The Enameller's Apprentice

By Alan Wogan

The Enamellers Apprentice

In1955 twenty-two-year old innocent, Mark Johnson, joins one of the last Victorian makers of enamelled hollow ware in England, Blake Brothers. He fancies Annie, the office junior and is lucky to find real love with his first experience. The business is struggling but fate intervenes and illness and arson changes both his and Blake’s future. Moving into moneyed circles, he is introduced to a new and potentially dangerous side to sex. His love life, dominated initially by his passion for Annie, sets him a standard that will not be achieved before many and varied experiences are gone through, including a marriage that becomes increasingly dissatisfying and does the search for a mistress. as the hoped-for solution to his dissatisfaction. As the story moves through the liberated nineteen sixties and seventies Mark becomes and something of a libertine until he realises the possible consequences of his behaviour. He is not the only one; others in his life also have their foibles reflecting the strengths and weaknesses of human beings, illustrating how differently each of us view ourselves and the world. Mark is a successful entrepreneur and becomes wealthy. He takes over a neighbouring firm from which come two people, one for him and one against him. As a consequence, he is faced with possible ruin. His past can save him or destroy him and the outcome is in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Wogan
• Release date: Nov 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005504991

Alan Wogan

Alan Wogan is a philosophical type, with a lively imagination. He has written many essays and articles as well as two books.Happily married, he lives in England's West Country, grows vegetables, keeps chickens and other desperately exciting things!

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Copypyright © 2020 Alan Wogan

Alan Wogan has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the permission of the copyright holder.

The Enamellers Apprentice

CHAPTER 1

At about three o’ clock on a wet February afternoon Mark Johnson, the future personal assistant to the Managing Director arrived. The two girls in the general office, Marion and Annie, watched him getting out of his father’s car, after parking it neatly, and eyed him closely as he was ushered into Eric Bowen’s office.

Welcome Mark said Bowen take a chair, I’ll be with you in a minute.

Mark sat and looked around. The room was wedge shaped, gloomily lit by borrowed light from the corridor and a grubby bay window overlooking the grey gravelled factory yard. One side was lined with empty glass fronted display cases. Water dripped steadily onto the brown lino in the bay, replenishing the small puddle which was overflowing the depression it had filled on the floor and draining into the yard through the gap under the French window. Mark looked into the yard. In the centre of the rather dismal view, shrouded by the heavy rain, stood the boiler house topped with a gently smoking chimney some sixty feet high. On either side of the yard, long shedding ran down to a central building with a barrel-vaulted timber and felt roofing which completed the square. He could see no further.

Blake Brothers, established in the mid-nineteenth century, had seen long days of prosperity but now was struggling to survive. In spite of the post-war shortages that meant anything you could make would sell but the business had reached a crisis point. The principal activity was the manufacture of vitreous enamelled hollowware. Harvest cans (white enamelled quart sized tapered cans with a teacup lid, still popular with road menders and other outdoor workers for tea brewing), were a major line as were butchers’ trays, kidney dishes, hospital dressing bins, coke hods, and a wide variety of more or less obsolescent goods which were gradually being displaced by stainless steel and plastic equivalents. Blake’s was a place where old Victorian skills remained but these skills could not compensate for the old machinery and awkward layout of the various workshops. Although anything made of sheet steel could be made here it could not be done economically enough for the twentieth century. In addition, every raw material was in short supply, sheet steel in particular, and more effort was expended on finding supplies than on selling. Lack of cash blocked any sort of modernising and costs were rising on a daily basis, making it difficult to avoid even short-term contract prices becoming unprofitable. Out of sight and on the north side of the buildings a triangular patch of waste land abutted the enamelling shop and the stores. This was fenced all round with double gates to the main road fronting the offices. Apart from these gates the only access to the patch was from a single door near the back of the furnaces. The somewhat decrepit works lorry was garaged here in a wooden shed.

Overall, the factory was in a poor state and although sales were still buoyant profits were hard to achieve in these old buildings staffed by old men, young girls and equipped with ancient machines. The managing Director, Eric Bowen, had been in the metal bashing business for most of his adult life but somehow success had always eluded him. He had rubbed two halfpennies together for a penny, in his own small jobbing metalwork business for many years and finally realising he was never going to make enough money decided that he would get rid of his little business. A bluff easy-going man, slightly overweight and a heavy smoker he was perpetually optimistic and when his mother died, leaving him twenty-five thousand pounds, he sold his concern to his foreman for a low but fair price. Eric intended to buy something bigger, something he could develop and really get his teeth into. Aware of his previous lack of real success and limited resources decided he would have to have a partner but first he had to find a business.

