Life’s Journey: Love, Live and Learn

By Terry Thomas

Born in 1946, in Murton, a mining village in County Durham, in the aftermath of WWII, Thomas was to find himself growing up in interesting times. Coming from a working-class family where his parents had struggled to make a good home in which to raise their children, he was to follow the same pattern in trying to make life a little easier for his own children. He experienced the educational system of the 1950s and ’60s with all the failings encompassed within it and suffered failure at the eleven, plus an examination that would determine his future education. A taste of what school life was during this era is expressed with concern and humor both with equal quantities, including the teaching styles and some of the characters he was to spend his school days with, which are told with affection.

As a child, life was good in his eyes, and he appreciated the efforts made by his parents to improve his childhood experience. In his early youth, he found himself having to constantly change course to achieve the goals he had set himself, and this continued throughout his adult life.

His desire to achieve good academic qualifications never faltered, despite some of the obstacles that seemed to be in the way of his progress. Married at an early age and while studying for his higher national diploma, he became a father to a beautiful baby girl, which now added to this cocktail of life.

Although at times life seemed a constant struggle, it was no different to many other young couples of that era, but there was always time for laughter and fun. Many of these times are reflected in the book and still bring a smile to both Thomas and his family and friends.

Life’s Journey: Love, Live and Learn is a story many young couples can relate to as they may have experienced the same types of issues in their own life’s journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Mar 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543494891

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Family And Childhood

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View of Murton Village

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View of The Village Inn Murton

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The old Pit Pulley Memorial

outside The Glebe Centre

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Clarke Terrace the Family Home

I was born at West Avenue Murton Colliery in County Durham in the North East of England in the early hours of Sunday morning, 22nd December 1946.

The winter of 1946-47 was a harsh European winter noted for its impact in the United Kingdom. It caused severe hardship in economic terms and living conditions with massive disruptions of energy supply for homes, offices and factories. Animal herds froze or starved to death and people suffered from the persistent cold and many businesses shut down temporarily. I was oblivious to all this, probably wrapped in a cosy shawl receiving the loving care from my parents, sister and brother.

My parents were Thomas Edward Thomas and Grace (Terry) Thomas, who at the time of my birth lived in the upstairs part of a corner house in West Avenue, along with my twelve years old sister and my brother only 18 months old.

I have no recollection of West Avenue because soon after my birth we moved to Bevan Square, which was a prefabricated bungalow, very utility built and typical of the housing being provided after the Second World War. The unique thing was the kitchen had a refrigerator built in with the other kitchen appliances. Not that I remember as I have no memories of the prefabs neither. Shortly after moving in to Bevan Square, my parents obtained a house in Clarke Terrace, another utility-built house when I was eighteen months old. This is where my childhood memories originate from. I remained in Clarke Terrace until 1968 when I moved to Suddick Street, Southwick in Sunderland after being married to my childhood sweetheart, Jean.

The home of my childhood was a three-bedroom semidetached house. I shared a bedroom called the box room, with my brother Eddie, as you can imagine the room was the smallest and as cold as an ‘ice box’. My older sister Florence had a bigger bedroom at the back of the house and the other main bedroom was where my parents slept.

The row of houses was referred to as the steel houses, because the exterior was clad with corrugated steel panelling and the lower section was prefabricated concrete. Downstairs there was a living room, leading to a separate dining room and then a kitchen at the back entrance to the house. It was a good-sized house compared to some of the other Council housing in Murton. It sported two toilets, one in a bathroom upstairs and the stand-alone toilet just outside the back door of the house, which was not a comfortable seat in the winter months, but at least it was your own and not shared with half the street.

My father was a coal miner and very proud of the fact. A hard-working man with strong principles and voted for the Labour party all his life. According to my Dad, if you hadn’t or didn’t work in the Pit, you hadn’t done a decent day’s work. I believe that my principles were inherited from my father, along with a little bit of stubbornness. He was highly respected by his workmates and management alike at Murton Colliery where he worked for most of his life, with only a brief spell at Hetton Colliery when he left school and went to work in the pit at fourteen years of age.

