by Paul Daniels
Just before I was due to go home, the Commanding Officer called me in and wanted me to sign on ‘… for another three months, to fence for the Green Howards in the Far East Land Forces Fencing Championships’. I said no. There were two reasons for this: first, I knew that there was nothing in QRs about a National Serviceman signing on for an extended three months. Three years, yes. Three months, no. And second, I knew the Regiment was going to Germany and, although I had enjoyed most of my time in the Army, I had been to Germany on holiday and it was cold. My old job still awaited me at home and it was time to leave.
In the meantime, I got a ‘dear John’ letter from Avril breaking off our engagement. We must have both changed in the time we were apart and trying to maintain a relationship several thousand miles away from each other is an impossible task anyway. I often mused over the fact that Mam would write to Dad every other day when he was in the Navy. She loved corresponding and that is what kept their love alive over four very difficult years of separation. Mam was a great letter writer but not a very good speller. She would begin her communication each time with ‘Dear Sweatheart’. I suspect that, in the heat of India, it was an appropriate title anyway! Dad kept those letters for a long time but didn’t tell her about the mistake until several years later. In our house, ‘sweatheart’ is an oft-used word of endearment.
Of course, Mam and Dad were already married when he went away, whereas Avril and I had only just started a relationship and we were probably too young to be so committed. A tinge of sadness filled me when I received Avril’s note. It wasn’t a surprise, but it was still a loss.
I returned to the UK on the Oxfordshire. The atmosphere on board was one of great excitement, tinged with a sense of melancholy at leaving Hong Kong behind. Once basic training in the UK was over, my time in the Army had been one of great benefit to me in so many ways and I looked back with fond memories as the ship pulled away from the island for the last time. As we sped out into the Pacific once more, I wondered if I would ever return and pondered on what lay ahead. I’ve always been a fella who looks forward and I find looking back pointless. It’s done, you can’t change it and so long as you have learnt from your past, it’s time to move on.
Christmas Day 1958 came while we were on the way home. The ship was in Colombo, taking on water and fuel, but they would not allow us ashore. Some of the lads took umbrage at this and bombarded the tugs with bottles. Don’t you just love the British abroad?
They must have got their own back somehow because as we got nearer home, most of the lads on board went down with Asian ‘flu. There was general panic as discussions went on with Southampton as to whether they would allow us to dock. They did. We were home, but no sooner were we back in Richmond than we were told we were being sent to Northern Ireland to see our full time out. Another panic. Then some wise and wonderful person decided that would be a ridiculous expense so we were demobbed three weeks early.
It was 15 January 1959, and I was a civilian again. Mam and Dad came to meet me when I stepped off the train back in Middlesbrough and were clearly pleased to see me. Behind them ran this young man who grabbed me and, with a face full of smiles, embraced me. Stiffening with confusion, I hadn’t recognised my own brother Trevor. In the time I had been away, he had grown from a boy I’d given ten bob to as a farewell gesture into a man, and I was astounded at the difference in him.
There was no sense of anti-climax in being home, realising that although I had seen another part of the world, there were areas of my own locality which still awaited discovery. I had a week off to transfer my life from the army barracks back to the terraced streets of South Bank and back into my old job with the council. It was quite a short time to get used to the everyday reality of life once more and to catch up with all the family news. By now we were living in Windsor Road, Normanby, in a lovely semidetached corner house. I was really glad to be back and to be welcomed home by all the neighbours, especially the next-door neighbour Mrs Goldswain.
She was a real Mrs Malaprop. ‘Princess Margaret is getting married, it’s on all the blackguards in town …’ and ‘my husband’s gone out to buy a dog. I think that he is getting one of them Sensation dogs.’
A huge new housing estate had sprung up, changing the whole town and I was amazed at how fast things change and time is swallowed up. I noticed on leaving the barracks that our empty places were not being filled and Dad told me that National Service had ended while I was away. Trevor had escaped the ordeal by a whisker, but undoubtedly, I tried to convince him, it would have done him good.
Some things never change and it was back to Eston District Council in the same old building. Apparently, they had installed a special machine that measured pollution and with the results were able to establish what the residents had been saying for years; that it was still the most contaminated place in England.
Nothing seemed to have altered at the council building; even the paint on the inside hadn’t changed, but the staff had. I chose to do a tour of all the offices in the block to say, ‘I’m back!’ to those who knew me and, ‘Hello!’ to those who didn’t. An older lady, known as The Dragon, didn’t even look up until I started to pester her a little with the result that she chased me out of the door. Maybe she didn’t like my sense of humour? Unperturbed, I entered the next office and immediately my eyes fell on a most stunningly good-looking brunette. Fashions had changed during my absence, too, and the girls were starting to become more liberal in their dress. It had become the era of tight mini-skirts and sweaters and gave all the blokes an opportunity to see exactly what shape a girl was in.