He asked a stockbroker acquaintance to keep a lookout for a suitable business and, on the assumption that stockbrokers moved in moneyed circles, also to find him an accountant, with some cash, who would be prepared to take a minority holding in a business with him. As it happened the stockbroker knew of a vitreous enamelling firm called Blake Brothers that was for sale in Willenhall. The factory was run down and very old-fashioned but it had a full order book and Eric was confident that he could make a go of it. A few weeks later he was introduced to Paul Cribben, who proved to be equally enthusiastic after his first viewing and was prepared to invest ten thousand pounds.

Eric was pleased with that because putting in his twenty-five thousand would leave him in full control. All had started well but unfortunately things were not now going according to plan. Paul Cribben was not accounting correctly for cash received for the sale of ‘seconds’ and unknown to his partner was misappropriating a worthwhile sum every month. A small tubby man he had qualified as a Chartered accountant, which might imply he had some ability to stick, but he had never been able to hold down a job for any length of time. He had been involved in some creative accounting in a previous appointment and had been within a hair’s breadth of being struck off.

As a child he had been over indulged by both his parents who had been well-off, until financing Paul in an unwise investment, they had had their fortune wiped out. Paul could have repaid his parents some of the money but the opportunity to become a Director and to be someone at last, encouraged him to put his money into Blake’s instead. He was inclined to think that putting the money in was in itself sufficient, and therefore that he was under no obligation to put in more effort than he judged to be appropriate. Idle, inclined to drink more than was wise at lunchtime, and guiltily unconcerned with the proper running of the administration, to say nothing of his pilfering, he was a serious liability to the business upon which some sixty employees depended for their livings.

Eric was quite unable to work out a solution to such problems as he knew about, such as Paul’s lack of a work ethic and was unaware of the pilfering. However, he had begun to feel he had been a bit hasty in accepting the recommendation of a mere acquaintance but at the time, he was determined to buy Blake Brothers and afraid he would not find another investor losing the business to a rival bidder. Soon after his arrival Paul had shown him that the business needed further financial support and Eric had approached his cousin, Mark’s father, with a view to persuading him to invest in the firm. The ‘sweetener’ would be employing Mark as his assistant for the princely salary of seven pounds a week. Bowen was keen to encourage his new protégé to take the job, knowing that Dr Johnson’s investment would then be forthcoming.

Mark studied Bowen, wondering whether what he was doing was absolutely necessary or whether it was a ploy to be seen to be busy. The title Managing Director required a little theatre but the stage here afforded little glamour and there was an air of poverty. Every now and then a great thumping could be heard, and although distant, the floor shook to each blow, making ripples run across the surface of the puddle.

That’s Tom, stamping dustbin lids, said Bowen absent-mindedly but guessing that Mark was watching the puddle as it quivered. Sorry about the leak he said airily, but we have much more important places to spend our money. The MD’s office is not production space you know.

He folded the paper on his desk pushed it to one side and looked across at Mark. If you decide to join us, I shall want you to learn everything there is to know about this business, he took a breath and puffed at his cigarette, you will start in the factory and progress through the different workshops to get a basic knowledge of the various activities of the firm; then you will work closely with me, learning office procedures, visiting suppliers and customers and, hopefully, becoming my right-hand man. Bowen paused to take another puff at his cigarette.

Work starts at eight o’clock in the morning and the factory stops at half-past five during the week, and at twelve on Saturday mornings. In a moment, I’ll show you round.

Mark liked the directness of his possible new boss. After the unpredictability of his superiors at the builders merchants he was leaving it seemed he would be moving into the world of business as he had imagined it to be, and actually manufacturing things appealed to him. His father had told him that Bowen needed someone with the potential to be his aide and that a good future was possible but he had said nothing to Mark about investing in the company. This was unfortunate as otherwise Mark might have taken a much closer interest in the factory equipment and the buildings and weighed up the possibilities more carefully.

Bowen led the way into the general and only other office, where he had his working desk and introduced Mark. This is Paul Cribben my co-Director. He looks after the books. Paul shook Mark’s hand,

How d’y do, said Paul with a thin smile, I hope you will join us here. It’s hard work but rewarding.

Before Mark could make any reply, he added Talking of rewards, I have to be off early tonight Eric, so I’ll see you later and perhaps you Mark, if you decide to join us. Bowen grunted, nodded and to hide his obvious irritation addressed the girls:

This is Mark Johnson. He may be joining us as my assistant, if so, he will learn about all the factory processes and in due course will come into the office when I shall want you to teach him everything you know. Little did he realise the thoughts that simple statement aroused in both Mark’s and the girls’ minds.

Marion, who was recently married and apparently obsessed with things domestic but usually thinking along other lines entirely, affected what she considered a suitable air for the office senior and smiled in what she thought to be a formal manner. About when will that be Mr Bowen? She asked.

In about twelve months or so, if all goes well and I have no reason to doubt that it will.