He was born in Hetton Lyons, one of the three areas of Hetton the others being Hetton Downs and Hetton Colliery.

The major industries in the North East of England at the time of my childhood and early working life in the 1950’s to the 1980’s were Coal Mining, Ship Building and Steel Making, all these are now well gone and the area had to regenerate itself.

The majority of my family worked in the coal mines in both the north east and later some moved to the Midland to work in the car factories, but soon returned to the mines in that area.

CHAPTER 2

My Father’s And Mother’s Family

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The only photograph my Grandma Mary Terry (centre) allowed to be taken of her when she was only 14 years old. Also present are my Great Grand parents and my Mother’s uncle Willie.

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Mam and Dad

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My First Holiday in Southport

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The Officials Club Murton

My Father’s Family

My Father had two brothers and a sister, his sister died at a very young age and my only recollection is of my two uncles, Jack and Edwin, and their wives, Aunt Clara and Rachel.

My Father’s Mother, my Grandmother, Florence Elliot, was a fearsome woman and appeared quite scary to me as a small child. She married twice and had her children to her first husband John and remarried after his death to her second husband, Joe. They both died before I was born and my only recollections of them are from stories my sister Florence told me and she remembers of them both being very nice and, of course, both coal miners in their time.

My Father

My Father, or Dad as we liked to call him, was a man of principle which he upheld until the end. Some people would say ‘he had some strange ideas did Tom’. He was a proud man and often helped his fellow work companions to sort some issue or other. He was not a Union representative but he was willing to speak to the management at the Colliery on behalf of those who did not know how to express themselves. He was well known and respected at the workplace and could speak to the Managers just as easy as he could to his work mates but he was also well respected for his knowledge about mining and rock structures. He enjoyed his work even though it was dangerous working in the coal mines and he took his fair toll of accidents to his back and his left hand. I can only remember my Father with his crushed hand after having it trapped on the top of a tub when the roof caved in. As a result of his last accident when I was 12 years old, he had the little finger amputated including the bone up to his wrist. The index and middle finger were bent over into his palm and they never straightened, in addition from a previous accident, he had suffered the amputation of his third finger leaving only a stump. For a year he had to wear a brace which forced the index and middle finger into a straight position, but he was in so much pain he asked for the brace to be removed. One time I asked him about his hand and he replied, As long as I can hold me pipe, I don’t need it for much more. That was his style of humour and I took strength from my Dad.

My Father’s blood Father, originated from North Wales and came to the Durham area at the age of ten with his family when his father, my Great Grandfather relocated to start work in the coal mines. The mines in North Wales were closing and some of the Welsh miners relocated to the coal areas of England and Scotland.

Grandmother Elliot (my Father’s Mother)

My memories of Grandma Elliot are filled with a strong smell of ginger wine that she made from concentrated ginger essence called Three Castles, which she forced on us every Christmas when visiting her in the Miner’s cottage on Barnes Road. I vividly remember to this day, you could see ‘floaters’ in the wine, and I had no idea how they formed, but they were there in the glass as Grandma poured the wine for your consumption. I learned to close my eyes when she handed me the glass and drink its contents quickly, literally throwing it down my throat. Apart from the ‘floaters’ the ginger would burn the back of your throat like a vat of acid. The trick was to ensure you got it down in one go, because the thought of going back a second time, was not a pleasant experience. Over time I perfected the technique and lived to tell the tale. My mother would tell us not to drink it, but my father insisted we did, not wanting to offend Grandma.

She also wore a heavy black coat with a fur collar and in addition, a memorable fur stole around her neck. The stole had a fox’s head with brown glass eyes and black pupils which seemed to pierce your inner soul, the finishing touches were the claw feet just waiting to pounce at you. Perched on her head was a black hat with a huge pin to hold it on and I must admit very fashionable at the time, well for Grandmas! In my mind she seemed to wear the same coat in spring, summer, autumn and winter, regardless of the weather.

