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THE SEVEN SEAS MAGAZINE

The Official Organ of the Seven Seas Club

Volume 10, No 7

Winter 2008

EDITORIAL:

All of the friends that I have brought as guests to our Club functions have talked almost

non-stop, on the way home, about: the friendliness from people they've never met before;

the venue; the food and drink; the speaker; the traditions, and the camaraderie. I find it

very rewarding that visitors react that way.

I was sad to miss the Ladies' Night in April, when I know you were very well informed

and entertained by Moira Cameron - "The first Lady Beefeater". Perhaps we should start

recording these events - so that those who are absent don't lose out - any volunteers?!

There's a lovely photograph of Moira in this edition.

George Heslop (and music), Grp Capt Peter Gilpin, Richard Woodman, and The Rev

Daniel Haines also feature. As one of the ever-increasing members of the "Hearing-Aid

Brigade", I must say that I heard every single word of Richard's speech with crystal clarity.

As an old matelot, I (like many, I believe) thought that I knew exactly what Richard would

say about Nelson and Trafalgar - how wrong we all were! It was an excellent, stimulating,

and thought-provoking presentation, without - as far as I could see - a single note.

Daniel is the only person I have ever met who has lived in the Falklands. His account of

the traumatic times there in 1982 was first-class.

This year's Cocktail Party, (the first one I've been able to attend), was also extremely good

- oops - do I sound as if I'm on a recruitment drive?!!

"Thank you" to everyone who works to make our Club the success that it undoubtedly is.

Success isn't created by magic, although we sometimes seem to believe that.

"Thank you" also to the (very!!) small band of Magazine contributors.

Lynne and I would like to wish all of you, and those you love, a Very Happy Christmas,

and an equally Happy, and Healthy, New Year.

BARRY HOLLAND

Hon Editor

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President's Message December 2008

Unless I am mistaken, I was the first to benefit from a change of the Club’s rules in the

early 1990s. This enabled me to become a member, with no other qualification than

being the son of an existing member.

After some years of enjoying the fellowship of the sea, albeit from a secure base on dry

land, I eventually found a rôle by being privileged to serve as your Hon Treasurer.

Shortly after that I was invited to become Mr Vice. Being the most unlikely candidate to

serve as your President, I have been heartened by the warmth I have experienced these

past few months from members of the Club.

We have been seeing record levels of attendance recently. As more difficult economic

conditions beckon, conditions which will probably affect us all to some extent, I trust we

shall be able to maintain the same commitment to our activities, through which we foster

the comradeship of the sea. Whatever the tightening of belts, I hope that this Christmas

will be one of warmth for all of you.

Ann joins me in wishing you all a merry Christmas and a peaceful new year.

Derek Bevan

President

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Dates for your Diaries:- 2008

Thursday 18 December Christmas Party

Dates for your Diaries: 2009

Thursday 29 January Club Dinner

Thursday 26 February Club Dinner

Thursday 26 March Club Dinner

Friday 24 April Ladies Night

Thursday 28 May AGM Dinner

Thursday 24 September Club Dinner

Wednesday 14 October ANS Service St Paul’s

Thursday 29 October Trafalgar Night

Thursday 19 November Club Dinner

Thursday 17 December Christmas Party

(All functions at NLC except St Paul's service)

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Secretary's Corner

Having just returned from “Down Under” I feel that I must inform you of my trip to

Adelaide. I was lucky to have attended the Trafalgar Night Dinner of the Seven Seas

Club Australia and was invited to be their Guest Speaker! My first impression was that I

felt quite at home; their proceedures are so similar to ours. I believe that I was able to

keep them all amused and I even had some questions to answer. Like us they use a Club

in Adelaide where the food is excellent. I presented their Club with some of our Ladies

Brooches which we used at our Ladies Night this year and the fallout is that we have now

produced a similar design containing their own Club Logo.

The hospitality afforded to both Julie and I during our stay in Adelaide could have not

been better. As with us, the Trafalgar Night Dinner was for members and male guests so

Jen Ledo the wife of their President took Julie out on a sight seeing tour which included

dinner. We were also taken to see the sights by Roger Ledo(President), Rowley King(

Secretary) and Lilly and Robin Elley(Treasurer)

Being a Gunnery Officer, I had to arrange for Rowley, Julie and Roger to carry out “Gun

Drill” on a mortar we found in the outback.

Back home, the Committee have been establishing some posts to cut down the work of

other members. Eddie Hunter will shortly be in control of all aspects of club membership.

This will include keeping ‘up to date’ the membership list, sending out postal dinner

notices and in conjunction with the Treasurer monitoring Standing Order payments.

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Secretary's Corner contd.

David Watson who stood in for me whilst I was away will continue with being the

Assistant Secretary and we will alternate at Club Dinners and other functions. Michael

Pinner will assume the post of Assistant Almoner and look out for Bill Richards who is

undergoing further surgery in the near future.

New Members since the 2008 Membership List are:-

Garry Hooton, 35 Arundel Close, CHATHAM, Kent ME5 8UZ : 01634 867242 (M)

07778 382239 garry.hooton@brake.co.uk

Cdr Stephen White RN ,11 George Rd, GUILDFORD, Surrey GU1 4NP : 01483

851983 (M) 07876 028350 bursar@colfes.com

WO George Brodie RAF, 1 Old Hospital Block, HM Tower of London, LONDON EC3N

4AB, :020 7680 9682 (M)07904056340

WO Bob Jones RN, 48 First Av. FARLINGTON, Portsmouth PO6 1JN : 02392

363752 (M) 07909 927339 carol.bob77@ntworld.com

Derrick Aughterlony, 24 Days Lane, SIDCUP, Kent DA15 8JN : 020 8300 4047

d.aughterlony@talktalk.net

David Warman FRSA.FCMI, Flat 11, 2 Twig Folley Close,LONDON E2 0SU, : 020

8980 9879 (M) 07802 984646 david@warman-jnr.biz

Edward Perry, 95 The Meadows, LYNDHURST, Hampshire SO43 7EJ : 02380

282650, (M) 07783 503388.

The Revd Canon Paul Thomas O.B.E., St Anne’s Cottage, 37 Scarborough Rd,

WALSINGHAM NR22 6AB, : 01328820571,(M)07778 987395,

synergyatwork@aol.com.

