statue; on it was inscribed.  'To Captain Cook, a son of these parts, who was the first to map Australia'.  ‘Where is Australia?’ I would think, as I strolled down to the sea wall.

Access to the beach was not possible during the war owing to the army's defense policy of placing barbed wire at strategic intervals along the harbour wall, but I had often sat on that wall thinking about Cook and his adventures.  As the years rolled by, any mention of Captain Cook, or of Australia, caused me to relive the throbbing excitement of those childhood days in Whitby.

From time to time I would mention this to friends and family and often I wondered idly whether the family should go and live in Australia.  But whenever I raised the issue of emigration my enthusiasm was usually met with amused tolerance.  ‘We all have our Australia inside of us' remarked a colleague on one such occasion.  It became clear to me that other people regarded my preoccupation with Australia as an adolescent fantasy and I began to think that perhaps they were right.  It was only a dream after all and so I usually ended putting thoughts of Australia out of my head.  The unconscious mind however is a powerful thing and ideas of Australia continued to lurk there, as future events proved.  Lying there, that autumn morning, reminiscing over my childhood days, thoughts eventually strayed to the years immediately after I had left school.

I had looked forward to leaving school and entering the world of work after I had left school at the age of sixteen.  I had no intention of doing the same as many of my friends and staying on in the sixth form to study for university entrance examinations.  At that time of my life I had no intention of participating in further studies.  I was looking forward to National Service with my sights set on joining the RAF.  In the meantime my plan was to find a job while waiting patiently for the passing of the next two years when I would be eighteen and eligible to join the RAF.  After leaving school I had obtained a post in the local Education Offices until it was time for National Service and I remained there for the next two years.

These thoughts continued to occupy me as I made the descent of the Hills and returned to my car.  I shall now recount to you the journey and the many paths I subsequently took after my childhood in Middlesbrough that eventually led to the fulfillment of my long held wish to see Australia.

CHAPTER ONE

National Service

In April, 1949, after having said goodbye to the office job, I was standing on the platform of Middlesbrough Railway Station with a letter in my pocket from the Ministry of Defense.  It was time for National Service and it was all very exciting.  Accompanying my letter there had been a rail-ticket to Wolverhampton with instructions that on arriving there I was to look for an RAF truck.  The truck would be waiting for me outside the station and would transport me to RAF Bridgnorth in Shropshire.  The letter also informed me that RAF Bridgnorth was an RAF base where all new recruits received their basic training over a six week period.

I had said a fond farewell to my mother in the house.  She had kissed me goodbye and to my surprise, she had seemed unusually emotional.  My father, cool and collected as usual, had driven me to the railway station.  After a few minutes standing there with him a steam engine suddenly appeared (no diesel in those days).  It was my train to Darlington where I would have to change for the Wolverhampton train.  With a defiant roar of its engine the Darlington train came to a halt.  Shaking my father's hand, we bade each other a quick farewell.   Four-hours later I had arrived in Wolverhampton.

I left the railway station and looked around for the RAF truck that my letter had said would be waiting for me.  I then noticed six other young men also looking around, as if seeking something.  I approached them and soon discovered that, like me, they were also about to do their National Service and had just arrived in Wolverhampton.  Unlike my train, their train had come from the South of England.  So, I was not to be the only passenger on the truck to Bridgnorth but where was the truck? 

After a brief ‘hello’ the seven of us stood idly around unsure of what to do next.  Then one of the group shouted that he had just seen a truck pull up across the road, clearly marked RAF.  We assumed that this must be our transport so we all wandered slowly towards it.  As we walked nearer a uniformed figure descended from the truck and barked at us, in a far from friendly voice, to climb aboard for Bridgnorth.  At first we looked at each other uncertainly, but at a repeated command in an even louder voice we quickly obeyed and started to climb inside the truck.  Then we were ordered by the barking man in the RAF uniform to get out and sit in the open, on the bench at the back of the truck.  Without speaking any further he walked around to the driver’s side, climbed into the cabin and started the engine.  Not very friendly, I thought.  Without further ado we all obeyed his instruction.  We left the interior of the truck and climbed outside onto the back of the truck.  We were off to RAF Bridgnorth!  Nobody spoke.  I think the crude welcome by the barking man had alarmed and silenced everybody.

We continued to sit in silence for the next ten minutes and then one of the group asked nobody in particular, ‘How long do you think this journey will take?’  A pleasant looking man, wearing a red sweater, replied that he knew this area and he thought it was about half an hour’s ride to RAF Bridgnorth.  The group then lapsed into silence once more, each with their own thoughts.  It all seemed so unreal to me.  Half an hour later we arrived at the Camp gates where we were signaled to stop by an armed guard in RAF uniform.  The driver complied with this request and we were all ordered to dismount.

After being led to what looked like an official hut with a large number painted on it, we spent the next half hour being allocated a uniform and being interviewed by somebody who called himself the Drill Sergeant.  Then we were ordered to march one behind the other towards a row of wooden huts.  We stopped outside one of the huts, told to enter and each stand beside a bed.  Still in silence, we entered as instructed and for the next half hour we were barked at by the Drill Sergeant who made it plain that we had to obey his every command and that he would stand for no nonsense.  I remember asking myself, 'Why does everybody in a uniform bark?  Are they training to be dogs?  I thought.  Still nobody spoke.

Each hut catered for twelve men.  The hut was sparsely furnished with twelve beds, arranged in a line next to each other.  Along both ends of the room there was a stove and a table in the middle with chairs round it.  The next hour passed slowly as we were addressed further by the now familiar barking Drill Sergeant.  We were lectured on camp procedures, such as keeping the room tidy and then told where to meet for meals.  He finished his barking by once again reminding us all that we would be in serious trouble if we ever broke camp rules and did not obey his every command.  'Power mad, but not very bright', I thought to myself.

When he had completed his warnings the Drill Sergeant smartly turned on his heel and left the hut.  Following his departure, people visibly began to relax for the first time since arriving at the Camp and conversation began to flow.  One of the group who seemed to be older than the rest of us suggested that we all introduce ourselves.  We sat around the table and another person, who smiled a lot, said that perhaps this place would not be so bad after all.  'Some hopes', I said out aloud, with a smile.  There was no laughter.

One member of the group asked if anyone might be interested in going into town later that night.  However, this question was never answered as suddenly the door burst open and in walked the Sergeant once more.  This time he was accompanied by an officer.

Our conversation ceased.  We were lectured again on camp procedures, only this time by the officer who spoke in a more relaxed, friendly tone.  Then we were dismissed and we all began to feel human again.  That night nobody went out as had been suggested earlier.  I think we all felt a bit weary after having been marched around the camp all day and being told what to do.  People either read a book or else seemed to be writing letters to their family back home. Any conversation was stilted and it seemed that we were still unsure of each other.  Or was it simply that the unexpected harsh introduction to the RAF had left us all with feelings of misery about the place.  I