The Miner’s Cottage, where she lived in Barnes Road, was not far from where we lived, but you had to walk across a patch of land called the ‘Field’. The route was straight over a part used as a football pitch, not that it had any grass on it, and was often as hard as iron to play football on with bumps and holes included, however, many a match was won and lost on that football field. Regardless of the time of year, that was the route people would take as a short cut to go to the main shopping street, Wood’s Terrace and, therefore, a well-worn trail. In the summer the ground was hard and dry but in the autumn after the rain, it could be a mud bath and the winter climate would freeze it into an ice rink. In winter the condition was torturous a frozen waste land and many a person had suffered a broken arm or bruising when falling down due to the ice underfoot.

I recall one January evening crossing the ‘Field’ to meet my girl-friend Jean and I was late, but even so I was negotiating the ice with care, when I heard a voice call out, Is that you?

I looked to where the voice was coming from and to my astonishment, I saw Grandma Elliot racing across the ice at top-speed. I had to steady myself to keep my balance but Grandma zoomed off into the night shouting. Gonna see that lass of yours? I’m off to see ya Da. I then lost sight of her. There were no lights on the ‘Field’ so apart from the icy conditions it was pitch black and there she was, not a care in the world motoring along her destination to see her son.

To say she was a strong woman is an understatement. During her life she had lost a daughter at a young age and two husbands but she soldiered on and as I grew up, I admired her for that.

Father’s Brothers

Uncle Jack

Between my two uncles, and I probably shouldn’t say this, but I preferred the company of my Father’s older brother Jack, although it was only for a short time, as I would be about twelve years old when he died.

In my memories Uncle Jack was always in ill health, suffering from Pneumoconiosis caused by long term exposure to coal dust, although when he died the cause of death was stated as Chronic Bronchitis and no compensation was received by my Aunt Clara his wife.

He spent most of his time in bed with an oxygen bottle and black face mask next to him, in easy reach. He tired very easily, and found talking very hard and, therefore, only spoke in short bursts before it was too much for him. He had a lovely friendly face and smile. He was also a lay preacher in the Methodist Chapel, the religion of our parents, although I never saw him preach.

I would visit him from time to time and we would exchange stories, and he was always interested in how my day had gone and how was I getting on at school. When he became tired of talking due to his constant lack of breath, we would just sit quietly together, and it felt natural and comfortable. That is how I remember him as a peaceful and pleasant man.

In his bedroom there was an oil painting of his Father, John and that of my father, which I had not realised at the time, I simply thought it was some oil portrait of a man in traditional dress. The figure was of a man painted from the waist up in dark colours, wearing a black jacket, waistcoat, white shirt and black tie, typical of the dress of the era. He sported a dark-moustache and had a very serious look on his face. To a young boy it was a scary portrait and the dark eyes seemed to follow you around the room. No matter how hard I tried to ignore it, the painting drew you in, I could feel those eyes burning a hole in the back of my neck while sitting next to the bed my Uncle Jack lay in.

One day my Father came home from visiting his brother Jack on his way home from work. I heard him ask my Mother if I was home? He came into the sitting room and sat down in his chair next to the fireplace. He selected one of his pipes from the pipe rack which was always placed on a small metal table, also serving as a paper rack, next to his chair. He filled the pipe with tobacco and lit it, then having a good stream of smoke coming from the pipe, he turned to me and said. You haven’t been to see your Uncle Jack for a while, he tells me, why’s that?

I tried to fob him off with the excuse that I had been busy with other things. At the age of eight I hadn’t mastered the art of lying or being liberal with the truth.

Dad took a few puffs on the pipe and replied, Son, you have got to make time for family, you know it means a lot to him, your little visits, he waits to hear your stories, you know that.

I felt guilt pangs growing inside me.

Is there anything else bothering you? he enquired.

I realised I had to confess to the real reason that I hadn’t visited and started to explain.

Dad the picture of the man on the wall in uncle Jack’s bedroom scares me.

I finally felt better having gotten it off my chest.

Son, that man is my Dad and uncle Jack’s as well, and because he is older than me, he got to keep the picture, if I had been the older, I would have had it here in our house.