Don North, “Starlings” Lodge Lane, SALFORDS, Nr Redhill, Surrey RH1 5DH :

01293 782913 (M) 07711 132494, donnorth@autarky .com

Sgt. Eugene Kelf, 1 Bedford Ave., RAINHAM, Kent ME8 7EP, : 01634 239615

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Dinner Pictures

Ian Shuttleworth receiving the Chip Leonard Anchor

Grp Capt Peter Gilpin - September Dinner Speaker

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Ladies Night

The speaker was Moira Cameron, "The First Lady Beefeater". 99 Members and guests

attended!

Rev Canon Paul Thomas said Grace:

Tonight we have captured Mermaids from the Seven Seas

With their beauty wit and Charm sure to please

Lord we thank you for them however politically incorrect

Lord we thank you and pray the menu will deliver

What we expect

Bless those who toil at table and in the galley

And give us a splendid evening,

Before homeward we sally.

Amen.

The usual Seven Seas Grace followed.

Graham Painter the outgoing President very generously gave each lady a special Seven

Seas enamel brooch.

Graham Painter with Moira Cameron

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Ladies Night

Ann Sanders-Hewett

Annie Hilton

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AGM Dinner - May

Derek Bevan with George Heslop

Graham Painter was given his IPP pin by new President Derek Bevan.

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AGM Dinner - May

Mike Pinner was awarded the Chip Leonard Anchor

Cocktail Party – July

Moira Cameron

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Trafalgar Dinner October 2008

President with Richard Woodman, Speaker

Barry Holland was awarded the Chip Leonard Anchor

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MISSING LIFE IN THE RN

Here's how to recapture the atmosphere of those heady old days and simulate living

onboard.

Build a shelf in the top of your wardrobe and doss in it in a sleeping bag.

Remove the wardrobe door and replace it with a curtain that's too small.

Wash your knicks and socks in a bucket every night and hang over the water pipes to

dry.

Four hours after you go to bed, get your wife to whip open the curtain, shine a torch

in your eyes and say, "sorry mate, wrong pit."

Soap yourself all over in the shower, then get the wife to turn the water off at the

mains.

Mandatory (for engineering types) - Leave a lawn mower running in the lounge for

24 hours to re-create the proper noise levels.

Have the paperboy give you a haircut.

Set your alarm to go off at random intervals during the night. Each time it goes off,

jump out of bed, dress as fast as you can, run into the garden and break out the hose.

Use 4 spoons of coffee per cup and allow it to stand for 3 hours before drinking.

Invite 150 people you don't know to stay with you for 18 months.

Install a small fluorescent light under the coffee table, then lay under it to read

books.

Raise all thresholds and lower door frames for constantly banged heads and skinned

shins.

Whilst baking a cake, prop one side of cake tin while it is baking. When cooled,

spread icing really thick on one side to level it out again.

Devise weekly menus a week in advance…without checking the contents of the

freezer.

Nickname your shoes 'Steamies' and get the kids to hide them around the house.

Put on your stereo headphones. Do not plug them in. Go and stand in front of the

dishwasher. Say to nobody in particular, "dishwasher manned and ready sir." Stand

there for 4 hours, Say again to nobody in particular. "Dishwasher secured sir."

Remove headphones, roll up the cord and stow them away.

THE JOSSMAN (aka "IPP").

Ed: Thank you Graham for an entertaining insight into life in the RN! Happy Days!!!

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Return to Seafaring

Back in 1966 after a long spell ashore, I was soon to be found wandering down

Leadenhall Street in the City of London looking into shipping office windows, seeking an

interview and a berth back at sea. I had promised my wife to leave seafaring and had

given shore life a try, but found after 4 years eight months five days and four hours, that I

was not really cut out to be the assistant buyer of kitchen, whitewood and nursery

furniture in the basement of Selfridges Limited, 400 Oxford Street W1.

I eventually found a job with the Blue Star Line as an “aged” third officer. I say “aged”,

because I was by now nearly thirty years old and most third officers would be about

twenty or twenty one at that time. The problem was that I held a second mate’s certificate

and I could only hope to obtain a decent job connected with the sea offering perhaps

regular time at home, with a master’s certificate. I was now several years behind my

contemporaries and there was no alternative to the fact that I would have to “do my

time”, on ocean going ships in order to resume my career at sea. It would take a year’s

sea time before I could present myself for the chief mate’s examination and then two or

three years more before I could try for the foreign going master’s certificate.

This was a difficult time for our family. On to Wendy fell the burden of separation and

looking after our two sons aged two and four. For me, it was necessary to “do my

porridge”, on the ocean far away from the family and this was at a time when two year

running agreement articles were the norm and voyages averaged four to five months.

So it was a visit to the naval outfitters in Aldgate for the sea going outfit and then to the

“English Star” which I was to join as third officer, loading in Hull for Australia. This was

changed after a couple of days, when I heard that I was to be sent to a small refrigerated

cargo ship, which was waiting to sail from somewhere on the Essex coast near Maldon. I

returned home to London for a night en route to my next appointment and wondered

again what was in store for me. I have only a vague memory of that traumatic departure

from our home, but I remember the journey from Colchester to West Mersey by Taxi.

After contacting the agent, I was taken out by launch to join the “Mendoza Star”, as third

officer, where she was laid up with several other ships in the river Blackwater during the

long seamen's strike of that year.

Although I was on full pay, (now, of course, less than I had been getting at Selfridges),

my vital sea-time would not commence until the crew joined and we

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all signed articles of agreement. My job was to look after the ship at night whilst she

swung to two anchors connected by a swivel mooring with all power shut down. I was

free during the day, but I couldn’t get home, and the only contact with Wendy was by the

telephone box ashore.

Eventually the strike ended and the crew joined. All was bustle as the ship stored and

prepared for sea. Mr Stebbings, the Blackwater pilot, came out with the swivel barge; the

two anchor cables were separated from the swivel, and the ship secured to just one

anchor, ready to heave up.