I gave my best Colgate smile and, to my delight, Jacqueline Skipworth, a grand northern name, seemed to like my attentions. It was not enough at the time to make a difference, but something stayed with us. That first evening I had a chance meeting with my old friend Irene, who had also grown up quite dramatically and proceeded to go out of her way to prove the depth of her welcoming devotion. She invited me back to her place for tea and we ended up making love in front of the fireplace. It was wonderful and after the experience in the shed, I suddenly understood what all the fuss was about. I was also enlightened by the fact that obviously girls were supposed to enjoy the experience as well. Now this is better than card tricks, I thought!
Our relationship didn’t go beyond the passion of the moment and I soon found myself back at work, chatting up Jacqueline Skipworth. I made sure I bumped into her as often as I could and literally so, if possible. She was special to me, recognising how I dreamt about her and when we were together, she made my heart tick faster. I got so excited around this girl. A very strange phenomenon.
She seemed to find all my wisecracks endearing and it wasn’t long before we agreed to a proper date. The only problem was that her hobby was ballroom dancing. Against all my natural instincts and for the sake of getting as near to Jackie as possible, I tried my best to share her interest. Failing miserably, I was not designed to be a dancer and felt like a lemon on the dance floor. After several efforts where I stood on her toes more often than the ground, I began to wonder why people did it anyway. I suppose my deep, inner shyness didn’t help and, stretching my face into an apologetic smile, I eventually backed off and waved the white flag.
Fortunately, her interest seemed to go beyond dancing as we continued to go out together, to the cinema and occasionally for something to eat. Our friendship blossomed, but her grandmother’s preferences didn’t. An only child, Jacqueline had been brought up by her mother and grandmother, a formidable woman who took an instant dislike to me. Maybe she was right, I don’t know. On the days when I could visit Jackie at home there were two hurdles to overcome. First, there was this old woman who was extremely protective of her granddaughter and would make sure she never left us alone together. Watching us every second with her beady eyes, she constantly weighed me up and down as if comparing me to some other, more preferential suitor.
The second obstacle was Jackie’s cousin, David. This little toddler
was a classic terror who had earned a reputation for biting people. There was no discrimination as to his choice of victims and he would suddenly run into the room and sink his teeth into any readily available flesh. As he was pretty small, this meant it was usually a chunk of someone’s leg.
Having been instilled with a reverence for my elders, the idea of a child behaving in such a way appalled me. There is nothing wrong with discipline so long as it is administered with love. There will always be some who break the rules, but this should not stop us from making sure our kids grow up respecting others.
On the first day I met him, David introduced himself by gnawing straight into my ankle. It was sufficient to draw blood and I was not a little shocked, so the next time I was ready for him. When the human Jack Russell dashed into the room upon our arrival, he sank his teeth into the back of my leg and I grabbed his hand and returned the compliment by biting him on the arm. He let out a yelp and ran straight to Granny who started to sympathise with his misfortune, whereupon he bit her, too. After that he never came near me again, but the rest of the family spent a fortune on sticking plasters.
Despite having found girls, I was still passionate about magic. Jackie was also happy to share my interest and we spent hours getting all my old props out from their box under my bed and reviving my act. Well, that’s what we told the parents.
At the Methodist club one night, it was advertised that a Doctor Hebblethwaite was going to give a lecture on the History of Magic. I couldn’t wait to hear it and booked my place well in advance. Having just turned 20, I felt that I knew everything there was to know about the art. Like many youngsters, I was the bees’ knees, a god-like creature sent to walk upon this earth and I found my place in the hall knowing that I knew it all.
The lecture was good. Towards the end of his talk he began expounding the future of magic and the modern face of the art. Picking up a large, solid billiard ball and a magic wand, he placed the full-sized red billiard ball on his open left palm, closed his fist and extended his arm well away from his body. Spinning the wand around his left fist, he opened his hand to show that the billiard ball had vanished. I suddenly woke up and sat there enthralled with my jaw hitting the floor. I didn’t have a clue how he had achieved this. I didn’t know everything.
I just couldn’t believe that, with all my knowledge, I had been fooled so easily. As my mind drifted away from what he was saying and concentrated on solving the problem, his words abruptly caught my attention again. He mentioned ‘the Middlesbrough Circle of Magicians’, which despite living in the area for more than 20 years was something I had never heard of.
Declaring my serious interest in the craft at the end of the evening, Doctor Hebblethwaite gave me the address of the society and suggested I apply. This was something that I was determined to do, but upon reading their literature realised that it was a very exclusive club. Having witnessed the superb quality of the doctor’s skills, how could I ever hope to be enrolled in such an Elite group? I had nothing to lose so I finally worked up the courage to apply. I went to the Secretary’s house wearing all the gear that I had worn for my shows when I was in Hong Kong – a white tuxedo with a black velvet collar, a frilly shirt and dicky bow and, wait for it, a short black cloak with a red lining. I’m sorry. What a lemon I must have looked. I pretended I was on the way to a gig, just to impress the Secretary, Martin Marshall.