It all became clear as my Father explained, I must admit it is a bit solemn but that is how they painted portraits back in your Grandad’s day, all serious and that. Nothing to be afraid of. He continued, That is your Grandad Jack, and your Uncle was named after him.

The guilty feeling was at its height.

My father continued, Now, the next time you go and visit your uncle Jack why don’t you ask him about the picture, I am sure he can tell you all about Grandad Jack. My father suggested. I would be interested to hear about his memories because all mine are good-ones.

He left it at that.

I found out later that uncle Jack had suspected that the picture might be the reason and had told my father so. The visits were re-instated and the portrait didn’t seem as intimidating as I used to think.

Aunt Clara, uncle Jack’s wife, was a jovial woman, over weight and always laughing with an unforgettable sound. If she was visiting my Mother, I could hear her laughing as I walked down the street towards home, it was music to your ears. She baked bread rolls, or Tuffies as we used to call them, for the Salvation Army and the Chapel. The other delightful thing she made was Stottie cake, a round flat bread, typical of the area and there was always one at the house when she visited.

When visiting her house in Luke Crescent, there was always the smell of Tuffies and Stottie cake baking in the fire-oven next to the fireplace and heated from the coal burning in the grate. The sight of a coal-fire burning in the fire-grate and dough balls to make the Tuffies lined up on the hearth to allow the dough to rise before placing in the oven was so welcoming. After spending time with uncle Jack upstairs, I looked forward to getting some Tuffies and maybe a Stottie cake to take home. There was always a Stottie cake to take home to my Mother. Even after I was married, aunt Clara would enquire if I was due to visit so she could bring round a Stottie cake.

Their dog, Sandy the old golden Labrador would always lie next to the hearth of the fire for warmth watching the dough rise, or so it seemed, but never tried to steal one.

One of the happiest memories of my uncle Jack was on one rare occasion he ventured out of the house to go for a walk with myself and old Sandy in the field at the top of their road in Luke Crescent. Even though Sandy was old he could pull like an ox and it was my job to keep hold of the lead, which made uncle Jack chuckle to see Sandy take me for a walk, there was no controlling him.

The only other time I can recall seeing him outside was when I was visiting the house of uncle Edwin and I saw my uncle Jack opening the gate. We were both pleasantly surprised as uncle Jack had managed to walk so far to see his brother. I find it hard to remember another occasion when I was with both my Uncles at the same time. These were the only two occasions of spending time with uncle Jack outside his bedroom and away from the oxygen bottle and that ugly black mask, a constant reminder of the pain he endured.

Uncle Edwin (Eddie)

Uncle Edwin always seemed so serious, unlike my Father and Uncle Jack, and I have no lasting fond memories of him. That is not to say he was not a nice man, I just did not connect with him as easily as I did with uncle Jack. Even at an early age it appeared he wanted to show he was a little better than ourselves. He had a Foreman’s role, called a Deputy, at Murton Colliery, and seemed to take delight in the prestige the position brought him. He did not have the same charisma as his two brothers. My Uncle and Aunt had lost a son also called Edwin when he was very young and maybe this affected his out-look on life.

At a colliery the management personnel were referred to as the Officials, consisting of Deputies, Foreman level, Overman, Supervisor level, Under Managers and Colliery Managers. The position allowed an Official to carry a walking stick, a sign of authority in the Pits, and a Davey safety lamp or other simple model, which could be re-lighted if the flame went out. The ordinary miner would be allowed to carry a safety lamp which could not be re-ignited. (The reference to the Deputy Stick was a hierarchy symbol).

In Murton there was an Official’s Club, a meeting place for drinking and on a Sunday night there was a game of Bingo for the Officials of the colliery and their family and friends. Only Officials were allowed in unless a non-official person was accompanied as a guest of a said official, those were the rules of admittance. The Official would sign his guest into the members book to admit entry into the Club.