We sailed early in the evening, leaving two or three other laid up ships, and headed out of

the estuary and round the North Foreland. My first watch was taking the ship down

Channel past Dover. I had warned the master that it was a long time since I had taken a

watch, but he left me to it, and even the sadness of leaving Wendy and the family, could

not detract from such sheer satisfaction, the like of which I had not felt for years, as I

gave the helm orders and guided the ship seawards through the Dover Straits, on that

beautiful summer’s evening.

We had empty holds, and no orders other than to proceed southwards, but, eventually,

after several days whilst anchored off Tenerife, we were ordered to sail in the general

direction of South America. We called at Santos in Brazil for bananas to take to Buenos

Aires, where we obtained a contract to load a cargo of frozen and chilled meat and take it

from there through the Magellan Straights to Valparaiso in Chile. In all my previous

voyages to South America I had never been further south than Bahia Blanca, about a day

south of Buenos Aires, and the thought of going south to cooler weather and different

scenery was intriguing.

We sailed from Buenos Aires partially loaded, as we were scheduled to call at

Montevideo on the other side of the River Plate estuary to load more beef, and thence to

Puerto Bories in the Patagonia Channels, to “top off” with frozen lamb.

Our Magellan Straits pilot boarded in Montevideo and told us that he would only take

over from us when we had well and truly entered the straits. To make his point, he had

noticeably stayed away from the bridge during the four day run from the river Plate

southwards, and was somewhat taken aback when he eventually came up to find us

heading into the straits in the dark, making 17 knots without a radar set. (It was the Blue

Star Line’s policy in those days not to provide them for purely cargo vessels). The

Eastern entrance of the straits from the Atlantic is not particularly mountainous on the

northern side, although to the south, a few low peaks on the island of Tierra del Fuego

can be seen. The entrance is first marked by Cape Virgenes and then, at the border of

Argentina and Chile by Punta Dungeness with its lighthouse, resembling very strongly its

Kentish counterpart.

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We sailed through the night, negotiating the six knot currents of the first and second

narrows which entailed many journeys from chartroom to monkey island (top compass

platform) and back via the wheel house, muttering compass bearings of barely discerned

mountain tops, and uttering occasional oaths concerning ships with neither radar nor

wing compass repeaters. The pilot sadly watched the rapid progress of the chaotic cross

bearings across the chart, and adjusted our course as necessary with urgent grunts to the

wheelman. Those readers with Royal Naval experience will note that the bridge team

consisted solely of pilot, third officer and said wheelman.

(Any morse light signalling at this juncture may not have been very speedily

acknowledged). Early in the morning, we arrived at Punta Arenas, where we picked up a

second pilot with a special licence to take us some twelve hours later through the Smyth

Canal and Kirke Narrows, and on to Puerto Bories, where we were to top up our cargo

with frozen lamb.

To negotiate the Kirke Narrows at the mountainous western side of the region involved

an extraordinary ritual. As far as I can remember, slack water occurred only once each

day in daylight, lasting for about four or five minutes and it was during this time and no

other that the gap could be negotiated.

Between rock walls several hundred feet high, a long narrowing approach terminated at

the Islas Zeta (Zeta Islands), beyond which was the vast expanse of the Canal Valdes.

The channel at this bottle neck was 100 metres wide between the shoal of Punta Restinga

and the Isla Merino. Although the tide rose only two or

three feet, it tore through this hazardous gap at ten knots and, around the north side of the

tiny island at 14 knots causing a whirlpool and various eddies which would render any

vessel uncontrollable.

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On this occasion it had been arranged for a motor launch to set out from Puerto Bories to

meet us and, as we cautiously entered the approaches to the narrows, we could just make

it out through the binoculars, clinging somehow to the kelp which grew in long streams

along the rocky margin of the southern shore. The little boat was there to watch the

surface of the water for the first sign of the slack current. We waited for over an hour

before we saw it venture across the gap; as it did so, we heard the sound of a horn and

could make out a tiny figure waving a flag. A pre-arranged “double ring ahead”, signalled

to the engineers that this was our big moment and we were soon pounding towards the

narrows. For all our speed and reaction, the tide began to turn and run with us, causing

our speed to increase considerably, as we raced through the little gap to emerge like a

cork from a bottle onto the choppy green surface of the Canal Valdes.

What adventures and hardships the original explorers must have experienced when

charting this labyrinth of channels and Islands can only be imagined. Puerto Bories lies at

the end of Estero Ultima Esperanza which I believe means “Last Hope Sound”; this may

give us some idea.

The scenery is incredibly beautiful and breathtakingly wild. The mountains are the

southernmost end of the mainland Andes chain and, although not very high in

comparison to those further north, they are snow tipped and forbidding, with glaciers

reaching down to the water’s edge. The weather is constantly changing with sudden snow

squalls containing fierce gusts whipping the waters of the channels into a white fury, to

be followed by blue skies with towering clouds and crystal clear visibility.

At the port, we tied up to the only jetty, sending off lines to an off-shore buoy to keep us

safe and secure. There was no work after our arrival that evening and it began to snow,

but the following morning, there was the hysterical shriek of a

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steam whistle, and a narrow gauge steam engine rattled along the shore, pulling some

trucks and a carriage.

It then made a tight left turn onto the jetty, wobbling purposefully towards us, emitting

smoke and puffs of steam, and bringing with it the dock labour and the first of our cargo

of frozen lamb.

After completion of loading, a day or so later, we sailed and returned through the Kirke

narrows, repeating the same ritual in reverse. The Patagonian Channels give a route

protected from the southern Pacific Ocean storms for quite a long way up the west coast

of Chile, and so we followed them for their full length. En route, we had to anchor

overnight in Paso del Indio (Indian Pass), so that the Angostura Inglesa (English

Narrows), could be transited in daylight. Whilst there, we were visited by some Indians

from a settlement near to the Chilean weather station, and they were treated generously

by the crew who passed on food and some spare clothing. As they paddled away, I saw

the rear of a donkey jacket with the word “Wimpey”, emblazoned across the back.

Venturing out to sea at the Golfo de Penas we left the channels behind and completed the

coastal voyage to Valparaiso. There was some cargo for Callao, the port for Lima in

Peru, and a small residue to discharge at Ilo, an exposed and uncomfortable open sea jetty

lying on the arid sea shore of the Peruvian desert.