He smiled briefly and turned to Annie, a pretty, dark-haired and slightly nervous eighteen-year-old. Her enthusiasm to welcome a new male face into the office overcame her shyness and she was desperate to say something to draw his attention. I could show him how to calculate the factory work sheets Mr Bowen. He ought to know how to do that, just to show he is management and not a factory worker, she added, somewhat apologetically.

All in good time said Bowen. In the meantime, we will look round the factory. Come on Mark, we’ll start in the packing warehouse.

Mark had sensed the girls’ interest in him and began to feel that this was a job he definitely wanted. At twenty-two his sexual experience was very limited and he was anxious to expand his knowledge. He had learnt just how limited that was, having recently discovered what his friends and contemporaries had managed to achieve by his age. Here, he felt, he was on the edge of something new and exciting; a chance to learn a little more of life and from some quite promising looking teachers. Marion was twenty-three but although her features made her look nearer thirty, she had a trim figure, neat brown hair and a bustling nurse-like manner. Annie’s ready smile, contrasting with her shyness, gave her an air of innocence that belied first impressions. She had dark bobbed hair, a very shapely slim figure and a pretty face which made a perfect setting for her hazel, almond shaped eyes. She was the more attractive of the two but Mark thought he would be content with either and smiled at both girls as he left the room. They looked at one another as Mark left and each recognised the other’s interest with annoyance. She’s married, thought Annie. She’s too forward by a long chalk, thought Marion.

Bowen stubbed his cigarette and led the way along the passage adjacent to his office into the packing and despatch room. Half a dozen rows of wooden racks, stacked with miscellaneous enamelware, ran down the length of the room. At the far end on the right-hand side there were double doors, opening onto the covered loading bay, itself open to the yard. Empty crates and bales of straw were piled on either side of the bay. Through the doors ahead Mark could see three women inspecting grill pans, laying them to their right or left, according to quality, he presumed, putting a sheet of newspaper to separate each pan from the next. They walked on through.

This is the inspection shop, said Bowen somewhat unnecessarily, These pans are for General Gas and being plain black are the very devil; the slightest bubble in the finish shows like a carbuncle and it’s touch and go whether the contract is worth it. Unfortunately, they won’t have grey mottle, our speciality, hides a multitude of sins!

He grinned in a friendly way that Mark found encouraging. I shall want you to start in the press shop and work there for three or four months, then move to sheet-metal and after that to the enamel shop, which is where we are now.

Mark had felt the heat as they entered the workshop. On the left were two large brick-built furnaces with iron clad, fire brick doors. One door was open and the walls inside were glowing white-hot. The shimmering surface of the molten enamel on the coke hods within reflected even more heat. Mark stepped back a pace.

Eleven hundred degrees centigrade said Bowen shortly as he swept Mark on, round the mobile drying racks filled with butchers’ trays, pie dishes and other things impossible to identify in the murky shadows, into the dipping department where some ten girls at workstations, dimly lit by bare bulbs and a high row of dirty rain spattered windows, were dipping steel pressings into what looked like thick potato soup. The stuff coated their arms, nearly to the elbow. Gingerly Mark dipped his finger into the clinging mixture. It was cold and gritty as he rubbed the ends of his fingers together.

Ground glass really, called ‘slip’, like in the potteries said Bowen. It has to dry in the racks before it can be fired. Ben is in charge here, Ben, he called, I want you to meet Mark, potentially my new assistant. Ben, Mark. The foreman pumped Mark's hand warmly.

Glad to meet you Mark, we need some young blood about here and the girls will be very glad to see you too.

He winked at Bowen, who affected not to notice, but as Mark watched the girls rhythmically dipping and wiping the pieces before stacking them in racks to be loaded into the drying area, he became aware that one girl had a figure that could not be disguised by the shapeless overalls most of them were wearing and he rather hoped that she would be very glad to see him. She, he learned later, was Debbie, petite and with a pretty face framed by long blonde hair gathered in a loose bunch. As he watched her, she caught his eye and smiled, showing perfect, even, white teeth between her slightly parted, full red lips. Mark felt his stomach turn. He smiled and reddened. What opportunities he thought, not like the last place. His optimistic reveries were interrupted by Bowen calling him into the pickling shop.

The whiffs of ‘Evening in Paris’ were quickly replaced by the stench of acid eating steel. Various large shallow brick-built tanks with walkways between, covered the floor of the pickling shop. Although open on two sides it was as dark as a cave, freezing cold and the air was thick with fumes. A simian figure, clad in rubber from head to foot, toiled in the misty gloom moving from tank to tank lifting bundles of pressed steel bowls and trays and stirring them about in the acid then dumping others in the gently overflowing wash tank and stirring them about some more. Water and acid were everywhere and conscious of the risk to his shoes Bowen breezed through with no more than a grunt of greeting.