Several weeks later, I was standing in front of the audition committee and, feeling extremely nervous, began my routine. I was in awe of these gentlemen and thought that they must all be far better than I was. They treated it all so seriously and I came away thinking that I had not been good enough. They said that they would let me know and it was a couple of weeks before I got the letter that said that I had been accepted as a member. I wish that more societies would make it this tough to get in. Now it seems that if you can afford the fee you can be a member, and I still think that the Theatrical Art of Magic, forgive the capitals, should be worked at to make you appreciate what you have got. Years later I found out that, because I had developed into a magician without the influence of a magic club, I had apparently fooled them successfully in a couple of the tricks that I’d done. I didn’t go to the Middlesbrough Circle of Magicians for over a year after I had been accepted because I really didn’t think I was good enough and I didn’t want to show myself up.
I persuaded Jackie that we should make love. We did and she fell immediately pregnant. Out of the blue, my life, which had been totally within my own control, was in turmoil.
Telling our parents was the worst thing about the affair. Gathering together as if for a wake, the whole family sat together in one room, while I explained our state of affairs. It was awful. There was a stunned silence at the end of my short speech and at that point I would happily have used some form of magic to open up the floor and quickly disappear. Then, as anyone who has been in this situation will tell you, I actually felt invisible when they started discussing the circumstances without me or Jackie being consulted. I cared greatly for Jackie and despite my father making it clear that I didn’t have to do the honourable thing, I proposed to Jackie and she accepted. In my mind there was no option and we were married four weeks later in the Methodist Chapel on Normanby Road, home of the Youth Club. That was the way it was then, and although the marriage was not to work out, I am glad that we did it. If not, I would have missed out on Paul, Martin and Gary, my sons.
Modern society is not as glib about this subject as it claims to be. The shock of discovering that your girlfriend is expecting a baby is as big now as it was then, certainly among educated and caring people. The shame of the situation in the moral climate of the late 1950s, however, was quite acute and I was eager to reduce the degree of embarrassment as much as I could.
So many things were happening at this time, that it seemed as if I had been caught up in a whirlwind. I bought my first car for £15 from a local scrap heap. Destined for destruction, my Dad saw its potential and with me as labourer, somehow managed to get it running smoothly. The bodywork was something else, though. The 1938, wooden-floored Standard Flying Nine was rebuilt completely and had 15 coats of hand-rubbed cellulose applied to it, turning it into a gleaming black and red sports car. I was offered £150 for the car the day we finished it. Not a bad investment, but I didn’t sell it.
It was also about then that the Hippodrome cinema had to close. It simply could not compete with television. The public imagined that the little screen in the room gave them the same experience as the real thing. It didn’t and it can’t. There is nothing like having your imagination filled by the movies or the theatre, where everything else is blacked out and only the vivid images fill your mind. We all gathered in the cinema for the last night and, after the audience had left, played frisby with the 78rpm records and shot the foam from the fire extinguishers all over the place. Dad got a job driving a bread and cakes delivery van for Wonderloaf but he must have missed the magic of the cinema enormously. He didn’t work for them for long and went on to work for ICI at their Wilton works. He stayed there for years, working in hazardous conditions. Occasionally, the plant had some sort of explosion but he was lucky that it was never on his shift. The chemicals also played havoc with his health and, years later of course, I considered that one of the best things I ever did was to give him a permanent job making props for me. All that was in the future, however, and having recently had concert party experience in the Army, I persuaded Trevor to do the Working Men’s Club circuit with me. We got a booking at The Club, Peterlee. This was a brand new town and had built the most superb working men’s club, a new trend occurring in the north. This was the first of many truly luxurious clubs.
Industry required their workers to work around the clock in shifts: six ’til two; two ’til ten; and nights. It’s a generalisation, of course, but I believe this was the main reason that the North initially escaped the ratrace that was taking place in the South, as everybody went to work in the same direction. In the Sout
h, everybody scatters across the metropolis. Northerners all went to the same type of work and all knew how much each other earned, because it was the same. There was simply no point it trying to ‘keep up with the Jones’s’ because everybody was in the same boat financially.
Somebody, somewhere, came up with the plan to turn the workmen’s institutes, rough red-brick clubs, into places of entertainment. Approaching the breweries, committees asked to borrow money to build a new type of club, which would provide the workers with a new leisure experience. Owing to the fact that the breweries stood to make a fortune by selling their beer, they agreed and these new clubs sprang up everywhere with snooker halls, lounges, bars and huge concert rooms. Variety shows were available six nights a week, with up to eight different acts on, as well as Bingo.
The Club in Peterlee was the biggest of these. Arriving there with Trevor, I thought it was very funny that the architects had had no idea what was required in a concert room. The floor of the stage had been carpeted and the first act on was a tap dancer. He still did his six-minute slot, but the audience, sitting at tables, thought he was rubbish because they couldn’t hear him.
On this occasion, Trevor and I had been asked to do three, six-minute spots and would receive the grand sum of £3 for our efforts. We had carefully planned and rehearsed our routines. Trevor went on first with his accordion. He was a natural on this instrument and had started to play when he was very young, without lessons. He’d developed like this for a long time and then Mam and Dad paid for lessons, which put him right back at the beginning, but eventually he became a better musician. We had wired him up with small lights around the accordion to give him a finale to his act. This was closely followed by Bingo. For some, this game was the highlight of the evening and sometimes the acts got the impression that they were just filling in between games, rather than being the main attraction.