We then proceeded home with empty holds via the Panama Canal and the voyage ended

once again in the River Blackwater where Mr Stebbings helped us as we secured once

more on the swivel, before going home on leave. The crew had included a poor selection

of trouble makers (including sadly, some of the officers), epitomising everything which

made some British merchant seamen in peacetime not worth the trouble of signing them

on. During the voyage, I ran the medical side and treated the usual incidents of injuries

and seamen's diseases, becoming quite proficient with injections, bandaging and handing

out pills.

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After a short leave, I returned to the Mendoza Star for another voyage to the same area;

we made six more transits of the Magellan Straits before I left the ship in Buenos Aires

and returned to the U.K. as supernumerary on the “Brazil Star”, to study and take my first

mate’s certificate in the summer of 1967.

Louis Roskell

Ed: "Thank you, Louis, for yet another interesting and informative article"

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Another gem from Louis

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November Dinner Pictures

Dr Daniel Haines - Speaker

Jim Killen receiving the Chip Leonard Anchor

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November Dinner Pictures

Steve Froggatt receiving cufflinks

John Mankerty with items from 7 Seas Australia

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A SHIPYARD APPRENTICESHIP by Eddie Hunter

This is a Special Edition intended for the Ladies

But the Men needn’t be excluded

At the Club's cocktail party in July, I was surprised and delighted to learn that some of

the ladies read and enjoy these humble efforts that I have called Dredgings - so I thought

I would insert an episode principally for them. I won't mention names, they know who

they are.

On second thoughts, why not? So,

For Suzanne, who encouraged me so charmingly to continue writing Dredgings,

For Lynne, who I suspect is the clever person at the computer on which our Magazine is

composited, and who knocks my drivel into the Dredgings that are published,

For Julie, who for a long while has so patiently and thoroughly proof read the Magazine,

including my Dredgings ( Julie must know as much about me as I do.)

For several other Ladies who said kind things about Dredgings, and to whom I owe

apologies because I did not know their names and was too shy to ask.

I shall not include in this dedication the Lady nearest and dearest to me, because she has

heard all my stories over and over again to a state of catatonic boredom, I believe . . .

Which brings me to the point of decision – what can I write specially for the Ladies?

The never-ending box of chocolates? No, that risks revealing the never-ending jar of

ginger marmalade. And the never-ending store of chocolate biscuits . . . No, that won’t

do.. . .

Ah, I know, I’ll tell you about the Cub Pack in the hospital, about teaching the reef knot,

‘hot sausages,’ and little James, plus a bit about my Father, the art critic, and the drawing

of a spotted elephant with two trunks, one at each end, and only three legs.

So, before you continue, d’u have a box of tissues handy?

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As usual, this Dredging needs a title and the background, so here goes:

a Elephant

Belfast, November, 1949

Belfast at that time, was a dismal dump like any other post- war British industrial

conurbation. It consisted mainly of close-packed, smoke-blackened and often damp small

terraced houses, the two up two down variety, built to serve the dark spinning mills and

the dreary weaving factories of the linen industry, the huge Belfast rope works,

Gallagher's monstrous cigarette factory, the vast shipyard of course, and any other stray

industry that I may have forgotten.

For some inexplicable reason, I loved the place, even though unhappy about the sectarian

divide that was always there, impossible to ignore. And it seemed to rain most of the

time.

But as a child, I was rather more fortunate than most other wee Belfast diddlers –my

family, mother, father and sisters Mary and Mildred, lived in West Belfast, on the new

McGibbon estate, a large sprawl of two up two down terraced houses which had front

gardens of varying length depending upon the location and the diverging geometry of the

streets. It was one of the (slightly) better places to live, close to open country and the

mountains and Cave Hill.

McGibbon's estate was in the Ardoyne area, later infamous - had I continued to live there

during the 1970s , 80s and 90s, I doubt I would consider myself so fortunate! I used to

claim that I had an uncle who was a rear gunner on a milk float. It was a lie, of course,

told only for comic effect. He actually manned the forward firing machine gun.

But back to the account of ‘a Elephant.’

The working population lived mainly in those older damp over-crowded terraced houses,

where many people fell prey to the virulent diseases of the day, tuberculosis being

prominent among them, while Penicillin and the other wonder drugs were as yet largely

unknown.

Small wonder then that there was a TB sanatorium on the shores of Lough Neagh, at

Green Island near where one campus of the Ulster University now stands.

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Now, to this day, Irish ladies of both pre-dominant religions and none, will often express

tender sympathy with moist eyes and the heartfelt words, "Ach, sure, God love him."

Or “her” as the case may be, the expression being adaptable and widely used.

So Ladies, prepare to join your Irish sisters. You won't be saying, "Ach, God love him,"

about me. But don't be surprised if you shed a tear.

I think I mentioned elsewhere, and, if I haven't, I should have mentioned that I was a

devout member of the Boy Scout Movement in those far-off days -- indeed I stayed an

active member for much of my life.

A lady called Peggy Pollock, whose illustrious father we will meet later, ran a Cub Pack,

the 25th Belfast (YMCA.) She had an Assistant Leader called Maureen. Both being

refined, genteel and ladylike, they decided that they needed somebody in the Pack who

could indulge in rough and tumble with the boys. So Peggy approached me. I was

flattered to be asked and readily accepted.

And when I saw the gentle Maureen at my first Pack meeting, well, I became instantly,

helplessly, hopelessly infatuated! Helplessly because she was simply beautiful and

graceful. Hopelessly because an expensive diamond ring adorned one significant finger.

She was engaged to be married to a bank cashier, called Alan - not the last member of

that profession to interfere in my love life! But that comes later, in a further Dredging.

Maureen was also Leader of her own Cub Pack, in a children’s hospital on the outskirts

of the city. Summer and winter the windows were always open. And, come autumn’s

winds or winter’s gales, the children slept out on open verandas. When I went there, I

was always as cold as a cod in a bucket of ice.

It was a TB hospital, and the Boys' Ward contained thirty or so long - stay patients,

many of whom, indeed most of whom, had been there since they were about two years

old.

All were permanently bed bound - and never a bed sore, such was the skill and the

dedication of the nurses.

Most of the children had to be spoon fed, but there was no malnutrition.

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The only outings were around the hospital grounds, weather permitting.