Difficult to get good picklers these days, said Bowen. That man only works a ten-hour shift and is still not satisfied with eighteen quid a week. The last chap died unexpectedly and left us in a right pickle. Sorry about the pun!

Mark was surprised by the casual callousness of the remark and marvelled that anyone could be persuaded to work in such conditions at all, even at nearly twice the typical factory wage. He was sure it would be a short life and not a very merry one, regardless of the cash. He was relieved to leave the grim scene and unpleasant metallic smell.

Now, said Bowen, this is the press shop.

Mark looked around. It was not much warmer than the pickling shop and the once whitewashed walls were splattered with oil that had flown off the overhead drive shafts that ran the presses. The whining of the motors and the slap of the belts was interspersed with the thudding and crunching of the presses. West Indian women were at many of them and a slight, bent, grey-haired man was poking about at one of the machines that was not running.

That’s Bert, said Bowen, been here forty years, sets the presses, very experienced, but set in his ways. He is still too damn careless about press guards even though he lost two fingers of his left hand under the fifty-tonner. He says the women are always removing the guards because they slow them down - they’re on piece work you know, but I’ve told him that should be impossible to do. He knows the factory inspector is always on to us. Bowen waved briefly and walked on.

Anyway, come and meet Darby, our new works manager, he’s a real live-wire and a godsend to me. I’ve told him to teach you all he knows. He’s a bit direct but you will be in good hands with him. I’ll leave you in this department for three months to see how you get on. Later, from time to time, I’ll take you with me to see suppliers and customers but you will have to be conversant with all our processes before I do that.

That's fine by me, said Mark following Bowen’s outstretched arm.

Over there is the guillotine shop where the steel sheets come in and are then cut to size and sent to the press shop or to the sheet-metal shop, where we are now going, and then back to the office.

The sheet-metal shop was the source of the thumping Mark had heard in the offices and was matched, at short range at least, by the fearful noise of the rattle and banging of twenty different hammers and mallets persuading unwilling sheets of bright sheet steel to take shape. The stamp or steam hammer was just inside the door. Wisps of hot steam swirled around the apparatus which had come to rest as Bowen and Mark entered. Sitting on a couple of old sacks laid over a pile of ashes behind the machine was Joe, a man Mark thought should have been six feet under years ago. He had a pair of long tongs in his right hand and his left was on the long, bent handle that opened the steam valve. He pulled down on the handle and, with a belch of steam that almost hid him from view, the great lump of cast metal on the bottom of the piston leapt up into the air and hovered three feet from the floor, bobbing gently in time with his bobbing left hand. With the tongs he rotated the half-formed dustbin lid which lay in a mould under the stamp and then with a great thud the hammer dropped on the lid, bouncing up and down viciously as the handle was pumped, shaking the ground all round. Joe was grinning with satisfaction and clearly warm and comfortable on his pile of slag and ashes, never mind the noise all around him. Joe made the castings for the different shapes that were stamped out by the steam hammer, he was also in charge of the boiler which powered it and heated the factory and offices. Bowen walked on, hardly allowing Mark time to see the rest of the workshop.

This’ll be your next stop, after the press shop, he said, striding briskly through so I'll just introduce you to Fred the foreman who can show you the rest in due course. Pleasantries exchanged they left the sheet-metal shop, bracing themselves against the drizzle they crossed the yard as fast as they could and into the office. It was warm and cosy after the noisy draughty workshops and the yellow lighting, blurring the edges of the office paraphernalia, promoted a sense of comfort.

Marion and Annie seen in this soft light gave Mark an urgency to get to work in the office as soon as possible. Bowen was encouraged. He had been worried that the state of the factory and the general working conditions would put Mark off but the tour was complete; Mark had seen the worst and it looked possible that he would take the job and that Blake Brothers would get the hoped-for investment. A thought echoed by both girls.

When Mark got home, he told his father that he would like to work at Blake Brothers.

CHAPTER 2

Mark was of medium height, being just five foot ten in his socks, with light brown hair that lent itself to a hint of blonde when bleached by summer sun. He had clear blue eyes and an open and cheerful demeanour that made him immediately attractive to the opposite sex. His father was a doctor and with the means to send Mark to a good public school had made a good job of his education, except perhaps in matters of worldly wisdom. Mark had inherited an instinct for business from his maternal grandfather and had lived for a few years with his paternal grandfather, whose housekeeper was a ‘salt of the earth’ Black Country woman and eminently practical. Unlike his mother she could not be wheedled into doing things she did not want to do and she had had a considerable beneficial influence on him, although he was unaware of this. A second mentor was Arthur, an ex-amateur champion boxer from Liverpool and caretaker for the builders merchants where Mark had worked for the two years prior to his visit to Blake’s. Arthur had given him a new view of the world; amazed him by tales of women’s potential for wickedness, a concept previously