When I was older my Father took me to the Officials Club, and even though he was not an Official, he never had any problem gaining entry, a sign of the kind of respect the Management had for him. Uncle Edwin told me my Father could only get in because of him, this was something my Father disliked and also it was not the truth. When I was on Engineering Training, a programme for aspiring Colliery Engineers, my father took me to the Club, basically to show me off because he was so proud of me gaining a place on the programme, a position held in high esteem in a mining community. Uncle Edwin was trying to steal my Father’s thunder by telling everyone that he had loaned me two books on mining and that was how I managed to get on the programme. It was a nice gestor of my Uncle to give me the books but they were very out of date but ideal for learning about the older methods of mining. I also had my Dad, and his knowledge of rock structures and coal seams was second to none, especially even more so than any text books. He was a fountain of knowledge for me to dip into. That night my Father was fuming and I told him to let it go, we knew how I had managed to get where I was, and that was what was important. Looking back, I often wonder if uncle Edwin was trying to get something from me that he was missing from losing his son.

The one memory I do have which probably shaped my feelings toward my uncle Edwin, was when I was four or five years old, we went on holiday with my Mother, Father, aunt Rachel, uncle Edwin and my cousin. We stayed in a Guest House in Southport and it was my first holiday with my parents. I was on my own as my brother was not with us. My Mother used to say we always started to fight with each other, and she wanted a peaceful holiday. That was the pattern of our holidays, my Brother one time me the next, it wasn’t until I was eleven when our parents took us on a holiday together to Northern Ireland.

One evening while in the dining room waiting for our evening meal, I moved my chair to get closer to the edge of the table. The dining room had a polished wooden floor and the chair made a screeching noise when I pulled it in. Uncle Edwin was furious that I had made that noise and threatened I’ll knock your block off if you do that again, try lifting your chair don’t scrape it along the floor.

A few minutes later after receiving my meal, I decided I needed to be closer to the table as I was not comfortable. I tried to lift the chair but it was too heavy and it made another screeching noise on the wooden floor. Anticipating the consequence of my actions, I scrambled underneath the table to hide and avoid the slap I was expecting from my Uncle. Whether he would have done it or not I wasn’t taking any chances. He was shouting at me to come out from under the table, but I was staying put.

Both my Aunt and Mother told uncle Edwin to be quiet and they assured me I was not going to be punished. My Father glowered at his brother saying, I will discipline my boy when I see fit, no call for you to get involved.

Everyone in the dining room was staring at us, but soon went back to their meal. Even at that age I was embarrassed for my Mother and Father for what I had done. My parents never raised a hand or threatened me in any way, so it was a traumatising experience to hear such threats coming from my Uncle.

What I do remember sometimes, was when my uncle Eddie came to meet my Father on a Sunday night before they went to the pub., he would play the piano. That was something I did like about him he was talented at playing the piano and also the harmonica.

My Mother’s Family

My Mother was a strong-minded woman and basically ran the house hold. Each week my Father would hand his pay packet to my mother who in-turn would give him a small amount of pocket money.

The finances where clearly in the hands of my Mother and my Father preferred it that way if truth be known. When my Brother and I started working, we did the same, by handing over our wage packet and we received a small amount for expenses. Bus fares to work and college were my main outlay. Our older sister had done the same before us.

All my youth, since being thirteen years old, when I started working delivering the Sunday papers, I can remember saving a little money so I could have a little independence and buy some things for myself.

My Mother had two Sisters and two Brothers, Edith the eldest and Margaret (known as Maggie), Tom and Lance, and my Mother being the youngest. We lived approximately 15 miles away from where my relatives lived, which was a long distance when you didn’t have a car, and no matter what route you took, it was still three bus changes to arrive at Trimdon, Deaf Hill or Thornley where they lived. I, therefore, did not have as many memories of them as I did of my father’s family who all resided in Murton where we lived.

All my Uncles worked in the Coal Mining Industry of County Durham, at Trimdon and Deaf Hill Colliery and my aunt Edith’s husband uncle Jack Ellis, was a Medic at Thornley Colliery.

The majority of the male members on both sides of the family worked in the mines and our fore fathers before us were employed at the Pit. The family roots were firmly planted in the Coal Mining industry of County Durham area. Later when the