Special teachers did their best to educate the children, but the results were limited, yet,

even in there, the children knew who were Catholics and who were Protestants.

In those pre-television times, the highlight of the day was Children’s Hour on the BBC

Home Service. Uncle Mac, Larry the Lamb, Dennis the Dachshund , Mister Mayor, Sir ,

and Mister Earnest, the Policeman, even Mister Grouser, were all personal friends, along

with Cicely Courtenage, Romany, as in “Out with,” and Henry Bones, the Boy Detective.

The highlight of the week was the Cub Pack Meeting at 2:30 every Saturday afternoon.

Cub training was very difficult, but Maureen managed wonderfully well and the boys

were fiercely proud of their progress.

I don’t know how on earth I found the time, but I was soon Maureen’s Assistant, and

wracking my brain to invent interesting games and write serial stories for bed-bound

children.

One afternoon, Maureen asked me to teach some of the boys to tie knots, at which I

considered myself something of an expert.

Yes. At the time, I could tie eighty-eight different knots and could bore for Britain on the

subject, until one evening after dinner my Father gave me a heavy parcel in coarse brown

paper tied with string.

“Little present for you, Ed.”

“Thanks, Dad. What is it?”

The tired grey blue eyes twinkled. “Well, open it and find out.”

I carefully untied the string, as befitted an expert in knots.

“Save the paper,” Mother said.

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I removed the paper, revealing a thick, heavy hard-backed book.

The title was, “Knots, Splices and Fancy Work.” And it contained exactly eight hundred

and eighty eight knots. I was speechless, lost for words.

Dad smiled in mischievous satisfaction. “Thought that would keep you quiet for a while.”

But, clearly, I didn’t learn, for it was shortly after that I made the sweeping

pronouncement, “You can learn anything from books.”

“Eddie, you can’t swim, can you?” My sister Mary put in. “Do you think you could learn

that from a book ?”

Embarrassed, but unwilling to back down, I mumbled something to the effect that it must

be possible.

“Good. Why don’t you, then?” Said Mary.

Several weeks went by, and I had practically forgotten about the incident when , one

evening, Mary revisited the topic. “Ed, how’s the swimming coming along?”

“Er, well,” I temporised, my face reddening. “I have been rather busy . . .”

“What’s wrong?” Dad asked, his grey eyes atwinkle. “Couldn’t you find a waterproof

book?”

But, back to teaching the Cubs in the hospital. The obvious knot with which to begin was

the reef knot. So I went from bed to bed, under the watchful eyes of the ever present

nurses, devising different ways to tie a reef knot until each boy could do it for himself, at

which point I would say, “You’ve got it. Very good. You’re a hot sausage!”

Try as he would, one little boy, James, just couldn’t get it. Each time he failed I would

pull a funny face at him, shake my head in mock sadness and say, “No, that’s not it. I’m

afraid you’re not a hot sausage yet.” Eventually I had give up to move on to the next bed.

At the end of the session the ward was full of ‘hot sausages,’ some of whom could even

tie the sheet bend as well as the reef knot. Poor James was the only one with whom I

failed. I was about to return to him when Maureen announced story time.

25

While I was reading from Rudyard Kipling’s Jungle Book, with different voices for each

animal character, I noticed that James was still trying to manage the reef knot with help

from a nurse. Presently, glancing up from the book, I saw a big beaming smile on his face

and a happy smile on the face of the nurse.

When I closed the Jungle Book, to the usual chorus of groans and protests, I made my

way back to James who was ecstatic with delight. “I . . . I . . . I can tie the reef knot now”

I shook my head. “No you can’t. I don’t believe it.”

“Yes I can.”

“Show me. I bet you can’t.”

James grinned, knowing he was being teased. The tongue came out and was bitten gently

to aid concentration as the small hands moved carefully to produce the reef knot.

“Yes, you’ve got it. That’s a reef knot.” I untied the ropes and handed them to him.

“Tell you what, bet you can’t do it again.”

The tongue came out again and the little face frowned with the effort until, smiling in

triumph, James presented me with a second reef knot.

“Again,” I demanded, praying he wouldn’t muff it, instantly regretting my cruelty.

But He was obviously listening and watching. The little figure lying flat in the hospital

cot slowly, carefully, painfully, tied the knot again. ( “Ach, God love him,” anybody?)

He looked up at me expectantly. I nodded down at him..“That’s very good, James. Very

well done.”

I ruffled his hair and was about to turn away. He caught my arm to stop me. I leaned

down towards him.

He said, “Am I . . . am I a hot sausage, now?”

26

I struggled with my sudden tears and fought with a choking lump in my throat, but I

managed to croak, “Yes, James, you are a hot sausage now.”

“Look up, look up,” I thought. But I’m not ashamed to say that looking up didn’t work as

it’s supposed to. And, through my welling tears, I saw that it didn’t work for the nurse

either. Fortunately James was oblivious as he clutched his precious reef knot and held it

where he could see it.

And ever since that day, I have been very careful to respect all children and to treat them

very even- handedly.

Which brings me to, yes, that’s it – a Elephant. The spelling is correct, even though the

grammar is wrong. But who cares?

I helped Maureen with that Cub Pack, hail, rain or shine, for nearly three years until,

eventually, my wider career claimed me and I had to leave to go to sea.

As a going-away present, the children gave me a scrapbook containing drawings they had

done of animals from the Jungle Book. I carried that scrapbook around with me from

place to place, home to home - I think I have it still, but I’m not sure. It may have got

lost in one or other of my numerous moves as my career took me from town to town

throughout the years.

Anyway. I took it home when the children had given it to me. The book was already in a

sorry condition from their handling while putting it together.

“What’s that?” Mother asked.

“The Cubs in the hospital gave it to me. My farewell present.”

Mother carried the book to a table near the window. She smiled as she turned the pages.

Father levered himself painfully out of his wooden armchair by the fire. Squinting

through the smoke from his fortieth Woodbine of the day, he studied the drawing

as Mother slowly turned the pages, and read the laboriously printed captions.At “a

Elephant” they paused for a closer look. My father particularly liked elephants, used to

feed them buns in Belfast Zoo, until one day a large bull elephant snatched

27

his flat cap from his head and ate it. Father was careful to keep a safe distance away from

his precious elephants thereafter.

“Peculiar looking elephant,” he grumbled. “Why’s it got spots? And where’s its fourth

leg?”

It was unusual for him to be so grumpy. I thought of the hot sausage, and all the effort I

knew he had invested in that drawing while Maureen tried to hold a sketch pad steady

above him.

“Dad,” I said, “The little fellow who drew that picture is nearly ten. He has been in that

hospital, flat on his back, since he was a baby. He has never seen a car, never seen a tram

or a bus. He saw a Dalmatian pup once, when Maureen held it up high enough for him to

see.”

Father blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling and removed a shred of tobacco from

his lip. Then he looked down at the drawing and nodded as he tapped the paper with a

finger. He said, “Best damn elephant I ever saw.”

Ach, God love him, for his eyes were moist. And not from cigarette smoke.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Admiralty Ships' Badges.

Some months ago, I brought a friend of many years to one of our dinners. His name is

Tim Stopford, and he is the author of a two-volume book "Admiralty Ships Badges -

original patterns - 1919-1994". I must have spent months poring over the pages, since

publication in September 1996. There is now a website - www.admiraltybadges.co.uk

which is the precursor to a CD-ROM, which will be "available soon". The website is not

interactive, but gives a very good idea of what will be available. The CD will include

Fleet Air Arm Squadron badges, as well as those of ships and shore establishments.

Ed:- I'm not on commission - just wanted to share my enthusiasm with you!!

28

A SHIPYARD APPRENTICESHIP PART 2 by Eddie Hunter Cat and Mouse, and “Gimme yer board,” and Student Nurses, and Incompetence Surprisingly, I do not remember getting particularly dirty in the shipyard – except when I was on ship repair work. That was quite dirty. New building work was comparatively clean. Obvious, I suppose – there was never any oil in the bilges of new ships. No rats, no cockroaches, no sooty exhaust uptakes, no steam bugs, no oil leaks, no carbon dust in electrical rotating machines. But, I already digress; I intended to describe as briefly as possible what working conditions were like in the Belfast shipyards over fifty years ago. So, in two words – primitive and crude. Worker welfare was practically nonexistent. Life and limb were regarded as cheap, and always had been, by the Company. Oh, yes, there were first aid rooms dotted around the yards, and, by any standards, they were needed. I can fully understand just why the Health and Safety at Work Act of 1974 was deemed necessary – employers were simply not to be trusted without force of law. And Harland and Wolff’s Belfast Shipyard was, sadly, a very typical bad example. But the Company did sponsor and encourage a St John Ambulance Brigade Division, of which I became an active member. While it was not quite an everyday occurrence, the accident rate was high and deaths were not unknown. Workers had to be constantly aware of danger. And, frankly, that was not surprising because there was no obvious evidence of risk assessment. There was no safety awareness training. No hard hats. No protective clothing. Consequently, there were no communal washrooms or changing facilities – they were not necessary. Everyone arrived and went home wearing their working clothes, traditionally bib-and-braces overalls for the labourers, the “blacktrades,” the shipwrights ( more commonly known as . . . well, never mind, there are ladies present) and the wood butchers and the hedgerow carpenters, blue or brown boilersuits for the higher orders - the electricians and the engine fitters. Oh yes, we were all quite partisan about our various occupations, and occupational demarcation was total. There has been much criticism about demarcation, but, if you think about it, there was some logic to restrictive practices – after all, men trained and skilled in woodwork make good carpenters, while those trained in engine building tended to make good engine fitters, etc etc fitters, etc. But I will not deny that restrictive practices were conducted to ridiculous extremes by the workforce. But I am becoming very serious and in grave danger again of becoming too political, so, I’d better lighten up. An important visitor to the Belfast shipyard was being shown round by one of the company’s directors. Clearly impressed by the size and scale of the place the visitor asked. “How many men work here?”

29

“Oh, I’d say less than half of them,” The director said. ( Ah, sure the old ones are always the best!) But, with something in excess of 40,000 employees there was probably a lot of truth in the director’s reply. All activities were controlled and supervised by Chargehands, Foremen and Ship Managers. The Chargehands were the NCOs, the Foremen the Warrant Officers and the Managers all seemed to think that they were the personal representatives on earth of the Eternal Arbiter of the Universe! As symbols of their authority and status, and probably to afford some measure of cranial protection, the Foremen and Managers always wore bowler hats, because of which they were collectively known as “Blocker Men.” Everybody else, the chargehands and the workers, all wore flat caps. I don’t ever remember any other form of headgear. And that brings me to the Cat and Mouse business and the dreaded phrase, “Gimmee yer board.” Thinking back, I cannot really understand the shipyard timekeeping system. Each man was allocated a “board,” which was stamped on one edge with a four-figure number – and that is the part I don’t understand – with over 40,000, why only four figures? I suppose the numerous time huts were the answer. Each morning the men went to the time huts before a hooter sounded, called their numbers at a pigeon hole and were given their boards. When the horn sounded, the timekeepers slammed the shutters down and anyone who was late had the stark choice of either going home and losing a day’s pay or seeking out his Foreman who would - or often arbitrarily would not - give a note permitting the timekeeper to give the latecomer his board - against a pay deduction, of course. After my first encounter with a condescending and caustic Foreman, I would simply turn round and go home again on the rare occasions when I was late. There is a story about a policeman who stopped a shipyard worker one morning on the Queen’s Road for some minor traffic bye-law infringement involving his bicycle and the pavement. “Aw, look, I’m going to be late.” The man pleaded. “Serious, see. Gotta book you, boyo.” The policeman insisted. ( He must have been Welsh.) “Please. I been late twice this week. I’ll get the sack. You wouldn’t want that.” “Mmm . . . Well…” The Welsh policeman must also have been a rookie. He was weakening. “Look, take my name. You can ask for me at the shipyard. Everybody knows me there.”

30

“All right. What’s yer name?” “Snoozebreak.” Said the man. “Everybody knows me. Honest.” "How do you spell that?" The worker obliged as the policeman laboriously wrote the spelling in his notebook. “OK. Off you go.” Half-an-hour later, the policeman presented himself at one of the shipyard time huts. “Er. D’u have a Snoozebreak here?” “A what?” The timekeeper asked and cupped an ear. The policeman consulted his notebook. “Snoozebreak. Do you have a Snoozebreak here?” He repeated. The timekeeper grinned. “A Snoozebreak? Hell, no, Constable. We don’t even have a bloody teabreak.” and Cat and Mouse Actually, the timekeeper was telling the truth – the Company did not allow its employees to have tea breaks - not even the office staff. The result was perhaps predictable. The men simply took unofficial, uncontrolled tea breaks whenever they felt like it. On ships being built or fitted out, it was easy for groups of men to find hiding dens, while the foremen and the managers expended much time and energy trying to root them out. But if that was a permanent cat and mouse game, the constant running battle between the managers and the apprentices was more like an ongoing Tom and Jerry cartoon. There was a surprising amount of hot riveting necessary on the ships even during the fitting out period, and, until Frank Mac and I solved the problem using technology, the only sources of heat for the boiling of water were the numerous riveters’ coke fires out on the open decks. It was the accepted practice that the tradesmen provided the necessary tea and sugar and condensed milk, in sticky grease-proofed paper twists, while the apprentices foraged for water using fire-blackened tin cans with twisted wire handles. So the foremen and managers mounted occasional watch on the fresh water taps and occasional watch on the riveters’ fires, while the apprentices mounted permanent watch on the foremen and the managers. Each apprentice would have at least three cans to boil up, and the tin cans were placed on and removed from the rivet fires by means of welding rods with their ends bent into hooks.

31

and "Gimmee yer board" One morning, intent upon balancing five tin cans of scalding hot tea, I missed an urgent warning signal and ran into the path of a marauding manager. I regret to say it, but he and I shared the same surname, Hunter, although my nickname was either “Professor” or “The Reverend Through-other” depending upon friend or foe, while the manager, Mr Hunter, had no friends and was universally known as “The Protestant Pope.” “Gimme yer board.” I put the cans down and fished about in my many pockets for the board, while the Pope kicked over the cans and squashed them under his feet. Now that was just vindictive! Parting with my board and possible suspension was bad enough – but I also had to face the wrath of the men whose cans had been ruined. Some men claimed to have had their tea cans for years, although I doubt the validity of such claims. Depends how vigilant the tea boys were, I suppose, and the quality of the tin of which the cans were made. And I had another problem, which became more worrying as the day wore on. I knew I was in for a week’s suspension, that was only to be expected, but it was a Friday, payday, so I needed my board to hand over at the time hut window in exchange for my pay-packet. To make matters worse, I had a date that evening with a very pretty girl, a bank manager’s secretary called Barbara, and I was stony broke. Eventually, I could stand the uncertainty no longer. I sought out my chargehand, Hope Ferguson. Yes, that really was his name. Legend had it that he had two sisters called “Faith” and “Charity” – but I have no means of verifying that. Hope glared at me as I approached. “What’s the matter with your face?” He asked. “Er. Hope? Have you got my board?”I began. “ Now, why should I have your board?” “Well, er.” I swallowed nervously. “That manager, the ah … the Pope, he took it.” “Did he, now? I expect he had a reason. Boiling cans o’ water, was it?” “Er, well, yes,” I confessed. “But, you see, it’s … it’s Friday.” “So?” “Er, well, so, I need my board to collect my pay …”

32

“Pay. Pay?” Hope’s chin jutted towards me. “Do ye think yer worth any bloody pay?” I was struggling to find an answer to Hope's rhetorical question when he produced my board from his jacket pocket and gave it to me. I took it quickly before he changed his mind. “Just don’t get caught again. Understand?” Thinking back, that was interesting – and I did understand. Hope had said, “Don’t get caught again, ” and not, “Don’t do it again.” And, because it was a first offence, I escaped the customary suspension without pay. On the down side – Barbara stood me up! She went off with some fellow from the bank, who didn’t spend most of his spare time at evening classes and studying . Another down side – I spent so long in night classes that I can’t count during the day. It’s a bit of a b!!!!!, that – I don’t know how often I’ve been short-changed in shops. and Student Nurses Actually, I wasn’t too upset about being stood up by Babs that Friday evening. I mean, I couldn’t really blame the lass. It wasn’t much fun for her trying to keep company with an ambitious and compulsive bookworm who attended evening classes four times a week and studied most of the remainder of the time. And so, like many other apprentice/evening class students I soon discovered that Student Nurses made the best girlfriends – provided one didn’t expect even the slightest sympathy when afflicted by burns, cuts or abrasions, colds, headaches, or any other human ailment short of life-threatening, that is. But they did understand the demands of studying, exam cramming and long hours. And, with their split shifts on the Wards, Student Nurses were often ready to come out to play when all the other girls were thinking of going home to bed. So, in retrospect, life wasn’t all bad for the hard-pressed apprentice/student who knew the score. One disadvantage of the Student Nurse girlfriend was that many of them were very religious, and off-putting words like “redeemed” and “saved by Grace” featured largely in the vocabulary they used while earnestly trying to convert heathens like me. Then again, don’t the ladies always try to change us and make us into something we patently are not? ( Oops- that’s me in trouble!) Anyway, shortly after she left me for her bank clerk, I met a Student Nurse and soon

forgot all about Babs, until she invited me to her wedding some months later. Fast

worker, that lad from the bank - I expect cheap mortgages had something to

33

do with it –I don’t think there was any other reason, not in Belfast, and certainly not at that time.

From now on I shall call my Student Nurse simply “SN” on the usual grounds of no names, no pack drill. She was presently to add the initials “SRN” after her name anyway.

Despite being one of the more religious of her sisterhood, SN had been keeping company with a shipyard electrical apprentice and general no-good ratbag called Peter Potter, until, one miserable cold and wet October night, he suddenly walked off in the middle of a heated argument and left her standing, shocked and distressed, on the steps of the Technical College.

Knowing that rotter Potter, even in Belfast and even at that time, I had a fair idea about the subject of the argument.

I had been waiting for the rain to ease off and so witnessed the incident. SN was clearly very upset and began to cry. Cursing Potter under my breath, I walked over and offered a clean handkerchief and some kind words, none of them complimentary to Potter, of course. I soon had her smiling through her tears, then, mentioning that St Patrick obviously hadn’t managed to banish all the snakes from Ireland after all, I had her laughing. Like most Irishmen, I can talk the hind leg off a horse, and be dangerously persuasive when I put my mind to it.

Then I gallantly offered to escort her the mile or so along the Lisburn Road to the Samaritan Hospital. As we walked we talked, of course, and despite my obvious kind nature SN detected in me another Sinner in need of Salvation. So, rotter Potter apart, it could be said that it was her religion that brought us together - and it was my persistent rejection of said religion that separated us a year or so later, but not before SN had exhausted her missionary zeal trying to persuade me to turn from my manifold sins and wickednesses.

To the envy of my fellow night school students, and the chagrin of Potter, SN met me each night after classes. We would then walk along the Lisburn Road as far as the Botanic Park. Although the park was officially closed at sunset, there were neither gates nor railings as they had been ripped up and removed during 1943 for war production. If it was raining we would shelter under SN’s umbrella behind some bushes against the end wall of the old hothouse, where it was always warm, even in winter. I would spend an hour or so with her, until it was time to rush to the Nurses’ Home before the formidable main door was closed and locked at 23:00, in accordance with the strict notice which ended with the chilling words:

“by Order. HOME SISTER.”

Occasionally we did not get there in time and I would have to assist SN to climb in through a rear window left unlocked by the residents for just such emergencies. Sometimes there would be three or four other boyfriends helping their locked-out girlfriends to climb in. (I found out years later that the Home Sister knew all about the window, had used it herself when she was a Student. Can’t really explain why, but for some reason I like knowing that.)

34

Better not say any more on that topic – when you’re in a hole –stop digging! But it was all very innocent really – I mean, Belfast in 1948 – it really was a hot bed of celibacy in those days. After seeing SN safely home, I would then catch a late-running tramcar for the thirty-minute journey home, during which time I read through my class notes in preparation for doing any homework before going to bed well after midnight. Long day! and Incompetence. When I was an apprentice, I soon discovered that I infinitely preferred talking about work to actually doing any. It wasn’t that I was lazy, or I would hardly have managed fifteen hour days four times each week for eight or nine months of the year. No. What I really mean to convey is simply that, when I knew and fully understood how to do a task, I quickly became bored with the physical doing. My future was already beginning to unfold. I also very quickly discovered that most tradesmen could not bear to watch ham-fisted work, so, knowing that, I could always avoid doing anything I didn’t particularly want to do simply by shaping up like a duck with a shovel. The tradesman would watch in growing disgust, give a pitying “Tut tut” sort of look, a shake of the head, followed shortly by, “You useless b!!!!! ! Get out of the way and let me do it!”

Part of the reason for the tradesman’s reaction was, of course, that the work would be attributed to him and so nothing short of the very best would do. That’s why our ships were so good. (And, if anybody mentions the Titanic I will just point out that her Captain was an Englishman . . . )

Apart from old Bob Metcalfe, the Robber, may he rest in peace, was the only other man who ever saw through my displays of simulated incompetence, which he effectively countered by setting me to work on my own and making me undo and redo the task until I got it right.

“Do it again. And properly this time. You’re not as daft as you let on,” Robber would snarl, standing over me. I soon realised that I could never pull the wool over his eyes.

But in general my “inept” tactic was effective, often leaving me free to slope off and study other tasks performed by other tradesmen. For example, I spent as much time as I could with the engine fitters, even masquerading at times as one of their apprentices. That way, I became familiar with diesel engines, steam turbines, reduction gears, engine speed governors, engine-driven pumps, oil separators and centrifugal purifiers, etc, etc. It helped of course that my mechanical engineering evening class studies often gave me the basic theoretical understanding and I was thus able to talk the talk most convincingly. Until I became badly unstuck one morning . . .

35

I was in an engine room, in a crankcase, helping an engine fitter to insert a heavy gudgeon pin -I should have been up top, in a deck machinery house, helping an electrician to solder connecting lugs on the mains cables to a sub-switchboard - when the Foreman Fitter came along - accompanied by the Pope. I hastily pulled up the collar of my filthy oily boilersuit, pulled my flat cap down over my eyes and tried to shrink down out of sight. “You?” The Pope shouted above the din “Er. Me?” I asked feigning wide-eyed innocence. “Yes, you. D’u see me lookin’ at anybody else? What the hell are you doing here?” “What’s the matter? Why shouldn’t ’e be here?” The Fitter Foreman asked. “Because he’s an apprentice bloody spark, that’s why. You! Gimme yer board!” I fished in my pocket, and handed over my board, shrugged my shoulders at the astonished fitter with whom I’d been working and gave him an impish grin. I was undone anyway, so there was no point in crying, “Woe is me.” I climbed out of the crankcase and hauled myself up the ladders and out of the engine room, with my metaphoric tail between my legs. I hated soldering cable lugs, too. Hated those blasted paraffin blowlamps. Always managed to get my fingers burnt at some stage of the game. At the subsequent disciplinary hearing, Management were divided over what should be done with me. The manager in charge of apprentice training wanted to suspend me for a month without pay. Mr Johnson, a director and head of the electrical department, sat and scowled at me. And, surprisingly, the Pope redeemed himself by weighing in with the opinion that I should be soundly ticked off and told not to do it again. Maybe it was the common surname that did it. I was invited by Mr Johnson to explain myself, which I did, most eloquently I thought, mentioning my dual studies at evening classes to justify my interest in both trades. When I had finished, the great man stared at me for a while, coughed to clear his throat, then told me, not unkindly, that I would probably have received little or no compensation had I injured myself, that I might well have breached the accepted demarcation rules, and that I would be called upon to apologise to the engine fitter and to senior shop steward of the fitters’ trade union. I was then dismissed with the command that I was not to be caught repeating the misdemeanour. Which was the end of the matter. No suspension. Nor was I called upon to apologize to anyone. But it was the effective end of my “dual” apprenticeship. Under permanent suspicion, I was able only occasionally to watch and ask questions of other tradesmen after that, which was not quite the same.

Look out for the next thrilling instalment in the Spring 2009 edition……..

Ed: Thanks yet again, Eddie - what would we do without you ………?

36

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